It’s no secret that I think my Grandmother is amazing. One of her many talents is story telling, and there can be no story telling without story making, which she also happens to be quite good at. She told us this dandy of a story over a pre-Christmas dinner at the ‘fancy smancy’ Lobster Shanty. Her intro was promising  and started with a, “Teresa, have I got one for you…

“So the other day I was out on my new porch, lying in the sun in one of my tube tops.” (By tube top, she means stretchy skirt pulled up and used as a shirt.)

“It was getting hot and I needed to go back inside, but had too many things to carry with my cup, plate and phone, so I just stuck the phone, you know, down there.” (Points to spot between chest. Yes, that’s right, she put the phone down her shirt, nestled between the generous girlies.)

“I went inside and was washing the dishes when your Grandfather asks me where the phone is.  I couldn’t remember so I helped him look for it. I started in the bedroom while he pushed the button to page the phone.

I could hear it, but it was faint, so I started looking under the sheets, under the bed, tearing through the clothes. It was so close but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I went from room to room doing the same thing- lifting the couch cushions, looking on the porch- nothing. I was going bonkers, I could hear it! Then I slowly pulled the phone out of my shirt (it had slid way down) and your grandfather nearly died laughing. First time in about 60 years I’ve ever seen him laugh that hard.”

Her story was short and simple, but so rich and vivid to me in the middle of the restaurant. I can’t tell you what I ordered, but I can tell you that our table was laughing so hard that heads were turned.

Dreaming is just like thinking, but without being able to hit the brakes.

Brought to you by my random shower thoughts. Yes, I just showered and crawled into bed and it’s only 9:30 pm.

Oh, and here’s a picture of my beautiful niece. I melt into those eyes every time.

Pictures of Family Weekend at Simmons College from this weekend. Took me back to the good ‘ole yearbook days of floating around campus, observing, framing the better parts of college life. Photos shot on behalf of Herff Jones.

As an impressionable and odd 8 year old, watching someone make cute crafts, cook and garden was total nirvana. There was a real live grown-up doing all my favorite things, and as a career. Forget being a doctor or fireman, lawyer or teacher- I selfishly wanted to be Martha Stewart.  I watched her show ‘Martha Stewart Living’ religiously. I didn’t know it was a strange thing to do until my rather edgy third grade teacher handed a paper back to me laughing. It was an essay about what we wanted to be when we grew up and I was only more than happy to tell her about Martha.

Fifteen years later, I had nearly forgotten about my desired career choice until the other day, when visiting New York, I made a (spinach, mushroom and goat cheese) quiche with eggs that someone brought over. I later learned, to my obsessive delight, that they were actually Martha’s eggs. How, you wonder, did this ever come about? Did I sneak into her chicken coup late at night, dodging her perfectly trimmed hedges with my hand crafted basket in hand, waylaying her watch dogs with a rosemary encrusted rack of lamb? Sadly, I only wish I were that cool.  My boyfriend’s uncle works for Martha Stewart and got the eggs from the office, and since his family has chickens of their own, they brought the eggs on over.

Which brings me to the best part. There’s something to be said for being outwardly passionate for once it was known just how deep my appreciation of Martha ran, my boyfriend’s mother (graciously) arranged an ‘unofficial’ office tour the next morning. I was going to see the thing that Martha built, the thing that her organized and creative mind carved out of a city desperately trying to separate the constructive from the chaos.  She is what has inspired, in my eyes, a billion blogs, and even the creative passion behind sites like etsy.com. As a child, once I saw what Martha could do, I was no longer satisfied with store bought Christmas stalkings or untamed back yards.

Her company headquarters in New York City were exactly what I thought they’d be, but not dare to actually believe.  Super organized craft room with crisp white walls punctuated by colorful containers of glitter, ribbon and paper? Check. Shiny stainless steel test kitchen with windows overlooking the river, the smell of fresh cookies teasing the air? Check. Four shooting studios with soft boxes, strobes, booms, movable walls? Check. Corresponding prop room that would intimidate most junkers due to it’s extreme organization? Check. Where else would you have a full time collector, or ‘head of craft’? Where else can you think about holidays like Christmas and Easter 365 days a year and have it be OK?

Being able to create something is a gift. In a world of computers and automated factories, we forget about the ‘hand made’.  And it’s not just about buying the hand made or employing the tradesmen, but about being able to create yourself. Anyone can ‘make’ if they chose, we just forget. I feel lucky as an artist to constantly be making and creating things, to spend hours toiling over something that I can take a step back from when done and feel proud. Forgive me for this leap, but I believe that is what Martha gave to me. She wasn’t the inaccessible Picasso hanging on a museum wall. She was the (seemingly) nice lady on my TV telling me about all the cool things I can do with fall leaves. Or the magic that can happen with some cocoa powder, butter and sugar. If I wanted a fairy tale, I could create one in my own back yard using hedges, flower beds and exotic trees.

So I consider myself, in hindsight, a rather insightful young girl for choosing to like Martha Stewart over other obvious idols. I was awkward, for sure yes, oh man was I awkward- but that doesn’t seem like as big of a deal anymore. I left her NYC office with a signed book that I’ll cherish forever.

Now I’m all inspired to start thinking about creative Christmas presents!  I have a niece that gives me a perfect excuse to rev up my sewing machine…