I have strong vein of , “waste not want not” running in me. Combined with the attitude of, “use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without,” I tend toward a smidgen of packrat. I can’t get rid of something if I can see a potential in it.

I don’t live in a maze of newspapers, but, it wise to give me a head’s up if you want to stop by. That way I can clear a project out of a chair so you have a spot to sit in.

Sometimes I forget about things I’ve squirreled away and get to be surprised by a pleasant find. Yesterday I found a few pieces of PFD (Prepared For Dying) in my fabric stash. I’ve been saving yellow onion skins for quite a while and am going to combine these this afternoon. I can’t wait to see what happens!




random notes on fears

i’ve never been good with allowing people to help me in any way.  i am stubborn and independent from a genetic basis, but, also maybe part of this overwhelming fear / loathing/dislike of needing help or just folks wanting to be nice and me being unable to let them has a little bit to do with the time in the hospital.  I start to feel trapped and smothered and unable when people attempt to help me.  It was just recently that i forced myself to accept small tokens of kindness as signs of friendship and love. the way they were intended.

how they helped me in the hospital was by setting my leg in the only way they knew how. and it worked.  it’s just, that i had to be trapped and strapped to that bed for 3.5 weeks and trapped in a body cast for 4 more months. if anything in my brain  references that help  whenever someone wants to help me or be kind well then, it’s no wonder i want to run.

it plays into my fear of authority as well.    i was 5. there wasn’t going to be help coming from any peers.  They were going to be adults.  I can stand back now and know that their intention wasn’t to scare the living shit out of me.  It was 1970 and  bedside manner was not a strong suit for my family dr.  nor his colleagues.  I have vivid memories of them on rounds rearranging my legs in their traction.  I’m crying and screaming, and they’re telling me this  is going to help me.  and i can’t protect myself in any way. I’m strapped to the bed across my chest, and my legs are in the air attached to the ceiling.  As an adult, i can acknowledge the difficulty of their task, but, why couldn’t they acknowledge they were hurting me? even if it was the only way to correct the situation?  5 year olds get it.  tell me you’re sorry that this is going to hurt so much, but, there’s no way around it.  they would never have had so little respect for an adult with my injury.

sometimes i get really down on myself for allowing these things to still be an issue. ( this whole broken leg business physically lasted about 6 months. at age 5 that’s 20% of my life.  That would be like expecting myself to ignore 8.5 years of my life today.) but lately i’m learning to  acknowledge that this is where my stuff comes from.  burying it doesn’t really solve anything.   I’m still going to have fear around authority figures, but, maybe I’ll be able to take a step back now and recognize that it’s an old fear I don’t need anymore.


As an art student, I didn’t take too kindly to critique sessions. I was still awfully thin – skinned, and I’m not sure I could find my self esteem if you’d given me a map with an X on it. So, in a critique of a color theory assignment that had a “recipe” to essentially follow, and on my third attempt I still hadn’t accomplished the desired outcome, I took great offense at my professor’s critique that I had created a, “Brilliant Failure.” I couldn’t hear the, “Brilliant.” What I heard was, “No one has ever failed in such a monumental way.” I did not return to art classes the next semester.

Part of the issue was my hyper-sensitivity, and part of it was I wasn’t working in “my” medium. There was nothing for fiber studies in the art department then except for perhaps a seminar on weaving. Part too, was the fact that I was student who was supposed to make mistakes so I could learn from them. I really don’t like making mistakes.

A few years later I had that prof again in a combo class about art and music. Brainstorming with a group, I was explaining one of my off the wall ideas, when he interrupted the football player who was dismissing my idea, to say hold on she knows what she’s doing. The light bulb shone – Finally I understood “brilliant failure.” He had meant, in that long ago critique, that even though the results of my attempt to follow that color recipe didn’t necessarily work as they should have, the results were still brilliant.

The quilt at the top of this post is another of my brilliant failures. From the pile of fabrics I started out with, I never would have guessed I’d get such a mushy indistinctly patterned quilt. As far as a color recipe goes I should have been spot on- a secondary triad (orange- green- purple) with a couple of analogous accents, a few lights and darks for contrast. Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased, and surprised. I also wouldn’t necessarily have thought I could make something that glowed, and actually radiates perceived heat. ( the photo is dark, so you have to trust me on that.)

That is one of the things I enjoy so much about this medium. Surprises at every turn.

Not that I’m a total earth mother/hippie chick, but, I have strong leanings that way.  I never ever planned on coloring my hair.  Oh sure, I would do the occasional henna every once in a while, but that was just for fun.

As I got older, and I started getting  gray hairs here and there, the hennas became more frequent.  I always thought I would go gray naturally.  There were a few women I knew who had beautiful salt and pepper locks.  They looked awesome with their gray. I would too.

No good plan goes unchallenged.  The gray started coming in in odd chunks.  Had I not started coloring it, I could have sported a lovely bride of Frankenstein  – I prefer that to skunk stripes.

Nowadays, my gray has taken over the entire front of my face.  My halo of gray when the regrowth is strong.  It is a gorgeous white actually, but, 4 -5 weeks after my color, the regrowth is 1/2 – 3/4 ” and it completely washes out my face.  Why does it have to grow so fast and so white?

I  got it colored on Saturday and feel like a whole new person again. Younger, more confident, yet, sad at myself for needing the false security of my auburn locks.


Someone with my name ran across my other blog this week and left me a comment. How cool is that?! The comment and, someone else with my name! I’m not certain how she pronounces hers. Mine is Car + on, NOT Care + on.

By the time I was in 4th grade I was so tired of being called Karen, that I took action. It caused my 4th grade teacher some worry, ( Honey, is everything ok? You’ve been mis-spelling you own name.) Knowing my phonics, I determined that if I just dropped that damn “o,” there should be no other option that to call me Carn (Car + on, just a little shorter.)

Well, there were. Carrie, Cam, still Karen, and one year I was registered at camp as Carl. I was too young to appreciate how much fun that could have been! Legally, it’s always stayed Caron. Carn became my nickname. I’m probably the only person whose nickname and name are pronounced the same.

A name like Caron is unusual. I can’t get any good stories out of parents as to where the choice came from. I was supposed to be named Denise, but, my aunt and uncle named their daughter Denise a few months before I was born.

People often assume it’s my last name, and then ask for my first name. When I declare, that was my first name, very few people apologize. They most often tell me that my name is pretty. And I always think to myself, HUH??? Pretty??? You thought it was my last name!! Yes, you’re right. Everyone knows the more lyrical, beautiful names are the last names. It’s not that I don’t like my name. I do. I just don’t find it pretty. I can’t imagine having any other name. Would I have become as unique and creative an individual if my name was normal? I’m thinking not.

I have caused a bit of consternation among my friends and family in the last year or so, as I have gone back to the original spelling for many things. It has to be legal on driver’s license, and checkbooks, documents etc… I like the way it looks with the “o” better than the 4 letters.

Some friends have postulated that when I dropped that “o” the winter of “74 – “75 I may have sent it’s energy off to someone who was just starting her broadcasting career. She’s gotten a long way with it, even using it as her magazine’s title. I could really use a little of that energy for myself just now, so I’m reclaiming my “o.”


Go check out my most recent post on the war project. The first 10 + % is now hanging!!!

So I actually did get some things accomplished after I allowed myself some space to sew.  That, and the sun has shone now for the third day in a row.  Seasonal affective disorder.  You don’t even realize it’s attached  itself to you like a life force sucking parasite.  The sun is shining, I have hay to make, tomorrow I promise a picture.   I hate blogs that are all writing, and nothing to look at.