Baby elephant

I'm working on a new doll, a baby elephant...a crooked baby elephant. She was stepped on by accident at birth and is crooked. The quilt hanging behind her is one she was helping her mother make, but her mother died, and so it sat unfinished–so I told Baby Elephant I'd help finish it somehow. [The quilt part of this story is inspired by my own mother, age 8, who was helping her mother make a quilt but her mother died suddenly...the quilt sat for years in pieces. I remember seeing the squares as a girl tucked into a sewing chest. I have the quilt now.]

At some point Baby E. will go on the online shop. Contact me if you want to be notified of that. It will be a few weeks. I'm moving slowly.

Another new elder creature is birthed

Mrs. Rosas has lived many lives. She still insists on walking in the fields, even though she can barely walk. Her clothes are a bit raggedy-she finds scraps in garbage cans and sews them and mends as well as she is able.

Mrs. Rosas is made of all natural cloths and a velvet cape. She is sewn with embroidery thread and her tail is mohair. She is very crippled, but can stand but needs her canes. She stands about 11".

Visit the shop >

 

A llama is born

I started out to make a Harry, but Birdie's spirit took over. That's just like her, and just like Harry not to mind. Available through the shop >

A new raggedy creature is born

 

Nana Teapot is now available for adoption into your home. She is a very easy keeper.

I birthed a goose

It was a pleasant birth experience. I'm going to live with her for a bit before offering her to the masses on the shop-but feel free to contact me if you are interested in her. I want to make her alma, it is only proper I think. Sebastapol geese are amazing, their feathers are torn and curl, it is very cool. Some of her fallen feathers are in the doll. I had some old scrap that was so perfect, it ripped and seemed almost better than the feathers.

Another elephant needs a home

Looking for love

Nuffy is learning to walk. But with that nose it can be a bit of a bumpy road. She is unafraid though.

Nuffy knew her mother briefly. She wishes she was still here, but her mother taught her well and that anytime she sees a tulip, that will be her, or when she smells cinnamon, that will be her. Nuffy also thinks that white clouds with grey spots are her mother so she really sees her often.

She would like to be adopted by a home with elephants, but if that is not possible, she just wants to be her ownself and be all elephanty and not told to be quiet or not play with her trunk.

Nuffy is needle felted with the wool of one of Apifera's grande dams, Annah Assumpta, a beautiful Leister sheep. Her body is sturdy and is made by refurbishing and needle felting over a vintage stuffed doll form a Paris flea market. The insides are excelsior shavings giving her body a firm feel. Her arm and leg joints move. She can stand, with some help. She's about 15" tall.

Visit the shop to bring Nuffy home.

Old Mouse reincarnated from Mrs. Mercy Studley

She is available to a home who understands historical significance

When we moved here last May, I made introductions with Mrs. Studley. Let me recreate the scene:

While feeding, I came upon a beautiful little mouse in the pig food can, as I had left the top slightly ajar.

"Hello!" I said.

"Oh, hello, I figure you might come as I heard the animals rustling. I am Mrs. Mercy Studley," the mouse said.

I felt the hairs lift on my neck. You see, just the other night I had been reading the history of Bremen, our town here, and Mrs. Mercy Studley was one of the early inhabitants of a nearby village and at the time our house was newly built in 1760 era, Mrs. Mercy Studley was already 106.

"There was a woman from way back with your name, in a nearby village," I said.

"Yes," the mouse said.

"Did you perhaps know her?" I asked.

"Oh yes. She is me, or I am her. It is I."

Itties

I like making the Itties–the raggedy, one-of-a-kind tiny dolls that come with the new book if you so desire. The book is only 4 x 6" high, so you see the dolls are...well...itty. Here is one I just completed for a customer who already has one Itty and needs another as a gift.

I thought of Itty today. I wondered how she was. I am not in touch with the owners of our old farm for a variety of reasons. But it doesn't mean I don't think of Itty, and the old flock, Hazel the barn cat, Peach and all the souls buried there. But there are so many walking sounds here and that is my charge now-to care for them, and revel in their beauty.

I have some exciting news coming up soon that will make you all very happy I think.

Blossom the elephant and her ears

Blossom is an optimist. She truly believes her ears are like wings and can help her fly. She wants to find her cousins and her mother. I hope this can happen.

Piglet named Rosie

A piglet named Rosie is ready for adoption here

I never knew Rosie as a piglet. I would have loved that though. There was much wondering what in the world made her so grumpy. Some of my old vets said they found most Pot Bellied Pigs disagreeable. My Kunekune pigs are the sweetest, all with unique personalities, but none are grumpy.

Rosie started her piglet life in a house, with an elderly woman in southern Oregon. The story is that she had her own bed and room and was pampered. When the woman died, Rosie ended up at a shelter and then was sent to live at Sanctuary One. There, she began her reign as a very grumpy pig. And that is where a very crippled goat named Stevie became her only friend, or only animal that would tolerate her grumpiness. Eventually, they both came to live at Apifera in Oregon. After about a year or two, Rosie began sleeping away from Stevie, and eventually, she was independent of the entire barnyard, after she told me clearly she liked living in Old Barn, on her own-although she had the company of sheep and donkeys and an occasional rooster walking by her suite.

In Maine, Rosie has taken a slightly less grumpy posture on life. I said, slightly. She is still grumpy. But after a few months here, and after her permanant suite was prepared for her with her own private outside yard, she began to lighten. And she began to greet me at the gate for breakfast-that was unheard of. Now that the air is getting cold, I find her in her suite at dusk, in straw, but I take time to gather more for her and cover her entirely. She grunts and snorts with,

What are you doing? Oh, fine, hurry up then, I'm sleeping.

It amuses me and makes me feel good to cover her like that-like an old lady unable to fully undress and redresss for bed, but she is very happy once I do it for her.

So I wonder what the little Rosie was like as a piglet? I can tell you that she must have had moments of pure innocence, and quieter, happy grunts. Either way, if you adopt this creature doll, she will require her own suite. And a blanket.

Old donkey

Old Donkey sits...a lot.

She thinks about her life and all she has done, and all she knew, loved and lost. She doesn't dwell on it, well, sometimes because her memory isn't great so she often finds her thoughts seem to be familiar,

"Did I just think this?" she wonders. "Oh, well."

His name is Rat

He still gets up and walks, with crippled bent legs, as he is very old, a survivor as many rats are. He likes to wear his boxer shorts and shirt, and has one nice suit vest he still wears. He doesn't walk far, but always tries to look up at the stars, slowly, as his neck gives him problems now. He prefers night to day.

He also is made of part love, a bit of stoic pessimism for living so long, and rat like ingenuity. One of kind.

His name is Rat.

{Available now at the shop}

Pino's mother is going to make a scramble for him

Gabriella received a note from her son, Pino.

Dear Mother,

I will be on the eve train and hope to stay a week.

Love, your son

She has just gathered eggs in her basket. She knows how much Pino loves her scrambled eggs. She is not sure why he thinks they are so special, there is nothing unusual in them, just salt and pepper, and a dash of butter.

Perhaps it is how I flip them only once and still leave them with a slightly soft inside, she thinks.

She looks at the note one more time, and clutching it in her hand, decides to make a a sturdy white cake too.

He'll be hungry after his trip, she thought.

More emerging

I worked all afternoon on the doll I posted a day ago. As you can see, she evolved. Like an attempt, there was struggle involved. I layered and layered her face, with scraps. As I worked I thought,

Oh, so this is how it is going to be, she is made of pieces all put together, but still is whole.

As the day went on, I reworked the eyes and mouth a million times. As I added more layering, I realized her eyes had become wings. I like that. I felt the young soul in this doll, is part of my emerging crone self. She reminded me yesterday she is still here, still whole, although bits that might have felt loose or scattered are being sewn back in, to stay.

And her eyes see and create, and expand-like any functioning wings.

It is my time to recreate myself once again.

{Visit the workshop blog to read about the September 17th doll making day here at Apifera}

Emerging Crones

There is still plenty of time to sign up for the workshop. I am keeping enrollment open until the 15th. Today I started creating some forms just to loosen up and get ready for the class. I plan to have some beginning forms for students so they aren't intimidated by the blank slate.

The class explores our intuitive natures, strengths, wisdoms -through communing and doll making. There is no sewing experience necessary.

Read more at the workshop blog.

That's love

Just another visit from some of the many creatures that pop into my world, with story.

Creatures to love

Juliette the donkey is going to the haberdashery. She sews all her own handbags and the haberdashery man is from Italian and he gives her beautiful fabrics, buttons and such in exchange for her handmade bags. Although lately, he only requests that she dine at noon with him. He is 78 and alone and Juliette, although much younger, speaks Italian so they can discuss books and current events. But he really just likes looking at her as she is beautiful and reminds him of his eldest daughter who was lost at sea.

Else the cat is ready for the museum. She spends many days there. She goes immediately to the room where the Swedish painters are, and sits on a bench and stares into the landscapes of her old homeland. She is a not married and relocated to America when she thought she loved an American. But he turned out to be scam artist and took all her family jewelry, the only things she had left from her parent's belongings–Except her scarf, which her mother made for her. She always wears red shoes because she says it grounds her. She says she will never marry or even date again, she only wants to go to the museum. Although she has recently learned to ski.

And of course, little Pino the donkey. I did this felted doll years ago and could never part with it, but...he needs someone to love him every day, instead of having to live in a box. He loves his red sweater and he thinks the "P" stands for "pie" so I don't tell him otherwise.

The story of Fiorella

Fiorella is 105 years old. She spent her life, from birth, in a small travelling circus in Romania. She is quick to point out she had a good life there, and liked the long walks between towns with her mother and other family.

Her mother was a prized performer for the small circus, but not like you might imagine. Her gift was her ability to calm the restless. Each town that they came on, her mother could soothe a crying baby, help an elder feel less stiff, and keep young children from stealing candy. And she did it all by standing still. Fiorella learned early on that patience and calm could bring about good things.

But all mothers age and Fiorella's was no different. She lived to be 125 years old so mother and daughter had a long life together. After her mother died, Fiorella began spending more time with one of the costume designers of the circus. His name was Paulo and he loved to sew. He told her stories of her mother's youth to keep her spirits up. He would sew all sorts of things for the circus, like velvet drapes for the stage and outfits for the clowns. One day he was measuring drapes for a set and he asked Fiorella if she'd mind if he draped them on her large body, so he could hem them without bending over–after all, he was sixty and had worked his entire life bending and reaching to sew hems and such.

From that day on, Paola and Fiorella were a team, they did everything together and people teased Paolo that he finally found a wife, since he had been a bachelor forever. They didn't mind, it was all in good faith, everyone loved them.

About the time her mother died, there was an earthquake and many new rivers formed in the small towns where the circus travelled. It made it difficult, because bridges had not been built yet. As they were moving camp one day, Paolo fell into a deep crevice. They spent hours trying to get him out and he feared this might be the end of it all. But Fiorella remembered the drapes from the stage. She retrieved them, and back at the crevice everyone helped tie drape after drape together, and Paolo was able to pull himself out.

They went on together like this for many years. As Paolo turned 95, he had more and more trouble sewing, and his vision grew blurrier making it difficult to finish outfits and drapes. He knew in time he would not be there for his friend, Fiorella, and this worried him greatly. So he began to make her an outfit that could help her go anywhere she needed after he was gone.

He didn't tell her what he was making, she thought it was just another costume.

On the day he died, they found a costume on the bedside, with a note for Fiorella. They read it to her, as she paced and paced by her friend's body.

Dear Fiorella, my friend, please take this outfit and remember that when you wear it you can let your wings take you where ever you need to go, without danger. I know we will meet again. Yours forever, your friend, Paolo.

The circus took the week off so that Fiorella could come to terms with her loss. They had an elaborate parade for Paolo, and Fiorella was the leader, walking in front of a carriage in her winged outfit, his coffin covered in velvet drapes.

Several days later, the circus realized that Fiorella was gone. She left a note,

I have my wings now. Do not worry. I will travel, until I find Paolo. Fondly, Fiorella

Meet Juanita...the tenth

This is Juanita the XX, she is over 50, which is 250 in human years. She descends from the Juanita and Pedro line. She still gets up each day and dresses properly for breakfast. She has survived many cat attacks as well as raccoons.

She was born to Pedro VIII and Jaunita IX. This was before we had moved to Apifera, obviously. I found attic insulation on her, which makes me think she lived under the kitchen-above the root cellar where the insulation is visible. There are many secret passages-secret to me, that is-to and from the root cellars into the kitchen cabinets.

To survive this long is rather a miracle. Who knows why one does, and another succumbs to the death trap, or a cat, or natural illness. I guess it is not unlike our human world, you go when you go.

Juanita is proud. Even though she is very arthritic and getting around is difficult, she believes in keeping herself up to date, as much as possible. It reminds me of my mother-who until her death at 87 always took pride in her clothes. I know towards the end it became harder and harder but she always looked sharp, in a down to earth way. Juanita has trouble bending with her humped back, but still manages to keep her silks pressed, and washed.

She has been widowed over twenty times. Mouse marriages are often short, due to, well, death. But she can remember each husband, the first being Pedro Carlo Luiz and the last being a fellow named Frank Simmons. Frank came from a local clan down the road and he adored Juanita, perhaps more than any of her other husbands. He was 20 years younger, but found Juanita's knowledge of the local history entertaining. Frank was an accordion player but switched to harmonic in his later years. To this day, the sound of a distant harmonica always makes Juanita's ears twitch, and she has to remind herself that Frank is gone.

The motherly nightie to hug

Eighty nine years ago my mother was born, most likely on a very cold day in the upper regions of North Dakota. While this day marks her birth, it also marks the fact I haven't seen her alive for two years. We had driven down to be with her in California on her 87th birthday and I can remember when we left, we got in the car and said our good-byes, buoyed by the fact we'd be back in May. As we coasted down the very long drive, I could see her out my rear view mirror, waving, getting smaller and smaller. She waited until we must have been out of sight to turn back to her apartment-and I too, watched, until I couldn't see her anymore. That scene comes to me over and over. If a movie director had orchestrated it, I would have begged him to make the car stop, so I could have rushed back and proclaimed I would stay another day, or month, or year. She died in April, suddenly.

I looked back at the grief blog I made in the days following her death. It is raw in the beginning, and it's almost heartbreaking to see how off kilter I was. I grabbed at anything that might get me to stand up in those first shocking days-like creating clay doll that I carefully placed under a quilt square she had made some 70 years earlier with her own mother-if I could not be with her to lay out her body I could do this from afar. The photograph of her nightie seems so ethereal and haunting, but still pure-it was the same nightie we found in her house, hanging where she left it the morning she entered the hospital for routine exams. I keep it in my bedside, taking it out to smell for her scent. There is still a little of her smell left, so in a way, the objects left behind must also be let go of, and taken off of the pedestal we put them on and just become normal again. But at this point, two years later, that darn nightie is like a shrine of sorts. I don't take it out much anymore, but sometimes I do, and I press it into my face.

The photo of her is one I keep on my computer. I used to go to it so often, but as one moves on, one carries the face and hands of the departed person deep in their inner psyche. Still, I will go to that photo and stoke her hair through the computer screen. She used to stroke my hair, even as I grew into a woman, and it always felt soothing. My mother was not a hugger or demonstrative person with "I love you" but she showed it in so many ways. I never doubted it.

So here are so many of us, motherless, marching on like dutiful humans-acknowledging we have a lump in our throats when we think of the mothers or fathers we've lost. We recite quotes sometimes, sharing our realization that it is the life we have now that is what our mothers would want us to focus on. And we do. But every now and then, like on a mother's would-be 89th birthday, I get to celebrate, but only after I sneak that nightie out of the draw and smell for my mother.