Mostly I did some knitting today, but I fit a few minutes of good stabbing too.
And already I’m thinking of the next design. It will be quite different.
And still, it will be quite different. Life I mean.
Two years ago when I first wrote those words, they probably were only about the design for the smock. And yet we all knew that all our lives would be quite different. I think there was already talk of the new normal, whatever that was going to be.
We had come through almost a year of being painfully aware that our lives were changing dramatically … Mum, who had always been the centre of our worlds, was no longer able to hold that centre. And each week, she changed – the essence of her was still at her heart, and it still is, but more bits around the edges seemed missing with each visit.
We knew the future would be different, without Mum in it. But at this stage, despite how much of her we felt we had already lost, we could not conceive of a world in which she wasn’t breathing life into it.
And now… I still can’t conceive of that world. Mum still breathes life into my world whenever I visit her, but also at random moments, as I recall things about her. And yet it feels like she has so little breath left.
In so many ways our lives are going to be different.
***
Thank you for reading this.
If you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
Finally, if it’s not too much to ask (I know, it is, apologies) I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
Embroidering Mum’s fisherman’s smock all started as an act of self care. And now it’s up for an award!
Cutting to the chase, I have a small favour to ask. Please click here and VOTE FOR ME. Or read the rest of this piece and then vote!
At the beginning of 2021 we had just come through the first 9 months of Covid, with strict lockdowns and social isolation. We were heading for another lockdown and I was heading to live in Galloway, 100 miles from home, for several weeks or months (who knew at the outset? Our ability to plan things in any meaningful way was one of the casualties of Covid.. )
I had read research that proved that people who regularly indulged in some crafting activity, something creative, were less likely to break.. and so I joined a global online ‘project’ called #MakeDontBreak. Daily prompts, and sharing on social media helped create a community, and convinced me that a daily habit of stitching or sewing, of making or creating would be key to my wellbeing during this period of isolation.
Of course I hadn’t, at the outset, factored in that within days I would notice that Mum’s behaviour was slightly out of kilter, and that she had the early stages of dementia.
Or that she would gift me her old fisherman’s smock that was her ‘uniform’ for years when she used to work with clay every day, making ceramic models and selling them to people who wanted three dimensional portraits of their animals.
That fisherman’s smock seems to have taken on a life of its own. I have slowly, so slowly, embroidered designs on to the canvas, and with each stitch there is love, but also there are stories. Somehow, the gentle act of stitching has helped me to cope with the world around me, as it changed so dramatically.
I never anticipated that this act of self care, would lead to this blog, and now has been shortlisted as one of three finalists in the JustGiving Creative Fundraiser of the Year Award.
I should have told you sooner, but things have been a bit much this last month or so, more of which another time.
Anyway – the smock popped up in media stories all over the country, like THIS.
I’ve messed this up, but if you read this and have time before 12 noon (Edinburgh time) on Friday 25 August please please click through here and VOTE FOR ME. The winner is decided on a public vote, to be announced at the end of September.
If you have already voted, a thousand million thank yous, you are all such stars.
***
Mostly on this blog I write about trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia, which nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching her old Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me as I let everything go to concentrate on those tiny stitches. If you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation.
Finally, if this has moved you, I would really appreciate it if you made a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, forever thank you.
I started the next design today. It’s not the one I’d been planning, but sometimes you just have to go with what feels right at the time. And it’s time for a wild strawberry.
It’s not really… we picked the last of them a few weeks ago. This is the season for brambles. And joy of joys, for Victoria plums. The edges of our garden are wilder and more unkempt than ever this year, and I’ve harvested more than 3lbs of brambles from our wild edges and hedges. Five years ago mum gave us a plum tree. We’ve only ever had 2 plums from it before. We’ve harvested 26lbs so far this year! That makes a lot of crumble!
Anyway… most people have completed their 100 days for 2021. I’ve loved seeing so much creativity, and such a supportive community. And I’m more than happy to be continuing mine at my own pace.
Wild Scottish Strawberries are the most lovely treat for a small child. There is something about their teeny tininess that makes them perfect for small hands. I remember picking them as a child, probably eating more than were put in the bowl, but that is part of the point isn’t it?
This design was created by my nephew Max, who is now a grown up, but as a child he also loved to pick those wild strawberries. When you first start picking wild strawberries you think there aren’t going to be many at all, certainly not enough to make A Thing. And then slowly as you wander around the edges of the garden, lifting up the big green leaves to find more teeny bright red fruit, you realise that if you hadn’t eaten so many at the start, there would be plenty to macerate with a wee bit of vanilla sugar and a splash of balsamic vinegar, to then add to a bowl of lush Greek yoghurt or spoon over vanilla ice cream.
Anyway, you are in for a treat with this embroidery design, it is one of my favourites.
It’s odd writing this blog post nearly two years on from when I wrote that first opener, about the wild strawberry design.
I see that back then I had just had a lovely visit with Mum – I reported that she was in good fettle, which is good enough for me.
But more than that, I had told her that she was my favourite Mum (perhaps for the first time?). She looked at me, paused, and then said ‘I am your only Mum’.
I told her that there were lots of other Mums in the word, and I was so happy and lucky that she is mine. She liked this. I then told her about my friend, J, who did not have a good relationship with her Mum. Mum looked puzzled at this, looked down at my hand and stroked it with hers. It was such a beautifully tender moment.
Mum no longer always had the words to express herself, but she could let me know that she cared, that she loved me. And that was enough. It’s still enough.
***
Can I ask you a small favour? Could you please click here and vote for me, Lois Wolffe. The Smock has been shortlisted for an Award and it would mean the world to me if you voted for it.
Mostly on this blog I write about trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia, which nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching her old Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me as I let everything go to concentrate on those tiny stitches. If you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation.
Finally, if this has moved you, I would really appreciate it if you made a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
This is meant to be a quick wee emblem.. but I’m beginning to think it might take a while.
Mum has saved stickers from fresh fruit over the years, and stuck them to the back of the door under the stairs. There are actually no stairs in Mum’s house, but the larder was under the stairs in my childhood home, so the larder is still called UnderThe Stairs.
Under The Stairs in our childhood home was a magical place for me.
There was a rough stone floor, and thick shelves, which in memory were made of stone, but perhaps they were concrete blocks? I’ll never know. And everything under there was cool to the touch.
When I call it Under The Stairs you might be imagining a small space with a low ceiling. While one part of this space was just like that, most of it was a fairly a long thin room with long deep shelves on either side, leading to a tiny wee window at the far end. That window was covered in mesh, allowing a free flow of air into the space.
For some reason this was where we were going to go if we got the three minute warning of a nuclear bomb… I’m not now convinced it would have protected us from any fallout, with that old mesh over the window. How odd to think that one of the things I was definitely aware of as a child was where we would hide if there was an imminent nuclear bomb; and even odder that I don’t recall there being any anxiety about this knowledge (or the fact that our safe place clearly wasn’t that safe).
Anyway, what things were kept in there?
It was effectively an overflow fridge, though never quite as cold as the fridge. We didn’t keep the actual Must Be Kept Cold things in there (so no cartons of milk, or butter and generally no fresh meat or fish). But always, always leftovers, dishes of tasty leftovers, ready to be re-purposed into some other meal. Mince made into cottage pie, vegetables added to a soup, roast lamb diced up and mixed with gravy and some curry powder to make ‘curry’. The 70s were another galaxy weren’t they?
Tins had their own shelf. There was a rack of vegetables just by the door as you went in, and frequently there would be a brace of pheasants hanging, by their necks from a hook just to the right as you went in, with a newspaper on the floor underneath to catch any drips of blood. There was a pile of tupperware-esque containers and their not-quite-fitting lids; there was the huge jeely pan, brought out once or twice a year to make marmalade and then again before Hogmanay to make the most enormous vat of Pea Soup from split peas, to feed the revellers at some unholy hour of the morning when it became clear that no-one was leaving any time soon, but we all needed something else to keep us going through till breakfast time. There was the fish kettle, brought out only once or twice in my memory to poach a whole salmon; candles, torches, a tilly lamp and an old railway signal lamp in case of black outs, which were a regular feature of my early childhood (Mum, of course, made what must have been a nuisance and a frustration to her, into a fun game for us kids). There were cans and cans of dog and cat food, each one more stinky than the other. And there were spaces for us to hide in if we were playing hide and seek.
No wonder I wasn’t afraid of a nuclear bomb – hiding in here for a while was just fine.
I was living in London when Mum and Dad moved house and I didn’t visit them till some weeks after they had moved. But from the first moment I stepped into Mum’s kitchen in that unfamiliar house and opened the door to Under The Stairs, I knew EXACTLY where everything lived. The trays would be stacked beside that chair next to the fridge, the jars of jams and chutneys on the shelf to the left Under the Stairs, and the candles up on that shelf on the right. Bottles of wine would probably be on the rack on the floor on the right, with the old square tin full of shoe cleaning stuff sitting on top of it. Everything had its place, and when Mum became increasingly blind, and then unable to remember where things were, somehow her muscle memory compensated and helped her to put her hand on just what she was looking for, keeping her independent for far longer than perhaps was wise.
***
Mostly on this blog I write about trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia, which nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching her old Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. The Smock Project is up for an Award, and it would make my heart sing if you took a moment to click through here to vote for it. It will take you but seconds to do it.
If you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
Finally, if it’s not too much to ask (I know, it is, apologies) I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
Blocking is the final stage of making something lovely out of yarn.
And today is a day for blocking on the terrace. This was a delight to knit and will be deliciously warm this winter.
Pattern- Sycamore by @harveyknits Yarn – DK from @newlanarkspinning Colour – copper green. (It’s more goosegogs to me but I love it)
I was nearly there, nearly finished this shawl, which was happily gifted to my big sister.
As a reminder, we’re selling our house. So if you, or anyone you know, wants to live this lifestyle where it can feel like you’re on your holiday every evening, sitting on the Terrace enjoying the sun going down, then take a look here, and get in touch with Fraser.
It’s been quite a big decision to move from here, but in the end it’s not been the most difficult decision to make. We’re both excited about the new life we’ll lead in Galloway, and we’ll always have the happiest of memories of living here.
So, we’re nearly there; once our house is sold we will move to Galloway.
I was in Gatehouse this weekend, which was hosting The Gralloch, which I might write more about another time. The wee town was absolutely buzzing, with around 1,000 cyclists (including an Olympian, a world record holder and a F1 driver) starting and finishing their gruelling 100km gravel race almost outside our door – the town population is only around 1,000 so it all felt quite busy!
Spending time with Mum was mostly peaceful – she again slept through my entire visit on Saturday, so I chatted a bit to her while I knitted, and reminded her how much I love her; I stroked her hair and held her hand as she slept on; I felt grateful that she seems so calm, so untroubled by the world and her inevitable transition out of it. I sense that Mum is nearly there, wherever there is. But the flipside is that she is now only nearly here.
On Sunday she opened her eyes briefly as a carer gently tried to feed her breakfast. It was both beautiful and sad to watch. There is such genuine care being given by the staff, such kindness; and it gives Mum such dignity. But I found myself unspeakably sad afterwards, having seen Mum so frail and hardly able to eat even the softest porridge as it is spooned into her mouth.
I know there will come a time again when I am able to remember Mum as she was, but I seem to have blocked off that memory for now, having found it too impossible to hold both her as she was and as she is now. The contrast is too cruel.
Mum (standing up) with her sister, Joyce
***
Trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
This wee dude is nearly done and although I have one more swallow to stitch I’m already thinking about the next design. It’s going to be a cheeky wee quick one. And I’m already excited about it.
It’s been interesting today, just letting my mind wander. I was thinking how creative all my family are, and how I don’t consider myself creative at all. At least not musically or visually… but I know I am with food. Give me some random ingredients and I can create you a tasty meal. Today I made pita bread (there it is, puffing up in the pizza oven) and brought a selection of salads and cold meats and cheese and boiled eggs to the table so we filled our pitas then filled our faces. The pita recipe is from Ripe Figs, the most beautiful celebration of food, migration and a world without borders by Yasmin Khan.
Mum is an artist. She can pick up a pencil, a pen, a brush and draw whatever is in front of her. Well she could. The optician confirmed she has macular degeneration which explains why she’s being saying “I’m blind” for over a year. And I think this combined with her dementia means we will never see her draw again. I hope she doesn’t miss drawing, but I think she maybe she does, when she remembers it was a talent she had.
Mum never did draw again. And these days she sleeps most of the hours of each day, so I know she never will.
Thankfully I don’t think she ever did regret that she could no longer draw; she seemed not to know that she ever had that ability. So, while I feel sad at that loss, Mum never did.
We had hung one of her pen and ink drawings in her room in the care home – it’s a charming picture of her lush green veg boxes, overflowing with abundance, and surrounded by small creatures – swallows, a snail, a wee mouse, a spider.
In late August 2022 I was sitting with Mum as I embroidered – the design was adapted from a pen and ink drawing I had found in one of her sketchbooks, of silver birch trees in the Autumn. I showed Mum and let her know how much I loved stitching her drawings, reminding her what a talented artist she was. She did her funny wee scowl, looking puzzled, and with disbelief asked “Am I?”.
I talked some more about the ease with which she could draw anything in front of her.
She had no recollection of this aspect of her life at all. And what surprised me more, was that she had no curiosity about it, and no disappointment that she could no longer do it. It was as if I was talking to her about someone she really didn’t care for and certainly wasn’t interested in.
She hmmmphed at me, as an indication that she’d like to move on to other topics.
By this time Mum had lost all her curiosity in the world around her. And with that loss of curiosity, comes a loss of interest in almost anything. This was so very different to the Mum I had known for most of my life, who showed interest in everything.
I don’t say this in any critical way at all, or even with sadness, though I’d be lying if I pretended I wasn’t grieving for Mum. It is just a statement of how I perceived Mum, and how our relationship was at that time. In some ways visits with her became easier for me (I know, I know, it shouldn’t be all about me, but my experience is all that I can write about with any confidence). When she was losing her ability to communicate so well, there were visits when she would be distressed but was unable to articulate why. This distress was rare, what was more common was that we struggled after a while to communicate about anything much at all – Mum would tire, and fail to find the words she was looking for. Previously, when I was living with her I could finish every sentence for her when she lost a word – we existed as a team together. After several months in the care home this was not possible. I sometimes could not fathom what she was trying to tell me at all. So, more recently, when she lost the inclination to talk much at all, I took my embroidery or knitting with me and after a short chat I would tell her that I was going to get on with my knitting (or whatever) and that I’d just sit quiet as a mouse beside her. I often told her she looked tired, and she agreed that she was … essentially I gave her permission to snooze.
Perhaps we all need to be given permission to snooze some days.
***
Trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
This is fun! I’m sitting in the sun, mindlessly stitching and feeling my whole self begin to relax.
This wee swallow is beginning to take shape but I need to go and make lunch so you’ll see the rest of him later. Yes, since there have been so many days with no updates, I decided you can have double updates some days. Watch this space later.
I have just re-read something else I wrote at this time, illustrating how much I curated my life on social media to suit the world I wanted you to believe I live in.
My friend Juliet had asked me that simple question, “How are you?”
And I don’t sugar the pill with Juliet, I am able to be entirely open and honest with her. I said, “I’m not sure really. I say everything is ok, because it’s not awful. And I’m sitting outside sipping coffee and eating madeleines. And embroidering swallows. So it is ok by most standards.” And, honestly, by most standards it was.
But then I went on to say, “I’m sad. OK but sad”
And when Juliet responded with “I think sad is very acceptable”
I knew this to be true, “It is. Indeed. And I have madeleines”
So Juliet added, “And love”
And because it was on WhatsApp and sometimes you get out of synch, I then replied with, “Orange and cardamom flavoured if you want to know” and “An abundance of it”
I hope that wherever you are and whatever is going on in your life that you, too, have an abundance of love. And also that you have people around you who you can say how it really is when they ask how you are.
***
You might want to dip into other posts, or understand how we got to this point? This series of posts starts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; as her memories were being thrown around like so many pieces of jigsaw in a big box.
It’s glorious weather here today. And I’m on holiday from work this week, so after a lazy start and a walk with the dogs I made some madeleines. Oh my good god they are delicious!
And this afternoon I pootled a bit, then had a coffee break on the Terrace and did a bit of stabbing.
I called Mum late afternoon and talked about flowers for a minute or two. That was fine.
Now might be the time to state that I have never read any Proust. And it seems likely that I probably never will if I’m honest (and I like being honest).
But I had a desire to understand about the whole madeleines Proust thing (which is no doubt impossible to fully understand if I resort to Wikipedia instead of actually going to the primary source). Anyway, I now know that in A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, or In Search of Lost Time if you want the English translation, the madeleines are used to demonstrate involuntary memory, and how it differs from the partial memory of voluntary memory.
Basically, when the character in the book tastes a madeleine dipped in tea it brings forth a forgotten memory of his aunt eating madeleines dipped in tea on a Sunday morning. And I guess a whole lot of other associated stuff with that memory.
I get this. I had this involuntary memory experience a couple of years when I saw Mum spooning the froth off the top of her cup of hot chocolate in a café. I realised I do this whenever I get a frothy drink. I also find myself sometimes involuntarily ordering a black coffee with a wee jug of cold milk on the side, because this is exactly what Dad used to order, and sometimes his words just come out before I have thought about the fact that I prefer a flat white. I wonder if Dad might have liked a flat white, if they had been more readily available in his lifetime?
Anyway, memories.
Memories of memories.
And shadows of memories, ghosts of memories.
I’m interested in what we remember, and what we lose. What we notice at the time, and what we hold in our memory banks so we can revisit them later. I hope I always remember the woodpecker that had breakfast at the birdfeeder just 2 feet from my desk this morning. Will it come back to me, unbidden, if I see a woodpecker again when I am old? Will I always remember that moment it first landed on the birdfeeder and I held my breath, lest I disturb it? And how when it had its fill, it flew back up to the telegraph pole and clung on, in classic woodpecker pose, but this time not so close, so I couldn’t see the detail of each and every feather.
Also, I do love the photograph (above) of the ghosts of madeleines, created by the dusting of icing sugar.
***
You might want to dip into other posts, or understand how we got to this point? This series of posts starts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; as her memories were being thrown around like so many pieces of jigsaw in a big box.
MisoCat sat with me on the sofa as I stabbed yesterday evening.
She’s occasionally good company, when she’s not attempting to hack into my work laptop by pressing ALL the keys on the keyboard.
The bonus pics today are mum’s father, Commander James Graham. I met an elderly gentleman at a party the other week (I know! A party!).. and he discovered who I was, and then reminded me how much Grandpa liked to write to the papers. Most weeks there seemed to be a letter from Cdr James Graham in The Times.
One of my cousins asked who the elderly gentleman was, who recalled our grandfather… and I responded with what was actually the more interesting story:
He is a neighbour of Archie and Sarah McConnel. The first story he told me (when all he knew was that I’m from Gatehouse) was when he first started work as a trainee quantity surveyor.. he had a meeting in Fleet Street with Mr Wolffe. At the end of the meeting Mr Wolffe cracked open a bottle of champagne and invited him to join him… in toasting the birth of his latest child. That baby was me! His name is Robert Waugh.
The moment I tell Sarah that her neighbour toasted my birth, over half a century ago
***
Trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last couple of years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
I’m nearly at swallow time again, just as the wee darlings prepare to set off for the Southern Hemisphere again.
I didn’t speak to Mum today. I’ve thought long and hard about it, but I have decided that daily contact probably won’t benefit either of us. I don’t really know if it would be good for mum or not, if I knew it was a comfort to her I would do it in a flash. I know that within minutes she has no recollection of my call.
And phone calls with her are generally less positive than visits. And I honestly can’t do them every day. OK I could. But I choose not to.
I know she is well cared for. This used not to be enough, I wanted her also to have some pleasure in her life.. she had a remarkable ability to still find pleasure in her diminishing world, as she became less mobile and increasingly blind. We picked her flowers so she could smell them. We cooked tasty meals packed full of flavours to stimulate her taste buds. I hold on to that moment she smelled the honeysuckle early this summer. She seems unable to find that joy any more.
So. Go out. Smell the flowers. Sow seeds. Grow plants. Feed the birds. Soak up nature. Swim in the sea. Climb trees. Eat plums as you pick them from the tree. Eat whatever takes your fancy. Enjoy every moment while you know how to.
It both breaks my heart and brings me solace to re-visit this post in my memory. Solace, remembering all the joy Mum eked out of her world, and shared with all of us around her. Sadness to recall how distressed and confused Mum could be on a phone call. I continued to call her several times a week, until one day, many months later, I decided not to any more. As much as anything, I needed to wean myself off that regular check in with her once it was no longer nourishing either of us.
But today I urge you all to take every ounce of joy that you can from each hour of each day. I am reminded of the night before I left home to go to University, in London, leaving home for the first time, and at the age of only just 18. I went to say goodbye to my Gran… we chatted and she talked of this and that, I remember not what… and then she paused and looked at me with those pale blue eyes of hers.
As she was holding my eye contact, she said: “Loïs, don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
I gulped. This seemed like an important instruction from Gran, whom I was named after, and adored (but also I did not want to disappoint her in any way). She was my premier matriarch in this matriarchal family.
She continued, “But remember that the only things you regret in life are the opportunities you missed. If it makes you happy(and you’re not hurting anyone else) do it”
Gran was so right.
As you travel through this world, enthusiastically embrace every opportunity and follow your heart.
A young(ish) Gran in a fabulous embroidered cloakMe with Gran, circa 1967
***
I started writing this series of posts here, with Taking Smock of the Situation, an embroidery project I started after I realised Mum might have dementia. There I was, embroidering her old fisherman’s smock with symbols relating to her life; while her memories were slipping away, like me at a party I don’t want to be at.
Before that I blogged about whatever I was cooking and you can find my recipes here.
Shewolfinthevalley 