#especially when claiming so inadvertently makes you step on other people's toes.

[cigaretteparfum]

i seem to have fallen into some kind of a rabbit hole and losing me mind at a worrying pace. people call wearing henna a cultural appropriation? when at this point it's been spread to so many different countries, all with their different takes of its usage and meaning?? why and how??? because as far as am aware the indian and arab* sailors and traders back in the day were happy to share what they got on pretty much every port they found themselves in, including henna, because ... that's kinda the point. like, yeah, am sure there are groups to whom henna holds a significant cultural and/or religious meaning, or at the very least have specific patterns that are. and there's bound to be just as many groups to whom henna is just a decorative kinda thing, to be worn for festivities or for fun, for those afternoons you're kinda bored and got too much time on your hands.

at this point you can't even call wearing henna a form of CA just based off one or two regions due to their specific meanings alone; there's like, a whole continent and a half to consider, with even the latest import happening, like, during the single or at most double-digit century. that's fucking old. not as old as like, egypt or even india sure, but still old enough to have fully be ingrained in their own cultures.

*singling out indians and arabs bc they were the two actors most relevant to how my people got introduced to henna in the first place. idk about others, lol.

[peachyteabuck]

ceo chronicles. pt iii ~ wanda maximoff

series summary: a set of fics based off of the main au of sugar baby/mommy or daddy dynamics and ceo aus. each fic involves a separate universe wherein each character is the ceo of a different company and you’re their sugar baby. sexy times ensue.

fic summary: something goes very, very wrong at one of wanda’s business dealings. you are left to help her pick up the pieces - no matter what that means. 

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

words: 2398

trigger warnings: possessive wanda, anger-fucking, collars, spreader bars, riding crop, ball gags

notes/other: this was done for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor ‘s “old hollywood” writing challenge, my prompt was “Must I always wear a low cut dress to be important?” - Jean Harlow and has been bolded within the fic!

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

Wanda storms into the penthouse, her stiletto heels clacking against the dark, hardwood floors.

She’s angry, furious – and whether or not it’s aimed at you doesn’t matter, your heart picks up in your chest either way.

“That two-timing sun of a bitch!” she screams, throwing her purse on the ground. Her coat follows shortly.

You watch her, eyes wide in terror, as you stand in the kitchen. She bought the place for its open floor plan and, initially, you had liked it too.

Now, though, with nothing to hide behind, you regret not going with the more closed space in SoHo.

“That motherfucker undersold me,” she screams, standing in place as she yells to no one in particular. “He told me the piece was worth one point two fucking million, and it sells for less than a hundred fucking thousand!”

Oh fuck. If you weren’t scared out of your goddamn mind before you sure are now.

There are two things in this world no one should fuck with when it comes to Wanda’s possessions:

The first is you.

Once, a man accidentally brushed against you at a gallery opening and Wanda nearly bit him – throwing red wine on his white shirt and screaming at him to leave.

Once he was out of her sight, she dragged you to the nearest bathroom, leaving a deep hickey high enough on your neck that you couldn’t hide it before making you show it off to the guests for a few more hours.

The second, is her money.

It’s not that Wanda’s not charitable, far from it; she claims millions on her taxes every year.

It’s just that she’s in charge of those things. She decides who gets what and when, she controls when her Black card is used and why. When people promise to bring her a certain amount of profit, they better fucking deliver, or else…this happens.

This meaning her getting so mad she looks like she could cause wildfires. All those earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, everything – those aren’t tectonic plates, no, they’re something much more powerful.

Wanda’s anger can move mountains, make species go extinct.

And, most important by far, it can make you shake in fear.

“That fucker, I should have known when he asked that I wear some fucking,” you can hear the venom in her voice, spitting over everything as she grabs the Stoch – the nice stuff, from the lockbox deep in the cupboard. She throws the bags of junk food – the chips you like and the cookies she loves – across the kitchen before stabbing in the code with her perfectly manicured nails. She doesn’t speak until she’s had two sips straight from the container, face wincing slightly before she sets it back on the counter. “To wear some fucking slip to the meet up, as if he needed to see me in anything at all! Ugh!” she scoffs, taking another long swig. “Must I always wear a low-cut dress to be important?”

You don’t reply, staying silent and inert as what could be the scariest thing unfolds in front of you.

Out of nowhere, she stills, taking exactly three, ten-second-in and ten-second-out breaths. It’s after that that she steps over to the large navy-blue sectional, sitting on it with her feet flat on the floor.

“Get on your fucking knees,” Wanda hisses.

You drop to the floor without hesitation, petrified.

Wanda watches you intently for a moment, jaw clenching as she moves to sit on the couch, feet flat against the floor. She pats her right hand against her right knee twice, and you immediately understand what she wants.

You fall across her knees, one arm grabbing her ankle while the other folds behind your back for her to grab – each action desperate to be obedient, to try to throw a fire blanket over the ravenous, burning thing that’s overtaken her.

There’s very little warning before she’s pulled the sundress up and bunching it into your fist, giving you little warning before leaving a slap against your ass – barely covered by the flimsy cotton underwear.

She ignores you, when you cry out, ignores you when tears begin to stream from your eyes and when blood spills from your bottom lip when it gets caught between your teeth.

It isn’t until your ass feels like it’s been branded when she lets up, inadvertently giving you a moment to breathe as she clenches her fists in front of her.

“It’s not enough!” Wanda screams, pushing you onto the floor. You fall against the wood hard, making you cry out in pain as she stomps away. “It’s not enough! Why isn’t it enough!”

Through the ringing in your ears you can hear her in the bedroom, the distinct sound of a six-bolt padlock being clicked open ricocheting in your eardrums. The only thing locked with that sort of hardware is the chest Wanda keeps all your kink-related items in, separating into layers by the degree of play.

It starts light at the top; blindfolds and a few cute collars with equally cute pet names engraved onto small heart-shaped nameplates. One of them is even diamond-encrusted, PROPERTY OF WANDA spelled out in bold print across pink faux leather. You can picture them even as your brain becomes fuzzy, can see them vividly against a distinct white velvet Wanda picked out especially.

The second layer, and the third (due to the size of the collection) are dildos, vibrators, butt plugs of more sizes and varieties than you can count. You can hear her removing those two shelves hastily, tearing through the rest of the box until she gets to the last level, the one you fear the most:

They’re rarely used, only barely broken in. A spreader bar Natasha got Wanda as a gag gift about a year ago. A riding crop Wanda bought at a kink convention awhile ago on an intoxicated whim. A thick collar meant for posture made of pure, soft leather and a solid gold latch. And, lastly, a fine leather ball gag, deep and black and beautifully handmade.

All four of them stiff and mean, just like Wanda in times like these.

She calls you into the bedroom with a shout, smiling when she hears you rushing from your felled position in the living room.

You can see the last fleeting moment of it when you cross the threshold, see that her anger has an end and this is not some permanent fixture in your still-budding relationship.

“Down,” she says simply, and you drop, sitting back on your heels.

Your hands remain palms-down on your thighs with your spine straight as one of those expensive paintings that decorate so many of the walls in the place you and her call home.

It stays that way – your spine parallel to the walls – as the collar is dangled in front of your eyes before being secured around your neck.

“Too tight?” Wanda asks, emotionless.

You shake your head as she sticks two fingers, the pads pressed into the soft skin of your neck. “Good.”

The ritual is repeated for the ball gag, the toy wrapped around your head and subsequently checked for fit.

She then instructs you to get on the bed, perpendicular to her as you lay on your back. You can’t see it – but the rustling and distinct clacking sound of metal pieces moving together can tell you she’s grabbing the very toys you’re terrified of the most.

The plain white ceiling gives you something to stare at, to fixate on as you feel the soft leather cuffs tightening before being checked. It’s almost sweet – the little ritual – if it didn’t immediately lead to your imminent torture.

You can feel her stepping back, heated eyes raking up your body slowly, surely. She watches carefully as your cunt pulses under her heated gaze, watches each muscle twitch as you anxiously await her next move.

Wanda looks at you the same way you think starving lionesses look at zebras separated from the safety of their heard. Her eyes zero in on her pulsing cunt, watching for the perfect moment to-

SMACK!

The riding crop comes down quick against your center, a sharp pain causing a fiery heat to spread up your ribs and down to your toes.

“Does that hurt, baby?” Wanda coos, twirling the end of the crop between the fingers of her nondominant hand.

You nod, trying desperately to gasp for air as drool spills out of the sides of your mouth. “Mmm,” is all you can get from behind the plastic. “Hngf.”

Wanda just laughs down at you, smacking the end light enough not to hurt but hard enough to tease you.

“Aw, my pretty little thing,” a faux pout paints itself across her face. “Such a sensitive baby.”

You whine, overwhelmed and desperate and oh so desperate to press your thighs together for any kind of pressure where you need it most. But no, of course not. Wanda wants to see you struggle, looks down at you with a smirk playing across her lips as you twist and beg, hoping she’ll find it in herself to give you mercy.

Given how the hours previous had gone, though, you doubt she’ll give you any.

“I’m going to give you one of these,” Wanda snaps the crop against your left inner thigh and smirks when you yelp. “For each hundred thousand I lost today.”

You do the mental math – whole body tensing. Nineteen. You’re about to get whipped nineteen times with a toy you haven’t broken in…

Shivers run up your spine and each muscle in your body tenses – whether in fear or anticipation, you don’t know and don’t really care to find out.

The first one comes down against the same inner thigh as before, sure to leave angry hot welts that will need constant care in the next few days. The second goes against the opposite side – skin previously untouched now screaming.

The third and forth are against your hips, fifth and sixth hitting just above your knees.

You lose count after that, mind numb as your wetness pools onto the freshly cleaned comforter. Between your racing heartbeats and the blood in your ears you assumed Wanda had finished with you, but coming to for a breath of fresh air only makes to bring the final blow – this time against your cunt.

With the gag the only sounds that reverberate off the walls come from deep in your chest, screams remnant of a horror experienced from another room. Wanda smiles as she watches you squirm as sparks of pain jump across your center and thighs.

There a few moments of silence as your panting curbs to low breaths, giving you a moment for recovery as your vision clears and the ringing in your ears stops.

It’s only then that Wanda gets up, trailing her fingertips across your sweaty skin as she walks past you.

“C’mon kitten,” she murmurs, stepping out of sight and back towards the chest of toys. “Let me make you feel good…”

Your brow furrows in confusion, pulling weakly at the restraints until you hear a plug being insert into an outlet, and the distinct sound of a long, long cord being unraveled.

The sound of the vibrator makes you groan in anticipation – ecstatic and terrified of how Wanda will use it on you. If she thinks you’ve been good, maybe she’ll be nice – get you off with it pressed against your clit with three of her fingers buried deep inside of you.

Or, if she remains unsatisfied with your performance, she could keep you just on the edge or pushing you over it until your begging meets expectations or she gets bored enough to stop.

As the head is pressed to your clit you nearly scream with relief – the soft vibrations and even softer words hitting you like droplets during the first rainstorm after dry season. It washes over you, coating your skin in delicious relief as your buck your hips and cry out.

Each word, each scream, remains muffled by the sphere in your mouth, but Wanda coos down at you nonetheless.  

“Such a pretty little girl you are,” she says, watching you with the same hawkish gaze as before. It feels more reserved, though, as if she was watching over you rather than attempting to pin you down. “Such a pretty little girl for me.”

She climbs over you, then, never letting the toy leave your body as she pulls your head into her lap. Wanda looks down at you as you fall apart, watches you with eagle eyes as you cum.

As the initial waves of pleasure subside, you sigh in relief.

That is, until the head of the toy is pressed to your center once more. The next orgasm, and the one after that, and the one after that and-

They’re nearly painful as they hit you like a spray of bullet, like you’re being tased. You’re crying and doing your best to wail as you writhe around, Wanda cradling your face the entire time.

Your brain is numb when Wanda decides you had enough, whole body limb in her arms when she switches the soaked toy off.

She unties you with quick fingers, allowing you to slump against her as she takes off the rest of the restraints that litter your body.

“Rest up,” she tells you plainly as you nuzzle into her side. “I’m still pissed.”

You smile into the bare skin of her ribs, leaving a small kiss on the warm skin. Despite her tone, you can tell there’s not much behind it – fury that had settled just beneath her skin long dissipated into something she can save for the next time that man dares show his face in her presence.

There’s a pause once you stop adjusting, a heavy beat of silence that neither of you feels a need to fill. It’s a long while before either of you says anything, and even then the words are quite soft-spoken despite the two of you being the only ones in the large house.

“I love you, you know that, right?” Wanda whispers into your hair.

You give a small nod, unable to move because of the soreness attacking each of your muscles. “Yeah,” you mumble, voice equally low. “Yeah. I love you, too. Do you know that?”

Wanda smiles. “Yeah, yeah. I do.”

[ladydragon1316]

Winged Heart: First Laugh

Inktober: Day 8

More Thranduil x Dragon/Human Hybrid.

Dana has started learning the elven language of Sindarin, spoken by the elves of Mirkwood. It’s going well. Until she starts understanding the things said about her at the King’s banquets. The question now: what does she do with her new awareness.

Learning Sindarin had its advantages. It felt good to interact with the the people around her in their own language. And the servants were very patient with her simple grasp of their native tongue. By their kindness, she felt her effort affirmed and encouraged to keep going.

There were other, less pleasant aspects of learning the language. Like hearing what she wasn’t meant to. The nobility present at the banquets would be less than conscientious of her progress on the learning curve. So Dana continued to eat in quietly without attempting to participate in their discourse. But she did listen, trying to pick up what she could and hone her ear.

No, she hadn’t quite enough handle on the language to participate in regular conversations. She understood more than she could speak at this stage. So she knew what was said when conversation down the way turned to her.

Quiet comments. They didn’t do more than glance in her direction before committing further to their venomous diatribe. Monstrous. Beast. Grotesque mannerisms. Surely wild. How well she plays tricks at the table, like using utensils. What amusement the King must intend as he presents this creature in finery and seats her at a banquet like a real person.

Dana’s grasp on her fork tightened at that last one. The movement was subtle. And the Elven King caught it. Their eyes met for an instant across the table, but the meaning was clear. If he didn’t know she’d been learning the tongue of his people, he did now.

Which brought up a pair of questions in her mind: how long had these comments been happening at his table? And why did he allow it?

Of course he’d heard them. Elven hearing was likely better than her own. And it was his own table. Of course he’d dictate acceptable conversation at it. Especially within his earshot.

And yet, there he sat, acting as ignorant as Dana, but without the language-barrier as an excuse. Was he really so cruel? Was it his intention to compel her to show up to these things, again and again, just so the guests could poke fun at her at their leisure without her knowing? No, no, she couldn’t imagine he’d actually...Except, if he had, there was no way she’d ever again set foot in -

Thranduil’s middle finger stroked along the body of his goblet, he lifted it carelessly to the side, the cupbearer appearing from nowhere to fill it, the King holding her eyes all the while. Then he shifted in his chair.

She knew that pose. His ‘idle’ position. She’d seen it often enough on his throne, when he’d sit back to allow whatever blustering noble or long-winded applicant to fill the chamber with words, of interest or not, until the King chose to rise and make his declarations. In this circumstance, however…

He wanted to know what she would do.

The decision surprised her almost as much as how quickly she read his intent.

A twitch of her ears brought the conversation down the table back into focus. They’d moved on to another topic. Many of the words she hadn’t learned yet.

She cast one more glance to Thranduil, making certain she understood him right. His smirk widened the smallest amount, and he proceeded to strike up conversation with the male on his right.

Dana went back to her food, thinking. Alright, then. What was she going to do? She couldn't very well call them out on it. It would give away she could understand them before she was equipped to match them in words, at least.

Most of her wanted to march down the way and bludgeon their faces in. Except that would go over even worse. She’d prove herself the beast they claimed. Thranduil wouldn’t stand for that in his court, no matter what permissions he’d implied. And, at the end of the day, you couldn’t beat basic decency into people. However appealing the option was.

As she ate, occasionally picking at conversations with her ear, she got a thought. Oh...that would be wicked. And much more effective than calling them out.

Did she dare?

But the more she thought about it, the more delightful it sounded.

The banquet wound down. The evening’s entertainment, in the form of the King’s preferred quartet, began. Dana took her preferred place on the wall, given the usual wide berth by the guests as they mingled, and doing her best not to give away any of the attentiveness by which she tracked that one group. She’d pinpointed the ‘leader’ of the pack. Or at least the one most free with those insults. Now it was just a matter of deciding when to make her move.

Thranduil, meanwhile, had yet to make one of his own. Though she felt his attention on her, observant, waiting. If there was one thing he had, it was patience.

The end of the evening came. King Thranduil bid the guests ‘good night’, a dismissal Dana was usually quick to take advantage of.

She made for the door, passing her target on the way. He was otherwise engaged with his companions. So he didn’t expect her tail to slip under the edge of his robe...and make a long languid drag up the back of his leg, from ankle to thigh.

He gasped, jumping and whirling on her, Dana already several steps away. She could have left it there.

But he’d said some rather nasty things.

Dana turned, just enough draw her wings to the side and look back at him. The elf was incensed, his mouth gaping like a fish, searching for the proper words to articulate the sheer indecency!

She couldn’t resist.

Dana gave him a sultry wink - his mouth shut like it was on a trigger - and gave him a long, slow once-over, from head to toe and back up again, like a cat surveying a truly scrumptious treat. Then, just to put a last nail in the coffin, she grinned wide and ran her tongue shamelessly down one of her canines.

The look on his face to have her ‘checking him out’ so blatantly it was almost a proposition... Priceless.

She just about cracked up right then and there.

Except the laugh didn’t come from her.

It was so brief and unexpected, and her retaliation widely unnoticed, it took a couple seconds for her to pinpoint the sound. By which time, the King had managed to conceal his mouth behind a goblet. Though it did nothing to hide the mirth twinkling in his eyes.

Maybe if she hadn’t had her attention on him, Dana might have noticed another’s shock at the King’s sudden expression of amusement. Or the quick identification of its cause.

As it was, Dana finished her exit, the smirk on her face a close match for Thranduil’s own.

Gwestadis was treated to a full reenactment later that evening, playing the part of Dana’s ‘victim’. Though, rather than indignation, the tail stroke and overt seduction left the chambermaid in a fit of giggles instead.

Dana grinned, triumphant at the end of her telling. “Yeah, that’s about the reaction his majesty had, too.”

That sobered the elf swiftly. “Truly?”

Dana nodded, reaching back to work free the laces of the garment she’d worn for the night. “Oh yes. I mean, he clammed up pretty quick. I guess even he can’t get away with laughing at members of his court in front of everyone. But I got one good one out of him, for sure.”

In the mirror’s reflection, she saw Gwestadis approach and lend more nimble fingers to Dana’s undressing, all with a distant smile.

“Gwesta?” Dana inquired, looking over her shoulder.

“Would you care for assistance putting your nightgown on, my lady?”

“Nice try. Don’t go ‘my lady’ing me and think I’m fooled. What’s with the smile?”

Gwestadis’s eyes darted away, but she answered. “It’s only that...I’m so pleased you’re getting on with his majesty.”

Dana shrugged out of her formals and reached for her night clothes, a bit confused. “I wouldn't go quite that far.” It wasn’t like he’d provided any consolation over the unkind words or disciplined the speakers himself.

The elf wasn’t convinced. She busied her hands, a sure indicator she was working up the courage to say something more. Dana took a seat on the bed to wait it out. Until, at last, Gwestadis sidled up like she was sharing a closely guarded secret.

“I can’t recall the last time anyone heard his Majesty laugh, my lady. It is a momentous thing you’ve done tonight.”

Dana’s first impulse to undercut the inadvertent significance of her actions was undercut itself by the thought that...was she really ‘getting on’ with the King?

Gwestadis finished tidying the room and tucked her mistress into her ‘nest’, before leaving Dana to lay awake in the dark, thinking.

She’d made him laugh. It didn’t seem like such a great thing. But, then again...when had she heard him laugh? Or seen him smile in a way that wasn’t disparaging or sarcastic? Was pure mirth such a foreign thing with him that even his servants saw its absence?

And what did it actually mean if Dana had coaxed a single outburst from him?

The night wore on without presenting answers, so she set the questions aside, burrowed into her mass of cushions and descended to sleep.

[terrialaimo]

Cat Peeing Water Top Ideas

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Cat Spraying Curtains

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If removing the tendencies of roaming or making use of vinegar and half a day - both in harnesses and spending time close together so cats will attempt to get attention.It will be licking himself after the bath.If you are getting all the choices there are some things a cat to an air purifier, electrostatic air filter for your feline.Typically, a dog or cat, it is causing your cat's fur can go flying and then pick it up and down the cat urine as soon as they were so cute.By this time you have this checked as early as 8 weeks old.

[rusticrevivals]

Sorry not to have written recently, folks. I had hoped my next blog post would be about the design and building of our new-to-look-old t.v. and equipment cabinet, which we are building to look like an old and much ‘distressed’ pie safe for the corner of our living room where Richard has just also completed the other library shelves (other side of the fireplace.)  However, this cabinet is taking much longer than was first thought, due to all manner of diversions, distractions, mismeasurements and general procrastinations. Not to mention the FOURTH major nor’easter that is blowing through here in the last 18 days, which makes it cold for Richard to be in the garage making intricate cuts with his icy fingertips and freezing toes (one which he claims he broke changing his pants and sticking his foot into an empty paint can – ah, the dangers of renovations!)

I am, however, a slightly superstitious believer in ‘signs’.  While wondering what to write about instead this week, I considered featuring Mom’s weaving again, as she has been hard at work on a small mat for a friend and another small one for beside our claw-foot tub, as my original one is getting firmly pasted to the lino, and is another reason I want to return to the original old floorboards in there at some point.  So I’ve taken a few photo of Mom on the loom, and we talked about Aunt Ila and Cousin Linda, both of whom have been weavers in the family as well.  Then I thought perhaps I would explain some of my barnboard designs (Rustic Revivals) which I’ve had some motivation to work on since we are having a July wedding here in the orchard (Richard’s niece) and I’m busy making signs and decor for that.  And as always, the barn board we brought from Ontario came from cousin Pete and Linda Baxter’s farm. (the same wood we used to make over the beam in our kitchen — see the bottom half of:

https://bluebellmountainblog.wordpress.com/2018/02/03/bards-on-beards-and-beams/

Or, perhaps I should write, for the second March in a row, about the ordering of our organic seeds in the wonderful brown paper packets, from Hawthorne Farm in Ontario?  Because we ordered a lot more this year, including about $100.00 worth of flowers and ornamentals to help decorate for the wedding (mostly in BLUES, for Blue Belldon, and purples and greens, as those are the wedding colours).  But then those flowers reminded me that Linda (formerly, and rather freakishly, of Hawthorn VALLEY Farm!) had brought me out some honeysuckle seeds from her own plants when she was here in September, which I have now put with the other packets to remind me not to forget them.  We also ordered two packets of ground cherries, which Linda introduced us to, and which we now LOVE!  Then, yesterday, as well as some painting for the wedding, the work on which I want to be mostly finished by mid-April, as that’s when we’ll be busy in the bush and with planting the seed tables in the basement, I was also painting plastic milk containers with dressage letters.  In May I have two competitive eventing riders coming for private training, and I’ll need to line the ‘ring’ ( the only slightly flat bit of land we have, out near the poplar line which slopes down to the brook).  One of the easiest ways to make a dressage ring is to paint the letters on white milk jugs. Of course we ALSO use these for taking water to the livestock all winter, AND to collect maple syrup, but we still have some left over that are in fairly pristine condition. So I painted 8 of them, after peeling off the labels with hot water.  The labels that of course say : “Baxter”.

  And lastly, I just finished my murder mystery yesterday and picked up my next library book (mentioned in the last blog for International Women’s Week). This is The Stillmeadow Road, by Gladys Taber.  AS RECOMMENDED BY LINDA BAXTER IN SEPTEMBER!  Right, so that’s it!  Too many signs!  Everything I seem to be doing this week, or considering for blogging, seems to suggest Cousin Linda.  I don’t know why. These signs are rarely explained to us on this plane of existence, but I don’t like to ignore too many of them. Thus, I feel that I should include a bit about one of her favourite, most prolific “living off the land” authors here.

  Gladys Taber wrote over 50 books about the simple life in New England, having moved from NYC to a derelict 1690s farmhouse just prior to the Great Depression.   These books all possessed homespun wisdom dolled out with earthy humor and an appreciation for the small things.  I see why Linda loves them now, being already half way through Stillmeadow Road.  Linda is very similar, and would write exactly the same were she to sit down and start typing! (Linda?)  And many of the same things that happened to Gladys and her family and friends are still happening here at Blue Belldon Farm, nearly a century later.  The very same issues that bother Gladys then are those that make me indignant and enraged now – rural development, clear-cutting of land, pollution, food waste, and mistreatment of wildlife and other animals.  While Gladys writes of these things with gentle Christian humility, I post my fury and passion re: these planetary problems daily, on Facebook.  Well, I mean, obviously Gladys’ tactics were too genteel – they haven’t seemed to have had impact on ‘the greedy powers’ 80 years on, so maybe it’s time to GET MAD.

I especially became so when I found out that nearly 20 years ago there was talk of tearing down the beautiful old 1690s farmhouse in which she’d lived and about which she’d written so many in the “Stillmeadow” series TO BUILD A STUPID TREELESS SUBURB!  Luckily, her granddaughter Anne Colby was living at Stillmeadow at the time, and rallied enough national and even international interest to STOP this development and instead to put the local farms into a Land Trust and Historic site. Thank GOD!~ (This wasn’t, however, finalized until just a few years ago!)

http://www.countytimes.com/news/stillmeadow-farm-preserved/article_2f6a2901-b40c-505f-ad4a-ebc5086185ee.html

Alan Bisbort, of the New York Times, in 2001: Constance Taber Colby, who is a writer and a professor of English in New York, said of her famous mother: ”Gladys was one of the first to write about the dangers of uncontrolled development in Connecticut. If she were alive today, she would undoubtedly be finishing a book on land conservation.

”Her books clearly depict Stillmeadow and its world as symbolic of something larger than one family, one town: a way of life very precious and inevitably endangered.”

Somewhat prophetically, Gladys Taber wrote late in life about a zoning meeting she attended in Southbury. In it she concluded: ”It was a grim picture. Business was bound to come; light industries were already shopping for land. The quiet country farms were already going and developments would take over. . . . Eventually, of course, we will have to have some sort of plan to guide future development. Somehow we must protect the wooded hills, the greening meadows, the clean, sweet-running brooks and the historic white houses — are a precious heritage.”

Anne Colby said: ”I grew up running around over there. I was very lucky to have this place to come to when I was a kid. We want this to be an incentive for other landowners to look for creative options for saving their land.  Tools are available now that weren’t there five years ago. Ten years ago, we could not compete with the developers. For me, Connecticut’s remaining wild places are our sanctuaries, and we need sanctuaries now more than ever.”

Earlier this week Richard inadvertently put his foot in ‘it’, as he is often wont to do.  We were at choir practice in Perth-Andover, led by its beloved mayor, Marianne Tiessen Bell (of the Leamington, ON Tiessens, incidentally).  Richard said to Marianne “Getting ready for some flooding are you?”  This is NOT something you say to ANYONE who lives and loves Perth-Andover.  But CERTAINLY NOT THE POOR MAYOR!

I wrote about this issue LAST spring, and about Marianne and editor Stephanie Kelly’s efforts to help battle both the fight for keeping historic buildings from damage or demolition AND their concern for the environment, especially as it so affects those living ‘down in the valley’ from  us.

https://bluebellmountainblog.wordpress.com/2017/05/03/taken-at-the-flood/

Despite predictions of the Farmer’s Almanac, we seem to have had nearly the same amount of snowfall this year, and it seems to be lingering just as long through what others elsewhere are already calling ��spring’.  This of course means danger of flooding.  It is sad, not just to see people’s businesses and homes destroyed, BUT to see some of the delightful old buildings that make one truly feel the history – almost as far back as Taber’s New England!  Tell me that these wonderful buildings don’t deserve to be saved, for instance:

But their close proximity to the river means that flooding doesn’t just happen once in a lifetime to them – but rather, many times. And the government isn’t as willing as they ought to be to step forward to assist! (what else is new?)  Having lived in the U.K. , it never fails to amaze me that we aren’t more keen to ‘list’ and maintain buildings of historic value and interest, as they do there, and with SO many more to do as well!  Isn’t it enough that the greed and mistreatment of our land is CAUSING so much of Mother Nature’s need to aggressively ‘fight back’?  But then, not to be able to step forward and say ‘This must be offered assistance?’  It’s just shameful.

Taber says (in numerous places) “I hate to think of the forests that have been laid waste down the years by ruthless cutting.  It takes years to grow a tall lovely tree and not long to chop it down…a tree is a symbol of life and a gift of nature.” Why do we not respect this gift?

And, about preserving historic buildings, she quotes the anonymous poem that I also ‘discovered’ in Concord, Mass., found inside a wall of a seventeenth-century home:

"He who loves an old house Will never love in vain- For how can any old house, Used to sun and rain, To larkspur and to lilac, To arching trees above, Fail to give its answer To the heart that gives its love?"

  But, really, if the object of this particular blog posting is not to lecture to those who rape the land, pave over the countryside, demolish old buildings and landmarks, but instead to introduce you to the simple cherished writings of a woman who loved nature, history and her small self-sufficient New England farm, then I should leave you with one of her more poetic quotations:

Sorry not to have written recently, folks. I had hoped my next blog post would be about the design and building of our new-to-look-old t.v.

[lystravess]

Just how far will guilt take you?

   "Are you going to go talk to her?" Cassian asked, not looking up from honing his dagger.    Darvain clenched his hand tighter, still glaring at the table. He didn't want to go talk to her but he felt as if he had to. It would have been better if she had stayed dead like he thought she was. Lystra coming back, especially the way she was now, was only adding fuel to the fire in his stomach. It was cementing the idea that he was going to kill his brother if it was the last thing he did in this damned life. He wanted Cassia, wanted to hear her laughing as Fenrir chased her around the guild hall, or feel her warmth as she jumped onto his back to ask about his last mission. But he wasn't going to ever hear that again. And now he had another person to add to the blame of that. The last person he had ever thought would kill a little girl...*Dammit Lystra.*    "You should. It might help us find Enoch. Or at least some information about him." Cassian continued when Darvain didn't speak.    "I know." Darvain hissed, sounding more then a little annoyed. "I just...We grew up together. That's not the Lystra I grew up with." he continued, pinching the bridge of his nose. all of this was giving him a headache.    "She spent how many years with your brother? I would have been surprised if she didn't change the way she had. If what he did to Ca-"Ailis stopped herself from saying the rest f the name, biting er lip. "What he did to *her* is any indication into what he can do. Can you really blame what she has become?'    Darvain knew the Arachnide was right, but he couldn't help the fire that burned through his veins. He had never felt this amount of rage in his life. Anger yes, annoyance yes. But rage? This wasn't something he was used to and it was going to end up burning him from the inside. Until he could rip his older brother to shred. He wanted to feel his claws dig into Enoch's chest and rip out his still beating heart.    "Calm your temper Dar, you're scaring the other children." Ailis warned, eyes the way the shadows around the room had deepened into a blackness far deeper then it should have been.    Darvain closed his eyes and took in a slow breath, counting backwards from ten as he did so. He had to get a grip on himself. He was Noxen. They were above this. *Calm, relax. Sink into the coid.* he told himself as he exhaled just as slowly.    I'm going to go talk to her." he decided, pushing back from the table. "Being around the others isn't a good idea for me right now."    Neither of his partners spoke, only stood and followed him towards the Master's office. Lystra was where they had left her, chained in a cell with her arms over her head, her toes barely touching the ground. She looked so much different from when they were kids, and not only because twenty years had past. The brightness in her was no longer there, replaced by the same kind of darkness that filled Darvain. For a half Noxen she was more human then others, with round ears and normal teeth that only held the slightest hint of the fangs that filled his own mouth. Her nails were sharp and curled a bit more the a humans, narrowing into point naturally. But other then that she had once been able to pass as human. The was gone now. Her eyes had darkened, not quite to the coal black of a Noxen but an ash gray with pink irises. It didn't fit her.    The scars that covered her body were extensive, not leaving much of her skin as flat and smooth as it had been. Burns etched through her scars in an intricate pattern that only a sadist would find beautiful. It made Darvain want to snarl. His brother's cruelty was marked not only in his memory but all over her body.    "I was wondering when you would come to see me. Took you longer then I thought it would considering the brat's death." Lystra croaked out, her voice rough from thirst. No one had seen fit enough to come in and feed her yet.    "Cassia." Darvain hissed. "He name was Cassia."    Lystra laughed ruefully. "You think I care Vee? She's dead, a rotting corpse in the ground to become meal for the worms."    He tensed at the ice in her tone but shook it off. He could deal with this. This wouldn't get his temper to flare. She had only been following orders. He had to remember that. He pulled one of the chairs towards him and turned it so he was facing her as he sat. "That doesn't sound like you Lys." he nearly pleaded, using his nickname for her so long ago. It felt odd on his tongue. This wasn't Lys. This was whatever Enoch had made her into.    Where is my brother?" he asked simply, keeping his voice even.    Lystra looked at him for a moment before shaking her head. "He knows I was caught. He wont be where he was the last time. You know how he is. You wont be able to find him until the stage is set for him to kill you."    "Ailis hissed behind Darvain, her legs clicking together behind her back. "You are foolish girl if you think he would be able to."    "Ailis" Darvain warned, asking her more then actually telling her to be silent. She acquiesced with a slight nod. He turned his attention back to the broken thing in front of him.  "I'm not ask weak as I was when we were children Lystra. What does he hope to fain from any of this?"    She shifted, pulling herself up by her hands a bit to reposition the shackled on her wrists. He could see the raw placed where she had tried to pull them off already. It wasn't surprising. Stygian Iron was painful to strong Noxen, for her it must have been excruciating. "You left Darvain. How else did you expect him to act. You left me alone with him for twenty years and he was angry. It just got worse and worse. He expected you to come home and you never did."    "That place was never my home." He corrected, baring his teeth at her. "It was a prison for us. Jarl made sure of that."    Enoch didn't think so. He thought everything was fine. Then you left and we never heard from you again."    "I gave you the chance to come with me. TO find people who would actually care about us and not what we could do for them."    "And leave Kyra with those two? Enoch killed her for helping you, what do you think he would have done to her if she had helped the both of us? He set our home on fire. I heard her screams! I felt the flames all because Enoch didn't want me to be free of my own part in it. I should have told them what you were planning so they could stop you."    Darvain stopped breathing for a moment.THe burns on Lystra. He had wondered why there were burn scars on her. Now he knew and his temper flared all the more for it. The shadows around the room darkened and elongated unnaturally. His skin began to take on a slightly blacker tone, darkening to an ash gray like her eyes. His claws dug into the wood of the chair, causing grooves..    "Sounds like a spoiled brat to me." Cassian commented, his even tone cutting through the haze of red in front of Darvain's eyes. He watched as the elf stepped closer to Lystra, right outside of her bars. "You're hurt because Darvain left, angry at him because you see him as the cause of your mother's death and the beginning of all of your hardships dealing with his brother.  And you took all of that out on an innocent little girl who loved him to make him feel a bit of that pain in return."    It wasn't a question, and Lystra didn't respond. She averted her eyes, looking down at the floor  She wouldn't look at the elf's holly berry eyes.    "And when you saw Darvain having the wear a collar of Stygian iron at the funeral to keep himself in control you realized just what kind of beast you had become and couldn't deal with it anymore. You hoped Darvain would kill you out right when he found out what you had done for Enoch. and now your are stuck here in chains because he still believes that little girl you used to be is in there somewhere and he wants his friend back. Because he can't lose another person close to him. Not after you took his Lumen from him."    That word made Lystra jump and look up at Darvain with wide eyes. "Lumen? You claimed her?" she asked, not believing it.    Darvain, who had started trembling when Cassian mentioned Cassia nodded, his hands clenched so hard he could feel his claws biting into the skin of his palms. "She was my light and you took her from me. Both of you. I want to kill Enoch. But I can't get the feeling of you crying into me when your father died out of my head to kill you. You aren't like him. You still have some of your humanity left. And you killed what was left of mine."    Darvain stood up and turned towards the door. "Its crueler to let you sit in here and know what exactly you took from me Lystra. That's why I'm letting you live. So your guilt can eat away at you until you can't take it."    The door shut behind him with a soft click, leaving her alone with the Arachnide and Elf.

Worked on this a bit last night and this morning. I had the idea a few days ago to add in a childhood friend that Darvain’s brother Enoch could torture to give it more then just Cassia being the his weak point. It turned into something more though I think. Because he could see just how much she had changed and he showed her just what she had taken from him. A Noxen’s Lumen is someone that they claim as a best friend, a lover (Not always), and a confidante. They are the one person that makes the darkness inside of them wither and brighten. Cassia was too young to be all of that to Darvain, but he stilled care for her deeply enough to want to keep her safe and inadvertently claimed her as such.

~L

[rusticrevivals]

Sorry not to have written recently, folks. I had hoped my next blog post would be about the design and building of our new-to-look-old t.v. and equipment cabinet, which we are building to look like an old and much ‘distressed’ pie safe for the corner of our living room where Richard has just also completed the other library shelves (other side of the fireplace.)  However, this cabinet is taking much longer than was first thought, due to all manner of diversions, distractions, mismeasurements and general procrastinations. Not to mention the FOURTH major nor’easter that is blowing through here in the last 18 days, which makes it cold for Richard to be in the garage making intricate cuts with his icy fingertips and freezing toes (one which he claims he broke changing his pants and sticking his foot into an empty paint can – ah, the dangers of renovations!)

I am, however, a slightly superstitious believer in ‘signs’.  While wondering what to write about instead this week, I considered featuring Mom’s weaving again, as she has been hard at work on a small mat for a friend and another small one for beside our claw-foot tub, as my original one is getting firmly pasted to the lino, and is another reason I want to return to the original old floorboards in there at some point.  So I’ve taken a few photo of Mom on the loom, and we talked about Aunt Ila and Cousin Linda, both of whom have been weavers in the family as well.  Then I thought perhaps I would explain some of my barnboard designs (Rustic Revivals) which I’ve had some motivation to work on since we are having a July wedding here in the orchard (Richard’s niece) and I’m busy making signs and decor for that.  And as always, the barn board we brought from Ontario came from cousin Pete and Linda Baxter’s farm. (the same wood we used to make over the beam in our kitchen — see the bottom half of:

https://bluebellmountainblog.wordpress.com/2018/02/03/bards-on-beards-and-beams/

Or, perhaps I should write, for the second March in a row, about the ordering of our organic seeds in the wonderful brown paper packets, from Hawthorne Farm in Ontario?  Because we ordered a lot more this year, including about $100.00 worth of flowers and ornamentals to help decorate for the wedding (mostly in BLUES, for Blue Belldon, and purples and greens, as those are the wedding colours).  But then those flowers reminded me that Linda (formerly, and rather freakishly, of Hawthorn VALLEY Farm!) had brought me out some honeysuckle seeds from her own plants when she was here in September, which I have now put with the other packets to remind me not to forget them.  We also ordered two packets of ground cherries, which Linda introduced us to, and which we now LOVE!  Then, yesterday, as well as some painting for the wedding, the work on which I want to be mostly finished by mid-April, as that’s when we’ll be busy in the bush and with planting the seed tables in the basement, I was also painting plastic milk containers with dressage letters.  In May I have two competitive eventing riders coming for private training, and I’ll need to line the ‘ring’ ( the only slightly flat bit of land we have, out near the poplar line which slopes down to the brook).  One of the easiest ways to make a dressage ring is to paint the letters on white milk jugs. Of course we ALSO use these for taking water to the livestock all winter, AND to collect maple syrup, but we still have some left over that are in fairly pristine condition. So I painted 8 of them, after peeling off the labels with hot water.  The labels that of course say : “Baxter”.

  And lastly, I just finished my murder mystery yesterday and picked up my next library book (mentioned in the last blog for International Women’s Week). This is The Stillmeadow Road, by Gladys Taber.  AS RECOMMENDED BY LINDA BAXTER IN SEPTEMBER!  Right, so that’s it!  Too many signs!  Everything I seem to be doing this week, or considering for blogging, seems to suggest Cousin Linda.  I don’t know why. These signs are rarely explained to us on this plane of existence, but I don’t like to ignore too many of them. Thus, I feel that I should include a bit about one of her favourite, most prolific “living off the land” authors here.

  Gladys Taber wrote over 50 books about the simple life in New England, having moved from NYC to a derelict 1690s farmhouse just prior to the Great Depression.   These books all possessed homespun wisdom dolled out with earthy humor and an appreciation for the small things.  I see why Linda loves them now, being already half way through Stillmeadow Road.  Linda is very similar, and would write exactly the same were she to sit down and start typing! (Linda?)  And many of the same things that happened to Gladys and her family and friends are still happening here at Blue Belldon Farm, nearly a century later.  The very same issues that bother Gladys then are those that make me indignant and enraged now – rural development, clear-cutting of land, pollution, food waste, and mistreatment of wildlife and other animals.  While Gladys writes of these things with gentle Christian humility, I post my fury and passion re: these planetary problems daily, on Facebook.  Well, I mean, obviously Gladys’ tactics were too genteel – they haven’t seemed to have had impact on ‘the greedy powers’ 80 years on, so maybe it’s time to GET MAD.

I especially became so when I found out that nearly 20 years ago there was talk of tearing down the beautiful old 1690s farmhouse in which she’d lived and about which she’d written so many in the “Stillmeadow” series TO BUILD A STUPID TREELESS SUBURB!  Luckily, her granddaughter Anne Colby was living at Stillmeadow at the time, and rallied enough national and even international interest to STOP this development and instead to put the local farms into a Land Trust and Historic site. Thank GOD!~ (This wasn’t, however, finalized until just a few years ago!)

http://www.countytimes.com/news/stillmeadow-farm-preserved/article_2f6a2901-b40c-505f-ad4a-ebc5086185ee.html

Alan Bisbort, of the New York Times, in 2001: Constance Taber Colby, who is a writer and a professor of English in New York, said of her famous mother: ”Gladys was one of the first to write about the dangers of uncontrolled development in Connecticut. If she were alive today, she would undoubtedly be finishing a book on land conservation.

”Her books clearly depict Stillmeadow and its world as symbolic of something larger than one family, one town: a way of life very precious and inevitably endangered.”

Somewhat prophetically, Gladys Taber wrote late in life about a zoning meeting she attended in Southbury. In it she concluded: ”It was a grim picture. Business was bound to come; light industries were already shopping for land. The quiet country farms were already going and developments would take over. . . . Eventually, of course, we will have to have some sort of plan to guide future development. Somehow we must protect the wooded hills, the greening meadows, the clean, sweet-running brooks and the historic white houses — are a precious heritage.”

Anne Colby said: ”I grew up running around over there. I was very lucky to have this place to come to when I was a kid. We want this to be an incentive for other landowners to look for creative options for saving their land.  Tools are available now that weren’t there five years ago. Ten years ago, we could not compete with the developers. For me, Connecticut’s remaining wild places are our sanctuaries, and we need sanctuaries now more than ever.”

Earlier this week Richard inadvertently put his foot in ‘it’, as he is often wont to do.  We were at choir practice in Perth-Andover, led by its beloved mayor, Marianne Tiessen Bell (of the Leamington, ON Tiessens, incidentally).  Richard said to Marianne “Getting ready for some flooding are you?”  This is NOT something you say to ANYONE who lives and loves Perth-Andover.  But CERTAINLY NOT THE POOR MAYOR!

I wrote about this issue LAST spring, and about Marianne and editor Stephanie Kelly’s efforts to help battle both the fight for keeping historic buildings from damage or demolition AND their concern for the environment, especially as it so affects those living ‘down in the valley’ from  us.

https://bluebellmountainblog.wordpress.com/2017/05/03/taken-at-the-flood/

Despite predictions of the Farmer’s Almanac, we seem to have had nearly the same amount of snowfall this year, and it seems to be lingering just as long through what others elsewhere are already calling ‘spring’.  This of course means danger of flooding.  It is sad, not just to see people’s businesses and homes destroyed, BUT to see some of the delightful old buildings that make one truly feel the history – almost as far back as Taber’s New England!  Tell me that these wonderful buildings don’t deserve to be saved, for instance:

But their close proximity to the river means that flooding doesn’t just happen once in a lifetime to them – but rather, many times. And the government isn’t as willing as they ought to be to step forward to assist! (what else is new?)  Having lived in the U.K. , it never fails to amaze me that we aren’t more keen to ‘list’ and maintain buildings of historic value and interest, as they do there, and with SO many more to do as well!  Isn’t it enough that the greed and mistreatment of our land is CAUSING so much of Mother Nature’s need to aggressively ‘fight back’?  But then, not to be able to step forward and say ‘This must be offered assistance?’  It’s just shameful.

Taber says (in numerous places) “I hate to think of the forests that have been laid waste down the years by ruthless cutting.  It takes years to grow a tall lovely tree and not long to chop it down…a tree is a symbol of life and a gift of nature.” Why do we not respect this gift?

And, about preserving historic buildings, she quotes the anonymous poem that I also ‘discovered’ in Concord, Mass., found inside a wall of a seventeenth-century home:

"He who loves an old house Will never love in vain- For how can any old house, Used to sun and rain, To larkspur and to lilac, To arching trees above, Fail to give its answer To the heart that gives its love?"

  But, really, if the object of this particular blog posting is not to lecture to those who rape the land, pave over the countryside, demolish old buildings and landmarks, but instead to introduce you to the simple cherished writings of a woman who loved nature, history and her small self-sufficient New England farm, then I should leave you with one of her more poetic quotations:

Sorry not to have written recently, folks. I had hoped my next blog post would be about the design and building of our new-to-look-old t.v.