family
Family unites us; but it's also a challenge. All about fighting to stay together, and loving every moment of it.
BooBoo Bears
I'm not a storyteller, I just tell it like it is & will do the best I can with the words running thru my head that come out my fingers as I do the two-finger pecking on my keyboard, but to find 500 to 2,000 words, I could talk to you for days about this all the things you can sew & or embroider on these machines but to find all the right words, so hold on & here goes for my passion, of sewing & machine embroidery.
By DeeDee Fridolfson5 years ago in Humans
Homesick
There are certain times of day, during certain months of the year that the living room of my home is bursting at the seams with sunlight. Two of the four walls are made up of windows, and though the views outside of them are nothing spectacular by any means there’s always plenty to observe just beyond the glass. I watched a pair of squirrels chase each other up and back down the lone tree in our front yard, amazed at the precarious grip they had on the bark which allowed them to scale its surface so effortlessly. One reached the bottom and took off through the grass, the other in tow, across the street and out of view. Where do squirrels live? Do they have little squirrel homes with little squirrel families? How do they know which squirrel home is theirs?
By Kara Naegely5 years ago in Humans
Hidden Under A White Sheep
"You're not a normal mother!". I cannot tell you how many times I have heard my daughter's say this to me. Sometimes, it is said with gratitude and awe, other times with disappointment and disdain. What I can tell you, is I am not going to change anytime soon.
By Julianne McKenna5 years ago in Humans
A Dying Man in a Room That Smells of Ginseng Tea
I often think back to the little girl in that waiting room; white walls, white chairs, white tile floors that the occasional nurse would skitter across in their white tennis shoes. The room was a definition of human medical ingenuity but all I can remember is how that little girl held herself. That little girl, with her unruly mousey brown hair cut off just before her shoulders and her scuffed red foam flip flops; undoubtedly covered with the layer of grime mandatory for all children under the age of twelve. How she sat with her utmost maturity, waiting impatiently in patient silence for her Dad who could only wait for death to come as he laid in that bed, surrounded by his family. I think about how grim the scene before me appeared to be, yet this little girl had a need to sit sideways, butterfly embroidered jeans and red foam flip-flops cast over the boney metal arm of that immaculate chair she had been placed in to wait. She, who was no more than the speck of sun-kissed, dandelion scented dirt that plagued an otherwise flawless piece of human engineering. How that little girl was forced to waste away her childhood that was meant to be filled with crucially important playground business in the beautifully polluted world outside, waiting for something so far beyond her comprehension to happen. She may have been young, naïve, innocent and any other variation of traits children possess in order to protect them from the crushing weight of reality but this little girl simultaneously was no idiot; she knew when her mother rushed her and her brother out of bed that morning and hurried them into a taxi to the hospital her father had been bedridden in for the past month that this would be her last journey to that stale disinfected corner of immaculacy where she did not belong.
By Amber Marie Ciel5 years ago in Humans
Seventeen Reasons to Never Stop Folding
I was nine years old when my aunt died. She was the most amazing woman, and yes, I realise that I’m probably a little biased. It’s true, I loved her something chronic, and not a day goes by that I don’t still think of her and wonder what might have been. Each time her memory comes to me, I try to reach back in time and tell my child-self that it wasn’t my fault. I don’t listen though, I’m too busy meticulously folding little squares of paper into origami cranes, desperately trying to reach that magical target of one thousand. See, I lived in Japan back then, and there’s a Japanese legend that promises a wish of good health will be granted to the recipient of such a hoard of paper birds. It wasn’t just me; my older sister and our parents were at it too. And when the phone call inevitably came to deliver the devastating news, we had made it all the way to nine hundred and eighty-three.
By Faith Falters5 years ago in Humans
Woman Dances With Stillborn Baby in Disturbing TikTok Video
Disturbing video posted to TikTok by a grieving mother showing what appears to be her dancing while holding a dead baby in her arms was viewed more than 10 million times before the social network site removed the video.
By Criminal Matters5 years ago in Humans
Just a Singin’
When the dishes are done and the house is quiet, I sometimes eagerly gather my supplies. Neatly folded stacks of cloth, shiny scissors and extra thread and needles, accumulate on my kitchen table, before I sit down in front of my Singer sewing machine. My Singer itself, is not particularly anything special. I have gone through many of them over the years. But, there is always a Singer in my life.
By amy irene white5 years ago in Humans
The Finding
I live in a house with many of my kind – the humans call us scissors. The Fiskars orange was a beacon in the house where I grew up, the house where my mother grew up, and the house where her mother grew up. I do know that my heritage links all the way back to1649 when Peter Thorwöste was given a charter to establish a blast furnace and forging operation in the small village of Fiskars, Finland. I read my package. All of us love that Fiskars is an actual place! I dream of going there someday, to see the factory where I was conceived.
By Wendy Paige Abrams5 years ago in Humans
My Purple Patch of Creative Happiness
Ironically, I do not view myself as a crafty or creative crafty person. Never have. As I thought about my life, I have indeed created many crafty items and it perplexes why I still sit here today, at 44 years old, and wonder why I do not consider myself crafty.
By Sara Christine5 years ago in Humans
Cross-Stitching Joy
Initially, I didn’t start cross-stitching in search of joy. I started it as a means to survive. I was a young middle aged girl who had been transplanted from her beloved mountain home. Where soccer and night time games with the neighborhood kids were the norm. Only to be dragged halfway across the country to a world where I didn’t belong. At the impressionable age of 11 I received messages all around me that seemed to be telling me, “Chloe, you are not enough.”
By Chloe Baier5 years ago in Humans
