Saturday, January 31, 2009


Since January 1st I’ve focused non-stop on the reopening of my Website. I sometimes feel like I’ve barely taken a moment to breathe in and out as I’ve concentrated mostly on just WORK and the making of product! So much activity, so much to do… it’s difficult to carve out time for my mind, body and heart to rest…

I’m not complaining here…I simply LOVE what I do. But there are times when I need more than a gentle reminder (how about a shove?) that this passion of mine, this love of creating, is not ALL God has for me. If I’m not careful, something else in my life, something equally important is neglected.

No doubt about it…I spend a great deal of time working on my home. I’ve invested hours decorating it and to be honest with you seeing the results of my labor (and my hubbs) have been very rewarding…

Why then at times do I give such little thought to the housing of my soul? Sometimes forcing it to live in a tiny shack or an unsightly hovel? Should I be shocked when the cold winds of life chill and stormy weather splashes me with it’s shivering rain?

There is comfort knowing there is space under His roof. Today it is there I seek rest...


Psalm 91:1 (NIV), “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.”

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

MY LOVE AFFAIR with WHITE......(& a HINT of PINK!)


I have always had white in my life. When I was a young girl the first bedspread I remember enjoying was a crisp white beauty that arrived complete with double layers of flirty ruffles and a matching quilted pillow sham. Simple white linens dressed my soft white French Provincial bed, which actually came as a set of two…one for me and one for my big sister. The set included matching dressers and I was always a bit envious that hers included a pretty attached mirror.

For years our walls were painted the palest of natural white and from our single widow hung dainty “Pricilla” curtains in a soft and similar hue. The bedroom suite, although fairly inexpensive, was quite an investment for our parents and we would live with it the entire length of our childhoods…

I’m quite sure I couldn’t have known it then, but so began my love affair with the most angelic of all colors.

As my decorating style began to change a couple of years ago, I willingly embraced again my love for all things white! Whatever it is called, “Cream, Ivory, Eggshell, Bisque, Ecru or Snow, it’s all still the same to me. Layering whites, no matter what the shade, evokes within me a passion for the past. I find myself eagerly searching out all things that are truly lovely, all things handmade, romantic and beautifully feminine.

Since I will never stray too far from my second favorite color, the softest, palest shade of pink, I’ve decided to concentrate on using it as a much deserved accent shade throughout my own home versus a stand-alone color. I encourage you to come along with me as I mix my palette up a bit! I’m happy to have you accompany me on this exciting journey of change! The canvas around me is always evolving and I’m looking forward to amazingly good things…only good things!


Monday, January 26, 2009



We are completely iced in here in the beautiful State of Oklahoma! The streets are frozen and the highways are slick…the weather is perfectly crummy! Certainly the kind of day for hunkering down with a cup or two of my favorite hot tea and doing more of what I simply love to do…sew and paint! If I understand our weathermen correctly, we are going to have days and days of this stuff! The up-side of it all is that my hubby is stuck at home with me…the down-side is I won’t be able to visit any of my deeply loved haunts until Mr. Sun decides to make another visit to our town…

In the meantime I’ll share with you what’s up for today!

The makeover of our Guest Bedroom is proving to be all the more exciting with a long forgotten about “Thrift Store” find…

Frustrated over not being able to unearth the perfect Bed Skirt, I decided to set my cap at creating something new and different. But WHAT? I easily thought of many different (and beautiful) options, but all ended up being too costly. Dust Ruffles call for yards and yards of fabric and the last thing I wanted to do was use up my entire stash of gorgeous floral cottons to produce a single item. I’ve always loved the soft, lightweight feel of tulle (or bridal veil), but considering the fact that it can be really fragile I abandoned the idea of using it for such a project.

I just finished making new curtains for my guestroom and since I had scads of the Voile left over I opted to try using some of it to make the Flounce for my circa 1961, four-poster bed. Late last summer I snagged an entire bolt of the gorgeous sheer-mist fabric at a local thrift store for $18. I knew there was a lot of yardage on the roll, but I had no idea there were 63 yards of the billowy stuff…60” wide, too!
Anyway, it took me about 3 hours to attach the Voile fabric to the cotton platform! It turned out gorgeous, too! No kidding! Can’t believe I didn’t think of doing it before! Since the frilly Skirt was custom-made for my charming old bed I was able to make the finished length 24”…a size absolutely impossible to find! It’s flirty and sooo full! Just yummy!

So, be encouraged! While you’re out shopping in your own city or town try thinking OUTSIDE THE “BOXSPRING” for a change! Your savings can be huge and well worth the time you spend on the hunt!
“Commit to the LORD whatever you do, and your plans will succeed.” Proverbs 16:3 (NIV)


Saturday, January 24, 2009



When I was a little kid my dad loved Thrift Store shopping. On many occasion he would drag me along insisting I learn at least a little "something or other" about our town and just what it had to offer. I agreed to suffer through this torment because I loved spending time with him. Of course, as my father saw it, it was an adventure! Not at all the painful experience I considered it to be. I mean...POOR PEOPLE shopped at the "Second Hand Store" and that certainly wasn't least I didn't THINK it was! I was simply NOT interested in bringing home anything used, worn, faded, ugly, dirty or worse yet, OUT OF STYLE. Every time I would tag along on one of his shopping excursions I would silently pray none of my friends would see me...

When I was 15 years old we moved from Southern California to Colorado Springs. It was there I learned for the first time that shopping at a JUNK STORE MIGHT have SOME advantages. I found a great Halloween Costume once and I'd dig for things like old posters, teen magazines and maybe a book or two (like my dad). I'd skip the endless racks of clothing, which included bejeweled sweaters with rhinestone buttons (somebody kill me PLEASE) and concentrate mostly on silly things to decorate my tiny bedroom. The stores were routinely filled with vintage millinery hats (I truly want to die here) which included fabulous florals and pretty silk roses. I never gave them a second-hand thought! And, I hate to even mention the authentic French and Shabby Chic furniture piled high... row after row of it, too! Passed by every bit of it. In my defense, it was the 70's and no one (at least no one I knew anyway) wanted any of that old stuff.

My how things change! This FIRST place I venture out these days for anything kind of shopping are the Thift Stores and Second Hand shops here in Oklahoma City! We have TONS of them and I'm quite certain I know where ALL of them are. Gotta love that Nuvi (GPS)! Estate Sales and Tag Sales are EQUALLY worthy of my time.
Above is a picture of a small table I picked up for only $4. Charming, isn't it? I cleaned it up just a bit and painted it my favorite Cottage White! Yum! Another treasure for my newly redecorated guest room (the table is shown in the picture at the top, too!)! Come back soon to see the four poster bed I snagged for $25 bucks last spring! It hails from 1961 (printed on the back) and is solid wood. Simply amazing and perfect for my makeover...

Yes, I do get a little sick when I think back upon my early days of salvage shopping and all the fabulous finds I ignored... My only consolation comes from being able to successfully shake loose any temptation to shop "NEW" first. Never, ever again!

Would love to hear about your greatest finds...


Friday, January 23, 2009


I woke up this morning with the following email on my computer:

“Can you believe it's been twenty-seven years ago, that you were 2 weeks away from giving birth to your first born?

I bet you had no clue the challenges that were going to follow, did you?

I love you Mom,


Indeed, I did not. Nor could I possibly comprehend back then the love and joy the journey of raising our son would bring... or, just how much it would forever and always change my life.

The early fall of 1978 found me an adoring bride. Like many young women of the day, along with the excitement of being a new wife I carried deep within me an overwhelming desire to become a mother…and right away. Despite the fact that my handsome husband and I had no money, low paying jobs and very high school debt, I still wanted to start a family. Silly girl…I’d make different choices today. But that was then and this is now...

After years of trying unsuccessfully to conceive, I found myself growing discouraged during my daily prayer time as it focused more on negotiating with God for a child and less about His plan for my life. Still, He was there. Always willing to lead and guide and of course, listen. Our doctor had no answers for us and each passing month brought deep disappointment. My hubby on the other hand was full of faith. He knew someday we’d be blessed with a child and that our most fervent of prayers would be answered. It was fitting, I suppose, that on a bright and cheerful Sunday morning, Mother’s Day 1981, I would discover I was finally “expecting”.

My long awaited pregnancy with my son proved a difficult one. I will spare you the details and will only say that after nine months of carrying him he was unwilling to emerge from the slumber of my protective womb without assistance. Painful labor (is there another kind?) and fetal distress, followed by chaos and panic filled my hospital room and I recall only a pale look of concern upon husband’s face and a masked surgeon. I would awaken two hours later to a sea of endless tubes, loud machines and the words “It’s a miracle your baby is alive! Congratulations Rebecca…you have a son!”

The first time I saw my baby his soft brown eyes were barely open and a faint twinge of blue lingered on his tiny lips and noticeably swollen face. He was beautiful and all I had imagined him to be and more! It was nearly impossible to reach out for him as my arms were too weak to raise, the result of trauma and surgery I suppose. It was his daddy who placed him on my right side so we could bond... I remember clearly how it was his tiny hands that pulled me close… as if to say “Oh, I know you! I’ve been waiting to see you for so long now! Were did you go? Where have you been? I’ve been missing you!”

With Divine help, I had managed to safely deliver my cargo and we would call him “Brandon”. Nothing since that early February morning ever was, or would be again, the same.

My son is grown now with a babe and life of his own. With a breath of fresh wind he grew into a loving and kind man, one not unlike father. On the rare occasion we are able to spend time alone, really alone, I can still see within his face the dip in his bottom lip and the same soft brown eyes that first cried out for me. This time it is I that pull him close…as if to say “Oh, I know you! I’ve been waiting to see you for so long now! Where did you go? Where have you been? I’ve been missing you!” life goes….

“Happy Birthday beautiful man-child of mine! My heart is always with you and even after all these years, I’m still so proud!"

"Thank you, God."


Wednesday, January 21, 2009


I love romance. I really do. But not the kind generated by the so-called “Hallmark Holiday's” where you find tons of manufactured sentiments on cheaply printed paper. I like the real stuff.

My husband was a straight “A” student all through college. You know… the really smart analytical kind. The sort of guy who spent most of his “spare time” studying in the library or working one of two jobs (three, four?) which paid his way through school. Save for his deep love for the clarinet and classical music, one would rarely find him far from the math and computer books that surrounded him on a daily basis. He was known to barter with his professors to avoid creative writing assignments (who in their right mind would willingly write a term paper vs. a short story?) and could (and would) debate you on the techno-babble beliefs of the day. He was a rational thinker and a doer and a giver…and always a gentleman.

Now, I am not so logical in my thoughts as that man of mine! Never was and never will be. I’m the creative half of the relationship and together we have long since found comfort in our diverse, yet accommodating marital roles. I’m louder, more outspoken and even sometimes hard-to-please. He on the other hand is more obliging, a more private a person, a kinder, gentler soul. And in thirty years of marriage I’ve only seen him really cry three times…

So, it was nothing short of un-predictable and certainly unexpected, when on my birthday last December he read aloud and in the presence of my family, a lengthy poem which he had penned celebrating my fifty years of life on this earth. Far too personal to make public, he spoke of his deep and lasting love for this “overly sentimental, mind-ever-changing, slightly hard-headed” gal of his. I was stunned…overcome…quiet even.

Not since the birth of our two children had I witnessed such tenderness, such romance. The offering, still so fresh that it’s sweetness will forever transcend the fabricated sentiments he's sent to me during our long and satisfying marriage…

Valentine's Day is three weeks away and I’m looking forward to some special time with my beloved. This year I’m going to skip the manufactured greeting and turn in the direction of home for my inspiration. I don’t need to look far to find a devoted example of the One who does ‘immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine’.


Monday, January 19, 2009


Just down the lane from my quiet neighborhood once sat a little cottage built in the early 1920’s. Although charming at first sight, the tiny home always seemed to stand oddly out of place as the houses that had grown up around it couldn't help but overshadow it’s petite and diminutive size.

Nearly every day I would pass that little house for one reason or another. I loved it's timeless style...especially the paned windows and heavily decorated front door! I once dreamed of renovating it, but that was back when my children were small and the funds to take on such a project were impossible to find. It was certainly only wishful thinking to believe I'd ever own such a place, a mindless prayer hurriedly offered up on the fly. To pleasure in even a small part of it was out of the question, as the tending to my own home, then as now, demanded most of my free time and money. Still, I couldn't help but wonder of the story behind the cottage’s beginning, or if in fact it even had one. Who had lived there and just who had it been fashioned for?

Years passed and the little house seemed to grow dark. The light on the porch ceased to shine and soon a Bank-Owned sign offered the aging cottage and the land it sat upon for sale. Last Fall I noticed construction workers in and around the property moving hurriedly about with their large bulldozers and cranes. I learned later that afternoon the cottage was slated to be being completely torn down and taking it’s place would stand yet another high-end shopping center for my growing town.

I was devastated. I loved that tiny little house and the simplicity of the time it seem to represent. Knowing how I longed to see the interior of the home, maybe take away a small souvenir or dig up a shrub, my hubby offered to take me inside the day before it’s scheduled demolition. As we walked up to the front porch I was amazed to see all the doors and windows still hanging securely in place.

“Are you tearing down the house with ALL the doors and windows still in it?” I boldly asked the head contractor in disbelief!

“We sure are!” he replied. “You can have ‘em if you want! Gonna bulldoze the entire house in the morning!”

It only took a quick glance in my hubby’s direction and he knew he’d been had. For the next five hours he stood inside the tiny dwelling removing as quickly as possible every single paned window and every interior and exterior door…including those that still had the original door knobs and vintage hardware attached. He worked well into the night, even hanging up clip-on lights that were powered by our car battery to light his way.

I have great plans for those beautiful doors and windows! I’ll be using most of them as decorative complements for my home, some will eventually be graced with hand painted artwork and sold. Still others will be used as a backdrop for a small Shoppe I hope to open later this spring. Our haul that day was worth over $3,000…

Sadly, I never was unable to uncover the life-story of the cottage. I’m sure it’s buried somewhere deep within the roots of my town’s meager beginning. But what I did learn that day was of much greater value…

Once again God proved to me that He cares about every single aspect of our lives. He’s always faithful with His endless blessings and lasting love. He never forgets even the simplest of utterances…not even those quickly spoken prayers offered up by a young mother in haste.

“For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)


Sunday, January 18, 2009


Ever watch the show "If These Walls Could Talk"? It's actually one of my favorite Shows even though I haven't seen a new one in a long, long time!

I'm fascinated with the vintage treasures, sometimes highly valuable finds that are uncovered from the slumbering walls! How exciting it would be to discover a long forgotten about, little hidden "something or other" from years gone by...

Since my home was built in 1970 I've never had any such hopes of unearthing keepsakes of any kind. Unless of course you count the vintage 1969 "7-11 ICE BAG" my hubby found just last night! It was FULL of eight empty Pop Cans of SHASTA SODA...Root Beer to be exact...the pull- top kind! Apparently, during our home's construction the Convenient Store Bag fell down an opening being built for ventilation and was just left. Too bad it didn't include an old wallet...or a Krugerrand or something...

And so...

"The "work" goes on, the "work" goes on

"Nails" keep pounding a rhythm to the brain

La de da de de, la de da de da...."

And how was your day?

Blessings... Rebecca

Thursday, January 15, 2009


If you were a die-hard "Country Decorating Lover" like I was back in the late 80’s, when Christmas came you decorated with earthy colors like pine or hunter green and maybe a dark berry red or cranberry. Sometimes I’d toss in just a hint of navy, but just for fun. Never, ever did I use colors called “Kelly Green” or “Christmas Red”…never, ever, ever!

For several years the daughter of a friend brought to me her hand cross stitched Christmas Motifs to make into Pillows. She’d work all year stitching away and I looked forward to her visits each November. Her work was impeccable and I dearly loved her designs and style.

One year she arrived bearing yet another pile of stitchery, her usual lot of ten or twelve expertly worked Santa’s. During this visit she also laid down another piece of handwork, this one a huge cross stitch Christmas Sampler. It was done on pure white and stitched in the brightest colors of the Season…Kelly Green and Christmas Red. I silently gasped!

Not one to really question one's style, I took her note of instructions and a few days later I began combining her handwork with the fabrics she had chosen. I saved the Sampler for last. Although I deeply appreciated the hours of work that went into the sentimental saying and whimsical motifs, I was not looking forward to making it into a Pillow. Especially since the fabric that was picked was also Kelly Green with tiny white polka dots. I truly thought I might faint.

My friend’s daughter arrived by the end of the next week and I showed her into my sewing room where her Pillows were safely housed. As we walked down the hallway I chatted mindlessly about her designs and the joy of seeing her work year after year. What I said next was one truly one of the most unkind statements I’ve ever spoken in my entire life…

I was in the middle of questioning the “odd” piece of stitchery and I must have been talking so fast that the two of us failed to notice another woman come into the room. When I was told the work had been done by her cousin I carelessly blurted out “Who in their right mind would have gone to all that work and spend all those hours stitching something so horrible? What a waste of time! This is the most gosh-awful thing I’ve ever seen! I hate it!” I went on to say “I KNEW it wasn’t your work!”

Just then I looked up to see the shock on the face of the other woman. She looked stunned and a bit saddened… “My Mom is very ill and I was hoping she would just love it!" she said. "I worked on that piece for over two years...especially for her...!"

Of course I apologized, stumbled all over myself, tried to make light of my careless and insensitive words…but it was useless…they were already out. The women then paid me and left. I wanted to die…maybe cut out my tongue…anything to stop the burning pain I felt inside my heart.

I never saw either of them again.

Thumper’s wise Mother (you know, from the childhood movie, Bambi), said it best when her son continued to tease the new babe about his looks…

“Thumper!” she said “If you can’t say something nice don’t say nothin’ at all!”

Blessings… Rebecca

Tuesday, January 13, 2009


Yesterday morning, before beginning my latest project, I stood for just a moment in the middle of my little studio and looked around. My eyes struggled for a second or two trying to focus on the enormous array of textiles neatly stacked upon the narrow shelves that climbed ceiling high. Yards and yards of gently loved fabrics stared back at me. Intricately woven cottons, silks and linens served up in a rainbow of colors waiting patiently for a chance to change.

I moved hurriedly from row to row, carefully adjusting the fabrics. Boxes of old buttons, tiny appliqués and shiny embellishments seemed optimistic that today might be their chosen day as well. I smiled as I ran my hands over the beautiful trims and lacey edgings before me. They were all so skillfully made, and from the very beginning of our introduction I had loved each and every treasured find.

I removed several pieces of my favorite pink rose cottons from the shelf, grabbed my sharpest scissors and began to cut and sew. I worked for over an hour, eagerly adding little bits of fancy as I stitched, tossing aside what ultimately wasn’t needed. With care, I began to turn the inside to the out. A newly created Heart Sachet was nearing completion!

Tufts of fiber filing, not more than a palm full, were gently placed inside. After adding a hint of French Lavender and a few final touches, I quickly stitched the right side closed.

I gulped down the last of my coffee and sat quietly for a minute or two checking for any imperfections in my work. Fashioned together by a willing hand, the fabric, lace, ribbon and buttons had become something beautiful. What had once been a sampling of pretty old finds was newly transformed into something of even greater value.

My life, I suppose, is not unlike the fabric and decorative treasures that sit within my studio walls. Unless I’m willing to allow Him, the Designer, to use the scraps of my life, the pocketsize pieces which are often overlooked or deemed undeserving, I will never become what He envisioned. I need the kindness of His faithful, merciful hands and the strength of His unfailing love to knit together all of what He believes I will someday be.

“This means allowing the often painful task of cutting, trimming and discarding what isn’t needed~ doesn’t it Lord?” I knew it did.

Sunday, January 11, 2009


I started Kindergarten very young. I was only four years old when timidly I walked into a classroom near the south wing entrance of Hudson Elementary School in the autumn of 1963. The windows in the school were both tall and grand and allowed for endless warmth and sunshine. It was the heavily stained, gray-green walls and the darkness of the discolored wood flooring that was frightening to me. Nothing I recall seeing during that early September morning was the least bit inspiring. I wanted to go home. I wanted to return to the sanctuary of my mother’s calming face and the simplicity of my favorite coloring books and my extra fat, pre-school crayons. I cared nothing about learning my ABC’s and even less about playing Tetherball, Kickball, 4-Square or Tag. As my size would later dictate, I was viewed as being too small, too tiny to ever be thought of as valuable. I was a late reader, was terrible at Arithmetic (that is what it was called back then), and save for my endless imagination, I felt alone. When my classmates enjoyed successes, I struggled with my perceived failures. I was placed in a sectioned off group for “slow learners” and there I would sit for many a season. And so began my battle for acceptance.

I couldn’t have possibly understood it then, but the longing to fit in had engulfed me, forcing me to hide deeper within my own thoughts and ideas. I was fearful that if I dared speak truthfully of my desires, I would further separate myself from my peers. More often than not I sat quietly aside. Emerging only when necessary to draw fresh breath or when I remembered to comb, what I believed to be, my “mousy brown hair”.

Ultimately it was my daily forty-five minute art class that proved to keep me grounded. When allowed, I would paint. More often than not I would draw and begged endlessly for paper and pen. On the rare occasion we could afford something special at home, I’d search the store aisles for the latest child-based craft project offered by our local five and dime. When I was disciplined enough to not squander my tiny allowance on penny candy or a bottle of Bubble-Up, I would save my quarters and spend them on colorful embroidery floss, tubes of shiny glass beads or maybe even a new sixteen color paint box. A beautiful world was calling out to me to press onward. I just didn’t know how to listen to her whispers.

It wasn’t until I was in my early thirties than I began to surrender to my deeply rooted dreams and to the voice I had long ago silenced. With great determination I finally accepted the fact that I was never going to master mathematics, love science, become a musician or excel in sports. I chose to abandon the pretender within and embrace my most private of passions. I simply loved to create and whether my coffers were full or empty, I was going to live my life doing it.

I revisit that four year old little girl on occasion. Sometimes, when it’s really quiet, before the sun is up and the day pulls me in, I can feel our hearts beat as one. And when I do I tell her this. I say “Be real! Live your life with meaning and honor. Be fully the child you are called to be and listen not to the non-believers who are sent to discourage and destroy you. Be at rest within God’s Blessings. Glory in His Gifts…for therein is where you will find true peace…”

Friday, January 9, 2009


Born in 1898 in a covered wagon on the outskirts of Stroud, Oklahoma, Bethel Maude Moore was destined to be my Grandmother. She was my Father’s Mother and she died when I was only 12.

I remember her being soft and cushy, just like a Grandma is expected to be, I suppose. When I knew her there was an almost transparent bluing in her tightly curled hair and she smelled only of the dime store lavender talc her meager income allowed her to enjoy. She wore little make-up, save for the peachy-tinted face power and the heavily pigmented rouge that brought color to her milky white, deeply wrinkled skin.

I never once saw her wear pants. She dressed in clothes older women of the day would wear, simple dresses fashioned from feminine, lightweight fabrics. Most came with thin belts, which she usually discarded. As she put it, ‘they were too short to reach around her plentiful belly’. She always wore a full slip with adjustable straps. I don’t remember if she wore a girdle, but probably not.

Her shoes were those old-fashioned kind. You know the ones! They were black and looked like little mini boots...the kind one might see a real granny wear. They laced snugly up the front, had a slightly pointed tip and came with a heel that made up made in function what it lacked in fashion. During her rare winter-time visits, she’d keep warm in a pale pink coat, and I seldom saw her without a shimmery rhinestone brooch and her predictable clip-on earrings.  Sometimes she wore a tattered hat showcasing an old millinery flower or two...but never once did I see her wear a cloche.  Somehow I knew she had once really loved them.

I understood little of this woman back then. Possibly less now. She carried within her a deep sadness. A sadness I know instinctively I will never comprehend. Never afforded the chance at an education, she’d been forced to leave school after finishing the 3rd grade. She talked fondly of her siblings but lived hundreds of miles from them. She had once deeply loved, but he’d been forever lost to her while serving in WWI. Her most beloved boy, his love-child, was ripped from her. She lived through unthinkable sorrow, especially for a girl who had yet to reach the age of twenty.

When she was still a young woman, she married my Grandfather, a West Texas Oil Man, whom by all accounts was merciless and cruel. She bore him five children, two girls and three sons. One of which would never see adulthood, and another who was fated to be my Father. She named him William.

It’s been almost thirty-six years since my Grandmother left this earth. The precious few things that remain of her existence are tattered and worn and gently faded. She left no money, no earthly treasures. Photographs are scarce, correspondence written by her hand, even less.

What do linger are the gentle reminders of what I knew her to take pleasure in and the impassioned love she carried in her heart for my father and his four children. As I fill a sachet with fragrant lavender buds, I think of her. When I embellish a pillow with a vintage rhinestone bauble, I think of her. When I pull on my softly colored, pale pink jacket, I think of her. Mostly though, it’s during the quiet visits with my aging father, the most adoring of all her sons, the one who stayed when all others had left, I think of her...

Love to you~


Tuesday, January 6, 2009


It is cloudy and a bit overcast here in Oklahoma today. The wind is whipping around outside causing me to question the honesty of the thermometer found just to the right of my backdoor. I started a fire in our fireplace and put on a pot of water for tea. Chamomile will have to do today as I sipped the last of my favorite, Raspberry, on Saturday.

I dreamed often as a child of living in a two story house. My heart first conceived the notion that it might even be possible when I first fell in love with one built in Brea, California. The new addition was called “Aero Vista Homes” and in that neighborhood was a house that proved to be everything my little 11 year old self could have ever wanted.

Last December found me once again in my birth state for my Grandmother's Memorial Service. It had been thirty-five years since I'd been in California during the celebration of Christmas and I'd forgotten much about the warm west-coast winters. I quietly wondered, probably for the gazillionth time, why my father insisted on moving us away in the summer of ‘74. Now that the reason for my visit had come and gone, I welcomed a couple of days in which I could rest and sit for a spell with some lifelong friends.

I lunched that following Wednesday with my precious girlfriend, Tanza, in of all places, Brea. I had such a lovely time and she chased away much of my blues with her positive outlook and giving spirit. It was tough saying goodbye. As I backed out from the driveway I couldn’t help but wonder when it would be I would see her again, mingle memories, melt pain…

Before heading back to my brother’s home, I was determined to find the neighborhood which included the house that had so long consumed my affections. I drove for only a short distance when familiar landscape pulled me in. The house was so much smaller than I'd remembered, and not nearly as lovely as my mind had believed it to be. I stood there for a second, taking in the sight of what had once been the focus my every childhood prayer. It was a pretty house, a very pretty house! But strangely, for the first time since I was a kid, I no longer wanted it…

While on the plane that flew me back to Oklahoma,I knew I was returning to the place I was meant to be. I was being willed back to the place in which I had raised my family and shared so many happy memories. I was returning once again to the place which had sheltered me in times of grief and protected me from raging storms. Back again to my “Chaumière de Briarwood”. Back once more to the daily reminder of God's faithfulness and goodness and to the answered prayer of a little child~ my beautiful two-story home…


Monday, January 5, 2009

Remembering "Country Temptations"

I couldn't resist sharing this delightful photo that was taken back in 1988. For several years my Sis, Mom and I would participate in a local (and very popular) Country Craft Show at a Shoppe called "Country Temptations" in Oklahoma City. This charming picture was taken at the beginning of our second Show. We sold out of EVERYTHING that year! When my Sister moved away to Tennessee a year later it was never quite as fun! I've been in this "business" for a long, long time! Long enough to have survived big hair and to have tossed the silly (but so sweet) outfits that bore our business' name. I thought we looked like workers at See's Candy! Happy times and precious memories for me! My Sister is on the left, my Mother is in the middle and that's me on the right!


Sunday, January 4, 2009


Last summer my hubby removed his PROPERTY :) from our upstairs office and permanently established it in another place in our home! This of course was very exciting to me as it freed up a bedroom for a complete makeover. I'd always wanted a comfy place where I could sit a spell and slowly sip a cup of my favorite raspberry tea. The once "highly technical space" has now become a place of refuge~ I can relax, read, write or maybe even "dress the wounds of a trying day..."
The walls of my pretty new hideaway are a soft pinkish taupe color called "Pale Brick". The delightfully sweet desk you see above (circa 1940) was in my daughter's bedroom when she was just a little girl. But, because of it's style it really wasn't suitable for use with a computer, etc. So as she grew older, off to storage it went! I just couldn't bear to part with it. It took a few coats of my favorite cottage white paint to make her presentable again, but today she is lovely once more. Paired with a vintage oak chair, a swivel mapel rocker from an old thrift store and the timeless charm of a vintage Jelly Cabinet, the room is now complete. I'm in heaven.


Saturday, January 3, 2009


When our son moved out on his own several years ago, the one thing that helped me keep my sainty was giving his old bedroom a complete makeover. He'd PROUDLY joined the U.S. Air Force and I knew in my heart would never return home again to live. Those were tough days for this over protective Momma. I welcomed anything to get and then keep my mind off the possibility of him seeing combat...

I've always been a lover of pink so it was a natural color choice for me as I began to turn his boyish styled room into a girly-girl work of art. The dark greens and reds were replaced with my favorite sugar pink paint, loads of vintage laces and the best pink rose quilt I'd ever laid my on! Pillows were piled up high and dainty hand painted bouquets were added to the walls.
It was nothing less than astonishing when Romantic Homes Magazine included a photograph of that very same room in one of their '06 issues a few years ago... Presently, I'm about to begin yet another makeover on that same lovely space!

The photograph above was one of the ones I sent in when I was first contacted by Erika Kotite. By the time the shoot took place things had already long been changed. Thought you'd like to see it just the same!Watch for new photos coming up in the near future and see first hand how even vintage inspired rooms can be updated for a look that is fresh and new!


Friday, January 2, 2009


When I first began selling my wares on eBay in 2002, I truly had no idea what was ahead of me. Privately, I thought I was a decent seamstress (thanks to the teachings of my beloved Mother), so making pillows and such came fairly easy. But, when it came to painting, I was clueless. Despite the fact my grandfather had been a commercial painter, I knew little more than the "correct" way in which to paint the number 6 and the number 9. Still, I possessed a deep desire within me to paint! What was lacking was the knowledge of how to get what was inside of my head onto paper.

I can't begin to tell you how many trips I’ve made to our local craft store during the past few years looking to find instructions on "How to Paint Roses". What was available at the time provided little inspiration for me. I discovered lots and lots of information on specific styles and truly beautiful artwork, but nothing that spoke directly to my own heart. I longed to find something soft, vintage-like. More often than not I'd linger around a bit, but would ultimately leave empty-handed.
One night during early March of '08, I sought out some quiet time to think and pray (my Daddy calls it "Soul Searching"). I asked (begged?) God to direct me to something that would move me closer into the direction I wanted to go... I was seeking out something fresh, something new! No...not new... something old~

Being the faithful and attentive God He is, His answer came just a few days later as I browsed mindlessly in a tiny Shoppe which sold vintage collectibles and interesting junk. Working side to side, I moved stack after stack of dusty old books and periodicals. And then, as if willing me to pay her any mind at all, she was there. Her dusty dog-eared cover stared back at me and I, just for a moment, was breathless. She was gently faded and well worn, but her colors were gentle, beautiful in fact. What I had envisioned inside my head for so many years was finally within my grasp. I had finally found her.

I skipped up to the check-out, eagerly placing the twenty dollar bill on the counter. The sales lady smiled and then commented on just how a book of it's age and value could have sat undisturbed for so long. "I've had it for over 50 years" she said. "It was a gift from my father when I graduated from high school in 1948...he knew how I longed to paint! I never did pick up a paint brush, but years ago I loved looking at the pictures". The book was dated with the year 1940 and I was in heaven.
Since that early May morning, I've moved forward, ever grateful and ever thankful for change. I've included a picture from my early work (2003) and from a recently sold eBay offering (2009). "In His time, in His time! He makes all things beautiful in His time! Lord, please show me everyday as you're teaching me your way, that You do just what you say In Your Time".


Thursday, January 1, 2009

Happy New Year

Whoo Hoo!

Well...I FINALLY have my Blog up and running! What a challenge for me! I will be adding lots of interesting things as soon as I figure out what I am doing!


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