Ami's AfterChat NewsletterNovember/December 1998Please Note: This newsletter was originally sent in December, 1998. It may not have improved with age. Information may be outdated and irrelevant, not to mention useless. It is here only for your enjoyment.
WELCOME If you'd ever like to be removed from my mailing list, just e-mail me and tell me to remove your name. Please don't tell me why. I can't bear the rejection. If you've decided to give up electricity and move to the back woods where you're sure they isn't a modem, that would be a reason I could live with. Otherwise, keep it to yourself.
SEE YOU IN THE CHAT ROOM
MY EXCUSED ABSENCE Highlights included meeting Maryse Faux (a delightful French woman who teaches couture in Pakistan---we sat together on the plane from Seoul to Bangkok and talked fabric for nearly 6 hours!) Cindy and Reid Morgan (my quilting contacts in Singapore who took us around to their favorite haunts for batik fabric and northern Chinese food) Bobbi Shannon (an Aussie quilter living in Hong Kong who I met on my quilter's tour there several years ago who spent the day with us eating and shopping), Linda Stewart Stone (a fine fabric afficionado and exercise guru on the Sky Princess who didn't even giggle when we attempted yoga), quilter Lucretia and lecturer Bill Romey (friends from Cape Cod who just happened to be behind us at the lifeboat drill---what a surprise) and Betty and Wilton Blank (who taught craft classes on board ship and introduced us to their very special traveling companions). We also saw magnificent scenery, and visited places both famous and obscure. Most importantly we got a chance to experience things that made us think, and smile, and laugh, and cry, and wonder at the human condition and all the shapes it takes on this planet of ours. Until I write up the account for the web page (I'll let you know when it's ready) here are the awards for the best.... BEST SOUVINEER: the 20 pound 12" brass porthole I bought at the It'eawon Market in Seoul which will become the long awaited "door" for mother's clothes chute in the new addition. I brought it home in my carry-on bag. Heaving the bag up into the overhead bin of the 747 for the trip home was more exercise than I needed, but the look on the airport security person's face after it went through the x-ray machine was worth it. BEST STORY: The Sky Princess broke a boiler after leaving Vietnam and we drifted for 24 hours in the south China Sea. BEST FABRIC: The hand waxed batik sarongs from Arab Street in Singapore at prices that made my mouth water. BEST BUY: the Liz Claiborne denim vest I bought in Hong Kong for $4.27. (Saw it back home for $49) BEST VIEW: sunset somewhere between Vietnam and Manila from the top deck of the ship with a crystal clear view from horizon to horizon in all directions. Three hundred and sixty degrees of nothing but calm ocean waters, warm breeze, and us. Spiritual, surreal, and something I will never, ever forget. Is that what Heaven looks like? BEST ACTIVITY: Standing under (as in getting hit on the head by) a 75 foot waterfall in Manila, on a handmade bamboo raft held in position under the cascading water by two non-English speaking guides holding onto a well-worn nylon rope stretched from one side of the waterfall to the other. BEST BUILDING: The shopping mall attached to the Royal Orchid Sheraton in Bangkok which had four floors of shops filled with silks, crafts, clothing, antiques, and souvineers. We went into each and everyone of them. BEST BARGAIN: Two 50 pound cloth flour sacks begged from a noodle merchant in Hong Kong that say (among a bunch of Chinese stuff I can't read) "Great Wall Brand" that have actually withstood machine washing in hot water (to get the smell out) and whose bright blue flower pattern is still as vivid as it was when I found it out on the street. Price? FREE! BEST FOOD: Tian Jin Restaurant, 16/18 Tanjong Pagar Road in Singapore which included steamed bread, onion pie, dim sum, and a delightful chicken dish which looked lethal because it was sitting under about 35 whole hot peppers, but tasted terrific. (One of the dishes is called gong bau ji ding, but I forgot which one.) BEST RESTAURANT: The outdoor restaurant at the Royal Orchid Sheraton in Bangkok where we selected each and every ingredient for our meal of fresh fish and stir fry noodles. The fried rice came in a hollow-out pineapple. We ate overlooking the waterfront beside fragrant blossoms, listening to the lapping of the water and the tinkling of fine china. BEST REACTION TO A PRESENT: (tie) Jen receiving her Hanbok (Korean traditional dress) and Steve receiving a whole (as in not cut up) bar-b-qued squid, it's bulbous body and dainty little tentacles flattened and vacuumed sealed in see-through plastic with moist towellete attached. (OK, I'll take a picture!)
HOUSE UPDATE I hired the drywaller's sister to paint, since the book was taking me farther and farther away from the paint brushes. (See, I knew there was a reason to write another book!) She came for the "interview" in an odd looking outfit for a painter. Dark navy slacks, heavy black shoes, and a navy trench coat. She explained that she had a "real" job, although didn't tell me what it was and we began walking through the house. Somewhere in the middle of discussing the pros and cons of semi-gloss, her trench coat fell open, exposing her GUN! Sucking in major amounts of air, I tried to retain my composure. I am a firm believer that the last thing one wants to do when faced with a frightening situation is to let on to the person scaring you senseless that you are a nano-second from passing out in a dead faint. Continuing our discussion I pretended that I didn't notice her GUN while we talked brushes and rollers. I continued not to stare at her GUN while we talked about ceilings and walls. Thankfully when I could next steel myself for another glance at her GUN, I noticed it was in a very nice polished black leather holster. Next to a walkie-talkie and a pair of handcuffs. Under the BADGE! My feable mind finally processed the unmistakeable clues that her day job was not "murderer of quilters building additions for their mothers" but that of law enforcement officer. I cannot describe the relief. Sufice to say that my voice, which sounded like I had sucked the gas out of a helium balloon, returned to its normal octave. Still, because of my incredible acting ability I'm sure she had no clue that this little misunderstanding was far more effective than any over-the-counter laxative I have ever tried. Beth works from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. and comes over to paint after work. We gave her a key so she could let herself in (I mean if you can't trust a cop, who can you trust?!) and she lets herself out about 3 or 4 in the morning. She's very quiet and concientious, but it's still a little unnerving to go to bed at night, see the light on in the closet in our bedroom that connects to the closet in the addition, and know that you have a cop painting in the closet!
BOOK UPDATE The Guinea Pig Club has meticulously tested each of the patterns, yardages and directions and the text has been proofed by two expert proofreaders. The guest artists have had a chance to correct any idiotic things I may have written about their quilts. Companies listed in the Resource section have made sure I got the phone numbers and addresses right, and the bar code for the back cover came last week. Everything is falling into place. Yesterday I hand delivered the photographs for the book to the color seperator, one of the last major jobs to be done. He's the one who will turn them into the four layers of film used to print the color pages of the book. We spent several hours selecting the best photograph of each project and he says this is the best photography job I've done so far. He also really liked the quilts. He went nuts over the photo-transfer mouse pads and coasters. Yipee! I also met with the fellow who designed the cover to work on the placement of the title. I should have the cover and photography wrapped up by the end of the year. Then I will crop all the pictures, make the final corrections to the text, and deliver the book to the printer. About a month after that we'll have BOOK!! You will be the first to get the news that the book is ready, and I'm busy dreaming up a special AfterChat discount! (Input always welcome!)
HELP? ...let me know
Email me back with your screen name, your real name, your city and state. You
can trade your labor for copies of the new book, or for Photos-To-Fabric®
transfer paper, or for cold hard cash.
MORE FROM UNCLE BUD The interesting thing about truth is that you just can't make it up! (Read that again. It's profound.) And, no matter how bizarre fiction can be, there's always a true story that is even stranger. With that little bit of introduction, I bring you ....Uncle Bud's First Car. I was 16 when we first met in 1943. The car belonged to a salesman that worked for the "group" headed by my dad and Uncle Harry. His name was Leonard (can't remember his last name), but I had the inside track to buy her for $200, because Leonard finally lost his valiant battle with the draft board, and went off to fight the war. Similar to Black Beauty and White Fang she had been grossly abused. I doubt that the oil had ever been changed, but she ran OK as long as you didn't expect to drive her for more than an hour. The diagnosis was "high oil pressure," apparently caused by an oil blockage that would have cost more to fix than what I paid for the car. At 61 minutes, she would just stop. The engine would seize up, and you just had to wait until she cooled off before you could coax her into taking you anywhere. I usually had the time for her tantrums. We were well suited to each other, because as a high school student I never had an opportunity to go anywhere more than one hour away from home anyway. I bought her sight unseen. It was a car, and finding one to buy in the middle of WW II was a lucky thing. You didn't ask questions beyond, "Does it run?" She did, but not very far. The first day's inspection was amusing. There was an extra old shabby tire in the trunk to use in case of a blowout. There was also about $1.40 in change under the back seat that bought plenty of JOY GAS back then. Joy, on the corner of Puritan and Livernois in Detroit was selling 10 gallons for a dollar. It was a match made in heaven. I also found ladies underpants in every conceivable nook and cranny, but I never figured out until much later what purpose they served. I was in the 11th grade and had my driver's license since I was 14. I soon found many friends who reminded themselves how much they liked me when they discovered I had my own car. I picked up 5 or 6 guys almost every morning on the way to school. I hooked up an old doorbell that operated with a pull- string running around the perimeter of the inside of the car. On the way home after school my friends would pull the cord to signal when their corner was coming up, just like the DSR buses, but I was never smart enough to collect the carfare. It didn't take long to figure out that the old tire in the trunk was an integral part of keeping the car ambulatory. Soon I had bought 2 more "experienced" tires from Les Sher's dad who ran the Gulf Gas station on Linwood & Doris. Instead of doing my homework or practicing the violin, a lot of my spare time was spent learning how to change tires and tubes without permanently damaging my body or clothing. I got the procedure down pretty good eventually and soon established a new speed record for the job. I found a great piece of wood molding once, and with a little experimentation and lots of cutting and cussing, I fashioned it into a "V" for victory that was all the rage then. I hung it on the front of the radiator grill, to excellent reviews from my admirers. During the next few weeks it got painted red, white, and blue. My fame and pride continued to swell, and culminated in electrifying the "V" with a bunch of small 12 volt lights that I found elsewhere. It was real glitz, before glitz was ever heard of. At night, cruising Woodward Avenue, with that foot tall "V" for victory all lit up, I was in heaven, and firmly convinced that the war was turning in favor of the Allies strictly because of the symbol that I displayed. I fashioned a switch on the dashboard and we flicked those lights on and off like it was on a blinker. Things were going great until one night I realized that the headlights dimmed every time the V was lit up. The realization that it would drain that battery down to a whimpering imitation of road kill was even less in spiring. I learned how to push the car, then jump into it while it was rolling, and quickly throw it into gear to get it started. We kept supporting the war effort with our symbol until I needed to buy a new battery. The car came without a heater or a radio, and eventually they were accumulated from junk shop purchases. The radio used to buzz so loud that you had to have a good imagination to hear the music. But the heater was the real exciting thing. It was a GASOLINE heater that actually worked like a miniature blow torch. I must have given myself carbon monoxide poisoning many times, not to mention the many near-death experiences when the gasoline sloshed out of it's intended burning area. I don't know to this day how I survived that car. I used to park my car in the garage occasionally because it was a difficult task for my mom to put the family car in the garage. Don't forget that in those days, there were no electric door openers and hardly any overhead doors on garages. We had two barn type doors that swung out on both sides of the garage, but only when there was no ice or snow on the ground to wedge them into total immobility. One day when my father's plumbing business expanded it's warehousing facilities, and all the bath tubs that had been stored in our garage, were finally all gone. I was given the job of sweeping out the garage. Marveling at all the space I had to sweep, I told my sister that I could probably drive my car in one door and out the other. She laughed and told me how utterly preposterous the idea was. I was intent on proving my point, so I tried it. After about 45 minutes of backing and going forward and turning the wheel to it's extremes in each direction, I ended up with the car firmly wedged against the far wall, perpendicular to the garage door. Beebe laughed so hard she almost fell down, and I caved into a humiliating defeat. When my dad came home from work, he would not believe what I said happened, and let me tell you, the look on his face when I opened the garage doors for him to see the fruits of my labor was worth everything, including any possible punishment. He laughed as hard as Beebe did, and strangely enough said that he would not help me get it out. He went to get mom so she could see it, holding his stomach all the way. It took more than two additional hours to get the car out of the garage without a single scratch on it, but I did do it. I was not anxious to repeat the feat, so I didn't tell too many of my friends about my accomplishment. Who would have believed it anyway? One cold and icy winter day as I backed out of the garage on my way to school, I noticed that a bag of grass seed, hanging from the rafter was partially closed in my passenger door. I stopped a little too late to save the bag. As I opened the door the seed spilled out like Niagara Falls all over everything. I cleaned most of it up, but some seeds fell into the car and when spring finally sprung the grass seed was happily sprouting on the floor of the passenger side. It looked awful, so I trimmed it with a pair of scissors, liked what I saw, and planted some more seeds to sort of even it out. Floor mats back then were made of some sort of fiber that held the moisture of the melted snow that was tracked into the car. It was a perfect media for growing grass, and I wondered why the Ford Motor Company hadn't at least offered grass on the floor as an option on any of their models. The grass grew nicely and I was soon cutting it every other day to keep it in a sort of simulated bent grass mode. Central High became aware of this ingenious agricultural experiment very quickly and I got plenty of attention and offers to help with the landscaping of my car. My list of perspective passengers grew and I was having difficulty adjusting to my new popularity. .Perhaps I would have become famous except for one little thing that I had not thought of before. Every day that I watered and cut my grass, the moisture was insidiously at work rusting out the floor on my passenger side. This concealed secret destruction eventually culminated in an unimagined disaster, unparalleled in automotive history to this very day. My mother had bragged to the girls at the beauty shop of her son's astuteness in automotive innovation. I proudly drove her to her next appointment. As she attempted to get out of my car in front of the beauty shop, with all the ladies pre-warned and streaming out to see my grass miracle, the high heel of her left shoe pierced and penetrated the weakened and rusted floor. Her shoe continued on through the grass, through what was left of the floor, until it rested firmly on the pavement! There she sat, screaming in pain, with her foot and silk stocking torn to shreds. Removing her leg was a painful reversal of the accident, not unlike backing out a giant fish hook from ones body. Her friends and beauticians made a hasty retreat back into the shop, and my mom, bless her heart, found it within herself to forgive me before the end of the week. I cut a piece of plywood to fit the floor, and as mom's wounds healed, the subject gradually became one of humor and awe. It is now but another faded memory that very few people want to believe actually did happen.
Thanks to Smuchinsky@aol.com for these hilarious classified ads and strange signs. (I don't know why I love this stuff so much!)
Ami
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