Painting Bliss

Spring and Transportation through Memories

 

 

 

Most things bring me in thought and memory to my grandparents house. If your a regular reader, you are familiar with this and my other tales of being at home with them. The smell in the air yesterday brought me to there, to their yard... to the cow pastures that surrounded their home and the pond that brought promise of sounds and sights of spring.

I remember early spring wandering slowly around their pond, for the pond was my safe haven from the world. I couldn't play in it through the winter, but come early spring I could at least assess what was happening within it's waters. Peering inside the still cold waters I looked for signs of life, spotting frog egg masses with tiny black dots inside each bulbous form yearning to grow and wiggle inside. Around the wet edges of spring I would spot the beginning of green and take in the tweee tweee sound of the red winged blackbirds.

My grandmother and I would take walks down their road come spring, collecting pussy willows. How I would love to come across pussy willlows and get lost in the whimsical memories they would prevoke. They are so hard to find these days... Red wings in pussy willlows... perhaps a painting?

Red winged blackbirds with their distinct call, only start singing in spring. Not second before, but precisely as it begins. My grandmother told me that at a young age, and I have gauged the season by those words ever since. I thought I spotted a red wing the other day in some reeds passing by the swamp I love... but I couldn't be sure. I haven't heard them yet, but I can already imagine the joy my heart will experience as the first twwweeeee of their chattery voices fills the air and space between my ears.

 

 

 

50 degree days for us mean walks to the general store, sandwiches on their porch, and the soaking in of warm sunshine. Seems like forever since I felt it (literally)... and I thought I heard my freckles give a little cheer as they too soaked up the warm rays. Sunshine is medicine in my book, the best medicine their is.

 

 

 

 

 

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I Collect - It's What I do

 

 

If you are a frequent reader here you already know that I am a collector. A magpie, loving all things that catch my eye. I enjoy the hunt, the excitement, and the moment that I know I have found something that speaks to me... and in an antique shop like this, how could I not look in every nook and cranny until something spoke my language.

I adore seeing glimpses into your human past. Little snap shots of the modern family, when that time was modern. Like this little goodie we saw...

 

 

The mom helping the children, dressed her best. Her husband, sitting off to the side... taking no part other than to smoke his pipe. It is Christmas in the 1950's home. A magic moment where every child behaves and every family in America is happy. That was advertising then, life as it used to be.

This time around I purchased a tiny sapphire blue pharmaceutical bottle (I have a deep affection for vintage glass bottles), a 1940/50's turquoise tea pot, and a pair of lemon yellow 1950's salt and pepper shakers. The hubby himself found a lovely edition of Wuthering Heights illustrated with gorgeous wood cut illustrations.

 

 

I could do it all day, every day.  Hopping from shop to shop, barn to barn, store front to store front. Something in me yearns to collect. Sometimes I wonder why people feel the need to collect. I hypothesise that they need to comfort themselves with items... or that perhaps they remember their past lives and are constantly searching for things from the time they can't quite remember.  Whatever it is... there are lots of us... all over the world collecting, keeping, displaying. I can't explain why I collect. I just need to.

I am drawn to things, and I like to think the things are drawn to me. Random things.

 

Finding the Right Fit - My Ukelele

 

 

I don't publicize that I have a musical background. Not because I'm not proud, I'm very proud... it's just the musical gene never adhered to my skin like it did for others. Trying to learn piano as a young child, a lesson was often ended in tears and frustration. I opted to learn the numbers of my fingers instead of the actual notes. Piano was abandoned after much pleading, begging, and all out refusal to play the instrument.

Instruments never felt right to me. In elementary school a clarinet was put in my hands when I really wanted to play the flute. The music teacher told me my teeth were bucked and that I could never play the flute... so here she said. (Years of braces later, she can kiss my arse!) I brought home the clunky, ugly clarinet in it's heavy black box and gave it as much effort as the piano. I still remember the taste of wood in my mouth and the access of saliva from trying to play.

I never picked up an instrument again. That's not to say I didn't want to know if I was able to play something. A deep affection for music and raised in a household where the piano was a permanent fixture. Times with my mother sat on the piano bench singing "A Spoon Full of Sugar" were followed with my sqweeky child voice belting out the sound of music's "Some of my Favorite Things". As a teenager while all other children were listening to the (awful) grunge rock of the 90's I was hanging Beatles posters on every inch of my room... and I mean every inch. Including the ceiling. I immersed myself with every album, song, and B side they put on while also listening to Pink Floyd, The Animals, and The Steve Miller Band. I chose a different route than most kids my age. You can say, I was a bit misunderstood.

Do you think I cared? If you knew me then, you know that I didn't ;)

It wasn't until this year, after hearing a song via my pink zebra headphones while working in my studio that I decided I wanted to learn the ukelele. Amanda Palmer's Ukelele Anthem screamed in my ears and I knew I had to get my hands on a uke. Christmas was looming and it was the first thing on my list.

 

 

 

Santa being the good soul that he is delivered me the ukelele I picked out from musiciansfriend.com. It's a concert ukulele which means it's just a tidge bigger than a regular uke... and that's exactly what I was looking for. I wanted neither to hold a large guitar, nor a teeny tiny traditional uke. I wanted something just right. Sort of like baby bear in the three little bears :) Not too hot, not too cold, just right.

 

 

 

It feels that way, this uke. Never in my life have I held an instrument that didn't feel absolutely awkward. I look forward to learning. I look forward to hard tipped fingers and being able to just pull it out and sing a song. I want to write my own songs, with my own words and feel accomplished in doing so. I see myself backpacking my uke, and bringing her/him along on hikes for brief chords played during our picnic lunches. Most of all I look forward to having music in my own house for my own children to experience. Maybe someday one of them will be blogging the same as me, saying how they could never settle on an instrument but had found one that felt like a feather pillow in a bed of pins.

The song below isn't for everyone, but if you give it a go maybe you will hear why I wanted to play the uke.

Which still needs a name... like a good car, a good instrument must be named. I think it's a girl... but I really like the name Angus (stop your snickering) from a band I adore called Angus and Julia Stone.

 

 

 

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I Got Lost in Her Diary

 

 

I got lost in her diary and I barely knew her. We ate together maybe 3 times at Thanksgivings over the years, but never really talked other than a hello and goodbye. She seemed sweet and a kind soul. Someone who liked to read A LOT and knew all of the flowers by name.

There it was sitting on the table and I couldn't help but read it. It was my husbands grandmothers diary. She has been gone now a few years and my hubby's mother has been bringing things home of Grandma's. Of all the things I have seen my mom in law bring home, this has captured me straight through the heart. "Mom, can I read it?"... of course she said, admitting she had only been through a few pages. This diary was from 1935, 1936, and 1937 when Grandma was 16, 17, and 18 years old. It was a 5 year diary where each page has 5 sections and in each section you write the year, then a little something of your day. Down the line you can see what you wrote on the same day the year before, and the year before that.

In 1935 Grandma was 16, a real flirt for the time and what I can gather a popular girl with lots of friends, boyish admirers, and lots of names on her dance card. In just a month she visited 2-3 parties and just as many dances. Her handwriting just about perfect, spelling not too bad, she wrote every day for the whole year of 1935 in pencil. Grandma used the lingo of the times, words like swell and fella! I especially love how she would say something important and add a playful "Ahem!" afterwards. She went to a lot of movies, it was neat to read she had seen "the latest Shirley Temple movie" and add "she's a real sweetie!".  My favorite entry of 1935 was when her parents visited some neighbors and she and her brother got to stay home alone! It was such an excitement for her and her brother!

1936 was hit and miss. She would write a little, leave a few weeks, then return saying how it had been an age since she wrote on the pages. Until  June of 1937  that is, when an interest of her got serious... Sam arrived. Before then, my husbands grandfather was mentioned but no relationship took hold... at least not yet. And in that entry about hubby's grandfather to b,e she added in the last sentence... Sam you deserve just what is coming to you! Unknown foreshadowing?

 

 

Grandma and Sam fell in love. True teenage love. Her writing was so vivid and passionate, wrapped up in her daily entries I found myself turning the pages wanting to read more and more. It was like being in the midst of a Nicholas Sparks novel! Chills lined my arms and straight down to my toes as she added "we understand each other more and more"... "he says I'm dangerous"... then a few entries later a talk of going to a carnival and finding herself "dangerous again". But then something happened... and although it didn't say exactly what or maybe it was that grandma's handwriting was a little sloppy that year, I assumed Sam had to go to war. In the entries after receiving the "news" Sam tries to break it off with Grandma but they find themselves only 24 hours later running to each other's arms in the evening. She counts and writes how many times he called that day and how she doesn't know how "they are supposed to make it through this". Close to the last entries Grandma says "one more day with Sam, we laughed when we should have cried"... swoooon. Then he left and her entries became desperate, her handwriting larger and quickly written. "Haven't heard a word of how Sam is doing... please Lord let me hear"... and then the last entry of 1937 "Have received a letter from Sam, he's ok... Dear God bring him home to me!".

Then for a whole year nothing... nothing! Heartbreak. Then an entry in 1938 about future Grandpa, a few days later another. " We went on a date, I am engaged." From there it seemed like she tried to convince herself that she was in love, but I could tell it was only self convincing. I'm sure she loved Grandpa, but why keep a journal till the day she died from her teen years? How could she keep it without careful keeping it. Something kept for so long, is bound to get lost.

 

 

Other than this wonderful love story Grandma was an artist like me... mentioned painting and drawing! Not to mention she had a deep love for flowers and gardening... spoke of going to the woods to dig up flowers and bring them home for planting. One entry said "Saw a wild columbine today on a walk!", important enough to her to write it down. I can't help but think that Grandma and I would of been great friends! I wish I was able to know her sooner but am glad and feel very blessed to have gotten to know her from the pages of her teenage diary. What a privileged.

My mom in law found it and the book was still locked. Key lost... but cover locked. I would of held on to it too if I were Grandma. How long did she continue to think about Sam? Is Sam still alive? did he go to war?

Oh the mystery!

Feeling Froggy and a Summer Visitor

 

Since I was smal,l frogs have been a part of my life. Growing up around my grandparents pond I was a tom boy to the highest degree. From sun up and until sun down the only reason I stepped away from that pond and into the house was to eat and/or go to the bathroom. Even then, it was a quick in and a very quick get back out. Every visit to their house and long wonderful summers of vacation at their house, the only place I wanted to be was standing tall in my grandfathers way over sized muck boots, aluminum bucket in my hand (I still have my bucket by the way).

At one point my grandfather made me the very best frogging tool around, it was mine and it was an absolute one of a kind. While frog catching I always snuck into the kitchen to steal a strainer. It was yellow like a school bus and had a perfect sized handle... and best of all it was THE perfect frog catcher. Until it was better improved you see. My grandfather in all his creative genius took my strainer and attached it to the end of a 4 foot wooden pole. Now not only could I catch close to the edge, but I also could scoop up floating kermits way out far. My grandmother, right up until the sale of her house and into my adulthood didn't have the heart to throw my scooper away, most of her summers too revolved around this yellow frogger and it's pig tailed master of frogging.

Imagine me, 6 years old and blond haired traipsing around the pond, pole over my shoulder like a kid with a runaway sack on a stick. Except I didn't want to be any other place but right where I already was. In a child's playground of mud, forget me nots, and bass bugs that is. I hated bass bugs... which for those of you who aren't upstate New Yorkers, are actually juvenile dragonflies. Before they leave water and become the charming winged dreamers we all know and love, they are nasty black ugly and to a kid scary as h-e-double L. I was always aware that I might draw my scooper back and find one, and if I did I would quickly have a wee internal but very reserved (as most girls would not be), freak out. Of course at that point I didn't know what they were, I just knew them for what my pa-pa called them... bass bugs... for he I am sure used them for fishing.

 

 

Now grown and long since familiar with my childhood pond I have had to get my frog needs in other ways.

In our yard, it has been the very froggiest year of all. Not only did we have so many froggy visitors to our very small 3 foot round pond with solar powered pump but we also managed to find 20 baby frogs in one day within our basement window wells. But out of all our come and go frogsters, one has stayed the entire time. Sometimes he disappears for  day or two at most, but then the following morning he's there to greet us. His name is Worts... and that is because he has a big ol' shiny wort on the left side of his mouth that has only seemed to grow in size over the summer months.

This frog is extremely friendly and super patient as little boys insist on holding him several times a day. He's a real good sport if you ask me. Even when he's being shoved into a friends face when visiting our yard! she was surely alarmed, but think of him! hee hee ;)

 

 

All of these photos today are photos of our friend Wort's. We will surely miss him as the colder weather emerges from it's autumn shell and he finds a warm place to winter over.  It would be great fun and a super treat to see our friend Wort's as spring blooms once again.

Sweet Corn Nostalgia

 

You wouldn't think sweet corn could be nostalgic, but for me it is. It's not about summer, or the tastes of summer, or the fact that you can get only really good corn in the summer... its about family, and more specifically its about my grandfather.

When I was small I spent many a summer with my grandparents...

Enter Otego New York, go straight down Main Street and take a left at the deli. Keep going until you see a hand painted church sign, and notice that the empty spaces of the "A's" are painted in. When my grandfather had a minor stroke just a few years before he was tragically taken, he lost his ability to read and couldn't remember that the hollow centers of letters were meant to be hollow. He could build anything so when the church needed a sign, he was the man...

Go straight down that road with all it's twists and turns, past barns and houses, and soon you'll be there.

 

Arrive at their house, a yellow one level ranch with beautiful large yard, pond, cow pasture behind and corn field in front and you'll know your in some sort of private heaven. Sitting in the swing that used to be nestled between the large maples my grandfather planted with his own two hands and peer across the street, and there was and still is a large corn field. Behind the corn field is a great opening expanse of grass, and then woods. I used to tell my grandparents that I would build a house on the open expanse so I could always be near to them, and close to the land that made me feel whole and with purpose. That corn field was welcome to our picking. The farmer, being a friend told my grandparents to pick corn whenever they wanted and so they did. Not with excess, as they did nothing in excess... but when wanted, and enjoyed down to the very last kernel.

My Pa Pa would walk across that road and into the tall corn stalks, pick a half dozen and walk back. Somehow I remember the very first time. I remember him going and me waiting, watching... I remember sitting in the yard and teaching me to shuck. Shucking corn was and will always be about my grandfather. He taught me to take the top with two hands, separate the silk between each hand, and pull straight down. Once the husk is pulled all the way down, you snap off the base and remove the final strands of silvery silk.

Boil, butter, salt and pepper if you want and eat until you can't eat anymore.

 

 

My grandfather was a corn eating professional. He did everything slowly and perfectly, from washing the dishes to eating his corn. One cob was meticulously chewed until nothing was left but cob and the one cob probably took a good 20 minutes or so. You see, each kernel is held by a transparent silky pocket... and for most of us we leave this part on the cob... but he didn't. Every part of the corn... kernel, pocket, and all was gnawed away thoroughly. I was never sure how he did it, and I wasn't sure until last night when I tried being careful... and I figured it out.

Bite hard, bite down to the very cob, and show no mercy. Do it, like a cow would do it. When you do it this way, the corn has so much more texture. It seems meatier and fuller in the mouth.

Nowadays when I visit the grocery store and see a big trash can next to the corn table I chuckle to myself, and wonder if anyone knows what it's like to really pick, shuck, and eat corn. In Reality, you don't get to check every cob for imperfections, there's no knowing what you have until you get it home and peel it open for yourself. When you pick corn straight from the field you must beware the corn grubs. You never know if there will be one inside munching the sweet yellow niblets, and I remember always being super cautious as a kid when helping shuck. Of course I would scream and throw the cob if one were to be found! I was a tom boy through and through, but when it came to that... I was all girl.

Now when I go to the store, and if I buy corn (which I only do in the summer), I choose not to look. I push the trash can aside and just pick out what I think looks biggest and fullest while some lady or gentleman next to me opens and checks each and every one they want. This is my way of staying true to my grandfather. It's my way of staying a little bit country. It's my way of staying real.

 

 

Junk Barn Joy - Thrifty Finds

 

One of my favorite places to find treasures amongst trash is a place marked by the giant cement rooster by the road who behind it sits a large 3 story barn filled with antiques, trash, odds n' ends, and just a mish mash of old stuff in general. This is a place I have posted about before, but truly love and have been going to since I was a little girl.

In my favorite place you can find... keys of any size shape or nature and they are all $1  a piece...

 

 

Old silverware with families initials that will never be known...

 

 

Family photos retrieved from Estate Sales and cleaned out homes of the deceased...

 

There are mason jars full of buttons, costume jewelry, books, magazines, newspapers from days gone by... there are christmas ornaments, kitchen ware, and well I could mention everything in your home and I bet it's there except it's a vintage version of it's modern self.

 

 

My favorite find from this times adventure were antique scissors, which too can be found in an old drawer at a $1 a piece. I find that I can never find the right scissors with small enough blades for the tiny intricate cuts I need to make in my artwork... well lookie see what I found!

 

 

Also I found a whole cardboard box of vintage sheet music underneath one of these junk tents! That should keep me in stock for awhile! What I thought was a pretty neat find was an antique algebra book which I thought it with all it's math equations would make some great and interesting artwork.

 

 

I'm excited to see how my mind and hands mold this paper into something pretty! So much vintage inspiration to be had!

 

Vintage Coffee and Vintage Mugs - Thrifty Finds

 

I was able to hit two lawn sales this past weekend on a trip into town for groceries and I couldn't be happier with what I managed to pick up!

 

 

A 1969 in the box with directions,  never used olive green percolator! It was quite the experience using it and hearing how loud it's noises were while brewing. The boys joked that it was making bathroom noises! It turns on as soon as you plug it in, no on and off switch... and there is a dial on the front to choose the darkness of your brew. It's funny how we have become so accustomed to our technology doing all the work for us... for when we have to take a step back in time we become confused and dumb founded. Where is the on button!? why is it brewing already? is it done? but it was fun, and we have it all figured out! The coffee was delicious as the hubby and I really love clean percolated coffee! I am so excited to have this piece on my counter! Not to mention I bought it for only $5!

 

Don't you just love the box and it's booklet? I have always loved and adored how womens hands were drawn during this era. Small, dainty, curved pointed fingers.

 

I love how it says "It's ELECTRIC!"

 

My second awesome find was a set of vintage Lipton soup mugs! made out of glasbake and designed in the most beautiful pastels! Blue, coral, buttercup yellow, and white. I could hardly believe that I paid $10 for this set and upon checking Ebay saw that they are going for between $75 and $100!! now that's a find!

 

 

Needless to say Sunday morning I brewed my pop whirl bubble percolated brew and drank it out of my 1960's pastel pink cup and the hubby out of the baby blue.

1950's Cookbooks a Good Thrifty Find

 

My moms boyfriend has a garbage place near him that offers a garage where you can place items that aren't really trash but also not wanted by the owner anymore, so it's a free for all. Your trash is my treasure kind of place. I haven't been able to get there yet, but my mom nabbed some well well loved 1950's cook books for me knowing that they were just my style.

They have that awesome old book smell of aged papery goodness. The sheets are soft yet somehow rough to the touch. The spines are completely torn off proving that they were well used and well loved. I just love how the covers say "Modern" on them, cause at the time they were state of the art!

 

I look forward to going through these books and trying out some of the recipes! not only does it have recipes, but it has etiquette on how to properly slice a cake and advice on the social use of food when having company. It says "Every woman is hostess to her own family ever day, but most women think of themselves as hostesses only to "company", which is th hospitable America name for guests. For company the average woman wants to "out do" herself, to serve something a little nicer than usual, something which will show guests how much she values their friendship."

These books have pages of "family creeds" which seem to me to be a house wife's affirmation to keep up the every day facade that was the 1950s house wife...

"My families satisfaction with my table setting and service is my responsibility; therefore... I will manage linens and other equipment, my method of work, enlist the assistance of my family to the end that the table shall be clean and beautiful and the service easy and dignified".  Fast forward 50 years to my table and cue the national geography music cause I just had spaghetti with 3 boys, one of which ate it like he was un-spooling thread!

 

There are full menus for a wedding buffet from breakfast to tea, dinner, and supper. Then there are picnic menus which are sorted by "quit-and-go picnic" and the "prepared picnic"... gotta love it! omg... I am fingering through the pages now and there is a whole year, month by month of menus! now I know why my grandparents always had coffee with their dinner when we are out at restaurants! cause that's what was served for dinner and milk for children.

 

You know, it's easy to joke about things like this because we have become such a quick and go society where families are rarely seen at one table for dinner, or a picnic for that matter... maybe one should look back at these books on tips for keeping everyone together! I bet... ready for this? I bet there is a recipe for OLD LADY CAKE (favorite post to date) in here!!! and omg omg omg I just saw there is a recipe for old fashioned pull taffy!!! When I was a little girl my grandmother would have an annual taffy pulling party where everyone would grab a partner, a ball of taffy and stretch it between us. I remember it being creamy, sweet, and slightly salty! My grandmother would be in the kitchen elbow deep in the biggest pot I'd ever seen! I am SO doing this with my kids!

Anywho I could probably go on and on about these books, but I'll leave you with this new fangled contraption... it's the latest rage and will change your life as a mother and wife! I give you the....

GAS OVEN! What!? I know!! don't wet your knickers!

 

 

Now let's remember ladies...

" Happy family relationships are part of your responsiblity... therefore, You will save enough energy to do the job of being a happy and helpful hostess to your family day after day!"

 

I understand now - love for a bike

 

I understand now how men love their cars, their motorcycles, and their boats...

my whole life I looked at dudes like they were crazy... thinking how could they LOVE an automobile or bike? Well, I get it now... I completely get it; for I am in love with a bicycle. My bicycle <3

Almost a month ago now I drove upstate and saw on the way, my love... my bike... I have always wanted a vintage bike. For as long as I can remember I loved their smooth lines and superior design. When contemplating a bike I loved the new Schwinn's the most. The ones modeled after the vintage ones, all shiny and new... pink even! I thought about it, drooled over them in the stores... but never purchased one. Too expensive anyways, not to mention I just felt like someday a real one would come to me. And it did. Ask and you shall receive, remember?

On my way upstate I get off the highway half way through opting for winding country roads that have known me for 29 years. My whole life I have traveled these same roads, over and over again until  I could probably drive them with my eyes closed. I remember the first time I actually drove on these roads myself... no longer a child in the back seat (or passenger seat). It was surreal, but felt oh so natural. Every time I drive up to visit my family, no matter how many times I have seen a twist or turn... the same antique shop or diner... I see something new.

I saw two really cool things on this one particular day.

First I saw sculptures that were never there before! this is not a wonderful picture as I wanted it to be... as it is still mid winter and everything is drab; but you will get the idea. I fully plan on this spring, when everything is green... to visit these sculptures and take pictures of myself doing the same poses.

 

(these metal sculptures are upward of 10 feet tall each)

 

Then second thing I saw... a bicycle... love at first sight I tell you, love at first sight! Pitter patter my heart boomed and raced inside this bird cage chest. There it was, my bike! It was mid week when I took this trip and no antique shops are open during the week in these tiny one blink towns - but there it was, leaning up against a bush chained down. It was lovely. At this point I had no idea what kind of bike it was, what price it was, or if it would be there when I returned the following weekend... but I decided right then and there that if it was... I would stop and make it mine.

 

The next week came and passed and we packed up and took off for another trip on my familiar roads. It was there... waiting for me... and the little antique shop which was inside a white house (original door) was open... OPEN! I pulled over, smiling with excitement... after all, I had thought about it and talked about it all week. I stepped out of the car, pranced up the steps petting the dog that laid in the doorway on the way in. Behind a desk seated low, was a man probably in his 60's. Long hairwith ringlets at the end were tied back in a low ponytail. He was obviously an old hippie who loved to collect and pick and sell junk (NOT JUNK - TREASURE). I felt an instant bond with the man.  His seat must have been a stool for he sat so low, but when he stood was quite tall. I inquired about the bike and he said, "The bike was $80, I knocked it down to $60, but you can have it for $50"... and the sale was made. He held my bike until the next day for me, even bringing it in to clean it up (how kind!). He was so sweet and I caught him smiling to himself as we drove away with my love in the trunk. I think he was happy he sold it to me

(I plan on sending him a thank you note and picture of it once I have spruced her up)

My bike ended up being a 1964  Schwinn Typhoon! built in October of that year.

(She had a serial number!)

 

 

In my imagination I am a teenager in the year 1964. I have just purchased my first bike, saved up all year for it... back then it cost $39.95, which was a lot! while riding my bike I stop at the record store and buy The Beatles first album and I am eager to speed home on my red beauty to listen to " I wanna hold your hand" (which I hum while paying for the record).  Deeper still in my imagination this bike returns to me in my next life (this one), on the side of the road waiting... for me to notice it. We meet again and I understand love for the inanimate.

 

My Schwinn has everything original. She will be getting new tires, a replacement (but vintage) Schwinn badge to replace the missing one... and a back rack and front basket. I am so excited to love this bike in the way it is meant to be and once before was  loved. I will not alter it's paint or make it shiny again. I love it just the way it is. So yes, all you men out there... I get it. I truly get it, I love my bike (love love love)

 

I will share my bike with you once we put everything on her. I plan on riding her this spring wearing the cat's on bike's fabric I designed for this week's Spoonflower contest. If you would like to vote for it, I would truly appreciate your time. Vote here.

 

Enjoy your weekend, find time to relax and take a nap even!