This morning I was attacking the weeds in my garden. Last year I broke my leg. This kept me out of the garden entirely. All the crops died. Surrounding native grasses mounted and invasion into the tilled area, spreading their rhizomes by the yard and intertwining them into a mat guaranteed to foul the tines of a tiller in a few feet. Weeds then populated the spaces the grass had not. I faced an untillable field of grass, wild mustard, foxtails and thistles which could only be put back into service as a garden by hand pulling the tall weeds. As I was removing the thistles, I ruminated about Theophilus Thistle, the successful thistle sifter. All I had heard was he "thrust thrice three thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb." That was a greater quantity than all the thorns in both of my hands. But I did not know the period of time Theophilus set this record. Was 9000 thistles a lot, or an amazingly small number to accrue in a lifetime of thistle sifting? After all, Theophilus was successful. I imagined he was the heir of a thistle sifting business, being named Thistle. He could have been the scion of many generations pursuing this enterprise. Perhaps he became famous by inventing thornproof gloves. By the time I had exhausted speculation on the circumstances surrounding the tongue twister, my wheelbarrow was piled high with weeds.
After dumping the barrow, I began to contemplate the business of thistle sifting in general. This led me to remember a particularly hot afternoon in the summer of 1960. I had dreamed of living and working on a farm all during my childhood. Since I was lazier than the average child, my parents decided to teach me farming is hard work. They sent me to Minnesota to spend the summer on my aunt and uncle's farm. I was ecstatic. This particular day, Uncle Ben informed me that a 40 acre field of oats had thistles growing in it. When he harvested and sold the crop, the price he received would be reduced if there were thistle seed with the grain. He had figured out how to prevent this from happening. He welded a small, sharp blade to a rod. My cousin David and I were to carry one of these into the field the thistles had invaded. Working carefully, we were to find every thistle in bloom and with a swift diagonal chop, remove its head. With no blossom, the plant could not make seed.
David and I worked our way into a patch of thistle and began chopping. The blades were excellent for the job. When we had curtailed one infestation, we spotted another one. The temperature climbed into the nineties. We kept chopping until we saw no more thistles to execute. I could see salt on my arms from drying sweat as we trudged back to the farmhouse. It was almost dinner time. We were thirsty so we made Kool-Aid to drink before the meal. We drank two pitchers in fifteen minutes.
Friday, May 25, 2018
Thursday, April 27, 2017
Hemstitching Hmmm.
The great grandchildren are getting way ahead of me again. I wanted to weave a series of baby blankets to catch up with the birth backlog. My usual sett is >20 epi. I did not want to spend days threading heddles, so I used coarser threads than usual. With 5/2 perle cotton, I could get by with 15 per inch. Ha. I gloated. Only 600 threads for forty inches. This was going to be a breeze. I measured and beamed warp for four blankets and started to thread. My heddle frames are supported in the center, so I usually thread both ways from the middle. I was zipping along at a great rate, threading a blooming leaf which I had decided to reflect back on itself to make it symmetrical. Then I was hit with the realization that my huge collection of heddles on the frames was going to be an obstruction. In order to weave the whole width of the loom, I had to remove 600 of the extra heddles. I was sad, as I was already winding warp for the next project, equally wide, to be sett at 30 ends per inch.
I have never liked hemstitching. Whenever I did it, it looked bad. Since this is a standard weaving skill, I decided these four blankets were going to be hemstitched at both ends at three ends per bundle. By the time I had done 1600 stitches, they were either going to look better or I was going to be dead.
I began with an orange blanket using a 10/2 natural tabby to match the warp and tromping blooming leaf. The second blanket was plain weave with rainbow colored pattern stripes. By the third blanket I was ready to try indigo warp and weaving in my favorite twill, M and W. At the beginning and end of each blanket, I put in a row of hemstitching. Not only was my craftsmanship improving, but the task itself was becoming less onerous.
The fourth blanket was green, treadled in a rose path variation, and the hems went along splendidly. I was now quite satisfied with my performance. I had left a four inch unwoven space between blankets. I cut them off the loom and realized hemstitching them had freed me from hours of fringe twisting. I tossed them into the washer and dryer and they were finished!
Hmm. I like hemstitching. A day in the sun put all the heddles back onto the frames.
I have never liked hemstitching. Whenever I did it, it looked bad. Since this is a standard weaving skill, I decided these four blankets were going to be hemstitched at both ends at three ends per bundle. By the time I had done 1600 stitches, they were either going to look better or I was going to be dead.
I began with an orange blanket using a 10/2 natural tabby to match the warp and tromping blooming leaf. The second blanket was plain weave with rainbow colored pattern stripes. By the third blanket I was ready to try indigo warp and weaving in my favorite twill, M and W. At the beginning and end of each blanket, I put in a row of hemstitching. Not only was my craftsmanship improving, but the task itself was becoming less onerous.
The fourth blanket was green, treadled in a rose path variation, and the hems went along splendidly. I was now quite satisfied with my performance. I had left a four inch unwoven space between blankets. I cut them off the loom and realized hemstitching them had freed me from hours of fringe twisting. I tossed them into the washer and dryer and they were finished!
Hmm. I like hemstitching. A day in the sun put all the heddles back onto the frames.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Adventure for Breakfast
My hubby was watching a recipe demonstration for Aussie Chicken.
"This looks interesting." I looked at the finished product.
"What does it have in it?"
"Chicken, bacon, honey mustard, mushrooms, and cheese." We had all those things in the kitchen.
"How did they make it?"
"They browned the chicken, cooked the bacon, sauteed the mushrooms, draped the bacon over the chicken, poured the honey mustard over the top, added the mushrooms and cheese and baked the whole thing in the oven."
"We're having Aussie Chicken for breakfast."
I went into the kitchen and started preheating the oven. I put equal portions of honey and mustard into a bowl and zapped them for 30 seconds while acquiring the other ingredients. The honey was no longer crystallized and they mixed together nicely. I drizzled olive oil in a skillet and started browning the leftover chicken thigh on one side and cooking the mushrooms on the other. When I deemed them cooked enough, I removed them and fried the bacon in the same skillet. While the bacon was frying, I put the chicken in the center of a small cast iron skillet and coated it with honey mustard to stick the bacon to it. I draped the bacon over, added more honey mustard glue and stuck on the mushrooms. The rest of the honey mustard went over the whole thing, and shredded mozzarella topped it off. I popped it into the preheated oven.
Twenty minutes later, we ate Aussie chicken for breakfast. I was an interesting combination of things I don't usually mix together, and tasted good. My husband is the world's greatest sport. When he cooks, he makes a special trip to the store to buy ingredients. He prints the recipe out, and follows the instructions slavishly, often taking the better part of the afternoon. His meals are always special. I, however, fly by the seat of my pants. From the time he watched the video to the time the last of the breakfast dishes went into the dish drainer was a total of 45 minutes.
"This looks interesting." I looked at the finished product.
"What does it have in it?"
"Chicken, bacon, honey mustard, mushrooms, and cheese." We had all those things in the kitchen.
"How did they make it?"
"They browned the chicken, cooked the bacon, sauteed the mushrooms, draped the bacon over the chicken, poured the honey mustard over the top, added the mushrooms and cheese and baked the whole thing in the oven."
"We're having Aussie Chicken for breakfast."
I went into the kitchen and started preheating the oven. I put equal portions of honey and mustard into a bowl and zapped them for 30 seconds while acquiring the other ingredients. The honey was no longer crystallized and they mixed together nicely. I drizzled olive oil in a skillet and started browning the leftover chicken thigh on one side and cooking the mushrooms on the other. When I deemed them cooked enough, I removed them and fried the bacon in the same skillet. While the bacon was frying, I put the chicken in the center of a small cast iron skillet and coated it with honey mustard to stick the bacon to it. I draped the bacon over, added more honey mustard glue and stuck on the mushrooms. The rest of the honey mustard went over the whole thing, and shredded mozzarella topped it off. I popped it into the preheated oven.
Twenty minutes later, we ate Aussie chicken for breakfast. I was an interesting combination of things I don't usually mix together, and tasted good. My husband is the world's greatest sport. When he cooks, he makes a special trip to the store to buy ingredients. He prints the recipe out, and follows the instructions slavishly, often taking the better part of the afternoon. His meals are always special. I, however, fly by the seat of my pants. From the time he watched the video to the time the last of the breakfast dishes went into the dish drainer was a total of 45 minutes.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Short cut, the long way around
When my children were in cross country, they had a meet in Wood River. The bus driver decided to take a short cut over Trail Creek. As they zipped along the seldom used road, they were happy that they would spend less time on the bus. Until they came to the sheep. Shepherds were using the road for it's original purpose, to trail 5000 sheep from their summer grazing to their winter home. There was not time to turn around and drive the usual route, so the bus picked its way through several miles of closely packed sheep before speeding on to Wood River. The runners arrived just in time to get off the bus and dash to the starting line before the starting gun.
I started working at Joshua D. Smith Foundation with developmentally disabled adults and soon found myself in charge of weaving, about which I knew nothing. The client had been warping her loom one thread at a time. It took about a month to put on warp for one rag rug, and one hour to weave it. I was sure there was a better way. I took home a weaving book and discovered that this was true. The warp could be measured for multiple rugs and all put on the loom at once. I was gung-ho for the attempt. Reading from the book, I saw many steps for accomplishing this. One thing I did not understand was the need for establishing a cross, so I just skipped that step. Egad. I had 360 threads six yards long and they all became tangled. It took many days to lay them out on the living room floor and establish a cross so I could put them on the loom.
Yet I continue to do this. Given written advice from experts, I try to streamline the process and find myself draining the swamp. Someday, I am going to have a rousing success and be the expert writing the book. Likely story.
I started working at Joshua D. Smith Foundation with developmentally disabled adults and soon found myself in charge of weaving, about which I knew nothing. The client had been warping her loom one thread at a time. It took about a month to put on warp for one rag rug, and one hour to weave it. I was sure there was a better way. I took home a weaving book and discovered that this was true. The warp could be measured for multiple rugs and all put on the loom at once. I was gung-ho for the attempt. Reading from the book, I saw many steps for accomplishing this. One thing I did not understand was the need for establishing a cross, so I just skipped that step. Egad. I had 360 threads six yards long and they all became tangled. It took many days to lay them out on the living room floor and establish a cross so I could put them on the loom.
Yet I continue to do this. Given written advice from experts, I try to streamline the process and find myself draining the swamp. Someday, I am going to have a rousing success and be the expert writing the book. Likely story.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Once a weaver...
When I discovered weaving, I found my destiny. From the first project, I knew I had been born to weave. I knew then why the sight of a loom had always drawn me like a magnet. I realized why I had such a compulsion to touch fabric.
The art and music classes I previously attended had been leading up to a symphony of color and structure I could hardly imagine.
I had learned in orchestra that the celli and double basses are playing what is called the ground. In weaving there is pattern and there is ground. Once I understood that the tabby weave on alternating threads provides a base from which the pattern threads can do their marvelous effects, I finally appreciated fully the wonderful work the lower strings, woodwinds and brass perform in building pleasing music.
In the garden, plants require nutrients and support which are furnished by the ground. Weaving showed me why tinkering with the soil before I plant is worthwhile. Ground weave is everywhere.
I have begun to see everything in terms of threads, color, and structure.
We got a string trimmer, which I have never used before. My husband explained the operation, the safety measures, and maintenance. I had only one question. "How do you advance the warp?"
The art and music classes I previously attended had been leading up to a symphony of color and structure I could hardly imagine.
I had learned in orchestra that the celli and double basses are playing what is called the ground. In weaving there is pattern and there is ground. Once I understood that the tabby weave on alternating threads provides a base from which the pattern threads can do their marvelous effects, I finally appreciated fully the wonderful work the lower strings, woodwinds and brass perform in building pleasing music.
In the garden, plants require nutrients and support which are furnished by the ground. Weaving showed me why tinkering with the soil before I plant is worthwhile. Ground weave is everywhere.
I have begun to see everything in terms of threads, color, and structure.
We got a string trimmer, which I have never used before. My husband explained the operation, the safety measures, and maintenance. I had only one question. "How do you advance the warp?"
Oops!
It is not in my makeup to do things by the book. When I cook, I look at my ingredients and see what needs to be used, and put those into whatever I am making. For instance, if I see insufficient applesauce for parceling out at dinner, I might dump it into cookies. My regular cookies are called "this and that". I take a bit of this and a bit of that and mix them together, then add whatever I think the batter needs to bake into cookies.
I do the same with meals. I look at cookbooks to get ideas and hints as to proper proportions, then substitute freely. Once a recipe turned out to be something wonderful, and I went to copy it into my personal file. I had substituted every ingredient for something the original specified.
When I am learning a new skill from a book, I should stick to the facts. I don't. I question every sentence. Why is this step necessary? If I cannot see any reason, I eliminate the step. Sometimes this works. Often, it does not. The first time I measured warp for multiple projects, I could not see a reason for maintaining a cross to keep the threads in order. After all, they were all the same color, all the same length, why did it matter which came first? I ended up with a tangled mess. I had to lay out 360 threads, each six yards long, on my living room floor, untangle them, and rebuild the cross. And I had to do it quickly, as several people and four dogs were regularly crossing said floor.
Now I know better than to do that particular thing. But I still look at what is prescribed, and choose another color, another structure, a different sett, vary the treadling and end up with something which bears no resemblance to the project I am "copying". Oops.
I do the same with meals. I look at cookbooks to get ideas and hints as to proper proportions, then substitute freely. Once a recipe turned out to be something wonderful, and I went to copy it into my personal file. I had substituted every ingredient for something the original specified.
When I am learning a new skill from a book, I should stick to the facts. I don't. I question every sentence. Why is this step necessary? If I cannot see any reason, I eliminate the step. Sometimes this works. Often, it does not. The first time I measured warp for multiple projects, I could not see a reason for maintaining a cross to keep the threads in order. After all, they were all the same color, all the same length, why did it matter which came first? I ended up with a tangled mess. I had to lay out 360 threads, each six yards long, on my living room floor, untangle them, and rebuild the cross. And I had to do it quickly, as several people and four dogs were regularly crossing said floor.
Now I know better than to do that particular thing. But I still look at what is prescribed, and choose another color, another structure, a different sett, vary the treadling and end up with something which bears no resemblance to the project I am "copying". Oops.
Playing against a stacked deck
Every now and then, in a burst of insanity, I attempt the impossible. The latest fiasco was signing up to take a quilt class. On the surface, it looked like a good deal. I was going to sew blocks 10" square which comprised only five pieces. I was sure I could learn the technique and then bang out the whole quilt top in a few days, getting ahead before the next grandchild to tied the knot. It was recommended we use batiks. I had them in my stash. I would not have to buy any materials.
So far, so good. I arrived at the first class with my batiks and rotary cutter, ready to do four hours of making small pieces out of big ones. The teacher said to layer the fabrics four deep, right sides up. One of the advantages of batiks is it is difficult to tell which is the right side, so I just layered and cut, carefully placing the "right side", namely the one that I had turned up while cutting, up when I sorted them into piles.
I carried my box of pieces home, ready to mix and match. I took one piece from each of five piles, laid them out to see if they made a pleasing block, and stuck them into plastic zip bags. When I began, it was easy to get five different fabrics into each block, but as I eliminated them, the less favored batiks began to overweight. In order to prevent duplication, I had to raid my plastic bags and exchange.
Therein lay the seeds of disaster. Pieces got turned over. They would still sew together, but would not make a rectangular block. Every seam was curved, too. This meant that one could not just match up corners and sew. I found myself ripping out 57% of all seams sewn. Although I have always loved batiks, I had profound regrets for the duration of the construction.
The quilt turned out fine, and my hair was already grey, so no harm came of it.
So far, so good. I arrived at the first class with my batiks and rotary cutter, ready to do four hours of making small pieces out of big ones. The teacher said to layer the fabrics four deep, right sides up. One of the advantages of batiks is it is difficult to tell which is the right side, so I just layered and cut, carefully placing the "right side", namely the one that I had turned up while cutting, up when I sorted them into piles.
I carried my box of pieces home, ready to mix and match. I took one piece from each of five piles, laid them out to see if they made a pleasing block, and stuck them into plastic zip bags. When I began, it was easy to get five different fabrics into each block, but as I eliminated them, the less favored batiks began to overweight. In order to prevent duplication, I had to raid my plastic bags and exchange.
Therein lay the seeds of disaster. Pieces got turned over. They would still sew together, but would not make a rectangular block. Every seam was curved, too. This meant that one could not just match up corners and sew. I found myself ripping out 57% of all seams sewn. Although I have always loved batiks, I had profound regrets for the duration of the construction.
The quilt turned out fine, and my hair was already grey, so no harm came of it.
Dancing with threads
One of the best things about learning a craft is there are so many aspects to master. When I took up weaving I found fascination for a lifetime.
In the early days, the challenge was merely to measure the warp and get it onto the loom, threaded, sleyed, and tied without crossing threads or skipping dents. Then I had to learn to wind a good bobbin and pirn. There were the arts of throwing the shot and treadling the pattern to acquire. It is difficult to maintain a steady beat over a number of sessions, but it must be done. Working with multiple shuttles introduced a whole new skill of thread management.
I had not realized that one loom would lead to another, and another, and another. Each one requires different skills and techniques and brings different satisfactions. Working with a wide range of fibres has led me to appreciate the specific characteristics of each. I am learning which to use for different projects.
Of course, there are many weave structures beyond the one up, one down I learned in elementary school. Some are repetitive so weaving becomes a type of meditation. Others are complicated and require full attention. Some require close setts, others wide ones. Wefts can be as coarse as rag strips and upholstery selvedges for rugs, or as fine as spun silk, so matching the technique to the materials is also a learning experience. Looms can malfunction, warp threads can break, threading and treadling sequences can introduce errors into the fabric, all of which must be repaired or integrated into the whole.
As I have desired more control of outcomes, I have been led to adjacent paths such as spinning and dyeing. There are also a plethora of finishing techniques from hemstitching to fringe twisting to waulking. The more of these I use, the more I can predict the results of my efforts.
Now I know enough to daydream. What if...
In the early days, the challenge was merely to measure the warp and get it onto the loom, threaded, sleyed, and tied without crossing threads or skipping dents. Then I had to learn to wind a good bobbin and pirn. There were the arts of throwing the shot and treadling the pattern to acquire. It is difficult to maintain a steady beat over a number of sessions, but it must be done. Working with multiple shuttles introduced a whole new skill of thread management.
I had not realized that one loom would lead to another, and another, and another. Each one requires different skills and techniques and brings different satisfactions. Working with a wide range of fibres has led me to appreciate the specific characteristics of each. I am learning which to use for different projects.
Of course, there are many weave structures beyond the one up, one down I learned in elementary school. Some are repetitive so weaving becomes a type of meditation. Others are complicated and require full attention. Some require close setts, others wide ones. Wefts can be as coarse as rag strips and upholstery selvedges for rugs, or as fine as spun silk, so matching the technique to the materials is also a learning experience. Looms can malfunction, warp threads can break, threading and treadling sequences can introduce errors into the fabric, all of which must be repaired or integrated into the whole.
As I have desired more control of outcomes, I have been led to adjacent paths such as spinning and dyeing. There are also a plethora of finishing techniques from hemstitching to fringe twisting to waulking. The more of these I use, the more I can predict the results of my efforts.
Now I know enough to daydream. What if...
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Dawdling and gawking
It seems whenever we have gone anywhere in the car, we hurried. If visiting family, we minimized driving time to enhance family time. Now that we are retired, I have decided this is silly. Once after the Jerabek reunion, we took a leisurely trip back to Phoenix. Lillian had not gone to the reunion and Bill, Marvin and John had flown home. Consequently, it was William, Marilyn, Jennifer and I in the car on the return trip. Christine was born the following October, so by the end of August, lengthy sitting was becoming a problem for me. To break up the trip, we began to visit tourist traps. We enjoyed the world's largest hand-dug well, the Dalton brothers' hideout, El Morro National Monument, Meteor Crater, and Montezuma's Castle. Not only did we learn some fascinating bits of history, but got some exercise.
Last week we went to Moscow to visit Benjamin. At my insistence, we took the scenic route down the Lochsa and Clearwater Rivers instead of I-90. The scenery was marvelous. We actually stopped to read historical markers, and visited the Dworshak Dam. At breakfast in Kooksia, we found a SCENIC IDAHO pamphlet. Instead of zipping home via the Interstate as planned, we could take the White Pine scenic byway and the St. Joe River scenic byway. So we did. It was refreshing to drive at a pace slower than the speed limit, pulling over to admire the view when the winding roads became tiresome. Yes, the trip took two days each way instead of one, but we arrived home refreshed.
Last week we went to Moscow to visit Benjamin. At my insistence, we took the scenic route down the Lochsa and Clearwater Rivers instead of I-90. The scenery was marvelous. We actually stopped to read historical markers, and visited the Dworshak Dam. At breakfast in Kooksia, we found a SCENIC IDAHO pamphlet. Instead of zipping home via the Interstate as planned, we could take the White Pine scenic byway and the St. Joe River scenic byway. So we did. It was refreshing to drive at a pace slower than the speed limit, pulling over to admire the view when the winding roads became tiresome. Yes, the trip took two days each way instead of one, but we arrived home refreshed.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Free food
I was introduced to free food by my father. He found chokecherries during a hike near Riley Lake, where we used to vacation, picked them, and brought them back to the cabin. For a whole afternoon, we prepared the berries, juiced them through a jelly bag and made chokecherry jelly. He was sure they had plenty of pectin, and the jelly set up nicely.
My next experience was on a Girl Scout hike. We found lots of blackberries in a hedgerow and picked them into our hats. They were added to our homemade ice cream that evening. Delicious.
Since then, I have scavenged apples, peaches, chokecherries, blueberries, raspberries, currants and other fruit growing wild on untended trees and bushes. I have also eaten morel mushrooms, nettles, pigweed, purslane, wintergreen, mint and other found edibles.
Once, while wandering in the woods picking blueberries with James, he asked me if I knew where we were. I knew we were north of the railroad tracks, west of Wolf Lake road, and south of Second River, but I told him I wasn't exactly sure where. To him, the world was divided into "know where you are" and "lost". He suggested we begin building a shelter in which to winter! He was much relieved a few minutes later to discover we were within hailing distance of the house.
Also in Michigan, I took a job picking raspberries. The owner of the patch had a policy of paying his pickers in berries. At first, there were many pickers getting a few raspberries for jam, but as the season wore on, they stopped coming. Since the owner had health issues and was unable to pick the berries himself, I kept coming every day and dealing with berries every night for the remainder of the season. We had raspberries for years thereafter.
This week, I visited my favorite serviceberry patch and came home with a five-quart pailful. As I reached up to pull down an especially fine branch, I distinctly heard my first husband singing:
"the higher up the cherry tree the sweeter grows the cherry
the more you hug and kiss the girls, the sooner they will marry"
My next experience was on a Girl Scout hike. We found lots of blackberries in a hedgerow and picked them into our hats. They were added to our homemade ice cream that evening. Delicious.
Since then, I have scavenged apples, peaches, chokecherries, blueberries, raspberries, currants and other fruit growing wild on untended trees and bushes. I have also eaten morel mushrooms, nettles, pigweed, purslane, wintergreen, mint and other found edibles.
Once, while wandering in the woods picking blueberries with James, he asked me if I knew where we were. I knew we were north of the railroad tracks, west of Wolf Lake road, and south of Second River, but I told him I wasn't exactly sure where. To him, the world was divided into "know where you are" and "lost". He suggested we begin building a shelter in which to winter! He was much relieved a few minutes later to discover we were within hailing distance of the house.
Also in Michigan, I took a job picking raspberries. The owner of the patch had a policy of paying his pickers in berries. At first, there were many pickers getting a few raspberries for jam, but as the season wore on, they stopped coming. Since the owner had health issues and was unable to pick the berries himself, I kept coming every day and dealing with berries every night for the remainder of the season. We had raspberries for years thereafter.
This week, I visited my favorite serviceberry patch and came home with a five-quart pailful. As I reached up to pull down an especially fine branch, I distinctly heard my first husband singing:
"the higher up the cherry tree the sweeter grows the cherry
the more you hug and kiss the girls, the sooner they will marry"
Friday, July 13, 2012
Ricochet
Our family made a mass journey to the hot springs during cousins' week. It is a 2+ mile hike with the steepest terrain at the end of the trip. I was plodding along in the rear with the younger grandchildren until we reached the last stretch, at which point they burst forth joyously and I was panting to catch up. Soon I was having to rest after every ten steps. I had not realized I was in such poor shape. Finally, I stopped altogether. I could see the piles of clothing and backpacks ahead, but I just couldn't take another step. I wanted to just sit down and cry for my lost youth. When I had made this hike with my scouts only ten or twelve years ago, I kept up with them fine. My daughter was waiting patiently for me to recover. "Just go on up", I said. "I'll come along at my own pace." She looked me full in the face. "I'm not leaving you. I'ts called the buddy system." I wonder who drilled that into her brain.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Happy Father's Day
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Rainbooooooooh
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Semantics
Today I invented a new word. Our dog, Hermann, has decided to talk to us. He discovered that when he breathes heavily, we immediately take notice. At first, we thought he was having some sort of respiratory crisis. We ran over to see what was the matter. He was very pleased, and obviously not in distress. The next day he did it again, with the same results. "Ah. When I do this, my humans pay attention." In a matter of days, we realized that he was using panting to give us information. He would go near his food dish and pant. Sure enough, he was out of food or water. When we were eating something he really wanted, he would not only sit nearby, but pant loudly for a bite. Usually, at about ten in the morning, he and Vinson take a walk. Today Vince was on the computer. Hermann came to the door of the computer room and panted. Then he lay down and waited. Vinson kept doing what he was doing. Hermann stood up and panted more LOUDLY. "I think Mr. Hermann is ready for his walk." Vince came to a stopping point and took the dog, Hermann looking very smug as they went out. I decided to name this form of communication, combining participation, anticipation and pant, I came up with panticipation. Now I am looking smug.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Fountain of ink
My mother was the ambassador of the fountain pen. Long after the ball point had become the new standard, she was still using her trusty Esterbrook. We had all been taught to use the fountain pen in elementary school. Each of us had a bottle of Scrips permanent blue-black in our desk to refill when our pens went dry. To do this, we immersed the point into the bottle and pulled a lever on the side of the pen, expelling whatever ink remained, then as we slowly returned the lever to its original position, a rubber bladder inside the barrel sucked up a new supply of ink. A quick blot with a tissue, and we were ready to go again.
Once, in fifth grade, I was giving a talk and my classmates were duly taking notes with their fountain pens. One of the boys in the front row was having trouble with his pen. He thought he might be out of ink, so he pulled the lever to check. A spurt of ink flew forth, landing squarely on the front of my white blouse.
Fountain pens were especially dangerous for left-handed writers. The ink went onto the paper wet, and if the following hand dragged across the new line of writing, it would smear. Lefties soon learned to write from below or hook their hands down from the top, resting on ink that had already dried. The fountain pen had another bugaboo, too. The ink came down a channel between two sharp points, and if the points dug fibers from the paper, the ink flowed freely and made a puddle. Each of us had a blotting paper to soak up this puddle as quickly as it was noticed. Teachers hated blots, and if the work was to be turned in for a grade, it had to be redone.
I, too, loved my Esterbrook. The manufacturer made a series of interchangeable points, some especially for left-handed people. If your point became too dull to write, you could purchase another. I have no idea how many new points my mother purchased. She was a prolific correspondent. Not only did she write to her far-flung children almost every week, she wrote to her college friends, her congressman, her godson, her former students, and, at Christmas wrote hundreds of letters, all by hand. Her favorite ink was peacock blue. She always had some on hand. When Scrips was going to discontinue that color, her local supplier informed her and she bought a whole case. Even so, she outlived it.
Once, in fifth grade, I was giving a talk and my classmates were duly taking notes with their fountain pens. One of the boys in the front row was having trouble with his pen. He thought he might be out of ink, so he pulled the lever to check. A spurt of ink flew forth, landing squarely on the front of my white blouse.
Fountain pens were especially dangerous for left-handed writers. The ink went onto the paper wet, and if the following hand dragged across the new line of writing, it would smear. Lefties soon learned to write from below or hook their hands down from the top, resting on ink that had already dried. The fountain pen had another bugaboo, too. The ink came down a channel between two sharp points, and if the points dug fibers from the paper, the ink flowed freely and made a puddle. Each of us had a blotting paper to soak up this puddle as quickly as it was noticed. Teachers hated blots, and if the work was to be turned in for a grade, it had to be redone.
I, too, loved my Esterbrook. The manufacturer made a series of interchangeable points, some especially for left-handed people. If your point became too dull to write, you could purchase another. I have no idea how many new points my mother purchased. She was a prolific correspondent. Not only did she write to her far-flung children almost every week, she wrote to her college friends, her congressman, her godson, her former students, and, at Christmas wrote hundreds of letters, all by hand. Her favorite ink was peacock blue. She always had some on hand. When Scrips was going to discontinue that color, her local supplier informed her and she bought a whole case. Even so, she outlived it.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Sing, heavenly moose
The Muses were nine daughters of Zeus in Greek mythology. They inspired art, poetry, dancing, music, writing and other cultural pursuits. When humans desired inspiration in these fields, they often appealed to the Muses for help. When I was in high school, our English class was reading poetry aloud. One of my classmates had apparently never heard the word pronounced (myooz) and amused us all by boldly reading "Sing, heavenly moose!" I am hoping to have inspiration for the musings I plan to write in this blog.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Arcane weaving terms
I love to play Scrabble, a game that flexes both my imagination and my vocabulary. Terminology from specialized fields can be problematic if an appropriate dictionary is not used. I often play what my son calls "arcane weaving terms" such as weft, sett, heddle, batten, pirn, tromp, and thrum. He is surprised to find them in a standard dictionary. I assure him that these are in current use, at the same time feeling a connection to my weaving ancestors. Thrums are what remain on the loom after a project is completed and cut off. When they, too, are removed, they are commonly referred to as loom waste. In this blog they are the stuff of memories.
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