February Snows

Domestic dog and clepto cat have been marooned under human roof for days. Days of white stuff falling and accumulating, days of so cold it's hard to breathe, days of bickering over who gets more attention, food, water, playtime, nap time ..... It's still out there now, shoulder high to a black lab. Winter wonderland, crispy fluff, branches crack under the snows weight, buried solar lights and rosemary bushes, signs of raccoon and deer. 

Travel van is warm and cozy at her favorite mechanic shop, getting her spring checkup. 

This weather reminds me my dream of a winter desert rat existence is not such a bad idea.

I've been doing laundry, mending clothes, tagging and pricing merchandise for the shop, FOR DAYS .

King Cole has no gypsy soul and that's alright by me .....

It's time for me to admit it. My black lab is no gypsy.
He hates to travel. He hates to camp. He hates my driving.

He does love the beach.

The vet gave us some pills to calm his travel nerves and what I got for my effort was a stoned dog fighting off the drugs looking at me with that " I don't feel so good" look.

We cut our beach trip short.
After spending the night with an 87 lb unhappy comatose dog piled on top of us we called it quits. He was crammed in a tiny van, drugged and feeling like a doggie without a safe place and really just wanted to go home and see his gramma.

So, my dog is no gypsy, he's happy at home with his scheduled walks, morning biscuits from gramma, warm giant bed, toy box, bones box, the kitchen where the good smells come from, his trees and grass he marks as his own.
He'd prefer the world doesn't move on wheels.
He'd like it if the beach was closer.
The waves are fun but you can't drink the water so it's not a big loss.
The Columbia River will do just fine.

It's not just an old wives tale ....

pg 77

The gipsy's advice was this: ' Ah, my lady, just you make a tea on they yellow dandelions in the spring and summer. And drink half a cupful of it fasting for three mornings running, then stop for four mornings, and after that you takes it again. It'll clear away all yellowness from your skin and make your eyes bright. And why does it do all that? Why? because it clears all disorders out of they body. And there's something else as the dandelion will cure, and that be warts, though I  'llow them only does that in the summertime. But if so be as you've got warts in the summer,  and come to that I wouldn't say as this wouldn't do in the late spring and early autumn, all you've got to do is  gather a dandelion leaf or flower, because it don't matter which you uses, and just squeeze the broken stem. A drop of milky juice will come out. Touch the wart with that and leave it to dry on. That's all you've got to do. I don't say as you won't have to do that there two or three times, but it won't be long before the nasty wart turns black and then it'll fall off and leave nice clear skin where it used to be.'

Checking In January 2013

I seem to be posting almost daily on Facebook. I'm so busy and my life is so full, I seem to never have the quiet time to sit down and think about a blogpost. I find myself getting back to my roots of what makes me happy and balancing the unusual busy-ness of my life. I have projects galore floating around in my crowded brain and I can't wait to make them real and share them with you all. My point being, if you're wondering what I'm up to or wish to check in to say hi or ask questions or chat herbs/tarot/crystals etc you will find me daily on Facebook. I know they are constantly changing and I hope they remain a reliable place for me to connect with you, so consider "like" ing the Gypsy Trader page for more frequent info, chats, festivals & events .
Be Well Gypsies!

Meg She Was A Gipsy ....

Meg Merrilies by John Keats (1795 - 1821)




Old Meg she was a Gipsy,

And liv'd upon the Moors,

Her bed it was the brown heath turf,

Her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,

Her currents, pods o' broom;

Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,

Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,

Her Sisters larchen trees:

Alone with her great family,

She liv'd as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,

No dinner many a noon,

And, 'stead of supper, she would stare

Full hard against the Moon.

But every morn, of woodbine fresh

She made her garlanding,

And, every night, the dark glen Yew

She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers, old and brown,

She plaited Mats o' Rushes,

And gave them to the Cottagers

She met among the Bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen*

And tall as Amazon;

An old red blanket cloak she wore,

A chip hat had she on.

God rest her aged bones somewhere!

She died full long agone!