Sanding the Dining Room Floor



Well now.  This ought to be fun!

I'm in the process (okay I'm taking a break from the process at the moment) of sanding the dining room floor in preparation for re-sealing it.

Breaks are mandatory because I'm using a little electric sander and my fingers, hand, and half my arm go numb from the vibrations. 

The good news is that it seems to be working fine. 

In between other things I'll be sanding away on it all day today, and then at bedtime I'll paint myself out of the dining room and into my bedroom to give it plenty of time to dry overnight.  Duke will have to spend the night in the old kitchen, which he might gripe about (you think dogs don't gripe?  You'll have to meet Duke someday; he's adept at it) but he'll survive.

Plan A Still On Track

Finding 'homes' for everything, sorting and filing as I go, yada yada, what can I say?  Some days are more productive than others!

One thing:  I figured out where I can put the McCord hutch so as to open up that corner of my studio work room!  You'll never believe this, but that hutch is going ... drum roll please ... IN THE OLD KITCHEN!  And the Wagaman/Gibson dresser(s) ... in the morning room along with the Blanton library table and the antique Hotel dresser. 

The corner cleared by moving the hutch will become home to four display boxes.  I have a LOT of finished pieces that I like but never get to see because they're all stacked on top of each other.  Hence the display boxes. 

Speaking of display boxes.

I built a bunch of them, with the intent of putting shelves in them and using them for my supplies.  Got them done and up on the wall, wondered if one of my sculptures would fit, tried it, and it's still there. 

Which means I need to build a bunch more boxes (with shelves) for my supplies.  Wry chuckle.  I also need to build even more (lots more, with shelves) for all my books.  Some of them have been in boxes for YEARS; unpacking them is like having a reunion with dear friends whom I haven't seen in a long time!  One entire wall of my dining room MIGHT be enough.  If not, I guess I'll keep building.

Patrick Henry, Revisited

Patrick Henry, March 23, 1775.

"No man thinks more highly than I do of the patriotism, as well as abilities, of the very worthy gentlemen who have just addressed the House. But different men often see the same subject in different lights; and, therefore, I hope it will not be thought disrespectful to those gentlemen if, entertaining as I do opinions of a character very opposite to theirs, I shall speak forth my
sentiments freely and without reserve.
...

For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.
I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past.
...

They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary.

But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year?
...

Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power."
The words of Patrick Henry reflect the feelings of many of our families, then and now. The very government he and our families were fighting to create, protect, and develop into a government Of the People, By the People, For the People is STILL OUR GOVERNMENT. The United States of America is STILL OUR COUNTRY. We've inherited it from those who came before us; it is OURS.

The issues we as American citizens now face are not the same ones our families dealt with then.

The words of Patrick Henry were a call not just for liberty, but a call to arms. Were he here today he would probably not include a call to arms, not literally, because it's not necessary. Other tools are at our disposal should we choose to use them. Yet the call, the call would be sounding loud and clear. But our arms are best used to hold each other up. We also have our voices and should be using them in whatever format we can.

Our families answered the call then, stood their ground, and stepped up to the plate to create, protect, and develop the government and the country that is now OURS. They did what they had to do in order to leave us the legacy of a future (our present) different from the past they had lived with, to AVOID the necessity for any future call to arms on American soil. The Civil War devastated our country, our homes, our families; it did not destroy them utterly or we would not be here. Nevertheless it is NOT something to be repeated EVER AGAIN in the United States of America.

Tempers rise; emotions flare; public and private forums are filled with frustration, fear, and angst - then and now.

Our legacy, this incredible magnificent country we call home, comes with one string attached: to continue what our families began. To continue to create, protect, and develop so that OUR legacy to those yet to come will not be diminished.

Frustration, fear, and angst are among us; we still have a job to do. Doing what needs to be done in spite of the frustration, fear, and angst - that's called courage. It's in our DNA, another part of our legacy. It's picking up the pieces and getting on with it. It's taking care of our families. It's making it through hard times so that OUR legacy continues.

The words of Patrick Henry spoke then; they speak now.

When enough is enough already WE THE PEOPLE need to stand our ground, speak up, and step up to the plate.

We need to take care of our own. Hoovervilles are not an option.

Depending on anyone except our own selves is not an option.

Let the DC boys play their games. We have lives to live, families to care for.

Nobody needs to tell any of us any of this. It's common sense. Hang in there together or hang separately.

Most of us are not wealthy. Most of us are not politicians. Most of us are just trying to get by as best we can from one day to the next. Many of us feel alone and afraid. We are not alone, although we may be afraid.

If you have a job, do it and don't gripe about it. If you don't, look around you. Someone close by could probably use a helping hand with something or other. Be that hand.

If nothing else, SMILE at the grouchiest person you know. Say hello. Nicely.

Then if you're so inclined, go on line and pontificate to your heart's content to nobody in particular.

Me, I'm just a little old lady in my silver years. I'm still working at a job I love although it's physically and emotionally demanding. I struggle to catch up on my bills and hope to do it while I can still work. I expect nothing from anybody; when I can't work any more I don't expect any Social Security. If my knees give out Medicaid isn't going to replace them for me. That's just the way it is and I don't expect anything different. Insurance is not in my budget. Doctors are not in my budget. Medications are not in my budget. If I get sick I'll either get better or die. Thank God I'm not one of this country's 80% fat people. I can't afford to be fat.

I wonder if Patrick Henry ever got off topic?  Back in his day, the issues WERE different than what we're up against now.  Their debates were on different topics ... or were they?   Minds of more substance than mine can figure that out.  Patrick Henry says, at one point, that there is 'no longer any room for hope' - I for one would say we aren't to that point yet.  Of course I may have thought and said the same back then, who knows?

Bottom line here is that this too shall pass. Meanwhile we all need to try to help one another.

Patrick Henry, March 23, 1775.
No man thinks more highly than I do of the patriotism, as well as abilities, of the very worthy gentlemen who have just addressed the House. But different men often see the same subject in different lights; and, therefore, I hope it will not be thought disrespectful to those gentlemen if, entertaining as I do opinions of a character very opposite to theirs, I shall speak forth my
sentiments freely and without reserve.

This is no time for ceremony.

The question before the House is one of awful moment to this country.

For my own part, I consider it as nothing less than a question of freedom or slavery;

and in proportion to the magnitude of the subject ought to be the freedom of the debate. It is only in this way that we can hope to arrive at truth, and fulfill the great responsibility which we hold to God and our country.

Should I keep back my opinions at such a time, through fear of giving offense, I should consider myself as guilty of treason towards my country, and of an act of disloyalty toward the Majesty of Heaven, which I revere above all earthly kings.

Mr. President, it is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts.
Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty?

Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and, having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation?

For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past.

And judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the House.

Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received?
Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss.

Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and
reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation; the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy, in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are meant for us: they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so long forging.

And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted?

Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves. Sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on.

We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and Parliament.

Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne! In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation.

There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free-- if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending--if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained--we must fight!

I repeat it, sir, we must fight!

An appeal to arms and to the God of hosts is all that is left us!

They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary.

But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year?

Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot?

Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power.

The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us.
Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong
alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election.

If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston!

The war is inevitable ­ and let it come!
I repeat it, sir, let it come.

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter.

Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace ­ but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery?

Forbid it, Almighty God!

I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me
death!

Trigger: Anniversary of Traumatic Event

No matter how long ago something bad happened, no matter how well it's been 'dealt with', no matter how much we want to believe we've 'moved on' or 'gotten past it' or 'forgotten all about it' - there are going to be times when we'll be having an off day without any sort of good reason we can pin down. 

As the intervening years fly past, more recent events of that particular date tend to take precedence, and that's a good thing. 

Even so, for some unfathomable reason there are times when certain dates or times of year pop up with attached baggage.  We don't want to acknowledge it, we try to ignore it, and many times the moment slips away with only a vague uneasiness or a slight headache that soon fades and we think nothing of it. 

Once in a while, however, a memory surfaces on a certain date, or under certain conditions, that isn't merely uneasiness or slight discomfort.  Decades after the fact, the memory of a bad thing can and will fling itself into a person's consciousness and knock them to their knees.  The processes of 'getting over it', of 'dealing with it', of 'forgetting about it' are never as effective or as complete as we would like to believe. 

So what are we supposed to do when it's many long years later and we believe we're safely 'past all that' we're suddenly fighting to maintain composure in the midst of being assaulted by a bad memory? 

Fight the fight, maintain, and then when we're in our safety zone and not at risk of losing it in public, go with it.  Let those memories have their say for a little while.  Once they have your permission to show their faces, listen to them and watch them unfold for a little while. 

Then sneer at them.  Tell them to sit down and shut up.  Laugh at them.  Remind them, and yourself, that they are only present with YOUR permission.  Revoke the permission. 

The thing is that they no longer have any power over us.  WE are back on our own two feet.  WE are in the driver's seat now.  WE can sneer and laugh and tell them to sit down and shut up.  WE can use them as reminders of how much we have to celebrate.

That's the bottom line here. 

Celebrating ourselves as we now are and getting on with it.  

The triggers might still be clicking away to beat the band, but we've taken the ammunition out of the weapon.  So let them click, sez I.  Celebrate them!  They're reminders of our strength, our tenacity, our love of living.  They didn't kill us when they had live ammunition backing them, so to speak; what on earth do they think they're going to accomplish now that they're nothing more than little clicks? 

They can take their ugly little clicking selves back to the dark corners of our gardens where they belong and hide their ugly little faces from the sunlight of our now lives, and we'll watch them scuttle off with their ugly little tails between their ugly little legs.  Some things, sad but true, do NOT deserve our attention.  Not once they've been shown up for what they really are, which are nothing more than annoyingly ugly little clicks. 

Now there's a thought, huh? 

If/when one of those annoyingly ugly little clicks dares to peep its annoyingly ugly little face out of its corner, use it as a reason to celebrate our lives and do something special and beautiful.  Because we still HAVE our lives, and we CAN do something special and beautiful!

That's WHY

In response to those who question me as to my motivation, who want to know what's in it for me, whose primary curiosity appears to concern why I'm wasting my time on a project that isn't going to make me a million dollars, or even contribute in a major way to the running of my household, I say this:  I want to and that's enough. 

But, they say, it doesn't make sense.  It makes sense to me, say I. 

To those who wish me to justify myself, I rarely respond.  My talents are few and inconsequential; however, they are mine to do with as I choose.  That's something I don't take for granted. 

For a very long time, one of the cruelties of the (now-ex) man in my life was to denigrate and ridicule every creative impulse I allowed to surface.  The words still rose inside of me, refusing to be stifled, but I kept them to myself.  Yet, even then, I wrote. 

So when people ask me why, how can I say, "I must!" and let it go at that?  People need reasons for everything.  No matter that this is my business, as much a part of my life as most people's careers.  No matter that its value; the intrinsic nature off which confounds the mercenary mind and challenges the pragmatist; its value surpasses that of a fortune. 

I can live in relative comfort without a fortune.  I cannot live in any comfort at all without words and color.  Those who will, or would, leave a legacy of dollars to their heirs, or who would devote their time, thought, energy, and full attention to accumulating money and possessions are justified in their goals and aspirations.  I do not question their reasoning; it is obvious. 

My goals and aspirations, what my motivation is, what I want to achieve, are less overt; therefore, questioned.  I use words and color because it is my nature to do so.  The resources I have at my disposal are limited; my gifts to those I love are, of necessity, creative rather than expensive. 

As a work of love, I put time, thought, energy, and often a great deal of attention into this project;  its value, my motivation, what's in it for me, the WHY of the question, lies exclusively in that love; past, present, future. 

No, I'm not rich, nor do I want to be particularly.  Yet the internal wealth of knowing the love, the strength, the individual and collective survival and life skills of all the women whose choices led to me being here, to each of us being the women we are - to you who ask me WHY - it's acknowledement to those who came before and will follow. 

That's WHY. 

Ask me no more.

COUSIN QUAKER JOHN CAPTURED BY INDIANS

[On July 7, 1780] Thomas Branson [Eli’s 1^st cousin] was granted a certificate to travel with the famous frontier Quaker Reverend Thomas Beals into the Ohio territory (to search for his son?). Lois Branson, John Branson's sister and daughter of Thomas, married a nephew of Reverend Thomas Beals who could be the storyteller as he was John Bowater Beals ... in any case, John Branson and John Bowater Beals would have definitely known each other.

NATHANIEL, WILLIAM, THOMAS, JOHN DAY (BROTHER TO OUR THOMAS), THOMAS (1^ST COUSIN TO OUR ELI), JOHN (3^RD COUSIN TO OUR JOHN, son of Eli and Keziah and born January 12, 1764)

The following was going on while Eli was in his Tory mode with Cornwallis, getting captured at Yorktown and being a prisoner of war, although he always got home to his wife Keziah one way or another.
Eli’s brother-in-law, Daniel Huff (Hough), Keziah’s brother, subsequently married Thomas Beals’ daughter Margaret (widow of James Horton).

This John Branson was born May 26, 1764 in Frederick, VA.

Biography of John Branson

In about the year 1781, while Thomas Beals was living at Blue Stone, Giles Co., Virginia, there was a company of six or seven men, connection of Thomas Beals, his son-in-law, James Horton, and a young man by the name of Branson were among the hunters who were camped out towards the Ohio River. A squad of hostile Indians attacked them and the hunters scattered and ran, each man for himself. Horton had rheumatism and did not go far until he went into some thick underbrush and as Branson came by Horton raised his gun to shoot an old Indian chief, but miss fired. He then said to Branson, "You're not going to leave me, are you?" He said "No," and stopped. The chief came up and took them both prisoners.

They were not allowed to see each other after their capture. James Horton was taken to Old Chillicothe, now Frankfort, Ohio, and there put to death. Young Branson was taken further north and ordered burned to death; but the old chief stopped it after the dry splinters and wood were prepared for the execution. The dry splinters were to stick in the flesh, so they would cook the flesh before death, but the old chief, whose prisoner he was, appealed to a higher council and he was taken further north and the council ordered him put to death by shooting. He was tied to a tree to be shot; the chief then appealed to a council of chiefs. He was then taken to the shores of Lake Erie and there ordered put to death.

The old chief, who had been befriending him, said he could do nothing more for him, but if he would look at his feet that night after all was still he would see something bright and if he got loose to meet him at a certain large tree outside the camp.

Branson's hands were tied together, also his feet and he was tied between two braves with leather thongs. After all was still, he looked at his feet and saw a knife. He worked his hands and got hold of the knife. He cut his hands loose first, then cut himself loose form the two braves, crawled out of the camp, got to his feet and went to the tree designated. There he found the old chief, who had Branson's gun and all that he had when captured, also a sack of provisions. The chief told him to go towards the moon (for it was nearly in the south) until he struck a branch, then to follow it until it came to a larger one, then follow it until it came to a large river and follow it home.

Branson followed his directions and reached home. His folks did not recognize him at first, but after a few hours they recognized him but he was broken down in health and mind. He had been a prisoner three years and had been prepared for execution twice and ordered for the third time. He only lived a few years after his return.
This site maintained by Sandra Branson Young (source of story)

Turning a Window Into a Door

The new kitchen in my house used to be the back bedroom. 

It's a long story. 

Anyway, one of the windows of my new kitchen looks out into my courtyard, which is on the opposite side of the house from Duke's yard. 

I want that window to be a door. 

Since inevitably the things I want do not just automatically or magically happen all by themselves (sigh) I guess it's up to me to turn that window into a door. 

My mom gave me a door and frame, even a screen/storm door with it, so I've got the door.  That's good news. 

More good news is that, unless my artist's eye fails me, it ought to be a good fit.  As soon as I take out the bit of wall that's beneath the window.  Actually, I set the door in its frame smack up against the window.  Since the tops line up and the sides line up, my artist's eye tells me that the idea is not outside the realm of possibility. 

How hard can it be to take off the trim, remove the window in its frame, cut out the bit of wall beneath the window opening, reinforce the exposed framing, set the door in its frame into place, and put back the trim, using the part that's now beneath the window to fill in the vertical gaps at the bottoms of the sides? 

Think how nice it will be to just walk out the door from my kitchen to my courtyard! 

Of course it would be a big step down from the door to the ground, but building the decking and ramping for that is another project.