Author Archives: Satin & Sand

Beautiful Nana…

30 Saturday May 2026

Posted by in Art, Fashion, Reflections, Relationships, Aging, Poetry, Flowers, beautiful

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© Joan Currie – My Nana’s pearls and flower power dress fabric.

My Nana – by Joan Currie

I adored my paternal grandmother,
Nana.

She looked very much
like the Queen Mother–
not only in her coloring
but in the way she dressed.

Heavy silk dresses,
a string of pearls,
a brooch pinned neatly below her neckline.

She was always prim and proper,
her expression composed,
though it softened into a lovely smile
when we sang “Happy Birthday,”
when she beat me at checkers,
and especially when she offered
a slice of lemon meringue
or apple pie,
still warm from the oven.

One day she wore a dress
my mother had sewn for her
from fabric covered
in flowers the color of
those in the flower power
advertisements.

I looked at her in wonder.

“Wild flowers!” I declared.

She giggled then–
a light, girlish sound
I had never heard before.

For an instant,
I caught sight of someone
other than my dutiful Nana:

a young woman
bright with life,
still there beneath
the silk dresses and pearls.

It was enchanting!

The following passage was in a note Nana once wrote to me:

Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For O! it is not always May!

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It is Not Always May

Beautiful Simplicity 9825…

21 Thursday May 2026

Posted by in Crafts, Fashion, Mother, Poetry, Sewing

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© Joan Currie – My mother’s sewing room with her Elna sewing machine.


Simplicity 9825 by Joan Currie

I taught myself to sew
in my teenage years,
on my mother’s Elna machine
in a corner of our basement.

The sewing room was a hodgepodge
of fabric and notions
left there for the taking.

Abandoned pattern pieces
lay scattered across the big
Formica counter
beside boxes of straight pins,
thimbles, pinking shears,
measuring tapes.

Three deep drawers held
a jumble of thread spools,
button and snap cards, lace,
sequins in narrow tubes,
bits of tailor’s chalk.

The cupboards were crammed
with tweeds from the woolen mills,
velvets, tulle, corduroy,
and raw silk from her travels.

On Saturday afternoons
I slipped downstairs
with a Simplicity pattern
and my transistor radio,

and entered
that pulsing, glorious world
where a flat piece of cloth
became my prom dress.

Beautiful My Aunt’s Buttons…

17 Sunday May 2026

Posted by in Crafts, Poetry, Sewing, Repurposing

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© Joan Currie – Some of my buttons with seam ripper and scissors.


My Aunt’s Buttons by Joan Currie

My maternal aunt
was the eldest child
of Depression parents.

She could make something beautiful
out of very little.

Her father’s worn wool suits
became braided rugs.
Outgrown dresses and shirts
became pieced quilts.
Old sweaters unraveled
for mittens and toques.

When she came to visit,
she gathered up my daughters’
too-small clothes
into her lap with delight,
then sat at the kitchen table
with her small scissors
and seam ripper,
taking each garment apart
with the care of a surgeon.

When she was done,
baby jars of buttons
lined my shelves–
sorted by color and size.

There were neat folds of fabric,
bundles of lace,
zippers saved for later.

Then came sweet afternoons
spent sewing rag dolls beside her,
with little dresses to match.

But when the remnant basket
was empty,
she would begin looking
toward our closets,
imagining what else
might be cut down, remade.

Nothing was entirely safe.

That was usually when
it was time for her to go home.

Now, years later,
I find myself sitting
by the sewing machine
with a seam ripper in hand,
saving buttons from old clothes–

the old baby jars
still full on the shelf,
still being used.

Beautiful Mother’s Day Tulips…

08 Friday May 2026

Posted by in beautiful, Flowers, Love, Mother, Mother-Child, Poetry, Reflections, Relationships

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© Joan Currie – Watercolor of pale pink tulips in my mother’s Delft vase.


Mother’s Tulips by Joan Currie

My mother loved flowers–
tulips most of all.

I never asked why.
It was in her Dutch blood,
her Calvinistic sense of simplicity–
upright, unadorned.

On Mother’s Day
there were always tulips:
pale pink,
set in her Delft vase,
its blue-and-white surfaces
catching the light,
holding it quietly
beneath the stems.

I tried, sometimes,
to improve upon them–
those lavish arrangements–
variegated tulips,
blue hydrangea, white roses,
small bright globes of yellow–
but she would only smile,
as if to say:
not this.

She wanted the tulips alone.

Now, after many years
and other flowers–
peonies, lilies, anemones,
even the careful making
of paper petals–

I pass a market stall
and stop.

I bring home tulips,
pale pink,
and set them in her vase.

In the quiet of the room
they open,
and she is there.


For my mother.

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers!

Beautiful First Sip…

23 Thursday Apr 2026

Posted by in Poetry, Relationships

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© Joan Currie


First Sip by Joan Currie

The train whistle wakes me
at six–
a long, low calling
through the dark.

You are already up,
waiting by the door.

I pull on my coat,
and we step out
into the rain.

It doesn’t feel cold,
not at this hour.

We drive up the hill in silence at first,
then begin–
our small exchange of dreams,
what lingered from sleep,
and what might be.

The barista knows us.
She turns to the machine
before we speak,
tells us softly
of her cabin on the Oregon coast,
the rain there, too.

Back in the car,
the windows misting,
we mean to wait–

but we don’t.

The cups are warm in our hands.
We sip together.

For a moment,
nothing presses in.

Only this–
the bitter, the sweet,
and you beside me.

And already
it is passing.

Beautiful Puzzling 2…

14 Tuesday Apr 2026

Posted by in Lauren DiMarco, Photography, Poetry, Reflections

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© Lauren DiMarco – My daughter, Lauren, arranging the puzzle pieces.


Puzzling 2 by Joan Currie

I brought home
a thousand-piece puzzle
from the library sale.

I sorted the pieces
by color, by edge,
and began.

A sail,
a spaniel,
a clock tower,
a child.

Then I saw
what was missing:

The sail’s belly,
the spaniel’s tail,
the clock,
the child’s upturned face.

I turned each piece
in my hand,
looking.

I felt a small anger–
that it had been given away
like this.

Still, I went on,
knowing
it would not be whole.

Each piece placed
meant fewer left.

And then–
they were there.

Not missing.
Only overlooked.

I sat with that
a long while–
how quickly
I had doubted.

How beautiful to discover the missing pieces!

Camont Puzzle by Rifle Paper Co. I just finished this one – high quality 500 pieces.

Please check out my Puzzling Post (1).

Beautiful Touch Typing…

08 Wednesday Apr 2026

Posted by in Aging, beautiful, Poetry, Relationships

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© James Currie – Swedish typewriter. The designer’s father was the Royal Surgeon.


It seemed a small thing then, learning by touch. – Joan Currie


Touch Typing by Joan Currie

I first learned to type
on a machine with blank key caps,
working through a manual
until I knew exactly
where every letter and number lay.
That early fluency
has served me well.

Your body, too, I first
touched–memorized
blindly, in the dark.
Exploring each contour,
as if it were a map
I could follow by feel alone.

From your thick, curling hair
down the slope of your forehead,
to each familiar landmark–
the aquiline nose, the square jaw,
the wide sternum, the strong arms,
the soft pads of your fingers,
the smooth plain of your belly,
the steely band along your outer thigh,
the steady weight of your feet.

Over the years
you have shown me
how your body has changed,
but I still see it
as I first learned it–
certain, enduring,
and, to me,
handsome still.

My hands remember.

Beautiful Easter Dinner…

04 Saturday Apr 2026

Posted by in Art, Baking, beautiful, Easter, Family, Poetry, Reflections

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Pieter Claesz – Dutch Breakfast Still Life (17th c.)


Easter Dinner by Joan Currie

I think of Easter dinner
when my mother was alive.

The sideboard bowed
under its burden.

We came to the table,
hungry from Lent,
and ate.

Ham glazed with maple,
potatoes in cream,
asparagus with Hollandaise,
eggs split and filled,
ambrosia–too sweet,
with coconut.

There was lemon pie
with its high, wavering crown,
carrot cake thick
with frosting,
and the small bright candies
we carried away in our pockets.

I am grateful
for that appetite,
for the unthinking plenty.

Now my guests call ahead–
no sugar, no dairy,
no this, no that.

I pause at the counter,
hand on the phone,

and say,
perhaps we’ll go out.

Wishing you a very Happy Easter!

Beautiful One Small Light…

03 Friday Apr 2026

Posted by in Art, Poetry, Reflections, Writing

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By Tom Thomson – Sunset, Canoe Lake, Autumn 1915. The artist drowned here in 1917. I know this lake well and have felt his presence.


“The light will leave– and you must reckon with what follows.” Tom Thomson


When Darkness Falls by Joan Currie

The pale rose of dusk
lingered longer than I expected.
I knew there would be a parting–
a lover’s touch
I wished might go on,
but wouldn’t.

I left the path
to find a higher place,
hoping to hold
the last of the light.

But darkness came at once–
a dull closing,
as if a door had been shut
behind me.

I was off the trail,
caught in the undergrowth,
turning this way and that,
not knowing.

For a long time
I did not move.
Branches shifted.
The woods held their breath.
Something unseen
pressed close.

Then I saw it–
a faint light
threaded through the trees.

I went toward it,
careful now,

thinking
how little it takes–
one small light–
to be led out.

Have you ever followed a light in the dark?

Beautiful Magnolia…

12 Thursday Mar 2026

Posted by in Art, Birds, Flowers, Garden, Nature, Poetry

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Magnolia and Birds – Chinese Song Dynasty


Magnolia Blossom by Joan Currie

You have bloomed first
in my back garden–
O sovereign of pale flame.

Your receptacle, a golden crown,
royal, resplendent;
your lavish velvet robes,
pallid yet proud, spread wide
and stained with magenta
all around you.

Astonishing us–
magnificent, insolent–
you parade your brief glory.