Thursday, July 14, 2011

Vintage Sewing Machine Table

I bought a very old, wood sewing machine table at Goodwill yesterday for $7.50. Can you believe that? I must conclude that someone didn't know what they had, because this is a very nice piece of furniture, and perfect working order.

My only difficulty was that I lacked the mounting screws that originally came with my sewing machine. There was no finding them--this machine is OLD, and the screws are long gone. I searched and searched for information about what sort of screw is required, and found no information. I finally found a set of screws at the local sewing machine repair shop. It was a bit of a long shot, since the owner just happened to have a sewing machine cabinet in the store at the time that had a vintage sewing machine attached to it, and he was willing to give me the screws because he was planning to scrap the sewing machine.

I did what I could to try to identify the size of the screws, because this is information I would have found useful this morning. As far as I can tell, the screw is a 7/8-1/2x28 fillister head machine screw. I have no idea what it's made of, but it's got to be strong to hold my steel sewing machine in place.

I'm awfully pleased to have it all together and working. Now, what project to work on...

Thursday, July 07, 2011


I no longer wade into the depths;
extend myself to hidden places to find
what's wonderful any more than
I choose to seek out the predators.
By extension, or lack thereof, my beauty
swims at the bottom of an inkwell, free
to avoid notice; bound by complacency.
I sit in sunny paradise with an ice-cold
Yes I Can; Now Everything Is Peaceful
humming softly in my ear.

Saturday, July 02, 2011

Thoughts After Bedtime At Friendly Acres

You give me poems to write:

space for me and mine to work out

our idiosyncrasies here

in a place Friendly to such things.

There is so much opportunity.

I am afraid to go to sleep,

even at 11:32 PM, when

my children have long since

left their struggles to find rest;

when my husband has been in bed

for at least an hour without me.

You must understand, this is unheard of.

Home is a complicated combination

of many ingredients. He is the first.

My children are a close second,

and after that, it's all a matter

of geography, and being in the same space

together--safe and somewhat understood,

if only for a moment.

You needn't catch every nuance;

understand every shade of meaning

entailed within our struggles.

The matter is only one of willingness

to be present, to endure,

to come together at the end of the day

on the porch with the sun in our eyes

aware that the time is slipping past us;

this won't last. We have to enjoy of each other

what we can, while we can.

That's what matters most.

Friday, July 01, 2011

The Porch

The porch is a good place to sit

and take in the rest of the farm.

Mail comes when it comes,

and if I sit here, I know when

to walk down the driveway and retrieve

the junk and what I imagine are rare

precious posts--perhaps less rare here

in such a friendly corner of the world.

The wind is cool, just right

on a day when, if I step off the porch

into the sunlight, I'm a little too warm

for comfort. The leaves are singing,

the sky is lazy, the trees are wearing

shadowy skirts that brush the grass

a darker shade of lovely.

George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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