Monday, September 19, 2011
The iron puffed and hissed as steam billowed out of the bottom upon contact with the embroidered pillowcases. I thought to myself "ironing pillowcases is probably the most inherently domestic thing anyone can do"; I don't remember my mother ever ironing pillowcases, but then again, she was very practical. A career woman early in life, self sufficient, and independant. I smiled to myself, creating a mental image of my mother standing at the old wooden ironing board in the kitchen. Nope, that never happened. Growing up, we didn't have embroidered pillowcases. But it was somehow comforting and nostalgic to iron all the wrinkles and creases out of the beautiful embroidery. A golden butterfly hovering over a colorful garden on this one, with a crocheted lace edge all around the opening. I had collected pillowcases at antique stores and estate sales, knowing that being an artist, and having a full time job would never allow me the time to do crewel stitchery. Heck, I barely had time to iron them.
Friday, September 16, 2011
The crusty old farmer opened the door to the faded, wood sided shed,
he pulled out an old tin bucket half filled with rusty old bolts, nuts, and grimy greases.
I dug through the box, getting rust and dirt all over my fingers,
until I found just the right pieces.