Originality by Design: #kristineraymond

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Saying Goodbye ~ by Kristine Raymond

In the words of The Bard, "Parting is such sweet sorrow", and whether spoken at the end of a visit or when a loved one leaves this Universe for the next, goodbyes are never easy.

I've said more than my share in my almost 53 years on this earth. To cherished furbabies that I cradled in my arms while they crossed the Rainbow Bridge; to five babies I carried for such a short time before their souls departed this realm for a higher one; to my dad whom I had no way of knowing wouldn't be there the next time I phoned.

I've said goodbye to friends I'd never see again and dreams that would never come true. On the flip side, I've celebrated the expression of positive goodbyes - releasing bad habits and negative thoughts and toxic relationships from my life.

But the hardest farewell is the one uttered when you don't want to let go; when you've enjoyed the time spent with those you love, but must move on. That's what this post is for me.

More than a year ago, Grace and Joanne invited me to contribute to a blog they were starting for creatives, aptly named Originality by Design. Over the course of that time, I've written about my love of jigsaw puzzles, the inspiration I draw (no pun intended) from color, and even about the love of my life - my furbaby, Bruno. (Not to worry, the hubs knows he's second on my list 😉😂)

I've enjoyed sharing an aspect of my life with you, giving you a peek into what makes me...well, me. When you get right down to it, I'm a simple girl who loves nature, tea, furry critters, and good friends, not necessarily in that order. Not in any order, in fact. I love equally and across the board, which makes today so difficult, as it's the day I say goodbye to Originality by Design.

Oh, there're no ominous clouds hovering over my head, at least, none that I'm aware of. I'll still be writing and recording the podcast and dancing outside in the sunshine with my critters at my feet while hummingbirds zip through the air and the wisteria vine blooms. But this path I've been on has reached its end and it's time to set out on a new one; one filled with adventure and destinations unknown.

What's that? Oh, not to worry, I'll still be dropping by to see what everyone's up to. And you can always reach out to me on social media (Facebook, mainly) or through my website.

It's been an absolute joy contributing to this awesome blog. I'm honored to have been included. So, before things start turning mushy around here, there's only one thing left to say. Or, maybe I won't...

The Evolution of Friendship ~ by Kristine Raymond

I’ve been fortunate to have had several meaningful friendships. Some have been short-lived, with people meant to share a mile or two of my life’s journey. Others are flourishing, infusing joy and inspiration into each step I take.

Encyclopaedia Brittanica defines friendship as "a state of enduring affection, esteem, intimacy, and trust between two people." A solid enough definition, yet subject to a myriad of variables.

Our first taste of friendship comes in early childhood; usually, in the form of playdates - my mom is friends with your mom, and when they get together to chat over coffee, we're left to entertain ourselves...together.

Sometimes, these pairings lead to lifelong relationships; at others, it's an endurance test, waiting not-so-patiently for Mom to finish her visit so we can go home ("I don't want to come back here! Susie wouldn't share her toys!").

By the time junior high rolls around, most have found a 'best friend'. That special someone with whom we share our wildest dreams and secret crushes. The bond is unbreakable and, if we're lucky, remains through high school, college, and into adulthood.

As we mature, we cross paths with new people - people with the same interests as ours. We're drawn to them like moths to a flame - these souls who validate our choices and experiences because they're traversing the same path. As when we were younger, we share our wildest dreams with them (and, maybe, our secret crushes), and we rally in the face of their setbacks because we've experienced a few of our own. We all have dings and dents, don't we?

Some friendships burn hot then fizzle, like a May-December romance. Not everyone is meant to be in our life forever. Others are steady and dependable, staying the course throughout the decades, no matter the challenges we've faced.

One thing I know for certain - we're never too old to begin a new one.

An Easter pictorial (with commentary 😉) ~ by Kristine Raymond

I haven't celebrated Easter since I was a kid but scrolling through the internet in preparation for today's post sure brought back a lot of great memories!

Most years for Easter, we'd visit my grandparents in New Jersey. I remember posing for pictures decked out in a pastel-colored dress, white patent leathers, and white lace gloves that itched to high heaven. Oh, and let's not forget the miniature white patent leather handbag I carried. The picture below is not of me or my family but a great representation of.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/526710118914891820/?nic_v1=1ay8Z3hc%2Bq1pcjs0iZeUHDLMJljg9jnZ7f677TUS2Hsbra3aiTbAbJm%2F1EaVgNogJs

Easter supper consisted of ham, kielbasa, potato salad, hard-boiled eggs and horseradish, and rye bread with caraway seeds, but the pièce de résistance was the butter lamb.

http://www.fashionmeetsfood.com/2013/02/butter-lamb.html

Thoroughly enchanted as a youngster at having a farm animal on the dinner table, edible though it was, I only learned while researching this post its significance. A tradition that began in Poland, as well as several other Eastern European countries, the Butter Lamb symbolizes the sacrifice of the Lamb of God in the Eucharist.

It's interesting that my family followed this tradition because they weren't religious and didn't attend church. I'm guessing it was a nod to our Polish heritage.

While we're on the subject of food, each year Mom made sugar eggs that were for 'decoration only'; simply too pretty to eat, though I may have broken off a piece or two from the back. Shhh...don't tell!

https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/decorative-easter-egg/

http://www.wrappedallup.com/Gold-Amber-Tinted-Cellophane-Roll-30-x-100_p_6496.html

Wicker baskets filled with candy and toys awaited us on Easter morning. I always loved the ones wrapped in colored cellophane. Marshmallow Peeps, foil-wrapped 'Easter' eggs, and chocolate bunnies...mmmm.

Jelly beans were my favorite, but not the black ones - bleech!

Another homemade favorite? Birds' nest cupcakes. There's just something about dyed coconut and speckled malted milk eggs that elevates this dessert into something magical. At least, in an eight-year-old's eyes.

https://www.bettycrocker.com/recipes/birds-nest-cupcakes/1eadd2b6-f36c-4df3-aae3-f4c65b69e7ab

You want more Easter memories? How about fragrant Easter lilies...

Easter grass (this stuff was as bad as Christmas tinsel...lol. It got everywhere!)...

and pastel plastic eggs filled with goodies.

https://www.amazon.com/Easter-Eggs-Plastic-Assortment-Fillable/dp/B00J40TT2C

As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm not a fan of pastels but in springtime, and especially at Easter, the soft palette fills my heart with joy.

What are some of your favorite Easter memories?

♫ Raindrops Keep Falling ♫...everywhere! ~ by Kristine Raymond

It's been a rainy winter here in Kentucky. Not that I mind. I'll take rain over the white stuff any day...well, except at Christmas. A white Christmas is a must! But, back to the warmer form of precipitation.

Have you ever noticed how many different kinds of rain there are?

A sudden burst when the sky opens up like the heavens turned on a faucet; lasting mere minutes before the clouds dissipate and the sun shines again.

The all-day (and night) downpour that leaves you wondering if you should gather your Ark-building materials.

The storm that rolls in across the mountains, dark clouds gathering as thunder echoes off the peaks.

A gentle spring shower, the kind that's perfect for long walks and splashing through puddles.

I adore the rain. I love everything about it. From that earthy scent that rises up after a dry spell (there's a word for that, believe it or not. Petrichor. You're welcome) to the sound it makes hitting the roof as I'm drifting off to sleep. The earth-shaking booms and flashes of lightning that accompany a summer thunderstorm and the cold drizzle that muffles the crunch of fallen leaves as autumn gives way to winter.

But what I love best is its superpower. You didn't know it has one? It does. I mean, what else has the ability to wash away the dust and grime and make the world appear fresh and clean again?

Tribute to my dad ~ by Kristine Raymond

Three days from today marks the eight-year anniversary of my dad's passing. It was sudden in the sense that I didn't see it coming, though he'd battled health issues for years. Still, I'd spoken to him on the phone two days earlier without a clue that it would be the last time I heard his voice. Isn't that how it happens? One moment here; the next, gone?

To say that I was (and still consider myself to be) a Daddy's girl is no exaggeration. I idolized my dad. In my eyes, there was nothing he couldn't do. I inherited from the man his looks, his love of animals, his reverence for the outdoors, and his independent spirit; though, sad to say, not his confidence. If my dad ever doubted himself or any decision he made, he hid those feelings well.

He was a strong man, both in the physical and emotional sense. He was firm; strict with the rules but tender as well, a shoulder to cry on when the world got to be too much for his youngest daughter.

He taught me how to drive, check the oil, and change a flat tire. He also told me never to get behind the wheel without two things - auto insurance and AAA. I still carry both, Dad.

There are multitudes of memories I could share about the man whom I still look up to, but this one sticks out, I guess because Valentine's Day is right around the corner. My parents had a traditional relationship. Dad worked outside the home and provided financially for the family while Mom took care of the home and kids. (I once made the mistake in grade school of telling a teacher that my mother didn't work. Mom set the record straight on that one! 😉)

Anyway, it was she who bought gifts and planned parties and made even the most insignificant of holidays special. (Who else reading this celebrated George Washington's birthday or the last day of school?) She'd always mark the cards "Love, Mom and Dad", because presents received were from both parents, each contributing in their own way, so the year I received a Valentine's basket from my Dad alone stands out in my mind. Oh, I know now that Mom was behind it; that she chose and purchased the Nancy Drew books and chocolate hearts, but at that moment, to be my Daddy's valentine, well...it's a memory I'll cherish forever.

It took several (almost six) years after his death before I could look at a picture of my Dad without bursting into tears, my heart tearing apart the stitches that held that particular wound closed. Logically, I knew he was gone but emotionally I'd yet to accept it, afraid that once I did, I'd forget him. Silly me. How could I ever forget the man who is so much more a part of who I am than mere DNA?

For as long as I can remember, my dad smoked a pipe. When it wasn't clenched between his teeth, smoke wafting from its bowl, the sweet, not unpleasant scent of tobacco filling the room, it was tucked behind his belt, like a lawman's pistol. One of his pipes now sits above my desk, nestled between a box of Kleenex, a bottle of Aloe lotion, and a stack of neon-colored sticky pads. His picture also sits one shelf higher, looking down at me as I type away.

He never got to see me become an author. Back then, I had no idea the Universe would guide me down that particular road, but once it did I knew I wanted Dad to be a part of my journey. The second half of my pen name - Raymond - is my tribute to him. Because, no matter what I do in my life, I'll always be my Daddy's girl.

In Anticipation of Spring ~ by Kristine Raymond

Though the calendar says it's January, days like today stir in me the hope for an early Spring. The woods are still; bare branches stretching upwards towards an azure sky, their leaves dormant beneath the bark. A songbird trills, its song piercing the stillness, its mate responding in kind from a nearby pine.

Wisteria vines, their blooms long since withered away and scattered like dried leaves on the wind, tangle and twist around the wrought iron fence, securing a hold against the fierce winds and bitter cold still to come.

And yet, mere feet away, a dandelion peeks out from among the shadows, basking in golden sunlight.

Though it's early afternoon, shadows fall long across the ground, striping the fallen leaves and dormant turf. A chill passes through me as the sun slips below the treeline, a reminder that winter's grip is firm.

The air stirs; a gentle breeze wafting across my cheek. A kiss from the Universe, thanking me for my appreciation of her abundant beauty and granting Her assurance that Spring's not far away.

*Photos taken by Kristine Raymond on the afternoon of January 8, 2020.

Copyright © 2020 - Images by Kristine Raymond - All Rights Reserved.

The Sugarplum Table ~ by Kristine Raymond

I have boatloads of favorite memories from my childhood and most of them revolve around food. Mom was a stay-at-home mom who embraced, with open arms, her profession as homemaker. Every meal was homemade; every dessert baked in her own kitchen, not store-bought. (I remember trading freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies for my classmates' Chips Ahoy. But that's a different story.)

Mom was, and is, a great cook. I swear, every time I call her to chat, she's in the kitchen. So, I have many stories that I could tell that relate to some feast or another, or a cooking mishap, but what I'd like to share today, in the spirit of the season, is a most-cherished memory that began each year on December first.

Though she excelled at cooking, baking was Mom's passion. From birthday and wedding cakes, to pies and creme puffs and strudel, the woman is a master with flour, sugar, butter, and eggs. It was those ingredients, among others, that lined the counter after the dinner dishes were washed and put away. With Christmas music playing merrily in the background, Mom would open her well-worn copy of the Betty Crocker cookbook and begin measuring.

Each night, from the first day of the month until a few days before Christmas, Mom would bake a different variety of cookie. Sometimes she had help in the form of little hands that made more of a mess than any sort of actual baking but she was patient as she taught my sisters and me how to measure and mix and roll out dough to just the right thickness. And on the nights she made sugar or gingerbread cookies, we had the extra excitement of decorating them.

With weeks to go before Christmas, the only way for the cookies to stay fresh was to freeze them. She'd line shirt gift boxes with tinfoil and waxed paper and layer the treats gently until they reached the top. Then she'd lower the lid, taping the boxes shut - to discourage any early sampling - and store them in the huge chest freezer we kept in the basement. Hmmm...looking back, I guess that was also to discourage us from getting into the cookies. Nicely played, Mom. Nicely played.

So, night after night, Mom labored in the hot kitchen while carols played and the aroma of freshly-baked cookies filled the house until, finally, it was Christmas Eve. Now, there was no way she was going to open those boxes and let us kids stick our grubby hands in. Oh, no. Her hard work deserved the proper presentation and that's when the fun started.

At six pm on the dot - I know this because, as the youngest of my siblings, I was tasked with watching the clock, usually beginning at 4 pm...lol - Mom would unveil the Sugarplum Table. What, for the other fifty-one weeks out of the year, was merely a brown, wooden coffee table, it had been transformed into a confectionery buffet. Plates piled high with iced and decorated sugar cookies, gingerbread men, thumbprint cookies, peanut butter 'Kiss' cookies, chocolate chip cookies, meringue cookies, Spritz cookies, and my absolute favorite - bon bon cookies. For as many times as I used the word 'cookies' in the previous sentence, there at least twice that many varieties laid out in front of four, eager young children. After all, we'd waited a month for this moment. Now our patience was to be rewarded. Well, sort of.

There was no way Mom was going to allow us to gorge ourselves, not to mention this 'feast' had to last until New Year's, so we were each permitted to choose one cookie - two, if we pleaded hard enough - to mark the beginning of our Christmas festivities. As our eyes moved from plate to plate, mouths watering, we weighed our options, debating, reasoning, making our choice, then changing our minds.

Chocolate chip cookies are yummy, but Mom makes those all of the time. No reason to start off with one of those. Oooh...I decorated that gingerbread man. Maybe I should eat him first. Nah, he's too cute.

Spritz cookies! I wait all year for those. But wait! How about a chewy coconut meringue cookie? Or a thumbprint cookie? I know, a bon bon!

Choice made, that first bite was heavenly. The second bite wasn't too shabby, either. And the best part? The same spread awaited us every day for a solid week. Our cookie limit was also lifted, though we knew better than to over-indulge. No one wants a stomachache during Christmas vacation.

There are a lot of family traditions that I wanted to pass down if I'd had kids, and the Sugarplum Table was at the top of the list. As it turned out, life had other plans for me but, today, I'm passing it on to you. Maybe you already incorporate something similar into your holiday traditions or maybe it's the first you've ever heard of such a thing. Either way, remember to always make time to make memories. They're sweeter than any treat on the Sugarplum Table.

Oh, and by the way, I'm the proud owner of that Betty Crocker cookbook. The cover is falling off and there are smudges on the pages but the recipes - and my love for them - are the same as they were back in that kitchen all those Decembers while I was growing up.

My inspiration for Garfunkel ~ by Kristine Raymond

I've always loved dogs. It made no difference if it was a pooch on T.V., a stray on the street, a neighbor's companion, or the faithful friends in my own backyard. Size, color, breed, temperament - none of that mattered. If it had four legs, a lolling tongue, and a sweeping tail (or stump), I was in love.

My family owned several dogs over the course of my childhood. 'My' dog was a collie named Brandy. Growing up during the heyday of a certain Hollywood canine, he was my 'Lassie'.

**Interesting note - the dogs who portrayed Lassie on TV and in the movies were, indeed, male.

Brandy was absolutely devoted to me as I was to him. Anything I'd ask of that dog, he'd do. When I was six, I fell off of our jungle gym and broke my arm. My dad was in the garage using a table saw and couldn't hear my cries for help. Brandy, my ever-loyal BFF, ran to him and led my dad back to me. My own, personal hero! (Actually, my dad was my hero, too. I was a lucky girl!) Brandy lived to the age of thirteen - a great life for a great dog.

Fast forward a few decades.

Not only have I always loved dogs, I've always owned them. Or do they own me? 🤔 Anyway, it's no exaggeration that I've opened my home to dozens of canine furbabies over the years. Pure-breds, mixed-breeds, what some would call designer dogs - all who needed a safe place to live, a warm bed, plentiful food to eat and clean water to drink, and more love and affection than they'd ever known prior to ending up on my doorstep were welcome. And, I've adored each and every one of them. No lie. However...

Every once in a while, if the Universe smiles upon you, a special soul enters your life and imprints itself on your heart. This soul could be in human form, canine, feline, equine, or any of the other 'ines' out there, reptilian, amphibian...you get my point. Most of us have been lucky enough to know that 'one'. When I was a kid, it was Brandy. As an adult, it's Bruno.

Bruno is a Basset Hound and a unique one, at that. He was born with Color Mutant Alopecia a.k.a Color Dilution Alopecia or CDA, a condition most commonly seen in dogs with a 'blue' or 'fawn' coat. Most often affecting Doberman Pinchers, CDA is possible in any dog that carries the recessive gene - case in point, my fur-less furbaby.


Bruno's fur beginning to thin. Copyright © Kristine Raymond

Interestingly enough, Bruno hasn't always been bald. As a youngster, he had fur over his entire body, but with each passing year, the darker fur on his back lightened and thinned - resembling peach fuzz - until, finally, it disappeared altogether. Now, in his senior years, random patches of thick, snowy-white fur dot his sleek black skin. He resembles a seal - one with a long nose and floppy ears. On the plus side - well, for me, anyway - his lack of insulation necessitates his wearing of t-shirts and sweaters in the colder months. Yes; I am that mom. 😁

I bet you're wondering what this has to do with the title of my post. Over the course of my writing career, I've incorporated many real-life people into my stories. Not the people themselves, but certain quirks or personality traits, family names, even physical descriptions, so it was past time that I developed a character based on the love of my life.

(No; not my husband. Don't worry - he's aware that he's second on my list 😉)

It was time for the spotlight to shine on Bruno.

If you've read my cozy mystery, Finn-agled, then you already know that the main character, Finn, owns a Basset Hound named Garfunkel who suffers from Color Mutant Alopecia. In fact, it's a conversation starter between Finn and her longtime crush, Spencer, the first time they see each other after fifteen years. Where other characters are amalgams of people I've known, Garfunkel is Bruno. 100%.

He sleeps all of the time. And when he's not sleeping, he's eating. And when his food bowl is empty, he snuffles around like a hog sniffing out truffles, searching for scraps that he might have missed, his ears acting like Velcro pads for every speck of dirt, debris, and I-don't-want-to-know-what particle he drags them through.

Yup! That's my boy!

Garfunkel does manage to pull off a rather heroic act in the story, something Bruno's never done, but I won't give it away. You'll have to read the book to find out how he saves the day - or night, as the case may be.

As much as I hate to think about it, my time left with Bruno is growing short. He'll turn thirteen in April, the same age as when my collie, Brandy, gained his angel wings. He's developed back issues and is blind in one eye, but his goofy personality is as apparent as ever. It makes me happy to know he'll live on not only in my heart and memories but immortalized in my books, as well.

Handcrafting music ~ by Kristine Raymond

Music has always been a part of life. You know those scenes in movies where the mom and kids dance around singing their favorite songs? Yeah, that happened in my house. The stereo was alive from sunup to sundown and if Mom wasn't playing her vinyl, then the radio was on. In addition, both my sister and I took piano lessons - she excelled, I barely learned the scales - and I sang in my school chorus from seventh grade through eleventh.

What intrigued me, though, was my Dad's guitar, mostly because I'd never seen him play it. It was a basic acoustic instrument, nothing fancy, and sat in a corner of the basement, its strings untouched. Every once in a while, he'd let me pick it up, my fingers producing a horribly out of tune racket in my attempt to make music. When I left home to begin my own life, he gave it to me, but I never learned to play and eventually sold it in a yard sale. (Man, I wish I'd hung onto it - but that's another story.)

Fast forward a a few years. How lucky was I that the man who became my husband shared my love of music? Not only that, his fascination with guitars rivaled my own. It wasn't long before he bought one. There's just something about having a musical instrument around - any musical instrument - that adds a homey feel. Kind of like having a fireplace. But I digress.

A second acoustic guitar soon followed the first, then an electric model with an amp. To date, I think we're up to eight, including a classical guitar. Or is it nine? I've lost count. And there's a mandolin in there somewhere, too. (Funny thing to note is that I still don't play - we both took lessons a few years ago and, as with the piano, I struggled to learn scales. I'm definitely less musically-inclined than I'd like to be.) The hubs, on the other hand, picked it up right away and is quite talented. He'd play all day long if he could.

Another of his passions is working with wood and, recently, he combined the two. Cleaning up the yard not too long ago after a storm, he picked up a tree branch and an idea formed. (Isn't that how it happens?) Cutting a manageable-sized chunk, he brought it inside and set to work, chiseling and shaping and sanding, then hand-polishing his creation with beeswax and mineral oil to a satiny finish.

Voilà! A handmade guitar pick.

Not only are his picks beautiful, they're functional, and produce a lovely tone when stroked against an instrument's strings. He's been experimenting with different varieties of wood - the ones in the pic below are made from black locust. (Check out the one shaped like an arrowhead.)

There's nothing better than tapping into your source of creativity and letting it take you places you never imagined. In my case, it's crafting new worlds with words. In my hubs' case, it's crafting music with wood.

Note - if you're interested in owning one, please contact me for pricing.

Sweater Weather ~ by Kristine Raymond

I love this time of year. Cooler temperatures, bright azure skies, colorful leaves floating gently down to blanket the ground. In other words - sweater weather.

That's what we called it when I was a kid growing up in New England. It began in mid-September; a morning chill in the air that lingered during trips to the apple orchard or farmers' market. A crispness that accompanied walks along a sandy stretch of beach devoid of summer tourists, when the mercury hovered between too-cool-for-a-T-shirt and too-warm-for-a-coat. Sweater weather.

I love sweaters. Bulky cables, lightweight Henleys, soft cashmeres. As with most of my wardrobe, I tend to stay with muted, earth-tone hues, but every now and then, a brightly-colored knit catches my eye, and I succumb to temptation.

One of my favorite memories is of visiting the Fall River Knitting Mills factory outlet in Fall River, MA and picking out a new Fair Isle sweater or Shaker knit.

After 25 years, autumn in Kentucky is still a bit of a shock to me. While I enjoy the mild winters we experience here - nothing like the Nor-easters I've endured - September in this southernly state is more akin to summer climate than fall. In fact, as I type this, the 'feels like' is a balmy 94° and the forecast for the rest of the week is even hotter; not quite inspiring me to pull my cozy woolens from the drawer. (Sadly, I donated all but a few of my favorites to charity years ago to make room in my dresser for shorts and tees.)

But that doesn't stop my yearning to bundle up and lie amongst the fallen leaves, relishing the arrival of my favorite season.