timebe1ng · 8 months ago
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Random stuff art wall comin 2gether
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foxboyclit · 6 months ago
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I’m mentally sending you many desserts, and hope the rest of this week is much better! For an OC question; what kind of games do you think your OCs would like best?
ty uriel ;-; im having a friend come up this week so i think it will be a lot better, i joked today "since i only have work 2 days theres gonna be a weeks worth of bullshit condensed" lol
im choosing to interpret this as card/board games because i know fuck all about video games
theres a really sweet game called calico thats a puzzle strategy about making a quilt for kitties to snuggle on, and that is 100% Howl's shit. just a cozy game with enough challenge to keep them engaged, where there is a winner but its very low stakes (theyre just happy they made a cat-approved quilt).
its a ttrpg but i think they'd love Shadow of the Demon Lord. ive only played a oneshot for it but the dark fantasy, weird worldbuilding and horror aspects would be very appealing to them
Fae just likes games as an excuse to hang out, so your classics like uno and cards against humanity is what they'd bring. they're a bit of a sore loser and live for the petty revenge opportunities in uno
the Nydallas obviously love sava, because any excuse to flex those manipulation skills with the added layer of flirting is their bread and butter. i also think theyd have a lot of fun with deception: murder in hong kong. its hidden roles, mystery, murder, balls to the wall theorizing, heated accusations, basically everything drow love (also using this as an excuse to post the polygon video for it, because it's my favorite overboard episode to date)
Chena'stra tried to play cards or sava with Ang'dra, and it just ended up in another terrible fight. either because Ang'dra refuses to entertain her or actually beat Chen and she's mad about it. i'll also say House Frival game nights are a lot quieter post-disowning Chen
what do Venny and Lath like to play. how terrible is the shit talking. are either of them sore losers
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kriffingstars · 5 years ago
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Spitfire | Lee Scoresby x Reader (1/?)
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A/N: Hola my lovelies, this is my first Lee Scoresby x Reader. I know this is all friendship based but I promise I’m going to make the next part more romantic.  I just want to get used to writing again, it been a while. When I first came up with this idea I did have an OC of mine that would have worked brilliantly so come the end of S1 I might rework the story on Wattpad possibly.  This is also set in the HBO/BBC version of HDM. I’m aiming for the next part to be posted on Wednesday :)
To be added to the taglist either click the link in my blog and add yourself or send me an ask <3
Summary: Reader meets a certain aeronaut cowboy for the first time
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1619
That day had been tiring, to say the least. Spending the whole time following Lyra’s lead wasn’t easy and something you weren’t used to. Normally you'd be marching to the beat of your own drum, so this new lifestyle was rather a shock to the system.
As night fell you found yourself alone and wishing no more than to get off the boat, being so cooped up had begun to drive you mad. It seemed like an ungodly amount of time since you'd been able to go off on your own.  Not that minding Lyra was a chore but it was certainly different from your old lifestyle. The pub near the docks seemed like a good place to unwind, over a nice warming glass of whatever half-decent liquor they stocked.
“Are you sure this is a good idea (Y/N)? What will Farder Coram say when he finds out you’ve left?” protested Zachariah as he trotted alongside you, his bushy tail brushing against your dark tan, woollen trousers which left a few strands of bright orange fur behind.
“It’s one drink, and I'm an adult Zach. Not like I'm the only one who can keep an eye on Lyra.”
The walk to the bar took all but five minutes, the chill of the air causing you to shove your hands deep inside the fleece-lined pockets of her coat.  The smell of the oil from the port caused your nose to tingle, which on second thought was probably not the best thing for your health, even if you happened to like the smell.
As you reached the building, the roar of the fires could be seen through the cloudy window, and whilst it wasn't busy, many regular customers lounged at their tables.  Pipes in their mouths and cards in their hand. Once inside the atmosphere seemed almost comforting, no one seemed out of place, one of the many reasons why the North was always somewhat of a destination when travelling.
"A whiskey please, with a shot of water. No ice thank you," you ordered.
Both glasses were placed wordlessly in front of you as you sat rubbing your temples in frustration and worry; thinking back to how disastrous today could have gone. Lyra was becoming more reckless, especially with the alethiometer. Only just that morning had she thought it was a good idea to take it out whilst at least six Magisterium were patrolling past.  If that was anything to go by it wouldn't be long before Lyra had sucked her into trouble which there would be no coming back from.
When Ma had asked you to look out for Lyra it was something you felt you couldn’t say no, not that you would have done. You saw much of yourself in her, but childcare wasn’t really in your nature. Being as wild and unruly as you were most would barely call you an adult, as trouble seemed to just follow you around by the trove. Fortunately, all that good practice of having to get yourself out of said trouble had landed you with a great deal of experience and a way with words that could get you out of nearly anything. Having a small family of your own and the constant travelling meant childcare was something of an alien to you. The only interaction you really had with children was when recounting tales of adventures to them, leaving out all the crimes which had been committed along the way.
Before the Gobblers came anyone who knew you would have described you as a wild spirited, quick-witted spitfire who yearned to travel all over the world, looking for something new to explore and earning money through odd jobs as you went. As far as you went you always did come back to the gyptians, but never for long, until the news of dear Billy Costa had reached you. That naturally lead to a quick return.
“Hot rum, make it a double.”
An American voice broke you from your thoughts as you turned to see the aeronaut who’d taken the seat beside yourself, his dæmon, a rather wonderful hare perched next to him. It was the same man who you'd briefly met that morning, the one looking for the bear, Iorek Byrinson. The bartender silently pouring the drink before moving away again, back to his conversation with one of the regulars.
“I don’t think I introduced myself this morning, Lee Scoresby and this," he gestured to the hare, "is Hester.” Holding his glass forward for you to meet with your own.
“(Y/N) Fletcher, but my friends call me Fletch,” she paused looking to the fox perched at your feet, “and this is my dear friend Zachariah.”
He smiled, "Are we friends?"
"Only if you want to be."
“Now Fletch," he paused, testing out the name on his tongue, "what are you doing in a place like this?” He smirked.
“Having a moment to think,” you smiled back at him. He’d cleaned himself up from that morning, there was no sign of any blood and he looked a lot more relaxed.
The conversation started off as small talk which quickly turned to their favourite destinations when travelling.
"I like the people here, it's like everyone fits in because they don't."
And once again the conversation shifted, you bringing up that morning's shenanigans, and laughing at the reason for the blood.
"If you did that in my bar you'd be swimming with the fishes, and hear the waters quite cold this time of year," laughing as you finished off the rest of the glass, signalling the bartender for another.
“Your daughter seemed like a bit of a spitfire, I can see where she gets it from,” he complimented, after hearing about how you'd managed to land yourself in a cell for the night and talked yourself out of numerous different charges the next morning.
“Hah, he thinks Lyra’s your daughter.” Zach’s head tilted back as he laughed at the thought.
“Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” A grin made its way onto your face as you laughed at the idea of you being a parent. Sure, Lyra was sweet, but you were there to oversee and attempt to steer Lyra away from trouble, which wasn’t exactly working too well.
“No, I’m just keeping an eye on her for the time being,”
“Good job she wasn’t offended Lee,” muttered Hester, as the cowboy cringed at his error.
Hester rolled her eyes as he began his apologies “I really didn’t mean any offence,”
“Mr Score-,”
“Lee,”
Smiling. “Lee, you really think that's the worse thing I've been called.  That's not even an insult.”
Soon enough the conversation flowed again, with Hester jumping down to carry on her conversation with Zach. Time flew by as Lee began to realise that both of them had much in common, and the foundations of a fast friendship were being made. Eventually, the topic of your visit to Trollesund came to light. Arguably the place wasn’t the nicest holiday destination and it wasn’t exactly teeming with adventure and excitement. Maybe a part of you hoped that Lee would accompany you on the journey but the rational side reasoned that as much as you got along with the man you didn’t actually know him too well and more importantly didn’t know whether you could actually trust him.
“So, you’re here on business? I wouldn't bet on you being here for the people,” he asked, bringing up your comment about the people of the North earlier.
“Children are being stolen; the Magisterium won’t do a thing. We’re coming to take them back,” you spoke with a conviction that he hadn't heard you speak with before that.  
Clearly, you were determined. He could tell you were fiercely loyal, and that a fight was the last of your worries. As he listened to your answer you could tell his curiosity peaked, as he leant forward, becoming a lot quieter as he spoke to you in a low voice.
“So that’s why you need Iorek. You’re starting a war.” It wasn’t a question, just the realisation of the plan in which you were trying to put in place, the one Lyra had convinced you of doing.
“Which I intend to win, some of those kids don’t have families to miss them. Least I can do is help them.”
After that, you both settled into silence as Lee mulled over what you were saying. By this time the bar had begun to empty, the lights were beginning to dim. The bartender's voice rippled through the room as the bell for the last call was rung, most did not order another, but simply left their empty glasses atop the side. It was late and you knew you should be getting back.
“I should back before I’m missed,” you sighed, scraping the stool as you stood. Your sudden movement alerting Zach that he should finish up his conversation with Hester. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, see you around.” He replied, gathering his things as well.
The walk back to the boat was relaxing, the cold air bit your cheeks as you meandered through the quiet town, but it was not as bothersome as it once was before. It was quiet, save for the patrolling Magisterium. Before you knew it, you’d carried yourself all the way back her room, pushing open the small door you flopped onto the bed, Zachariah leaping on after and settling in the red quilt.
He sunk his head underneath your hand as you subconsciously reached to scratch behind his ears before he looked back up at to you. 
“You should sleep, you know Lyra’s going to be up early,”.    
Taglist: @bisexuaivalkyrie @gemellath @urticadioica2  @mistoffeleez
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bcdrawsandwrites · 6 years ago
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Next entry for @badthingshappenbingo​!
Reminder that I am still accepting prompts for this! Check out my initial post (linked in my blog desc) for the guidelines. Also note the current bingo card on this post–the things I mark with crossbones are completed prompts, and ones with a single bone are ones that have been requested, but not written yet.
(Fics are also posted to AO3 and FFN, but please just use the links in my blog desc to get to those ‘cuz I’m too tired to make links for them.)
Aaand here’s our next prompt, submitted by @melody-of-the-universe​! This one is very fluffy. I hope you like it!
Prompt: Common Cold Characters: Héctor and Imelda, post-movie
Even an hour after the musical had ended, the theater was still crowded. Héctor was talking animatedly to one of the musicians in the crowded theater when Imelda placed a hand on his shoulder. “Héctor, remember what I said?”
“Sí, mi amor, of course!” he replied, and then turned to quickly wrap up the conversation with a promise to meet again later. That settled, he faced Imelda again, offering her his arm. “I remember, before ten.”
She nodded at him, smiling as she looped her arm around his, and the two of them walked out of the theater. “I will not go to work on less than eight hours of sleep.”
He flashed her a grin. “So you’ll stay home with me, then?”
“Héctor!” She gave him a playful shove, and they both laughed as they made their way to the gondola station.
This had been an evening they’d been planning for about a month now, as they worked their schedule around their jobs, extra deliveries, and concerts. Their lives weren’t the same as they’d been eight years ago—they were busier than ever, but it was absolutely for the better. Imelda may have missed having a slightly more lenient schedule, but she was more than willing to sacrifice that to be with her husband once more.
Tonight had been the night to see a musical—one Héctor had been highly interested in, since it was the premiere of one with brand new songs from a songwriter he liked. Apparently the musical had been unfinished in the songwriter’s life, and he’d simply picked it up again to finish it in death.
“It’s great isn’t it? When they haven’t lost interest in their writing,” Héctor babbled to her, even as he repressed a yawn. “Death can really be a killer on your inspiration for some people, heh, so it’s nice to see when it doesn’t discourage them.”
Years ago the words would have left a twist in her gut, given the reason why he’d quit music all those ages ago, but it was something they’d long since worked out in the form of apologies, tears, and the music they sang and played together. Now, she was simply happy to see him happy, and that was all that mattered.
The musical had been wonderful, and they found themselves losing track of time as they discussed the story and songs on the gondola ride back, tired though they were. As they stepped out of the station, they tried to recall the lyrics of a particular song they’d enjoyed. “It was something to do with that storm,” Imelda said, lifting up the hem of her dress as she stepped down a few stairs. “The one in the second act.”
Héctor hummed, taking her hand in his and swinging their arms back and forth as he thought, while his other hand held his hat in place to keep it from being blown away by the wind. “Something like… ‘And then the rain will fall—’”
“No, no, she never said ‘rain.’ It was certainly ‘storm,’ I remember. Oh, and ‘storming.’ She used it to rhyme with ‘warm’ and ‘warning.’”
“Sí, you’re probably right. But then—” He paused, and Imelda glanced over when his arm stilled, finding him with a stunned expression on his face. “…Rain?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It was absolutely ‘storm.’”
“No, no no, I mean rain.”
“But—”
A large drop immediately splashed onto her head, and she stopped.
“…Rain.”
“Sí. It—I thought it wasn’t supposed to do that today—”
The raindrops were coming faster now, and they were still a fifteen minute walk from home. “Did you bring an umbrella?”
“No.”
They swore simultaneously and took off running, Héctor removing his hat and holding it over Imelda’s head, for all the good it would do. Immediately she regretted wearing heels; though she’d hand-made them herself, even the most skilled Rivera craftsmanship couldn’t prevent the eventual ache that came with running in heels.
As they turned a corner, the rain picked up even more, as did the wind, causing the rain to beat against them in great gusts. It might not have been quite so terrible had it not been January, but as it was, it was bitterly freezing. Imelda’s dress was getting wet, though not soaked through, and her bones that weren’t covered with clothing felt like ice. That was bad enough, but they were so focused on getting home that they weren’t looking where they ran, and Héctor let out a startled whoop as they splashed through a deep puddle, thoroughly soaking his nice pants and her dress.
“We should have taken Pepita!” Héctor called over the wind.
“In this rain with her wind speeds?”
“Aaaeeh… fair point!”
It felt like an age before they finally arrived at the hacienda, and Héctor was quick to open the gate for Imelda. When they reached the house, Imelda fumbled through her purse with numb, shaking hands as she searched for the key, while Héctor wrung out his scarf. Finally they stepped through the door, both of them heaving an exhausted sigh of relief.
“That… could have gone better,” Héctor remarked as he hung up his hat. He then pulled off his wig, twisting it to wring it out.
“Stop that, don’t dry it out over the floor like some animal,” Imelda said, shivering as she turned to close the door. Before she could, however, a winged, hairless alebrije squeezed through, stood between the two skeletons, and shook himself dry. Imelda cried out in disgust, while Héctor sighed heavily.
“Thank you for the demonstration, Dante,” he said, deadpan, as he replaced his wig with a wet thwap. Dante, meanwhile, trotted over to the living room and flopped down onto the rug, rolling around on it to further dry himself. Neither of them had the energy to scold him for it.
Imelda glanced at the wall clock, wincing when she noticed the time. “Ten minutes to ten,” she breathed, her shoulders sagging. “At least we made it home on time.” The rest of the house was deserted—everyone had already gone to their respective rooms for the night, and it was about time they get to theirs.
As she made her way up the stairs, Héctor let out a great yawn, attempting to speak through it: “—shower would’ve been nice.”
“Yes, and then I would have to put you back together and carry you out of the bathroom after you fall asleep in the tub again.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I say it because we both need to sleep in bed, mi amor.”
It was a pain to disrobe from their sopping wet clothes, but they managed, toweling dry and changing into freshly-washed night clothes. Sure enough, they slipped into bed just before the clock struck the hour. “Gracias for taking me to the play, Héctor,” she murmured as she settled next to him.
Wrapping his arms around her, he mumbled something barely comprehensible in response: “Mm… Sorry ‘bout… the rain…”
Imelda smiled. “I’m deeply offended you couldn’t control the weather.”
Héctor chuckled softly beside her, and it was the last sound she heard from him before he drifted off, and she soon followed.
Imelda didn’t know what time it was when she found herself slipping back into awareness; all she knew was that it was freezing, and the sound of her bones shivering against Héctor’s was rather obnoxious.
Blinking in the darkness, she tried to discern the time from the clock on her nightstand. The hands on it glowed faintly (it was a little more modern than she normally liked, but it was a gift from her brothers, and she had to admit the feature was useful), and it took her a moment to realize that it was a little after one in the morning. She really should go back to sleep, and tried to settle closer to Héctor, hoping he would provide more warmth.
To her surprise, the clattering sound of bone against bone grew even louder, and she realized Héctor was shivering as well. It wasn’t just her, then—it really was freezing in the room. Luckily she kept a few extra blankets in the trunk at the foot of their bed, but the problem was getting out of bed without waking Héctor up. She tried to slip out from his arms, but he only let out a faint whine, wrapping his arms around her more tightly. Fortunately she knew the workaround to this, and carefully tugged her pillow between herself and her husband. Héctor responded by wrapping himself around the pillow, leaving Imelda to slip away.
Crawling out from under the quilt and standing barefoot on the hardwood floor seemed to increase her chill tenfold. Imelda retrieved the blanket and spread it over their quilt as quickly as she could before returning to the warmth of the bed. However, the added weight and warmth of the blanket didn’t seem to completely chase out the cold—in fact, it felt almost simultaneously too hot and too cold—but it would have to do.
Imelda tugged the pillow out of her husband’s arms and settled next to him once more. Hopefully this would be the end of it, and the chill wouldn’t wake either of them up for the rest of the night.
Of course, the universe seemed keen on disregarding Imelda’s wishes. It didn’t feel like much later that Imelda found herself waking again (at five thirty-eight, the clock cheerfully informed her) to a terrible chill once again. This was absurd—had they left a window open? Or the balcony door? But why would they do that in the middle of winter?
Lifting herself up on her arm, Imelda glanced toward the windows. The curtains were pulled over them, but she could faintly hear the sound of wind and rain outside—if the windows were open, the curtains would be billowing in the wind, surely. She had to twist herself around, looking up over Héctor to see the curtains covering the balcony door, but they too were still.
Ridiculous.
Clearly there must be a draft somewhere in the house—possibly from her brothers conducting another experiment without her permission, or perhaps Pepita had scratched another hole in the side of the building. Either way, she would deal with it after she got ready for work.
Imelda tried to leave the bed again, only to find Héctor clinging to her once again, shivering. “Nooo… no, stay,” he mumbled, half-asleep, and Imelda blinked.
She knew what he’d said, but for some reason, he sounded like he was speaking through a stuffy nose. Which made little sense, given they didn’t have noses anymore. Regardless, she rolled her eyes, letting him cling to her for a few more moments. It wasn’t six yet, after all.
Héctor seemed pleased with this, sighing as he tucked his head against her shoulder.
The only thing keeping Imelda from enjoying the peacefulness of the moment was the chill in the air and—she now realized—the strange ache in her chest and in her joints. Remembering she’d been running around in her heels last night, however, she figured that was probably what was causing the soreness. That’s what it had to be, not… anything else. It was her fault for wearing impractical footwear that night—a rarity for a Rivera, but it did happen.
Eventually the minutes ticked on, and it was time to get up. Once more exchanging herself for a pillow, Imelda slipped away from her husband and prepared for a usual day of work at the zapatería. When she found herself sniffling, she blamed it on the new perfume she’d picked up at the store—she would have to try a different brand later.
In spite of how cold and sore Imelda felt, she finished getting ready (putting on a long-sleeved dress this time) and made her way down the first flight of stairs. She reached the landing, paused, then sneezed.
Her first instinct was to cover her face in surprise, but she forced herself to relax the second she heard footsteps scurrying closer. A door just by the stairs creaked open, and Oscar and Felipe poked their heads out into the hallway.
“Salud.”
“Buenas dias,” she said, giving her brothers an unimpressed look. “I thought you were supposed to clean and dust around here yesterday.”
“Oh, we did!” Felipe exclaimed, ducking back into the room for a moment.
“Sí,” Oscar confirmed. “We used our prototype dusting machine!”
Felipe stepped out into the hallway, carrying a contraption that consisted of two feather dusters tied to a device with a crank attached. He immediately began working it in demonstration, and the feather dusters spun in a circle. “We completed our task with only minor complications.”
“It only took half an hour longer than normal.”
“It seems you missed a spot or two, then,” Imelda said, turning away and fighting the urge to sniffle. (She didn’t have a nose, so there was nothing to sniff with, or even sneeze with, for that matter.) “You should do a more thorough cleaning after work today.” With that, she headed down the second set of stairs before they could protest.
The morning continued to go on as normal, mostly, as the others made their way downstairs and started their breakfast before work. It was all fine at first—a few of them asked how her date with Héctor had gone last night, and she’d been happy to tell them about it. But she could also tell they were glancing at her every so often, with the way she avoided eating and kept to short sips of coffee instead, but she ignored them as she tried to hide her shivers. She already knew what they wanted to say—that she must be sick, and should take it easy, but they all knew better than that.
At least, she thought they did.
“Mamá Imelda,” Rosita said, and Imelda snapped to attention, realizing she must have zoned out. “You should probably stay home and rest. You seem like you’re—”
“I am not sick,” Imelda said, resisting the urge to sniffle again. Her voice was taking on the same stuffy quality her husband’s had, much to her annoyance. “You know we can’t get sick. We don’t have anything to be sick with.”
The others exchanged glances, and Imelda rolled her eyes. “It’s all a trick of the mind. I’m not really sick, but because of a bit of rain…” She shook her head. “I’ll be heading in today. This is nothing to miss work over.”
Fortunately that seemed to shut everyone up, and she was grateful that they finally dropped it. Or perhaps they knew there was no point in arguing? In any case, she was glad to get that out of the way.
Until Coco brought up something else: “Has anyone seen Papá?”
“He’s usually up by now, isn’t he?” Victoria asked, glancing toward the stairs.
That was true; it wasn’t uncommon for Héctor to wake up late, and none of them really minded, but usually he tried to be up on time to go with Imelda in to work, at least. Recalling the way her husband had been shivering earlier, Imelda frowned. “I’ll go check on him,” she said, heading for the stairs. “Don’t wait for me. I’ll be in to work on time.”
She didn’t care whether or not any of them believed her, because she’d make sure of it herself. She would be in to work today. There was no reason not to be. Sure her feet hurt, but she wasn’t going to be on her feet all day. And maybe her chest hurt a bit, but she wasn’t going to be doing any running around, either. She would be fine.
Stepping into the bedroom, she found Héctor still asleep and shivering, his arms clutching the pillow. She approached the bed, reached out to brush his hair out of his face, and felt his forehead. Sure enough, it was warm—he was running a slight fever, though nothing serious. Sighing softly, she ran her hand through his hair, and he stirred.
“Stay here and rest, Héctor,” she said gently. “I’ll come back to check on you during my break.” Bending down, she planted a light kiss on his forehead before pulling away.
Just as she approached the bedroom door, however, she felt a soft tug on the back of her apron. Confused, she turned around, only to find nothing out of the ordinary—Héctor was still seemingly asleep in bed. When she turned to face the door again, she felt another tug, and this time reached back, startled to feel something long sticking out of her back. Quickly she yanked it off of her and held it in front, only to roll her eyes exaggeratedly at the sight of Héctor’s arm waving cheerfully at her.
Looking back again, she found Héctor propped up on his other elbow, eying her with a raised brow bone and a playful-but-tired smile on his face. “You’re not going to work,” he said, his voice still stuffy with cold, and Imelda clicked her non-existent tongue.
“I am. Stop messing around and get some rest.” Imelda tossed the arm back to the bed. While she noticed he’d failed to catch it, she didn’t think anything of it until she felt something tugging at her apron again. “Héctor!”
Héctor’s other hand was rather insistently tugging at her skirt, and when she pulled it to her front, it stood up on her hand on two of its fingers, looking almost like a little person. The sight amused Imelda until the hand managed to leap up on top of her head, then settled to her forehead, just long enough for Héctor to feel it.
“You have a fever,” he said, and the hand jumped away from Imelda as he recalled it, moving back to his wrist with a reconnecting pop. “And you’re not going to work.”
“How on earth do you manage that?” Imelda asked, hands on her hips.
“Telling that your temperature is higher than normal?”
“I mean that trick with your hand.”
“Oh.” Héctor sat up, rubbing his wrist sheepishly. “Well, when you’re dead for a hundred years, you get kinda bored sometimes…” He plucked off his left hand again, setting it on his right palm, and made it do a convincing imitation of a zapateado dance.
“Very impressive.” Imelda smiled, cocking a brow herself. “But I’m not going to stay home from work tod—” Her voice broke off into a series of coughs, and she held a hand to her chest.
“Imelda…” Héctor said, his voice softening as he scooched over to sit on the edge of the bed. “This isn’t like… how things were in the Land of the Living.”
“Exactly,” she said, wincing slightly at the roughness of her voice. “This is all just in our mind thinking that we’re sick. Nothing more.”
Héctor shook his head. “Not what I mean. It’s…” He scratched the back of his head, looking away. “I know, back then, you had to work hard, even if you weren’t feeling well… because you had to, if you wanted to feed everyone.”
Picking up on the hints of guilt tugging at his words, Imelda took a seat next to her husband, reaching out. “Héctor—”
He held up his hands in protest. “No, no. The point is… everything’s okay, now. We don’t have to worry about money, and the others can handle running the shop without you for a day.”
Imelda glanced away. “But I’m not—”
Héctor cut her off again, this time unintentionally with a sneeze, nearly knocking his wig off. Startled, he held a hand to his head to straighten his hair before giving a slight laugh. “Listen, you told me to take it easy, and I’m pretty sure you’re feeling the same as me. Right?”
Before she could answer him, she nearly sneezed, herself, and paused long enough to suppress it. “No.”
Héctor laughed, and Imelda chuckled as well.
“Very well,” she conceded. “I’ll stay home… on one condition.”
Héctor beamed, sitting up straight. “¿Sí?”
Imelda gave him a half-smile. “You have to make tea for the both of us.”
“Sí, Imelda!” He went to push himself up off the bed, only to pause, and laugh again.
“What’s so funny?”
“You told me last night that you wouldn’t stay home with me if you got eight hours of sleep. But I guess now you get the best of both worlds, eh?”
“Ugh.” She shoved him backwards onto the bed, but smiled. “I’ll make the tea myself.”
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mossysunflower · 3 years ago
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I posted 235 times in 2021
15 posts created (6%)
220 posts reblogged (94%)
For every post I created, I reblogged 14.7 posts.
I added 28 tags in 2021
#acnh - 5 posts
#for later - 4 posts
#sewing - 4 posts
#acnh hhp - 3 posts
#cookie acnh - 2 posts
#tw breakdown - 2 posts
#hhp - 2 posts
#bpd - 2 posts
#tw bpd - 2 posts
#quilting - 2 posts
Longest Tag: 92 characters
#might stop taking my meds and become a bad person on purpose and make all my friends hate me
My Top Posts in 2021
#5
Hi! My name is Sam and I just started an Etsy store called "Safety Snails"
I had some background in sewing since I was 6, but when covid came I began sewing masks for family members, and then started selling them to friends and coworkers, and sometimes strangers who liked my pattern.
I started looking at all the scraps, stuff that was big, but not big enough for another mask..
Then I came up with a pattern to use most of those scraps.
A stuffed snail!! And what scraps were too tiny for that I could cut into tiny pieces and use them for partial stuffing.
I started thinking about ways I could evolve this pattern, and I came up with an idea that I'm very happy to be pursuing.
I'm adding a zipper pocket to some of the snails!! There will be options to buy them with things in them (tiny med kits, hand sanitizer, gender neutral menstrual products *like reusable pads*, and a one day pill container ) and other ones I'd leave empty, for the consumer to fill with things they want, like loose change, cool rocks, and eventually when I get foodsafe fabrics even snacks like goldfish or pretzels!
There will be a keychain option for the zippered and non zippered. And I will also be selling gender neutral reusable pads by themselves.
My whole idea with this company is to use up every last bit of what I consume. Paper scraps from patterns will be processed into recycled paper, which I'll turn into business cards, or shredded and used for cushioning in packaging.
My first listing is up on my store if you want to check it out, or if any of this sounds like something you would like to see you can save my shop to look at later when I bring all of these ideas to life!!
5 notes • Posted 2021-05-21 02:53:57 GMT
#4
Making a new soup today 💕💕
I'm calling it "root soup" cuz it's mostly root vegetables
These are going to be weird measurements
One large Vidalia onion thinly chopped (enough to make a thin layer on the bottom of the crock pot)
About 3 or 4 Yukon gold potatoes cubed (I found a HUGE one at my local bulk mom and pop shop, so I only needed to use two) enough to make about an inch layer of potato in your crock pot
Around 3 or 4 thick long carrots cut into chunks
Half a knob of ginger
3 cloves of garlic
Two stalks of green onion because I felt like it needed just a littleeee more onion
One orange bell pepper cuz why not
Two sage leaves
Oregano
Italian seasoning
And 6 cups of chicken broth (I used 6 cups of water and the appropriate amount of "better than bouillon")
Put in the crockpot on low for 10 hours
When you wake up or get home from work or whatever take bout 2/3 of the soup and blend it up (after removing the sage leaves)
Or you can blend all of the soup if you don't want some veggie chunks
And voila, root soup
9 notes • Posted 2021-10-04 03:55:47 GMT
#3
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9 notes • Posted 2021-01-10 21:53:06 GMT
#2
I've been collecting screenshots of wardell for my s/o
So I thought I would supply them to the rest of the wardell fans
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10 notes • Posted 2021-11-06 21:31:03 GMT
#1
I had to cut my fingernails back because they kept breaking, and my fingertips are touching things for the first time in like 2 months and that combined with a new fabric softener and a haircut have combined into me constantly being overstimulated and so when I'm home I put fingertip bandaids on all my fingers and I put my noise canceling headphones on and my comfort blanket but like,,, it's just not doing it,,, esp. because I have to be at work masking for 8 hours and I can't have any accomodations and I can feel myself working towards a huge breakdown and idkk what to do,,,,
10 notes • Posted 2021-04-08 02:43:04 GMT
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the-lina-project · 6 years ago
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Lina’s Legacy
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Lina’s granddaughters: Kathleen, Natalie, Michelle, Tonya, Dominique, 2018.
“The Basque Girls”
Written by Michelle
One hundred and two years ago, Lina  Bidegain stepped off a Great Northern Train onto the Glasgow, Montana depot platform, a newly arrived Basque immigrant from the French Pyrenees. Lina was met at the station by her employer, John Etchart, and they traveled thirty-five miles by horse and wagon on primitive roads across sprawling prairie wilderness to the Stone House Ranch. There she worked side-by side with his wife, Catherine, cooking for Basque sheep herders and helping care for the Etchart’s small children, Ferne and Gene.
These experiences became wonderful stories told to her grandchildren. We could practically feel the icy air, see the sheep on the hillside, and smell her soup cooking. 
In June 2018, we, Lina’s five American granddaughters, also made a train journey, traveling by Amtrak from Whitefish to Glasgow, stepping out into her footsteps at the very same depot. We met the Etchart family, decendents of John and Catherine, and traveled across rangeland, coolies and gulches in pickup trucks to visit the Stone House. 
Rita Etchart Gallagher refers to us as the Basque Girls; it is a name we embrace.
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Glasgow From the station, we walked two-blocks to our hotel in the heart of downtown Glasgow. The Rundle Suites building was constructed in 1915, the year before Lina arrived. It is currently being renovated by Jon and Rebecca Johnston and their family into a modern boutique hotel.
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Glasgow is today, as it was in Lina‘s time, a small town. Established in 1887 to support the railroad industry and the ranching business, its current population is about 3,500. On the main street you will find wonderful small businesses: The Loaded Toad Coffee, Western Drug, Wheatgrass Arts and Gallery, Soma-Dis Deli.  And just a few blocks away, the Busted Knuckle Brewery.
The Etchart family soon arrived to meet us. Paul and Rita, grandchildren of John and Catherine, hosted a pizza dinner in Paul’s home. We had the opportunity to meet other  Etchart family members: Paul & Barbara, Rita and Mitch Gallagher, Matt Page and Emma, his father Steve Page.  We also met Bengochea family members: Marlene Bengochea, her daughter Denise Bengochea Winchester, her son Jon and his wife Erika. The Bengocheas, like the Bidegains, worked on the Stone House Ranch.
The star of the gathering, however, was Mitch Etchart, ninety-six years old.
Mitch Etchart is the last living child of John and Catherine, younger brother to Ferne and Gene whom our grandmother cared for.  He was born in Glasgow in 1920 not long after she returned to the Pyrenees. Mitch is the family patriarch and a good story teller with a wonderful sense of humor.
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Bottom row: Mitch, Dominique, Natalie, Kathleen, Natalie, Erika, Barbara. Top row; Denise, Rita, Michelle, Tonya.
Across the Prairie
The following morning, we loaded into two pickup trucks. Our guides: Paul Etchart and 16 -year old Emma Page in one truck, Matt Page and Rita in the second. Matt is the great grandson of John Etchart and currently works on the ranch. Denise Bengochea Winchester came along as well.
The Stone House is located at the head of Willow Creek. This South Ranch was John Etchart’s first land holding, established in 1911.  The family lived on the property and worked the ranch until the 1920′s when they moved to Tampico. The South Ranch and Tampico River Ranch were leased to Page-Whitham Land and Cattle in 1983. It was a ten year lease with purchase in 1993. Steve Page is married to Michele, an Etchart granddaughter. 
We headed out a gravel road, winding through a labyrinth of rolling grassland dotted with sage and yucca, furrowed coulees, pools of water, rounded hilltops and stands of cottonwoods. In the distance, layers of mountains: the far-off shadowy peaks of the Little Rockies, the distant deep brown of the Larb Hills, and the closer green rise of Square Creek.  We saw herds of antelopes and clusters of cattle. On hill tops stood piles of flat stones called Sheep Herder Monuments that served as guide posts in the days before GPS.
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After an hour of driving we came over a rise and, in the distance, against a backdrop of cottonwoods along the Willow Creek, the Stone House and barn sat in a small valley of sloping hills.
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The Stone House The pickup trucks wound down the dirt road, through the corral gate, past the barn, and parked on the hill next to the house. 
In 1914, when the Etcharts decided to make Montana their permanent home, John commissioned the building of a new house for his bride. The house and barn would be built of stone in a style reminiscent of the Basque bassaris (farms) in the French Pyrenees. Two German stonemasons cut sandrock from the surrounding hillsides and hauled it by wagon to the ranch. The hip roof was made of cedar shingles. Wooden porches were added to shield the front and back entrances from the cold. In a landscape of log cabins, sod houses and wooden barns, the Etchart ranch was uniquely beautiful.
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Lina and Catherine would have pumped water from a well built over a natural spring located in the cottonwood grove on the banks of Willow Creek. The ranch residents used an outhouse and maintained a stack of fire wood for the kitchen range. Catherine would have planted a garden near the house to grow vegetables: tomatoes, onions, beans, potatoes…  Nearby outbuildings may have housed chicken coops and a pig sty. 
Today the house has running water from tanks, propane for cooking and heating, electricity from a generator and a modern composition shingle roof. Cowboys working the Page-Whitham range use the building as a bunk house.
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We entered through the small back porch.  On the first floor, a long kitchen runs the length of one side of the house. 
In Lina’s day, a wood burning cast iron stove and a long table with seating for sheep herders would have filled the space. Cooking equipment would have been stored on open shelving or hung from hooks. 
A narrow staircase leads down to the basement, stone walls and a dirt floor. Here they would have stored baskets of potato and onions, bags of flour and oats, sides of cured pork.
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Two bedrooms take up the other side of the first floor, a larger front bedroom for John and Catherine, a second smaller room in the back corner for Lina. They might have been furnished with wrought iron bedsteads, wash stands, dressers or chests for storage, lanterns, quilts and a baby cradle.
Today, the larger bedroom has a closet and the smaller room has been converted to a bathroom with a toilet and shower.
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Windows on all sides of the house provide natural light and views of the ranch and surrounding hillsides.
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View from Lina’s bedroom
Wooden stairs lead up to two large rooms built under the roof slope. Here the Basque herders bunked during the seasons when they were not trailing sheep on the hillsides. As many as 8 to 10 herders could have worked on the ranch, helping with breeding, lambing, docking, and sheering.
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They would have slept on cots and owned a minimum of personal items. In their free time, perhaps they smoked cigarettes and played the card game Mus or challenged each other to contests of strength throwing iron bars or sacks of grain.
The Barn It is a short walk out the front porch, down the hill, past the coulee pond, to the barn gate.
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The barn has stone walls and an upper story of wood. It is surrounded by wooden corral fencing.
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In those early ranch days, the barn would have housed horses needed for transportation and ranch work.  Catherine also kept cows for milk, cream and cheese, just as her family had done in Les Aldudes. It stored their buggy and wagon, as well as farm tools: axes, saws and hammers, and milk cans
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Today the barn has an almost museum feel, the empty stalls house an old sheep herders wagon, a collection of old horse shoes, ropes, saddles and bridles.
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We wandered the ranch buildings, strolled the corral and coulee pond, wondered where the well and garden may have been. Our eyes surveyed the cottonwood trees and hillsides.  We pictured flocks of grazing sheep watched over by Basque herders, Lina’s brother Antonio among them.  
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Rita’s picture of the Stone House gang.
We tried to imagine Lina and Catherine, two beautiful, young Basque women in long skirts and button-up boots, going about their busy day cooking, gardening washing clothes, Ferne and Gene playing nearby.
Their footprints were almost visible.
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A last view of the Stone House ranch.
Many thanks to the generosity of the Etchart family for making this visit to the Stone House possible. Thanks to Paul Etchart for his wealth of information and to Rita, a perfect hostess. Thanks to Denise for sharing her own family history of living in the Stone House. Thanks also to Matt, an excellent guide, who shared childhood memories of the ranch.  And to Emma, our favorite cowgirl!
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philosworkbench · 4 years ago
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Meetings, Agendas, and why the best conversation spot at the party is always the kitchen
Re: my last long post about authenticity vs. polish. It’s hard enough to figure out how to have an authentic “monologue.” Building effective dialogue? That is a high-wire act.
When Bad Meetings Go Terrible...
I have been in my share of poorly run meetings and I’ve run them. Here are some of my favorite things to hate about meetings. You’ll see I left out saying “the facilitator is unprepared,” because a lack of preparedness and forethought underscores all of these.
The point of the meeting is unclear. No one really knows why they’re there. What do we expect to achieve?
Similarly, the expectations are unclear. Who is talking when? Are only the meeting’s organizers really talking? What are the unwritten rules?
Psychological safety is low. The attendees are there to cover their ass. They aren’t excited about what might be accomplished by their presence. They’re there because of what may be risked by their absence.
The facilitators have chips on their shoulders. They ask for feedback and then get angry when they hear it. They answer questions curtly; they make obvious signals to say “that’s not the conversation we came for.”
The facilitators are on the defensive. Maybe they called the meeting months ago and are now forgetting why they called it. Maybe they were supposed to meet with each other before the big meeting and never did. Regardless of why, they take every question like it’s a criticism. They speak in rapid circles. They act like they have to answer everything when they’re the only people who are expecting them to have an answer.
The facilitators are doing all the talking. (This is my personal weakness.) The facilitator asks a question and almost immediately starts giving their own answer “as an example.” This can be fear, which makes 5 seconds feel like 50. Or, it can be manipulation. “We as a group need to decide...” becomes code for “I need you idiots to agree to something I already know I want. So, lets ‘discuss’ it calmly.”
The participants are thrown in the deep end. The facilitator says, “we’re here to talk about x, so let’s get started...” What follows has no structure. It’s just unrefereed free-for-all for the full length of the meeting. No “let’s start with a breakout and then report back as a group.” No “here’s a brief presentation to remind everyone of where we’re at so far.” No “we’re covering these 5 questions today. We’re going in this order so these reasons.” Just the morass of “I was told to have a meeting about X, so I scheduled time, we’re here. Let’s talk about it.”
Good facilitation is no party. It’s work. But the best analogy I have for what you want to create as a facilitator is a party. Specifically, the kitchen of a party.
Why I Would Have Been Bad at Hosting and Facilitation in College
Full disclosure: I was pretty awful at parties in college. Not like a “I don’t party because I study so much and have carved out such a bright future” nerd. No, perish the thought. I was always the, “I hate my body, have undiagnosed anxiety, and don’t know I’m bisexual yet so I spend parties making Doctor Who references and speaking in a British accent. No thank you, I’ll keep my freakishly long overcoat on. Yes I will wear it the entire time. No, I am not comfortable. Are there snacks?”
As a college student, I was the epitome of a bad facilitator:
I hadn’t handled my own shit enough to help others set aside theirs
I was so focused on how I was coming off that I couldn’t see anyone else for who they were
I did things to make myself comfortable that specifically made others uncomfortable
I entered a shared space with no appreciation for how it operated and what the pre-existing cultural mores were
I came, expecting snacks, and never brought any
When I came to Chicago in my twenties to do improv comedy, I’d like to think I got better at parties. There were always improv parties at somebody’s apartment. Different rooms in the apartment would take on different personas:
The living room was the bit-fest where everyone kept trying to get funnier (and therefore louder) than everyone else, and of course, the music, which was also loud. (Yes, I thought loud music was unnecessary, even in my twenties. I have never, ever, been cool.)
The back porch was for smokers and those who hadn’t quite come into the party yet, or who hadn’t quite left. There was smoke and everyone was just about to go somewhere else. It was party purgatory. Partytory.
Bedrooms were for coats, hooking up, and the occasional board or card game. 
Then there was always that weirdly shaped, new construction vs. old, hallway that was darker than it had to be. This was often where the “always on” improvisers would be doing something improv-y. A warm-up game. A free-style hip hop cypher. Or a hushed “deep” conversation about “the art.” 
Then there was the kitchen.
But the Kitchen at an Improv Party Tho...
The kitchen at an improv party was absolutely my favorite spot. As I look back on it, it absolutely showed me how to facilitate a good meeting.
It’s the chill eye of the party hurricane. The problem with many work meetings is they carry the defeatist assumption that they should be as awful as the rest of work often is. Work can often feel too loud, fast, and chaotic. You’re dealing with everyone’s drama. Your inbox is a company’s worth of polite shouting. But then there’s your meeting. Each meeting can be a permission you give yourself (and your participants) to stop. You have something to discuss. There’s a dialogue. Take a breath and get everyone to do the same. Create shared understanding. Make a group decision. Turn that decision into armor and step back into the hurricane. (Is it good to wear armor in a hurricane? I have no idea.)
You can tell how much the host cares about their guests. A neat kitchen with plenty of bags of chips, etc.? Stacked bowls. Extra 2 liters of soda/mixers? ICE? (A host with enough ice for a big party is hero. QUILT THEM A CAPE.) Is the kitchen well-lit? Cozy? Are trash and recyclables being managed? None of that happens by accident. The facilitator who plans a thoughtful agenda that gives participants clear jumping off points for discussion and brings them back in for a safe, meaningful, and productive landing? They remembered the ice.
The only people there are adding to the experience. The unwritten rule of Chicago improv parties was that assholes always held court in the living room. They could be loud. They could vie for attention. They could make it all about them. But that didn’t fly in the kitchen. The kitchen was for dialogues, not diatribes. It was an authentic space where people could actually listen to each other. And people who were only there to be seen would quickly become uncomfortable in the kitchen, realize the rest of us weren’t having their one-person show, get their ice cubes or paper towels or whatever and GTFO. So be it. “We would have all such offenders so caught off.”
Not everyone is invited to a good meeting. Sorry ‘bout it. If everyone’s invited, it’s not meeting, it’s a panel discussion. They’re not participants, they’re audience members who sometimes speak up. You have to be clear about this. People like knowing what’s expected of them in a meeting. If you have 40 people in a room and say, “who has a comment?” make sure you’ve earned that with clarity. Everyone in that room needs to know what the program is about and what the real (usually unspoken) expectations are. I’ve made the mistake of planning a living room and telling myself it would be a kitchen. It sucks and people will only come to your next “party” if they have to.
The conversation follows its own logic, but it’s clear when it should change, and everyone lets it. The facilitator of the kitchen is a great listener, but also a great watcher. They’re looking for body language that says, “I guess, but I’ve used up my caring about this topic.” Time to pivot. Did you get what you needed? No? Too bad. Give people a new ally to go down and come back. No all elephants should be eaten at once.
The environment doesn’t scream, “stay here forever and don’t do anything.” No one is in the kitchen because it’s the most comfortable room in the house. The conversation is making them engage despite the room. This is why agile teams do their meetings standing. I’m not saying to go out of your way to make people uncomfortable, but try to get people closer together. Discourage multi-tasking. Do an icebreaker that actually builds emotional connections. Do things that pull people toward each other. Everyone sitting around the world’s largest table and leaning back in the world’s softest chairs are not in the kitchen.
You’re not quite sure whose apartment it is. Last thing. In the kitchen, the facilitator doesn’t make sure everyone knows they’re wearing a different hat than everybody else. The facilitator leads by popping a volleyball into the air just the right way. People smack it around. The volley lasts a while. When the ball finally hits the ground, it’s because that’s when it was time to happen. Everyone feels it. The facilitator was there to correct the ball’s path when it almost went out of bounds. But the players were always more focused on the ball than the facilitator. (Side note: the facilitator is also probably not always standing around saying, “How about that ball I threw in there? Did you see how I did that? Pretty snazzy! You’re welcome!”)
Okay, I’ve so far mixed every metaphor. Parties. Rooms of a house. Hurricanes. Volleyball. I had a really cool one about how best to hold a fencing foil, but that will have to wait.
Fine, Here’s your TL;DR: 
The adept facilitator creates a space (literally, culturally, and contextually) for participants to be their full selves -- where they can really talk and really listen about what matters. The adept facilitator can only do this by getting out of their own way. If the facilitator hasn’t appropriately dealt with their own fears and needs, they will start co-opting the participants’ work from having the meeting they need to have, to making the facilitator feel better about the meeting that person wants them to have. Do the work, both on yourself and on your plan for a kickass meeting.
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havekiddoswilltravel · 5 years ago
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Social Distancing Survival Tips from a Homeschooling Mom
Homeschool resources for families affected by the COVID-19 school closings.
Scroll down to the bottom of this post for a list of resources by subject.
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Do not be afraid. Do not fear. This too shall pass.
I know that the thought of a minimum of 14 days of social isolation and no outside activities with your kids can be anxiety provoking. However this is an opportunity as parents and role models to be an example to our youth on how to be still. Children are always watching, and they take cues from our reactions and behavior. If we’re in a panic and constantly talking about Covid-19 with other adults with a doomsday mentally, you may be contributing to unnecessary anxiety and fear in your children. Please have a filter and think about how what you say impacts your children. They are watching you and your behavior will have a lasting impact on your child(ren)’s mental health. An attitude of hope and love will be as contagious as one of fear and hopelessness. Which one do you want to permeate your home? Don’t try to do school at home! What I mean by that is that your child’s entire routine has been disrupted by something unknown (Covid-19) and scary. If you try to simply replicate their school environment at home, it may completely backfire on you. Allow your child to learn organically for the next few weeks in the safety of his or her home environment. Read to them, read with them and have them read to you. You will be just fine.
Unfortunately, this is not a vacation from school. This is not the time to schedule play dates, have sleepovers or even hit the local museums. It’s time to get creative and figure out ways to be content in stillness.
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Routine and schedule are critical:
Additional resource regarding the importance of a schedule: https://nesca-newton.com/making-the-most-of-covid-19-school-closures/
Homeschooling and social isolation does not mean a free for all. Kids do best with a schedule or routine. Do yourself a favor and immediately set up a routine or flow to your home. Unless you want to have to be at the grocery store daily (defeating the purpose of social distancing), make sure that you set up a general eating schedule. We use this one in our home.
- Breakfast
- Morning snack
- Lunch
- Afternoon snack
- Dinner
- Bedtime Snack (always a fruit or veggie)
Other than this schedule, the kitchen is closed unless we are cooking as part of our learning. Anxiety and stress create a tendency to overeat and constantly snack.
Take a virtual tour of our National Parks.
Read aloud as a family:
Social distancing is a perfect opportunity to snuggle together and read as a family. Just grab your favorite book, your kids and a blanket. You can also have older children read to your children. This is a great way for them to bond and also for you to assess their reading and comprehension.
20 Foreign Films to Watch with Kids
Interview an elder for your family’s oral history:
Have a dance party:
Yes, I said that. Music is good for the soul. Have your kids put together their favorite play list. Decorate your living room, take out the disco ball (if you have one) and dance until your sweaty. Don’t worry about looking or feeling silly. Put down your cell phone and join the kids on the dance floor. Trust me, you’ll feel so much better.
Sign up for these online teaching tools which have been made available for free for the next 30 days:
Write letters or make cards for those home bound and elderly:
The elderly and those with preexisting conditions are the most at risk during the outbreak. Take out your craft supplies and have the kids make cards to mail to elderly family members and friends. Though you many want to make some for nursing home facilities, they will NOT distribute them at this time as the virus can live on surfaces for three days.
15 Broadway Plays and Musicals You Can Watch On Stage From Home
New York’s Metropolitan Opera announced that it would be taking some of its offerings virtual, kicking things off this week with daily free streamings of its Live in HD series.
Non screen activities:
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Giant list of ideas of things to do with kids at home:
Look for themes and opportunities to celebrate unique days:
March 13
- National Earmuff Day
March 14
- National Learn About Butterflies Days
- National Pi Day
- National Potato Chip Day
- National Write Down Your Story Day
March 15
- National Everything You Think is Wrong Day
March 16
- National Panda Day
March 17
- National Corned Beef and Cabbage Day
- St. Patrick’s Day
March 18
- National Sloppy Joe Day
March 19
- National Chocolate Caramel Day
- National Let’s Laugh Day
- Spring begins
March 20
- National Ravioli Day
March 21
- National French Bread Day
- National Corn Dog Day
- National Quilting Day
March 22
- National Goof Off Day
This is just a sample of the many National Days that you could have the kids celebrate at home. Check out www.nationaldaycalendar.com for a full listing.
Free Digital Classes for Homeschooling
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Study poetry:
Poetry Foundation
Engage in virtual fieldtrips:
Stuck at home? Visit a virtual museum!
Smithsonian has virtual educational resources for students and teachers to use at school and at home?
Explore African American History and Culture or create your own lesson using @SmithsonianLab today.
https://learninglab.si.edu/org/nmaahc
This is a great article by Travel and Leisure with a load of museums offering virtual field trips.
Additional Resources:
Art
The Art Sherpa
27 Art Lessons to try at home
Science:
Ask Alexa – please play Wow in the World
Wow in the World
Education.com
Music Composition:
Noteflight
BrainPop and Brainpop Jr. Currently free during Coronavirus social distancing.
Geography:
Stack the States
Stack the Countries
National Geographic Kids
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Civics
Icivics
Cooking:
Coding:
Scratch
Code.org
Foreign languages:
Duolingo
History:
History for Kids
Math:
Mangahigh
PE:
Teachers and friends dealing with school closures: We are giving parents FREE unlimited access to our Fluency & Fitness® website to use with their child at home during these next few weeks. Now they can keep their child learning and help burn off that extra energy, so parents can keep their sanity. 😉 There are over 900 videos to review 60+ literacy and math topics for K-2nd. Feel free to share this link with your classroom families, friends, and anyone who may find this helpful.
https://fluencyandfitness.com/register/school-closures/
Reading:
Learning A-Z free through June 2020.
Raz-Kids is a digital resource that provides a library of differentiated books students can use to practice reading wherever they are (Internet connection required).
Headsprout is an online K–5 reading program that adapts to the needs of the individual student. It is self-paced, which makes it ideal for at-home practice.
Life skills:
Social distancing provides a perfect opportunity to teach your children some basic life skills. Check out this article with some great ideas.
TED-ED
This document contains a list of TED-ED videos by topic.
Choose joy. Choose love. Choose hope.
Social distancing is manageable. Let’s work together to provide each other with resources and ideas to make us all be the best parents possible. This list will continue to grow, so check back often. Let’s encourage and support one another during these trying times.
Peace and love!
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loriglessner · 7 years ago
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I confess, I am in love with the medium of encaustic. Just like any great relationship, it faithfully welcomes me as I enter the studio with it’s warmth, smell and luminescent glow. It always yields to my wishes without too much resistance and surprises me by doing things I didn’t even know I wanted it to do. Although we’ve had many tiffs and I have strayed to other mediums, I always return and our partnership gets better and better. We have a symbiotic connection, encaustic and I…yes, I am blissfully in love. But this wasn’t always so….
Once upon a time, in a land not so far away, there I was, a mid-thirties Fibers & Materials Studies Graduate Student at Tyler School of Art in 2001. I was working with ideas related to creation and the cyclic nature of life-imprinting, staining and marking as it relates to birth through to death and decomposition. More specifically, I was interested in the physical mark and pattern of this cycle on the earth and body. I began making visual comparisons using these kinds of patterns with images I took myself or found on the internet. Some of these were uncanny in their similarities as you can see below.
the human brain and one of the moons of Jupiter
Surface of one of my friend’s skin and the surface of mars
Layer of human tissue under a microscope and a satellite image of the Everglades
At the same time I was doing this research I was also looking for materials and processes that could replicate these patterns. Simply copying them or painting them didn’t work and looked contrived, I had to make these patterns via mark-making and process. One of my professors had taught with Christopher Leitch at the Kansas City Art Institute and recommended I look at his work combining organic printing processes and textiles. Based on the one paragraph and few images of his work that I found on the Internet, I developed my own process of rust printing and staining on textiles using decomposing organic matter and the results were more amazing than I expected. Using natural processes to depict natural processes also supported my content, it was astoundingly brilliant. I have included images of some of these fabrics below.
cotton buried in the ground for a few months in spring
cream cheese on silk crepe de chine
rust on silk crepe de chine
pomegranate on silk crepe de chine
rust on silk habotai
melon on silk habotai
100 bags of tea, boiled and then left in a vat for 6 months on silk crepe de chine
I came into the graduate program as an art quilter, hand dyeing my own fabrics and sewing large beaded and painted creations that included everything but the kitchen sink. I loved quilting and wanted to expand on what a quilt could be based on the simple definition, ‘three layers of material stitched together from front to back’. I used the fabrics I had created combined with papers, image transfers, mark-making, burning and lots of machine and hand embroidery. I spent the next year sewing very large, intricate quilts (which I later stretched and called paintings) for my upcoming graduate thesis show. These pieces are pictured below along with smaller quilt studies.
Eleuthra (study), wax, paper, images, on stitched, burned and stained cotton and silk, 12×13
Rise, 48×60, stained and burned cotton and silk, quilted, machine and hand stitching
Rise, detail
Beginning, 24×36, stained and burned cotton and silk, quilted, machine and hand stitching
Beginning, 24×36, stained and burned cotton and silk, quilted, machine and hand stitching
Purity, 72×48 each panel, stained and burned cotton and silk, quilted, machine and hand stitching
Purity, detail
White (study), paper, image transfer, on stitched, burned and stained cotton and silk, 7×12
Even though they were a huge labor of love, I felt these quilts were just not enough. I wanted to show another side to these ideas and sculptural books were another thing that intrigued me. I wanted to work with anything skin-like. My quilts spoke very much to landscape and alluded to the body, but I wanted something luscious and something that could be touched. I experimented with melting Tyvek, plastics, crayons, layers of glue and although I liked some of these things, I didn’t find anything I could pour myself into doing. During a critique, one of my professors suggested encaustic. I had never heard of this mysterious and scary sounding thing. At the time, there were no books available yet and the images I found on the Internet of other encaustic work was done with an iron on card stock and was just not my kind of thing. I decided to experiment on my own and purchased a sampler of cheap encaustic colors, a bunch of beeswax and a pancake griddle. I also employed my Clover piecing iron that I used for quilting and I still use this versatile iron today. My first attempts were horrible, I had no idea what I was doing. I wasn’t ventilating properly, I wasn’t using Damar resin in my medium, I wasn’t fusing properly, my cheap colors were flat and muddy-I hated this crap and what I had made with it! I threw all of my paints, griddle and everything else encaustic into a closet hoping to one day sell it all on Ebay…And in that closet it sat for almost a year…
For the better part of that year, I continued sewing, making books, experimenting with materials, teaching and learning, getting ready for my thesis show. It turned out that the gallery where I was to have my show had a little room off to the side about the size of a walk in closet. Neither me or my gallery partner could figure out what to do with the space, so we tossed it between us for a few weeks. Finally, it landed in my lap and I was totally overwhelmed with what to put in there and I only a few weeks to figure it out. I started rooting through all the samples I had made to come up with an idea and I stumbled across those awful encaustic paintings…which surprisingly didn’t look so awful anymore. I attribute this change to two major turning points throughout that year.  One, was an amazing graduate level drawing course I took at the beginning of my second year. I had never drawn very well and was nervous about this course, but I was encouraged by my professors and fellow students to take it. This was not a typical drawing course, it was focused on mark-making and process-two ideas that were relatively new at the time and very new to me. This course completely changed the way I thought about drawing and making work in general. It completely changed my life in the studio and the way I taught my classes and I continue to carry those ideas into both parts of my life to this day. Two, was the writing of my thesis paper, for which researching and writing had played an integral role in marrying my content with what I was doing in the studio. For the first time in my life, my ideas and the work I was making were becoming one thing. I had grown immensely and knew myself and my ideas, I had become an artist and could look at the work I had made through that lens. The featured image at the top of this post is made up of two of the first experimental paintings that I hated. After rediscovering these two along with the other paintings, I began pairing them together and they were complete. This piece called Damage was the most successful and is now in the collection of one of my grad school friends, traded for a few glass pieces that he made.
One of the experiments I had done was to dip my stained and rust printed fabrics into encaustic medium and really liked the way it added depth and enhanced the marks on the fabric. Since I had been stretching the sewn pieces into paintings, why not do the same here. I mounted the fabrics using wax, only using minimal color and letting the stains and marks speak for themselves. I made ten of these paintings and hung them in the small room adjacent to the main gallery, which housed my large sewn pieces. The opening was in the gallery district in Philadelphia on First Friday so we had a packed house and there were so many people in that tiny room ogling my encaustic paintings, one could barely move. People were interested in the sewn paintings but it was sparse interest and they sparked no real discussion, everyone wanted to know about the luscious paintings in the tiny room. The icing on the cake was that I also sold one of the encaustic pieces to someone I didn’t know, wasn’t related to and was a museum curator. This was the first thing I had ever made that had sold, so I saw it as some kind of sign that encaustic is what I should be doing. The piece that sold is called Fulfillment, pictured below with images of some of the other paintings in the show.
Fulfillment, encaustic on stained silk on wood, 8x17x1
Blood, encaustic on stained silk on wood, 8x17x1
Emergence 1, encaustic on stained silk on wood, 8x17x1
Flood, encaustic on stained silk on wood, 8x17x1
Emergence 3, encaustic on stained silk on wood, 8x17x1
Field, encaustic on stained silk on wood, 8x17x1
Emergence 2, encaustic on stained silk on wood, 8x17x1
I followed all the signs and immediately abandoned the sewn paintings to continue exploring the fantastic medium of encaustic which I have loved and made my own at the same time the medium itself was becoming it’s own. Over the years, I added more color, collage, image, hair, mark-making and investigated various ideas, although my core ideas have remained rooted in the earth. The rest, as they say, is history and encaustic and I continue to live happily ever after.
To see what came after this early work, visit my web site portfolio and begin with the archives here.
This post is a lot longer than I had intended so stay tuned for the next post focusing on the lessons learned in this fairy tale and some ideas that may help you in your own studio practice.
My Fairy Tale Love With Encaustic I confess, I am in love with the medium of encaustic. Just like any great relationship, it faithfully welcomes me as I enter the studio with it's warmth, smell and luminescent glow.
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