His Body Kept Score

(NOT John Hutton's house!)

John Hutton’s mother died when he was only five years old, leaving him to live with his widowed father and his grandmother in a big old house in Colchester, Essex, England. One day in July of 1940 when he was seven, John’s father informed him he would be leaving for Canada in three days. He asked where Canada was and whether he’d be able to speak the language. His Uncle Leslie showed him on a map where he’d be going—to Toronto where people spoke English and where he’d be near Niagara Falls, the largest waterfall in the world.

Niagara Falls

Years later, John would recall his father taking him and his rucksack to the train station where he joined several other children embarking on the same journey. None of them had any comprehension of how far they would be traveling or for how long they’d be gone, but John felt the vision of his hometown receding into the distance staying with him throughout his five years in Canada.

The children waited in London through the Battle of Britain, and the gunfire overhead confirmed their parents’ decision was a good one. After they finally took the train to Liverpool, John boarded the troop ship SS Oronsay for Halifax. The crossing took two weeks, which were filled with lifeboat drills and activities organized by the CORB staff (Children’s Overseas Reception Board) who accompanied them. Among his memories are the massive ships in their convoy, the long series of tunnels they walked to reach the Halifax train station after disembarking, and the lower platforms of Canadian train stations that required them to carry their luggage up several steps into the cars. Big steps for a seven-year-old.

SS Oronsay

The journey to Toronto took four days and three nights, and John was impressed by the endless forests and lakes, relieved only by small clusters of wooden buildings. He and the other children were stumped when, at every stop, they were greeted by loud cheers from Canadians.

John settled in with his foster family but grew increasingly withdrawn, concerning both his foster parents and his father back home with his fibs and minor misdemeanors. When his foster family moved away a year later, John was taken in by the Pellett family in the village of Agincourt. Here, he fitted in nicely and found himself at home with foster parents whose families descended from Britain and their two young children.

Soon, John was calling Mrs. Pellett “Mother” and keeping his two fathers separate by referring to his foster father as “our daddy” and his father as “my daddy.” He feared that “My Daddy” would be called up as a soldier and have to leave Colchester.

John was constantly in trouble at school for being inattentive and the Pelletts knew he worried about the war. John grew so anxious that in March 1942, they took him for examination to the Sick Children’s Hospital. Doctors agreed John was worried about the war and there was nothing they could do. When Mr. Hutton’s job was declared war work and the danger of his inscription faded, John settled down. He stayed busy with school, church groups, Cubs, and friends. Though frequently plagued with illness as various anxieties arose, John eventually settled in with improved grades.

In July 1945. John left behind the foster family he’d grown to love and returned home, a tall, heavy, twelve-year-old wearing long pants and carrying a fountain pen gifted to him by his school in Canada. Later, John admitted that it took him a full three years to feel at home in England again.

 

You're invited!

 

"Will I Recognize Mum and Dad?"

Imagine having just turned five years old and being told you were sailing off to Canada without your parents. Fortunately for John Jarvis in 1940, he had a big brother named Michael, 10, who was going too. Little John had no idea where Canada was. The family lived in Southport, a seaside town close to Liverpool. With increasing bomb raids in the area, Mrs. Jarvis wrote to friends and relatives in Canada searching for a place to send her boys. When a Mrs. Foster from Grimsby, Ontario, expressed willingness, Mrs. Jarvis explained that with private evacuations, she’d not be allowed to send any money to Canada. Instead, she planned to follow the children as quickly as possible and find work.

No sooner had she sent the letter than one arrived from CORB (Children’s Overseas Reception Board), informing her that Michael and John had been accepted into the government program. The boys were on their way to Canada by the time Mrs. Jarvis received another letter from an aunt in Calgary, also agreeing to take the boys. She spent the next several months trying to arrange a visa and passage to Canada for herself. None was granted. Not during wartime.

John stuck close to Michael on the voyage to Montreal and Toronto. Staff at the reception center put the tired, ill little boy to bed. Soon, they went to Grimsby to live with Mrs. Foster, an English immigrant with a grown son serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force. The boys settled in nicely. Though their parents naturally missed them and worried, every time bombs dropped, they knew they’d done the right thing.

John’s memories included the peach farm on which he lived, school, wiener roasts on the beach, rabbits, hollyhocks, jumping in piles of maple leaves, and having to daily swallow a vile fish liver oil potion called Scott’s Emulsion. He recalled visits from members of the Children’s Aid Society where he met with them privately in the family parlor to ensure he was doing all right. To John, these were merely annoying interruptions to playtime. At Christmas, he was allowed to choose the tree. He and Michael received lovely gifts.

A 1940s Christmas

When Mrs. Foster sold her farm and moved into an apartment, however, she found life with two growing boys more than she could handle. Michael went to live on a farm a few miles away, while John went to a family with six children—also surnamed Jarvis. John felt at home with the family who practically adopted him. As he grew more Canadian, heartily singing along to “Oh Canada” at school, memories of home and family dimmed. His parents seemed more like a distant aunt and uncle who sent letters and occasional gifts.

RMS Rangitata

Just before his tenth birthday, John was shocked to be told it was time to go home. It seemed like the whole town came out to say goodbye to him and Michael, yet he couldn’t grasp that he wasn’t coming back. They travelled to New York where they boarded the RMS Rangitata for the voyage to England. When they reached Liverpool, the boys leaned over the railing, holding a photograph of their parents and studying the throngs of people on the wharf, worried they wouldn’t recognize each other. With a huge sigh of relief, they spotted them.

Adjusting back to life in England proved a challenge for John, especially at school. He kept in touch with both Mrs. Foster and the Jarvis family. At sixteen, he joined the Navy but it would be forty years before he returned to Canadian soil for a holiday where he visited his old friends.

You can read a fictional account of the CORB children's adventures in my new novel, "Even if We Cry," available for pre-order now. Click on the book cover to order.

3 Thoughts for Care-Givers

A month ago, I thought my days were full. With a new book launching and all that goes with it, a weekly writing class to teach, plus my regular homemaking tasks, I had pretty much all I could handle.

Contrary to what is often touted as biblical, God frequently gives us more than we can handle. If he didn’t, we’d soon come to believe we don’t need him.

In my case, it came in the form of my 93-year-old mother’s decline to the point of needing a lot more care. This ridiculously healthy, vibrant, and independent woman has experienced the usual frustrations of short-term memory loss for a few years now. But with a flare-up of neuropathy pain in her feet came a serious surge in confusion. Suddenly, we don’t feel comfortable leaving her alone longer than twenty or thirty minutes. When her phone died and we had to replace it, I found one as close to the old one as I could. Still, it’s proven too big a learning curve and Mom hasn't gotten the hang of it. The lifeline gadget we’d tried a year ago only confused her more.

My sister and I began tag-teaming, sleeping at Mom’s every other night and then juggling daytime duty, along with my brother-in-law, as each day’s demands allowed. We quickly realized this wasn’t sustainable and were able to recruit a little help from other family members and friends. We began looking into home care and found they offer less than I thought. The process for a nursing home is also in place, but we know that could take months. We’re thankful Mom is ready and happy to take that step and we’re trusting God for his timing. It’s a tremendous relief to know we won’t have a fight on our hands like many do.

Looking after Mom isn’t difficult. It’s only tiring and time-consuming. I needed to find some things I could stop doing to make this more manageable. My every-third-Sunday duty in my church’s Information Booth could go. Baking muffins and banana bread to tuck into Hubby’s lunches could go. The two or three hours a week spent creating scripture memes to post on social media could go. If anyone has missed them, they haven’t said. I’m not writing another book, and I’m beyond grateful that my newspaper column was cancelled last summer. That weekly deadline would be a killer now—yet another example of why I can trust God with these things.

People say, “Be sure to take care of yourself too, or you can’t take care of others.” So, in the interest of self-care, my priorities during the hours I spend at home have become: take a walk, take a nap, take a shower, do a load of laundry, and catch up on emails and other business. (There’s no wi-fi at Mom’s.) Any remaining time is spent cooking or grocery shopping or prepping for my class. Possibly cleaning something, if we’re really lucky.

We’ve been at this less than a month and already I catch myself wanting my life back. When those thoughts come, God says, “This is your life. And it’s all good.” I tell myself three things:

1.       This is temporary. (And yes, even if Mom is with us another ten years, it’s still super temporary in the grand scheme of eternity.)

2.       This is a privilege. (How many people my age still have a parent? How many are able to give them this kind of time?)

3.       I will never regret time spent with my mother. (This is something my friend Brenda reminded me of after losing her mother. How could I ever regret this?)

Who knows what this experience might be preparing me for down the road? I ask God daily to use this in my life to make me more compassionate and caring, more patient and kind. In short, more like Him.

He’s got His work cut out for Him.

Apparently, so do I.

Mom & Me

 

One Day's Notice

A warning for British children during WWII

Fourteen-year-old Hazel Wilson lived with her brother and two-year-old sister in Colchester, England. It was 1940. For the past year, children from larger cities and more vulnerable coastal towns had been evacuated to the countryside for their safety, often billeted with strangers. When the Daily Express published a front-page story about the government’s scheme called CORB (Children’s Overseas Reception Board), Hazel’s parents asked her and her brother if they were interested in going to Canada.

Hazel was thrilled to say yes. She viewed the evacuation as a wonderful holiday away from her parents (what 14-year-old wouldn’t appreciate that?) and didn’t consider the homesickness she might experience. They applied. When a letter arrived in early summer saying they’d been selected to go, they were instructed not to say a word to anyone and to be prepared to leave with only 24 hours’ notice. Hazel didn’t even tell her best friend.

She found the train ride to Liverpool terrifying because of all the strange kids, but still managed to avoid her brother whom she viewed as an immature drag. In Liverpool, they stayed for several days at a school. Nights were spent on straw pallets on the floor, trying to sleep among falling bombs and wailing air raid sirens.

Once Hazel and her brother boarded the ocean liner SS Oronsay, their journey improved greatly as they enjoyed many luxuries and foods that were in short supply at home. From Halifax, they traveled by train to Winnipeg. There, they were housed at Winnipeg’s School for the Deaf, whose students were in their own homes for the summer. They underwent thorough physical examinations at the Children’s Hospital while they waited to be matched with their host families. This experience proved miserable, as Hazel and a 14-year-old boy were the last to be taken. 

Winnipeg's former School for the Deaf, now the Mennonite College Federation campus.

When her assigned foster parents showed up—on foot—they were Bill and Freda Rook, both professional musicians. With no children of their own, they had volunteered to host a guest child as their contribution to the war efforts. They gave up some personal luxuries, such as seasonal concert tickets, to host Hazel. Their house on Woodhaven Boulevard would be her home until late 1944. Her brother was eight miles away.

Hazel found it extremely difficult to adjust. The Rooks led a busy social life and entertained often, while Hazel was used to more quiet solitude. She was nervous about doing something wrong and upsetting her foster parents or, worse yet, her parents back home who had enough on their plates. Life at Linwood Collegiate was another huge adjustment. The winter clothes she was given by the Red Cross (such as a herringbone tweed coat with a fox collar, circa 1930) caused no end of embarrassment, no less than it would for one of today’s teenagers being forced to wear something used by an adult ten years ago.

Despite the challenges, Hazel grew five inches and her brother eleven in the first year. They were astounded by the abundance and variety of food. Items considered rare treats back home became daily fare. Her musical foster parents enrolled her in piano lessons and their church choir, and she joined Girl Guides. Her circle of friends grew, but she continued to miss her parents and the little sister who was growing up without her.

In October 1944, although the war wasn’t over, 18-year-old Hazel and her brother returned home. Her mother’s first words were, “Thank goodness you don’t have a Yankee accent.”

Though it initially felt great to be home, Hazel confided to her diary that she found England dull and dreary. She moved to London to find work and was there for VE Day in May 1945. While she could celebrate the elation of the day, restlessness remained in her part-Canadian heart.

In 1947, she returned to Winnipeg to live with the Rooks, and by 1955 her entire family had settled in Canada.

The list of what CORB kids should pack.

 

Just People I Wrote To

On Nina Laville’s eleventh birthday, September 3, 1939, her country declared itself at war with Germany. At the end of her street in Middlesborough, England sat two huge gasholders. Her mother, well aware of their community’s vulnerability should bombs be dropped, wrote to her Uncle Mark in Canada. Mark, a farmer, had emigrated and settled in Steeldale, Saskatchewan—a town so small, Nina couldn’t find it on the map. Mark replied that he was happy to host Nina if her parents could find the means to send her.

A private evacuation to Canada was beyond the Lavilles’ resources. But when the British government announced its CORB scheme (Child Overseas Reception Board), which would send children to Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa at no expense to the parents, Nina’s parents immediately registered her.

Nina had never been further than fifty miles from home, but by the following August, she was thrilled to be on her way, first on a train across England to Liverpool and then over the Atlantic aboard the SS Anselm. Traveling in a convoy of ships for safety, the awareness of enemy submarines hung over the CORB children like dark shadows.

When they safely reached Halifax, the children were sent by train to various host homes across Canada. Nina was traveling farther than anyone in her group until she was the lone English child aboard, a novelty in the prairies. She recalled her first sight of the endless prairies with bewilderment (“all that space just sitting there doing nothing”) and disappointment that she didn’t see "wild Indians and buffalo."

When Nina reached Regina, a CORB volunteer met her and drove her to her Uncle Mark’s farm. There, she immediately felt at home and fell in love with the land and the lifestyle that would be hers for the next five years. Had that not been the case, there’d have been little help for either Nina or her hosts, at least from CORB, since the next visit didn’t occur for an entire year.

Although her relatives had suffered several years of drought and crop failure, what struck Nina the most at first, was how well they ate. The nearly self-sufficient farm provided home-grown vegetables, butter, cream, eggs, and chicken once a week—to a girl who’d seen chicken only at Christmas.

Nina attended Gopher Hill School, which she described as a “funny little wooden shack” with everyone in the same room like one big happy family. For high school, she had to leave the farm and board with friends in Dinsmore.

Sadly, her parents back in England gradually faded in her memory into “just people I wrote to.” She was 16 when peace was declared, and she knew she’d soon need to return home. As an only child, she felt duty-bound to return. The adjustment was difficult for everyone. While her parents still viewed Nina as a child, she’d grown into an attractive, extroverted young woman who unwisely let everyone know how much better life had been in Canada and how she wished she was still there.

Although Nina stayed in touch with her Canadian friends, she never did return. But her war years in Canada would be remembered with fondness always.

Nina Laville was the inspiration for my fictional character, Nina Gabriel, whose story, "Even if We Cry," releases this December. The Kindle book will be available for pre-order on September 30.

Thick Skin is for Rhinos

We’ve all heard it. “You need thick skin to be a writer.” 

Photo from Canva

Author and mentor Jerry Jenkins even holds what he calls his “Thick Skin Critique,” where writers can submit a page of their work and watch while he edits and explains. It’s a wonderful learning tool, especially because the writer voluntarily submits himself to it.

I used to agree with the thick-skin philosophy, but over the years—after more rejections than I can count—I’ve become convinced the thick-skin image can cheapen our God-given human feelings and may even rob us of some healthy emotional processing and growth. I often hear people say, “I don’t think I could be a writer. I couldn’t handle the rejections. How do you do it?”

Oddly, the answer matches my answer to the question, “How do you handle praise?”

Throughout my 20 years of leading a church drama team, we’d frequently discuss how as Christian artists we should handle applause and congregational praise. After all, people with other gifts don’t necessarily receive praise. Ushers and technicians and children’s ministry volunteers don’t hear applause. Usually, they don’t hear anything at all until they goof up. Hardly seems fair.

At the same time, disregarding praise and appreciation can come off as false humility at best (“Oh, it was nothing,” or “It was all God”) or as an insult at worst (“Are you kidding? I was terrible!”) Dismissing the other person’s opinion is demeaning and a lousy way of connecting with your audience.

So, what’s the answer?

What worked for us as a drama team and what I’ve taught other Christian writers, is this. When you’re offered praise, whether in the form of a five-star review, kind words spoken face-to-face, or a gushing email from a reader, accept it as you would a lovely rose. Say thank you. Tell them it means a lot because it does. If you receive more than one, collect them into a bouquet. Enjoy their beauty, their fragrance. Relish the confidence they inspire in you.

Then, at the end of the day—because fresh flowers don’t last—lay them at the feet of the One who truly deserves them. The One without whom you couldn’t take a breath, let alone write anything valuable. The One who made you creative—your Creator. Say, “Here, Lord. These belong to you.” Leave them at His feet, where they belong. Start fresh tomorrow.

You might not think the same can be said for thorns sent your way, but I believe it can. I see no point in pretending rejections or bad reviews don’t sting. You’re human. God knows this. It’s far healthier to receive those thorns honestly, collect them into an ugly bouquet, and examine them to see if they might include a sliver of truth from which to learn. Allow yourself to feel the pain, cry if you need to, and get angry if you must. Just don’t use your anger for vindication or to rant on social media about your mistreatment.

Then, at the end of the day, take that bouquet of thorns and lay them at the feet of the only One who can truly handle them. The One who already experienced thorns pressed into his skull and nails hammered through his hands. He’ll receive them gladly because he knows your frailty and He loves you dearly. Say, “Here, Lord. Please take these because I can’t handle them.” Leave them at His feet, where they belong. Start fresh tomorrow.

Your character is tested both by the praise and the criticism that comes to you. Every compliment that graces your ears should ultimately rebound to your heavenly Father. If you hold onto it, pride will eventually infect your heart. Humility comes when you pass the praise to God. Likewise, negative criticism can tear you down, destroy your confidence, and keep you from doing the work God is calling you to do. Next time those thorns come your way, instead of allowing discouragement to take root or telling yourself you have thick skin and thorns don’t bother you, try feeling all the feels and then handing them over. Go through the physical motions with your hands if it helps. Say the words out loud. “Lord, this is for you.”

 “Whoever heeds life-giving correction will be at home among the wise.” Proverbs 15:31 (NIV)

 “Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time.” I Peter 5:6 (NIV)

Writer's Withdrawal

So far, I’ve written eleven books (eight are published, two are scheduled for release in the next 18 months, and one languishes in my computer). I’ve learned that after typing “The End” on a story, I can expect a sad withdrawal period. You’ll know this feeling if you’ve ever been absorbed in a thick novel or binged on a TV series over several days. The characters and their situations leak into your real life even when you’re away from the page or screen. You find yourself thinking about them, relating to them. Then suddenly, it’s over. You’re a little lost. Disoriented. Unsure what to do with yourself.

If you understand this, you can imagine pouring your life into researching and writing a novel. You eagerly anticipate how great it will feel to finish the job, but once you do, you miss hanging out with your characters.

I recently finished drafting a book that will release in 2025, my most challenging so far because it’s based on actual events and its characters are real people from history. I thought this one might come easily, given that the story was already written. All I needed to do was choose which of the real-life people would be my Point of View character, crawl inside their head (even though they’re no longer alive), and tell the story from their perspective. Then, fill in the unknown gaps with fictional but possible events, inner dialogues, and conversations while still staying true to the historical facts and timeline.

Okay, maybe not so easy.

Not only did I grow just as fond of these characters as I did my fictional ones, but I felt humbled by their heroism and petrified of getting things wrong. Because these people lived and because the events of the story made international news, I can find photos and video footage of them. I felt my heart do a weird flip inside when, in old newsreels, I identified “my” Mary Cornish and the six boys she cared for while drifting along in a lifeboat for over a week in the North Atlantic in 1940. I can see what they looked like—not the gorgeous models we typically choose for a book cover or imagine in our heads. I can read about their losses, decisions, pain, and trauma—none of which lays itself out in a handy three-part plot with clear character arcs, a grand climax, and a neat, happily-ever-after ending.

So when I typed “The End” and decided to step away from the project for ten days to catch up on non-writerly tasks, I did so with an even more heightened sense of disorientation. I missed "my people" and looked forward to the day I’d return for my next round of edits. I hope it’s less difficult when I finally hand the manuscript off to my publisher. Usually, the best cure is immersing oneself in a new story.

Canadian cartoonist Lynn Johnston (best known for her comic strip, “For Better or For Worse”) described it like this: “…it demonstrates how deeply you can immerse yourself in a fantasy world and let the real one fend for itself.”

Thankfully, real life refuses to “fend for itself” for long. Meals need preparing, grass needs mowing, friends and family need love and attention. Eventually, maybe sooner than I think, I’ll write my final book and real life will still go on.

The only lasting value in allowing ourselves to become lost in stories—whether we read, watch, or write them—is when those stories and their characters inspire us, teach us, and motivate us to be better people in real life. To rise above our circumstances when called upon. To do the right thing even though it’s often the hardest thing. To sacrifice for others.

Next time you’re caught up in a story, take a minute to ask yourself if this is the case. If not, you may want to reconsider the genre or the outlet to which you’re giving your precious time.

Old Dog, New Tricks, Part 3: Tell Me a Yarn

Do you know the difference between a ball, a skein, and a hank? Think yarn. I learned to crochet as a kid and over the years I’ve made various items—mostly blankets because they don’t necessarily need to fit anyone. I’ve always used skeins of yarn which generally work pretty slick once you locate the correct end to pull out from the center of the skein. You simply keep pulling as you go until you use the entire skein. While occasional entanglements do occur, a skein can’t roll away from you like a ball of yarn can.

With my oldest grandson finishing Grade Eleven, I decided to start on a blanket for a grad gift, just in case the project takes me a year to complete. I chose a simple striped pattern with a fringe and asked him what colors he’d like. He picked black and neon green.

I visited our local yarn and flower shop, Proctor Designs. As I expected, Valerie looked at the green my grandson had texted me and knew she’d need to special-order it. We viewed the 74 gorgeous colors from her supplier’s website (Estelle) and agreed that “peapod” came closest. Valerie called me when the order arrived only a week later. I returned to pay her and brought the yarn home.

I still hadn’t clued in that this yarn, probably like every other higher quality yarn, came in “hanks,” not skeins. I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what a hank was before this. With a hank, the yarn is loosely wound into a large ring and then twisted on itself—a visually appealing shape for sure, especially if you like to keep a basket full on display. Once I untwisted my first hank, I found myself faced with a big ring of yarn that needed to be wound into a ball before use. Except I didn’t know that. I found an end and began crocheting.

My yarn soon formed such a tangled mess, it took me hours…and hours…to untangle, find the other end, and roll the remaining yarn into a ball. Surely a better way existed. I knew I could go back to Valerie for some excellent instruction, but first I turned to YouTube. Sure enough, I quickly learned that hanks must be rolled into balls first. 

These are "hanks"

Have you ever watched old movies or TV shows where someone holds up two hands, fingers spread, while another person places yarn over them? I never paid attention to what they were doing. Suddenly I knew. I needed a partner.

My partner and I have three hands between us. And he has better things to do.

You can buy something called a yarn swift—an adjustable, umbrella-like device that holds the unrolled hank firmly in place as you wind. Two dining chairs back-to-back will do the job, too.

Once the circle is draped over the backs of the two chairs, adjust the distance until the yarn stays in place without sagging or stretching. Pick an end to work from and wind the yarn around your fingers a few times. Slip the yarn off your fingers and continue wrapping the yarn around and around, moving the ball as you go to make a nice, even ball. Don’t wind the yarn too tightly or it could lose its natural stretch. Don’t go too fast or it may tangle again. As your ball grows, your circle around the chairs will shrink until it’s gone. The process takes me about 20 minutes but I hope to improve.

Winding in progress

If you’ve known this forever, you will laugh at me and my big discovery, but hey… I’m happy to be learning something both new and useful.

The powerful will be like a thread of yarn, their deeds like a spark; both will burn together, and no one will put out the fire. (Isaiah 1:31)

Old Dog, New Tricks, Part 2 of 3: Throw Pillows

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, I think every house I’ve ever stepped foot in has some. Throw pillows. We put them on our couches and chairs, on our beds and patio furniture. How many of these puppies get chucked on the floor every night or whenever someone sits to relax?

Throughout my adult years, I’ve had lots of opportunities to make or recover throw pillows. For a while in the nineties, friends received heart-shaped, patchwork pillows from me. I made pillows for our bedroom and living room. I made several for our daughter when we surprised her with a redecorated room for her twelfth birthday. Years later, as an adult, she gave me fabric and pillow forms to cover for her. When we moved into our current house and I decided to create a cozy “book nook” in my home office, I enjoyed sewing six different but color-coordinated throw pillows for the nook.

I think you can see 4 of the 6 pillows in my book nook.

In each case, I’d find myself doing one of two laborious things: either sewing a zipper into one side of the cover or meticulously hand-sewing the last side of the cover closed after the pillow form had been inserted. While the zipper method made the cover easier to take off and wash, it was also more expensive and fussier. Hand-stitching it closed, on the other hand, made me want to toss the entire pillow into the washer rather than rip out stitches that would need to be sown up again afterward. Not a good plan.

In 2016, we were blessed to purchase new living room furniture. We’ve found the four rectangular throw pillows we bought with it perfect for putting under our feet, holding on our laps, or placing behind our heads. Some evenings, Hubby and I figure we need three each and we have only four.

One of the "before" pillows

The covers of these featured a unique fabric that appeared to be a collection of various strings. They looked cool but wore out quickly. I needed to make new covers to freshen up the room, but I kept procrastinating due to the aforementioned zipper versus hand-stitching quandary. Then I stumbled across a video that teaches you how to make an “envelope” cover that nicely covers the pillow but goes on and off quickly and easily—like a pillow sham but with more overlap. I dug through my fabric box until I found a piece of vintage fabric from the ’80s large enough to cover all four pillows. 

One of the "after" pillows.

Here’s all you do:

1. Measure the pillow. Cut a piece of fabric the same width plus one inch by the same length plus six inches. So, if your pillow is 12 inches square, you would cut a piece of fabric 13 by 18 inches. If the pillow measures 9 by 15 inches, the fabric should be 10 by 21 inches.

2.  Fold and press each of the shorter edges under a quarter inch, then another quarter inch. Stitch them. These will be your exposed, hemmed edges.

3.  With right sides together, bring one hemmed end to the center of the fabric and stitch down both sides, one-half inch from edge.

4.  With right sides together, fold the other hemmed side in, overlapping center until the cover measures the same length as the pillow. Stich on both sides. Trim corners.

5.  Turn the whole thing right side out. You may want to press it. Now tuck the pillow into the hole, allowing the overlapping fabric to envelop the whole pillow.

I wish I’d learned this years ago. I was so pleased with the results, I hope to make more and swap out pillow covers seasonally.

If you find my directions hard to follow,

HERE's one of many tutorial videos you can watch.

Next week, I’ll tell you about my newly learned trick with yarn.

“She shops around for the best yarns and cottons, and enjoys knitting and sewing.” (Proverbs 31:13 TLB)

Old Dog, New Tricks - Part 1: The Weed Eater

 

I can only wish this gorgeous, nicely-trimmed yard was ours.

I’ve learned at least three new useful tricks since turning 65 last February, all of which would have made life easier had I known them decades ago. I thought I’d share them with you one week at a time so you aren’t overwhelmed by my wealth of amazing new information.

When our kids still lived with us, they did most of the grass mowing. I followed with the “whipper snipper,” trimming around trees, fences, and edges. When the last of our offspring left home, Hubby took over the mowing but we found ourselves frequently at odds about how often the grass needed cutting. While I prefer it nice and short, he liked to see our lawn producing amber waves of grain before deeming it worthy of his time and effort. Still, I refused to start the mower myself and stubbornly left the knee-high grass waiting for Hubby’s attention no matter how much it bugged or embarrassed me. Once he finally mowed, I’d follow with my not-so-faithful weed eater.

When I retired from my day job, I offered to take over the mowing since I’d have more time. Knowing me as he does, Hubby asked, “Won’t you start resenting me after a while?”

“Yes, probably,” I said. “But I do that anyway. At least this way, the grass will get cut when I want it cut.”

Hey, I may be horrible but at least I’m honest.

Through all these evolutions, the trimming task remained mine. I don’t know why. Maybe I was the only one who cared enough. I never really minded… except when our trimmer misbehaved.

It misbehaved a lot. The line would break off right at the hole, forcing me to unplug the trimmer, pry it apart, rewind the line, reassemble the entire contraption, and plug it back in. Sometimes four or five times in a half-hour session, and always aggravating. I wanted a new trimmer but it refused to die.

I noticed the problem grew worse as the line aged. I’d end up throwing away the stiff, unused line and buying a new spool just to minimize frustration. I wondered why on earth it didn’t come on smaller spools. Why buy more than you can use in one season if it’s only going to work for one season?

When I mentioned my frustration to Hubby, I suggested we start storing the line in the house over the winter so it wasn’t exposed to freezing temperatures in the shed.

“Or,” he said, “You could keep it submerged in water. Nylon dries out and gets brittle after it’s exposed to air.”

Seriously? Now you tell me?

I filled a gallon pail half full of water and placed last year’s spool of brittle line in the water, weighing it down so it remained immersed. Next time I needed to use the trimmer, I threaded it afresh with the soaked line, now soft and supple. Worked like a charm. Our thirty-year-old trimmer functioned exactly as intended and didn’t stop on me even once. Unbelievable.

I sure wish I’d learned this trick years ago.

Next week, I’ll tell you about my new trick for covering old throw pillows.

“But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive and green today and tomorrow is cut and thrown as fuel into the furnace, will He not much more clothe you?” Matthew 6:30 (Amplified Bible)