I love stones. My favorite stones have a rainbow of color in various depths that shimmer and reach out to me, speaking a language that can only be perceived as an impression, creating a fleeting joyful surprise. 
I feel as if the stone has given me a secret gift shared just between the two of us for a brief moment in time. Labradorite is such a stone. At times, it may appear as rather grey and drab, but with the right light, it comes alive with depths of color in a blue-green spectrum which is often set off by rusts and gold tones.
How did this sneak up on me? We are quickly moving toward the holidays and I feel so unprepared. …Almost freaking out, but not quite, as I have been thinking of to-do lists and wondering where I will find time for doing my usual Santa thing.
When it comes to creating jewelry, I still work pretty slowly. With so much to learn yet about tools, techniques, materials, etc., etc., it could take me years to get to where I would like to be. In addition, you wouldn’t believe all the bits and pieces that I drop because my fingers are so durn fumbly, … and the worst part is that I can search for several minutes, with bright light, seeing/knowing the general places these things go, and yet they are nowhere to be found. Apparently however, this is a common phenomenon for jewelry creators all over the world. I read about it daily. Thing is, there must be little ornery elves that cause us to drop these little bits and as soon as they hit the floor, the elves grab them up and cause them to disappear. I am convinced of this as there should rightfully be a pile of metal and beads and glittering rocks and semi-precious gemstones about ankle high in the studio.
At times these annoying creatures even are so bold as to pilfer pieces that I am working on! I have found that if I don’t watch carefully, I can put a piece down right on the bench in front of me, and if I am distracted for a moment, the piece will be snatched away. This happens more often than I care to say. I have also come to believe that they work with the dastardly devious Palmetto Bug, aka: cockroach, to make their getaways. The cockroach is famed far and wide for it’s ability to soar off out of reach and dart quickly away into unknown hiding places.
Roots of my beginnings mean a lot to me. I choose to be selective about all those memories, and single out a place that was frozen in time for nearly one hundred years. Deep in the “Endless Mountains” (also known as the Appalacians) of Pennsylvania, my father’s family has been the keepers for a simple cabin poised by a small creek named Indian Camp Run. My childhood was filled with what I refer to as the “Grandpa Grundy” stories my father used to tell. Although I have no idea who Grandpa Grundy was, or where or when I first heard the name, this always referred to tales of life in the long ago in a different time when there were only a few automobiles, no modern appliances or even indoor plumbing, no social media, and probably set during the Great Depression. My father, being a Boy Scout leader in his youth, took it upon himself to educate my sister and I on the wonders of Nature for a few weeks every summer. Rambling through the hills and into and along the creeks (we called them “cricks”…that’s Pittsburgese dialect). We turned over stones and caught crayfish if we were fast enough to spot them before they skittered away with the current in a cloud of fine silt. We hunted for soft-skinned miniature orange salamanders with black polka-dot spots and made houses for them in shoe boxes. We sampled wild mint, tea-berry leaves and mouthfuls of delicious fresh raspberries and blueberries, green apples, and hazelnuts and walnuts. We gathered huge bouquets of wildflowers that were everywhere in vases around the cabin. We learned to love the sound of rain on a tin roof and rummaging through ancient trunks filled with strange clothing and old photographs. After we were tucked into bed, we watched fireflies twinkle around us in the dark of the sleeping loft. …And the world was perfect then.
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