Happy 90th Birthday Dad!

This photo of Dad was taken last month. Looking good there Dad!

Standout Dad

Dear Dad, it’s your birthday,

And I want you to know

I appreciate you more

As the years come and go.

All your good qualities

Stand out and shine;

Fathers are priceless,

And I’m so glad you’re mine!

By Joanna Fuchs

Poem: Twas the week before Christmas

'Twas the week before Christmas and all through the land,
the crafters were furious with hooks in their hand.
The projects were made with tender love and care,
with the hope that they weren't intertwined with too much hair.

The skeins were aligned in colours lovely and deep,
in a number that nearly amounted to a whole sheep.
And I in a hoodie making a last minute cap,
hoping real hard it didn't come out looking like crap.

Watching my furious hook was quite the sight,
another Netflix binge while working well into night.
Making hats, and scarves, and a scrubby bath mitt,
tangled yarn causing more than one fit.

On SC, on DC, on front post and star stitch,
on patterns so complicated they read like the spell of a witch.
Full of hope these gifts are a huge hit,
even if I have to explain they're crochet not knit.

Almost done when what to my tired eye did appear,
a mistake well 3 rows to the rear.
Enough profanity to land me on the naughty list I did call,
 now frog away, frog away, frog away all.

I'll work it again keeping my stitches aren't too tight,
even if I'm the only one who'll know that wasn't just right.
Handmade items from sweater to glove,
are the purest way I know to display my love.

To all my hookers rushing to finish a last minute gift,
I hope Santa delivers a new yarn bowl or swift.
May your yarn be knot free and your hooks shine bright,
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night

 **This was written by a fellow crocheter named Brittany Clark.

Dust If You Must

This was on my Facebook wall a couple of times yesterday and I thought it seemed appropriate to me. There are many more important things to do other than dusting. I don't particularly like dusting but isn't that what kids are for? Doing some of those simple jobs you don't particularly like doing? Oh Boys ... I have a job for you (o_0)

An Aussie Poem

I snagged this from my friend Rose. She posted it on Facebook. I have no idea who wrote this and I would dearly love to give them credit. If you know who wrote this please let me know so that I can give credit where its due. Thanks. 


Aussie Poem

The sun was hot already - it was only 8 o'clock
The cocky took off in his Ute, to go and check his stock.
He drove around the paddocks checking wethers, ewes and lambs,
The float valves in the water troughs, the windmills on the dams

He stopped and turned a windmill on to fill a water tank
And saw a ewe down in the dam, a few yards from the bank..
"Typical bloody sheep," he thought, "they've got no common sense,
"They won't go through a gateway but they'll jump a bloody fence."

The ewe was stuck down in the mud, he knew without a doubt
She'd stay there 'til she carked it if he didn't get her out.
But when he reached the water's edge, the startled ewe broke free
And in her haste to get away, began a swimming spree.

He reckoned once her fleece was wet, the weight would drag her down
If he didn't rescue her, the stupid sod would drown.
Her style was unimpressive, her survival chances slim
He saw no other option, he would have to take a swim.

He peeled his shirt and singlet off, his trousers, boots and socks
And as he couldn't stand wet clothes, he also shed his jocks.
He jumped into the water and away that cocky swam
He caught up with her, somewhere near the middle of the dam

The ewe was quite evasive, she kept giving him the slip
He tried to grab her sodden fleece but couldn't get a grip.
At last he got her to the bank and stopped to catch his breath
She showed him little gratitude for saving her from death.

She took off like a Bondi tram around the other side
He swore next time he caught that ewe he'd hang her bloody hide.
Then round and round the dam they ran, although he felt quite puffed
He still thought he could run her down, she must be nearly stuffed.

The local stock rep came along, to pay a call that day.
He knew this bloke was on his own, his wife had gone away,
He didn't really think he'd get fresh scones for morning tea
But neither was he ready for what he was soon to see.

He rubbed his eyes in disbelief at what came into view
For running down the catchment came this frantic-looking ewe.
And on her heels in hot pursuit and wearing not a stitch
The farmer yelling wildly "Come back here, you lousy bitch!"

The stock rep didn't hang around, he took off in his car
The cocky's reputation has been damaged near and far
So bear in mind the Work Safe rule when next you check your flocks
Spot the hazard, assess the risk, and always wear your jocks!

Australia Day

It's Australia's Birthday!

It's a day celebrated by many and ignored by some. I wont go into the politics of why its ignored or even protested about. I will however provide you with a link if you wish to find out some of Australia's History.
You can go HERE or HERE to find out more about this wonderful country I live in :)
I really do feel blessed to live in this place and I wouldn't want to live anywhere else.

Here's a great poem that I copied from Poetry.com.

My Country
by Dorothy MacKeller.

The love of field and coppice,
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance
Brown streams and soft, dim skies -
I know but I cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of rugged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding plains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror -
The wide brown land for me!

The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold rush of noon.
Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree tops
And ferns the warm dark soil.

Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When sick at heart, around us,
We see the cattle die -
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady, soaking rain.

Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the Rainbow Gold,
For flood and fire and famine,
She pays us back three-fold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze ...

A opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land -
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand -
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.

Just about every Aussie knows the second verse. I'm thinking that it has something to do with a commercial we used to have on TV that recited it.
I do love the poem though & how it describes Australia. It makes me feel all patriotic & sentimental.
I hope you liked the poem.

The Month After Christmas!

I got this poem from one of my email groups this morning. I just had to share it :)

The Month After Christmas 'Twas the month after Christmas, and all through the house Nothing would fit me, not even a blouse. The cookies I'd nibbled, the eggnog I'd taste All the holiday parties had gone to my waist. When I got on the scales there arose such a number! When I walked to the store (less a walk than a lumber). I'd remember the marvellous meals I'd prepared; The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared, The wine and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese And the way I'd never said, "No thank you, please." As I dressed myself in my husband's old shirt And prepared once again to do battle with dirt-- I said to myself, as I only can "You can't spend a winter disguised as a man!" So, away with the last of the sour cream dip, Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip Every last bit of food that I like must be banished 'Till all the additional ounces have vanished. I won't have a cookie, not even a lick. I'll want only to chew on a long celery stick. I won't have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie, I'll munch on a carrot and quietly cry. I'm hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore--- But isn't that what January is for? Unable to giggle, no longer a riot. Happy New Year to all and to all a good diet!

Poem - A Good Read

Another poem from Lisa via email through the Knit4Charities group. Thanks again Lisa. I think this one really sums me up quite well.

A Good Read.
It started out so innocently,

My small pattern collection.

How it ended up so large,

I have no recollection.

First I needed some for babes,

Then toddlers and their toys

Then I needed some for men,

As well as girls and boys.

Then there were the doilies,

Tea cosies, socks and mittens.

Then there were the New Age books

With these patterns I was smitten.

All these patterns were such fun.

Then I thought, just one for me,

Then my conscience grew a bit

So I collected for charity.

I have so many pattern books

They really are my obsession.

So when I'm gone- don't get a shock,

You've heard my true confession.

You're welcome to come and have a browse.

I could stand as Auxiliary

To the only place you'd find more booksAnd that's The State Library.

Tink, Tink, Tink!

I just love the poems that are shared in the knit4charities group that I belong to. Here's one that was sent in today. Thanks Lisa for sending it in.
If you are handy with a hook, knitting needles or even a sewing machine & would like to donate some things for the needy please join the K4C yahoo group. This group is based in Australia but we do have some overseas members who love to donate in their local area. Plus the members are super-friendly & very helpful.

Tink, Tink, Tink!

Very carefully, stitch by stitch

I'm tinking and I'm tinking

Yes thats knitting backwards

I guess I wasn't thinking.

I could have frogged, thats ripped it,

Off needles and just pull.

Then sit for ages patiently,

Rewinding all that wool.

Those fancy yarns are fanciful

And all the rage you know.

But the stitches are so hard to see,

So one by one, back I go.

I finally get to the trouble spot

Relieved I've reached the place.

Now start again, I must slow down,

Its knitting.... not a race.

UFO's

Last one (for now at least)

UFO's
I have so many UFO's,

Projects on the go.

I'd have to live one hundred years

To see them through you know.

I have them all in little bags

In the lounge room, in the car,

In the computer room, under the bed

You don't have to look too far.

I see a new pattern that I like.

And have to start it straight away.

I get out needles, look for wool.

Nothing stands in my way.

Some are just experiments

Some are for charity,

Some projects are just for fun

And some are for family.

All I know- I'm never bored

In fact, what I am stating.

Is that I have so many projects

That I'm hyperventilating.

Will I ever finish them?

If there is infinity.

Yes I'm sure one day I will.

Somewhere in that vicinity.

Normal Knitter

Another fun poem in an email from the Knit4Charities group

Normal Knitter

I must be going crazy,

I can't stop buying wool.

I really will have to stop quite soon,

My house is nearly full.

Its great to know that theres variety

In my cupboards top to floor.

All colours, types and plys of wool

and yet I still buy more.

Some might look at it and see

a lot of work and run.

But when I look at all that wool,

I see, hours and hours of fun.

My husband threatens Rubbish Dump

Trailer full of wool of course.

He knows he'd never do it though

Or he'd up in divorce.

A friend told me that all this wool

Is going up with inflation.

And the other benefit is that

Its actually insulation!

So of course I will die happy.

As all good crafter friends I know.

I hope they knit in heaven.

Or the other place I'll go!

My Wife the Hooker

Another fun poem sent via email through the Knit4Charities group. I read this one out to Mark & the boys. Of course Brodie automatically thought of the wrong thing. Typical teenage boy reaction? I dunno but it was funny seeing his face once he worked out what it truly meant.

My Wife the Hooker.
My wife, she is a hooker

Of this she's mighty proud

And the stories of her exploits

Are legends in our town.

She's shameless with her talents

She'll go hooking anywhere

And if people want to watch her

She really doesn't care.

It seems to be a family thing

Her mother taught her how

Seems her grandma was a hooker

And my daughter's hooking now.

She goes to hookers meetings

To learn the new techniques

She starts hooking in a frenzy

And won't talk to me for weeks.

She doesn't do the house work

She doesn't make the beds

She doesn't have the time for that

She'd rather hook instead.

My wife she is a hooker

And I curse that awful day

When she first picked up the hook and yarn

And learned how to crochet.

SSS (Single Sock Syndrome)

This is a poem I received today in an email from the Knit4Charities group I belong to. Just had to share. Thanks Lisa for sharing it.

SSS

There's a disease out there

That I'd really hate to catch

The worst in knitting history

It has never had a match.

It fills your drawers with one sock,

Never to be worn.

Leaving you with feelings of..

Your sock and you – forlorn!

With fear of many socks,

Not a matching pair in sight.

One of this and one of that,

I tell you, it's just not right!

So here I am with many needles

clicking away in fear

of ending up with just one sock

They breed you know, my dear.

Now I always knit 2 socks at once

I'm sure you've realised,

For the dreaded Single Sock Syndrome

Has got me paralysed.

I hope that you will heed my words

and do just as I do,

And always knit 2 socks at once

So SSS does not get you!!!

The Rhythm Of The Hook

I received this poem about crochet the other day via email from the Knit4charities group I belong to. Just had to share it

The rhythm of the hook
As it moves the yearn around
Calls to me in whispers
A sweet familiar sound

My hand moves almost dreamlike
Without a thought or care
As I fashion something new
for someone cold to wear

Perhaps a scarf or cap
Maybe a blanket too
With each and ever stitch
I think of more to do

So when the cold wind blows
My yarn helps me to remember
Forgotten people all around
I am the one who's blessed

As my warm has stitch away
I pray the rhythm of my hook
Will help someone
In some small way.

The Misunderstood Child

I just received this poem in an email from a Autism/Aspergers Support group. As I read it I couldn't help but feel that the Author was writing about Brodie. I just had to share it.

THE MISUNDERSTOOD CHILD

I am the child that looks healthy and fine.
I was born with ten fingers and toes.
But something is different, somewhere in my mind.
And what it is, nobody knows.

I am the child that struggles in school,
Though they say that I'm perfectly smart.
They tell me I'm lazy - can learn if I try
- But I don't seem to know where to start.

I am the child that won't wear the clothes
Which hurt me or bother my feet.
I dread sudden noises, can't handle most smells,
And tastes - there are few foods I'll eat.

I am the child that can't catch the ball
And runs with an awkward gait.
I am the one chosen last on the team
And I cringe as I stand there and wait.

I am the child with whom no one will play
- The one that gets bullied and teased.
I try to fit in and I want to be liked,
But nothing I do seems to please.

I am the child that tantrums and freaks
Over things that seem petty and trite.
You'll never know how I panic inside,
When I'm lost in my anger and fright.

I am the child that fidgets and squirms
Though I'm told to sit still and be good
Do you think that I choose to be out of control?
Don't you know that I would if I could?

I am the child with the broken heart
Though I act like I don't really care.
Perhaps there's a reason God made me this way -
Some message He sent me to share.

For I am the child that needs to be loved
And accepted and valued too.
I am the child that is misunderstood,
I am different - but look just like you.

Kathy Winters/2003

If Roses Grow In Heaven

I got this poem from one of the yahoo groups that I am a member of. It brought tears to my eyes & I just had to share it. Happy Mother's Day Mum!

If Roses grow in Heaven,

Lord please pick a bunch for me,

Place them in my Mother's arms

And tell her they're from me.

Tell her I love her and miss her,

And when she turns to smile,

Place a kiss upon her cheek

And hold her for awhile.

Because remembering her is easy,

I do it every day,

But there's an ache within my heart

That will never go away.

The Clothes Line

I got this in an email and I thought that it was too good not to share it. I must admit I still do numbers 3 and 5. Especially number 5 when I lived at the caravan park I just didn't want the neighbours to see my 'unmentionables'!!


The Clothes Line - Do you remember?

The clothes line....a dead give away. Do the kids today even know what a clothes line is? For all of us who are older, this will bring back the memories.

THE BASIC RULES

1. You had to wash the clothes line before hanging any clothes. Walk the length of each line with a damp cloth around the line.
2. You had to hang the clothes in a certain order and always hang whites with whites and hang them first.
3. You never hung a shirt by the shoulders, always by the tail. What would the neighbours think?
4. Wash day on a Monday...........never hang clothes on the weekend or Sunday for heaven's sake!
5. Hang the sheets and towels on the outside lines so you could hide your 'unmentionables' in the middle.
6. It didn't matter if it was sub zero weather.............clothes would 'freeze dry.'
7. Always gather the clothes pins when taking down dry clothes. Pins left on the line was 'tacky'.
8. If you were efficient, you would line the clothes up so that each item did not need two clothes pins, but shared one of the clothes pins with the next washed item.
9. Clothes off of the line before dinner time, neatly folded in the clothes basket and ready to be ironed.

IRONED?????????? Well, that's a whole other subject.

A POEM

A clothes line was a news forecast
To neighbours passing by.
There were no secrets you could keep
When clothes were hung to dry.

It also was a friendly link
For neighbours always knew
If company had stopped on by
To spend a night or two.

For then you'd see the 'fancy sheets'
And towels upon the line;
You'd see the 'company table cloths'
With intricate design.

The line announced a baby's birth
To folks who lived inside
As brand new infant clothes were hung
So carefully with pride.

The ages of the children could
So readily be known
By watching how the sizes changed
You'd know how much they'd grown.

It also told when illness struck,
As extra sheets were hung;
Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe, too,
Haphazardly were strung.

It said, 'Gone on vacation now'
When lines hung limp and bare.
It told, 'We're back!' when full lines sagged
With not an inch to spare.

New folks in town were scorned upon
If wash was dingy grey,
As neighbours carefully raised their brows,
And looked the other way..

But clotheslines now are of the past
For dryers make work less.
Now what goes on inside a home
Is anybody's guess.

I really miss that way of life.
It was a friendly sign
When neighbours knew each other best
By what hung on the line!

Go On With Your Knittin

Go On With Your Knittin'

(Unknown Irish Poet)

When the folks next to you act like those in the zoo

A grumblin', growlin' and spittin'

It's a pretty good plan

To be as calm as you can

And do something useful?like knittin'.

When a gossipin' Susan with poison barbed tongue

Comes into the room where you're sittin'

And starts to defame

Some neighbor's good name

Count your stitches out loud and keep knittin'.

When there's been a slight misunderstandin' at the church

And others hint broadly of quittin'

Why the very best thing

You can do is to sing

And stay at your post and keep knittin'.

When Satan moves in with his cohorts of sin

Say, "You'll never find me submitin'.

You irk me I find

So get thee behind

And please don't disturb me?I'M KNITTIN!"

In the middle of problems, the big and the small

It's always proper and fittin'

To trust and to pray

'Til the Lord shows the way

An' go right on ahead with your knittin'.

What Happens When We Wind!

I got this poem from my knitting group this afternoon .. .. ..

The Little Girl's Knitting and Crochet Book', edited by Flora Klickmann, was published in 1915. It starts with a poem.

What Happens When We Wind!

There's nothing wrong about the wool

When first it is untied;

The strands are lying evenly

And neatly, side by side.

But you should see what happens when

We start to wind that wool!

It gets in knots that won't come out,

No matter how we pull!

It keeps on slipping off our hands;

It tangles left and right;

And long before we're half-way through

It's in a dreadful plight!

The ball jumps down to find the cat,

And then it wanders round

And ties itself to table legs,

And things upon the ground.

And while we're looking for the ball,

Our Mother says, 'Oh dear!'

'You've got it in an awful mess!

'You'd better bring it here.'