D Selby Designs

Several former clients have asked ‘what happened to D Selby Designs?’, so instead of answering each inquiry I’ll address it here. First of all, Ladies, thanks for asking. Consumers are fickle. Interests change, and many former cross stitchers are now scrap bookers and beaders. Also, that abundance of leisure time we were supposed to have never came to pass. We are all working harder, longer, and cheaper–and our eyesight’s going. For the most part, counted cross stitch up and died on the vine. About the time I internalized this bad news, my site was hacked and we had to shut it down for credit card security. Yours, dear Ladies, not mine. Before we got it up and running again, I had a life changing heart operation (the change being, I realized how uncertain life is; my heart’s better for a patch) and decided to pursue my passion once more: painting. So now my day job is custom window designs created by wonderfully talented women in Louisville, and my weekends (when Greg and I aren’t installing window treatments in the Bluegrass) are spent painting.

I quit nearly 30 years ago to raise children–and with baby Zach now 25, I’m almost done. It was in that interim that I had Hickory Hollow Publishing and then D Selby Designs. I have no regrets. Children (and merchants) keep you humble. Arrogance is not a good starting point for self evaluation, so they kept me real. Real tired! Seriously, I am who I am for good or ill because of each day’s lesson, and I wouldn’t trade the worst year of either kids’ ornery phase for a perfect canvas to rival Bonnard or O’Keefe. Well, maybe a month, if I could pick the month. Now, I’m back at the easel and I’m feeling the effects of my long sabbatical, but life experience is certainly adding to the harmonic chord of creation. I’m painting for me instead of ‘the market’ or academic requirement or to meet someone else’s expectations. Not that I wouldn’t jump in and do a program of American-country-apple-barn-star-flip-flops for Sam-Mart, or whoever asked. My ivory tower is quite short, and is in the dining room until we can get the studio built. Motivation for a one-time Sam-Mart hit?

For those remaining cross stitch fans, I have 4 damask Christmas ornaments in the latest issue of The Cross Stitcher. Every once in a while, when I need new glasses or tires for my Honda, I’ll call Karen Smith to see what she can use. God bless old friends. Uh, ‘dear’ friends, right Karen?

Sorry I’ve not written for a couple of days. It’s been sad around here. RIP, cousin Bob Duncan, and client Barbara Wright’s mother, and pastor Jon Weece’s father and mother-in-law.

PS All of the Purse Perfects designs and mounting boards are still available. Purse handles are readily available just about everywhere these days. E-mail me at dvselby@yahoo.com.

Where did the years go? Circle Game, for sure. Carey, my first child and only daughter, was an early talker (and hasn’t stopped) and called herself, ‘Kiwi’. Tomorrow my great nephew, Jackson, is one. For Carey’s first birthday, I frosted a small sugar-free angel food cake with Cool Whip. Since I didn’t give her sweets (my, how things changed when Zach came along), after one taste of the cake she went face down into the whole cake.

Happy Birthday, Princess of Quite a Lot!

I still think my cousin Danny is younger, but he says no. The down side of being the youngest is that so many of my cousins were adults or near-adults when I came along, and I didn’t get to know them very well. Today, my cousin Bob Duncan died. That’s him pictured at the 2006 Duncan reunion with my brother Roger, who is in the plaid. Bob was a very smart man who invented the computer. Well, maybe not ‘invented’ but he worked on them as a young man, and his kids are smart like that, too.

From what I hear, he was working in his Ashland, KY garden today and felt punk, so he asked his wife, Gwen, for an aspirin. He leaves Gwen and three adult children. I thought it was two kids–which shows how ‘connected’ I was, since Mom insists its three. I only knew of Susan and Steve. Maybe we need to get her back on that memory pill.

Took Mom to the grocery store today, and did my usual thing of gathering up magazines to read at a table in the deli for an hour. A man walked by whistling “Fields of Gold”, a favorite of mine from a Sting CD. I struck up a conversation by telling him I’d just discovered that John Tesh wrote it. We talked about music for 10 minutes or so, and then I went looking for Mom. I passed the guy twice in my search, and twice he did that avoidance body language–and it hit me that I am so far into Geezerville, it never occurred that he might have thought I was hitting on him. Poor guy.

Then I had coffee with Sally Rogers–who is looking great! I always enjoy her positive take on life.

I spell my nephew’s wife’s name differently each time, then I have a chance of getting it right some of the time rather than never getting it right. A sunflower is the best most hopeful symbol for today, since we in KY are waiting for the deadly storm that killed folks in Texas. And Tracey (see, I spelled it differently again) loves sunflowers. I always think of Helen Mirren when I see sunflowers, remembering ‘Calendar Girls’. I love the line, “We’re going to need considerably bigger buns,” and you who know me know why.

So, after walking my considerably bigger buns, it’s off to Lexington to take Mom to the grocery store and the pharmacy. I live such an exciting life. I do hope to have afternoon coffee with my good and gracious friend, Sally Rogers. Since I lost my cell phone to a horrible drowning accident, I’m without phone numbers and am relying on e-mail. What DID we do before technology? Invented fire, I suppose. Then there was that wheel gizmo, and there our troubles began.

Just call me Luddite.

PS Sorry there was no post yesterday. You didn’t miss a thing.

I stop for lunch, and decide iced tea is the best accompanying beverage for Moe’s Art Vandalay burrito. I do my usual thing with 1/2 sweetened, 1/2 unsweetened, and pass on taking a lid. Who needs a lid, when one is dining in? Well, my friend, don’t be so quick to answer. Consider this. What if one wishes to take a beverage for a ride? Aren’t cars equipped with cup holders these days? Certainly. I would say, ‘no brainer’, but am sensitive to the saying these days. What are the odds, that while clipping along at a good speed in one’s orange Honda Element, that one will toss one’s cell phone onto the passenger seat, only to watch it slide into one’s un-lidded iced tea?

If you need me in the next week call the fax line whilst I wait for Sprint to send a new mobile. I’ll be standing by. Holding a $50 cup of iced tea.

Got a client with a new construction–large house with lots of window treatment needs, so I’ve been pulling fabrics and making sketches. I did take my usual walk and we have stunning weather today. With the heathens sleeping in, and the faithful attending church, the neighborhood was deserted, so it was quite peaceful. My mind raced ahead of the rest of me for 40 minutes. Greg has been out in the yard all day, and at 5 PM I finally remembered to feed him. A breakfast smoothie didn’t do the trick for the whole day!

I just read an Oscar Wilde quote I love: “All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That is his.”

As for more additions to today’s blog, I got nuthin’. Back to fabric sampling.

I frog-marched Greg to Keeneland today because the weather was just too perfect. Unfortunately, everyone within 50 miles of Lexington had the same plan. People watching was quite interesting, since the attendees came from every level of society. The hot dogs were terrific, as usual, and it was good to take advantage of the region’s quintessential Bluegrass experience, but MAN it was crowded. A rowdy bunch of youngsters squeezed by us at one point, and a girl said, “#*!@%!” just as she passed me. Then she said to her friend, “Hey, that old lady heard me say #*@%!.” I was more offended by ‘that old lady’ than #*@%!.

I don’t feel old today. In fact, I had a drapery appointment yesterday with a client from two years ago, and she said I am a completely different and much more energetic person. Since I wasn’t quite one year from heart surgery at that time, I guess I just needed more recuperation time to be my old self. Old. There’s that word again.

The photograph is mine, with effects by software. New neighbors all around us.

Just finished Tracy Chevalier’s (Girl With The Pearl Earring) new book Burning Bright built around William Blake and London’s reaction to the French Revolution. Sounds heavy, but isn’t. The story is of fictitious neighbors to Blake, and their moving from Dorset to London to do carpentry work for Astley’s circus in Lambeth. I was drawn to it since the only slide I couldn’t identify in an Art History course was Blake. Shades of mental blocks to come. When my professor told me the answer, thinking I’d just forgotten, I not only still didn’t connect the slide and artist’s name, I couldn’t remember EVER hearing the artist’s name or ever seeing the visual. Now, this was not during my undergraduate days, when skipping class was as natural for me as breathing, but a graduate course during which I never missed a session. When you’re paying tuition yourself, classes have more significance.

So–if you’ve a fascination with London, this book is for you, Tyger, Tyger.

While I’m mixing colors for a painting-in-progress, ‘50% Silk, 50% Mohair’, I’m listening to Eric Clapton singing, “Drowning” and thinking of the VA Tech tragedy. Then I think of Carey’s college experience and become mad-all-over-again recalling Sunday’s lead article in the Lexington Herald-Leader about the UK art department’s horrible facilities–and the thousands of dollars we threw at ‘em, even after they wouldn’t accept Carey’s Univ. of Wales credits. Now the art department has lost accreditation! So, if Carey decides to continue her education in Georgia, the likelihood is that the new school won’t accept UK’s credits. Jeez Louise.

My next thoughts are of my own university experience. Greg and I were in Morehead State’s art department at a golden time. We had some exceptional professors (Gerry Hoover, Karen Wantuck, Joe Sartor, Ryan Howard, Marge Johnson, George Deremo), a terrific new facility and wonderful peers (Doug Eubank, Ed Fox, Carole Winters, Dennis Shaffner, Tim Stapleton, Roy Venters, Darrell White, Gary Akers, Lynn Fannin, Susie Ames, Sam McKinney, Susan Heidrick, Sue Merrick, Anita McIntyre, Reg Mays, Mark McWhorter, and later, Kath Wagar, Adrian Swain, and Larry Perkins). Patty Trabue, and then Brenda Whitt, ran the office and we had the best custodial staff ever: Henry Hamm and Willie Webb. Either one coulda taken down the psycho at VA Tech with garbage can lids, bleach, and toilet rolls.

Which reminds me of security: Officers Kirk and Music. As editor of the yearbook, I spent two summers marginally enrolled while putting the annual to bed. One Sunday evening, I was walking from The Raconteur office to my dorm on a deserted campus, and Officer Music pulled up. He insisted I accept a ride to Nunn Hall. I agreed, but only if I could ride in the front seat!

The picture’s from 35 years later, and a Vermeer 400 years glowing. Now, Patty Griffin’s singing from “Children Running Through”. ‘Railroad Wings’ will make your dog weep. Back to silk and mohair. –d.

When Mocha came in last night at 10:, he sacked out on the sofa and I went to bed at 11, knowing he would sleep indoors, which doesn’t always happen now that the weather is warming. He generally wakes me up between 6-7 for his morning toilet (outside) by rattling the metal handle of our dresser, but not this morning. I awoke at 8, surprised: no interrupted sleep. Then I heard scrabbling in the attic above, and figured he was fluffing up the insulation searching for beasties. Went about bathing, dressing–still no cat. Got worried.  Searched the entire attic, no cat. No ‘meow’ response to my call, which never happens. Shook the cat food bag. Nothing.

As I was driving into Lexington, I thought about the fact that he likes to eat little varmints. He could have been poisoned and crawled off to die. So I spent the entire day thinking of his smelly corpse in our hot attic. Greg’s response? “I’m in Tennessee, I don’t know what you expect me to do.” This is a pattern response, but that’s another entry for another day. So, Zach comes home with me and we don plastic gloves, I grab a garbage bag and he grabs a flashlight. Twenty minutes of searching–nothing. Then it occurs to me that he could have crawled into a closet or under our bed to die. Jeez Louise. I’m on all fours searching under the bed, when Zach walks in–accompanied by Mocha, wearing a “what’s the big deal?” look on his furry little face. Mocha, not Zach.

I need to check & see if he’s grown opposable thumbs and has figured out how to open and close the bolt-locked doors. Mocha, not Zach. I checked 25 years ago to see that Zach came with thumbs.