About Me/ Contact Info

The nitty gritty:
(719) 203-7404

The rest of the story:

I spent my childhood running through the house wrapped up in bedsheets and costumes and never stopped. I have always been fascinated by advances in modern sewing and embroidery machines and the amazing way that fabric can be pieced back together in unique, iconoclastic and creative ways. As a child I took cotton scraps from my quilter mother, stapling them together with a proud "here momma I made you a swimsuit!". She simply took it and smiled.  I now understand why she didn't want to wear it. She did do a good job of allowing my creativity to flourish, regardless of the results. Witness this fantastic "drive-up" easel I had. Never mind that I was completely in the way of the construction going on here at the time. I was given a lot of freedom like this but creativity was a bit of a mixed message as well, as my late grandmother Dorothy was denigrated somewhat for her dreams of being a poet and using her writing to make a living. I would emphatically disagree. Using one's creativity to make a living is absolutely honorable and should never be denigrated or discouraged. How boring society would be without stories, poems and art.😢 So if you're an artist, I'm sending you much appreciation and moral support. 😍
Drive up easel
 (Drive-up art easel)

I was given enormous leeway as a kiddo - perhaps too much. My parents were just grateful I didn't croak. In the late 1970's I suffered a terrible choking accident and showed up medically DOA at the ER. My parents did the Heimlich, the back-blows, everything to try to dislodge whatever I had put in my mouth that had gotten caught in my windpipe. Unfortunately, it went all the way down into my bronchioles. The smart docs at the ER took advantage of a phenomenon called "infant drowning reflex", which is a survival mechanism babies/children have, where the body diverts all remaining oxygen to the vital organs. They threw me in a bucket of ice-water to slow my metabolism and rushed me off to the OR for emergency surgery to see if I could be saved. Apparently, there was no time for anesthesia and when they went in through an incision in my throat, I was so far gone I didn't feel a thing. After one false start getting the obstruction out and six shocks later, they managed to get my heart to start beating again and to keep it going. Meanwhile, the chaplain came out to be with my parents, as they didn't expect me to make it, I'd been without oxygen statistically way too long to be anything other than a vegetable at best. But I am feisty, and I survived! I woke up in the ICU the next day with a souvenir of my crazy misadventure... an eye that partially changed color. This is a condition called "heterochromia". The eye doc insists this isn't possible, but my mother swears this is what happened, and in all photos before the accident, my eyes were both solid blue. So I have one blue eye, and one green/brown eye, and I am the bane of the folks at the driver's license bureau when they ask for my eye color. 
Funky colored eye
(Forget rose-colored glasses, I'm lookin' at the world through funny-colored eyeballs)

I was a handful post-accident. They kept me in an oxygen tent in the ICU which my mother warned them was flimsy but they assured her it would be fine. The next day, it was covered in tape where I had poked holes in it. When they finally let me up from the bed to see if I could walk, I wobbled at first, then broke free of my parents' grip and ran, not walked... ran... down the hallway and wrapped myself around the legs of the surgeon who was coming to check on me. He looked at my parents, smiled and said: "I just got paid!". My speech/learning fell a little bit behind, but my love of exploration never waned. Here I am one month post-accident making friends with a daffodil, tracheotomy cleverly hidden by the dress:
(Making friends with a daffodil)

I was given a great deal of autonomy in picking my own clothes as well. Witness this horribly fashionable pink sweater and red corduroy pants with the smart, waterproof rubber boots. I was practical too, as when I realized the raft was sinking a bit, I pushed my much heavier older brother off in order to restore buoyancy. Don't worry, he didn't drown. Boy he was mad at me though, and justifiably so. 😏
(Scratch "no child left behind" - our version was "No child left inside!")

As a teen, my mother gave me $200 for my "clothing budget" (that was good money back in the 90's) which I foolishly went to the mall and came away with two sweaters, two shirts and two pairs of pants which I then had to wear the entire year. 7th grade is truly the lowest form of life. By 8th grade, a friend told me about the local thrift store, and my love of re-using clothes was born. We were still somewhat post-80's, and I had the pouf of curled and hair-sprayed bangs (which my mother called "the rooster").
(8th grade blackmail photo)

I was always frustrated though because I went to a school where all the rich kids had Guess jeans and Vuarnet shirts and I always thought that cheaply made but expensive brand-name clothes were just silly.. and even the gothic kids at school had wealthy parents that bought them all the fancy stuff. Not me. I had to get creative, as punk had to be on the cheap. Yay Goodwill! Not many photos exist of my crazy teenage fashion creations, but the cutoff jean shorts here, I painted eye of Horus emblems on the front in sparkling fabric paint, wore them over thick leggings (because seriously, who wants cold legs) and topped it off with a punk T-shirt and tuxedo jacket. It really doesn't matter what you wear. If it's comfortable, and you feel good in it, IMHO you look good in it. (🔥🔥🔥Seriously though... burn all stiletto heels in a dumpster fire!🔥🔥🔥🔥)
circa 1993
(DIY punk rock)

Even later in life, Goodwill was a house 'o treasures. I proudly got my wedding dress there for $60.00 (it was 30% off that day - score!) and not a pearl was missing, and it is apparently a $1,500.00 gown. It is amazing what people let go of. No garment that someone in the world put so much work into, should go in the landfill.
(Ah, marriage by arm-wrestle. 😁)
Truly the local thrift store is my idea of the utterly cool destination. When I was finally able to take my children to Hawaii on vacation after many years, we had to go visit the Goodwill in Hilo. I was disappointed but understanding about the lack of sweaters there and the staff looked at me like I was nuts when my kids had to document their goofball mother. 
(Eureka, I have found it!)

Even the dentist has been a victim of this goofball. Hey - comfort matters!
(When you're gonna be awhile, might as well be comfortable!)

Indeed, everything I sew now has to be comfortable. I like wool/cashmere because it's so forgiving. Even with the denim goodies I make, I try to find a way to make things that are flexible and comfortable. I am the famous "sweater lady" on the ARC thrift store's Facebook page. My daughter (who also sews... love that kid!) cheerfully calls this my... "death pile"... which is actually very fitting, since "Persephone" is a greek mythology reference to the wife of Hades, Lord of the Underworld. It is both a nod to my teenage "noire period" which I never really grew out of, as well as to my gardener mother, who taught me to pluck weed seedlings at age 3 (Persephone's mother in Greek mythology is Demeter, goddess of the harvest... see the parallel?).
My "team" is me and my sewing machines and we put a lot of love into bringing you unique treasures that can't be mass-produced. I have a habit of naming things, so of course my machines all have names as well. My two needle-felting machines are appropriately named "Mr. Stabby" and "Sir Lances-a-Lot". I started serging with Babylock sergers (simply because they're so quick to thread) and my Evolution model is named "Darwin", and the Enlighten of course has to be named "Buddha". My regular sewing machine is named Emily, because my late grandma Emily (who loved to sew) provided the funds I used to buy it, and my big 10-needle commercial embroidery machine, seeing as it weighs a whopping 92 pounds, is appropriately named "The Beast". My Juki industrial overlook machine is heavy as well and she just chomps through the thickest and heaviest material like it's lightweight chiffon, so she is just named "Tank".

I always enjoyed altering my own clothes and putting together statement pieces but I also care about the environment and the lives which "fast fashion" is busy destroying, and this is my small one-person effort to nudge the fashion industry towards something better. This is my creative protest against cheap, throwaway clothes. I've got a better alternative, made with lots of care and love. Some of my pieces may be similar yes, but no two are exactly alike... so whatever treasure you find here, you will not run into others wearing the same thing. My goodies are as unique as you are! 🥰
Oh my gosh... did you really READ all of that? 😁 Ok, now I'm giving you a funny look, with my funny-colored eyeball. (Behind my hood of sparkles, because everything must have sparkles.)