Silence

For anyone that has ever lost a pet, the following is a tribute to the dedication between an animal and the family in which it dwells.

This past week I witnessed the passing of a very dear friend. For eighteen years he was a constant companion.

Appearing one day at the doorstep as a stray kitten he soon made himself at home. After locating his rightful owner and discovering he was not wanted, it was here he stayed. He was a little scruffy, few whiskers but a beautiful rich, red fur coat made him a hit with the female cats already in residence.

We named him Addison O'Malley. (Addison was the son of Adam meaning red earth and he suited it perfectly.)

Addison was part Maine Coon and he often chirped as he carried on a conversation. Blessed with a lush, thick tail he would sway it to and fro as he stalked the birds in the garden. He grew to be a big cat, 20+ lbs. in his prime and walked on a harness and leash.

I will miss him terribly as will his two Siamese sisters.

Here's to you Addie and the life you shared and the hearts you filled. May you spend eternity chasing that ever elusive bird.

Everything's Coming Up Roses

First I would like to thank all of you that participated in my little celebration. The two paper names pulled from the dainty pillowslip are:
1) Lori
2) Doreen


'Tis that season of the rose. They linger amongst the ivy and peak out from between the vines. Each one chosen for its old rose scent and dainty flowers. Their beauty is adored.

In this garden there is no use of pesticides so everything is as Nature intends. And for that reason the roses are not only to pacify a love that endures and is timeless, but each delicate petal can be harvested for another purpose.

The rose petals may be scattered down the aisle of a church so the timid bride can tiptoe upon them as she makes her way to her beloved, dreaming of the future that lies ahead.



They can float in a tepid bath where one can languish for a time encircled by their scent.

But my favourite is the organic rose petal jelly I made this very morning. Its subtle flavour adds a touch of summer to all that it accompanies.

If you would like the recipe feel free to email and I'll be more than happy to share. In the meantime, I have a fresh croissant just waiting for that special jelly so pink on its folds and fragrance with every bite.

A Celebration In The Month Of June

'Tis but a year since I ventured into the Land of Blog.

So in light of the new friends I've met, the Balls, and Soiree I've attended, I'm celebrating with a giveaway.

I would like to bestow a delicate, antique infant gown upon the participant whose name will be selected. A second name shall be chosen to recieve a packet of vintage lace snippets and tibits of trim. Perfect for prim and doll creating.

Please leave a comment or for those without a blog feel free to email. When the 15th arrives I shall place all the names into a battenburg lace pillowslip (most appropriate for a textile appraiser's draw) and select the winners.

Thankyou for making this past year so enjoyable!



Please note - The gown is for display purposes only.Being of 100 years in age it is not without tiny imperfections. I call them beauty marks.

Oh So Pretty

As usual with my research I always seem somehow sidetracked. Fashion plates have inevitably intrigued me.

These particular ones are of chapeaus, head coverings and coiffures for both interior and outdoor wear. Each one more feminine than the first, spread over three decades in the 19th century.



Bonnets and hats accentuated with broderie, velvet ribbons, soutache trim and lush feathers created a vision of loveliness.



The bottom one dates Saturday May 28,1870. 138 years ago this was the fashion in hair. Delicate in detail, often decorated with flowers, ribbons and braids they were samples for enhancing and demonstrating one's beauty.



The secret is that true beauty lies within.


Plates and engravings from my personal collection.

Invitation To A Dance

The branches of the crabapple tree are laiden heavy with blossoms. Cascading upwards and outwards they appear like a cloud reaching for the bright blue sky.

Each delicate, velvety petal surrounds the florets that yield the secret treasure.

And so the dance begins.

The honeybees encouraged by the seductive scent lingering forth come to flitter and hover over each dainty bloom. They alight, but for a moment to drink the heavenly nectar. As the bees pirouette and grand allegro about the tree searching intently for every funnel it begins to buzz from all the activity. Tiny reflections from the creatures' wings glitter in the early morning sunlight.

It is a twofold tale; the bees help pollinate the blossoms producing little crabapples that will cover the old branches later in the season and the nectar that the tree gives so unselfishly will be returned to the hive and become food of the gods, honey.


'Dance is a delicate balance between perfection and beauty'
- Unknown

Delicate Stitches Through Time

Sometimes I discover things that even amaze me. I shall be researching it's history, documenting it's provenance and travelling from a land not yet a country to the tiny hamlets of Yorkshire, England more than two and a half centuries before.

Once I verify what I suspect I shall share this voyage... To be continued.




Stipple engraving - Affection by P.W.Tomkins, late pupil of F.Bartalozzi, London Pub. March 29th 1791
After drawing by Miss Julia Conyers from my personal collection.

Sampler: silk on linen finished April the 26 1757.

The Miller's Wife

In honor of Mother's Day I thought I would share a few tales of enterprising women.

When settlers first arrived to the Niagara region (as it was in any new area of settlement) survival was an endless struggle. Many brought the skills and know how they had developed to this rugged and wild territory.

Once the vast virgin forests were felled by the lumbermen, the settlers began to arrive to farm and produce livestock to feed and clothe their families.

The ever-flowing streams and rivers provided the perfect spot to build the gristmills. The strength of the channeled waters could turn the huge grinding stones that ground the grain (wheat, barley, rye) into flour. Stored throughout the long, harsh winter it was the sustenance of life.

Esla had been a miller's daughter before she had moved north by wagon with her young husband and children. He was also a miller and built a mill along the river's edge.

Esla had learned early the skill of barter and trade. Many of those who came to have their grain milled into flour were required to trade a portion of the finished product as payment. Others who raised livestock or grew flax (the beginning stage of what would be spun into linen thread and woven into cloth) would trade this for flour.

She set up a shop at the back of the mill and began her own enterprise.

A tragic wagon accident took the life of her husband, leaving her a widow with eleven children.

Esla (a German name) became known as Essie, ran the mill and the shop until her six sons grew old enough to take over the grinding process.

She taught her daughters to spin and weave the linen that would fill the store shelves.

She and her family lived well, eventually building a large home filled with children and grandchildren.

At eighty-six Essie took her rightful place beside her husband in a quiet grave on a hillside overlooking the mill.

It continued to prosper for a long time following her death finally closing after 150 years from the beginning of Essie's life as the Miller's Wife.