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Some items were recently donated to the Concrete Historical Museum in Concrete, Washington. I'm trying to find out if they have any value.
Fine baskets do have collectors, so I am hoping that I can get some input on the origin of this one and if it has collector interest. If it has value, I will return it to the woman that donated it so she can sell it.
Oh Man how I love this shot ... Mine, Ryann and Andrew's hands on my belly. Eliot was born 11 days later.
My hands after pulling the dead vegetables from the garden.
I'd always wanted elegant, soft, lady-like hands, whatever that means. I'd wanted hands like my childhood friend Donna -- she had long, tapering fingers and oblong, thin nails. Soft, soft skin. Instead, genetics dealt me these stubby fingers, and dry, crackled skin, while an childhood obsessive oral fixation implanted a near-unbreakable nail and cuticle biting habit. When I was about sixteen or so, a friend of mine tattooed a lightning bolt on my left middle finger with a sewing needle and India ink. The end result, after days of swelling, was less a rock-and-roll bolt and more a shaky outline of the state of New Jersey. There it is, though, etched permanently on my finger.
I wouldn't say I've grown to love my hands, but I don't think about them much anymore, except to notice sometimes how wrangled they are from paint, or work, or gardening.
Short story
Trespassed accidentally onto a farmers field high above Duddon. Lady Farmer was very helpful and interesting and happened to have a 1 day old duckling warming in her bosom -as you do. Turns out her father taught me at school and she was in my brothers class - small world or what!