Here it is August, the eighth month that was originally the sixth month til the Romans messed with the calendar. August, the month that's mostly about anticipation: when will the heat subside, when will the kids get back in the school, when will football reign, when will the yard quench its unsatiable thirst. August, the month that Chicago residents recently dubbed one of their least favorite, at the bottom of the list of faves, along with November. August, the month that one Slate columnist (David Plotz) proposed eliminating, citing its miserable heat, dismal history and inconsequence, saying it was like the Mississippi River, something we'd be better off without.
Not sure I agree with the August bashers. I like August. It's a trigger month for me. It always triggers in my mind the notion of corduroy, plush, mysterious corduroy. Look at it one way, it's deep-toned and a bit rough. Turn it around, it's sleek and lighter. I remember corduroy jumpers were part of our August world. These wonderfully versatile garments offered a way to expand a girl's wardrobe, with one swift switch. A white blouse under a black corduroy jumper, one with a rick-rack trimmed full-circle skirt, could launch the jumper to exquisite primness, while a tartan plaid top could rouse images of lockers, lunch bells, and eraser dust. These are August images. I gifted my daughter with this same seasonal fashion: her back-to-school wardrobe, stitched up in late summer, typically had at least one piece of lush, ribbed corduroy. Corduroy and August just go together in my mind, like root beer and vanilla ice cream.
Corduroy jumpers are not the only thing I like about August. The month also triggers the image of air shows, not performed by fighter jets, but by tiny, big-mouthed swallows. These diminutive aeronauts are amazing. My late husband and I used to plunk lawn chairs in the middle of our large back yard, then sit quite still as the air show launched. Rusty-breasted barn swallows would swoop, zip, dive, roll, and soar all around us, sweeping the evening sky for hapless insects, fanning their distinctive vees of tail. Our neighborhood, plush green from cheap irrigation water, lured mosquitos and they brought in the swallow squadrons. We were stunned, repeatedly shocked, that these jockeys didn't collide, with each other, with us, with the many trees and shrubs in our yard. We loved the exhilarating swallow air shows: a treat that came our way each August.
Another August treat drops off trees, pops out of freezers. I'm talking about the indescribable wonder of fresh, local peaches dressing up a dish of good vanilla ice cream. A dessert fiend I'm not, but in August, I'm on the prowl. Gimme the succulent fuzzy globe. I'll pit it, slice it, smother it with sweet vanilla chill. I'll make each serving a long, slow, meander along my taste buds. I'll sit, as I did last night, in the green chamber of backyard, bringing each spoonful deliberately to my mouth, letting the peach land first, crowned by the ice cream, then letting the blissful concoction melt, dissolve, find its way to my tummy. I'll wait a bit before taking on the next spoonful. Savor this blessing. Savor each bit of August.
August-bashers can attack the month, but I like it. I like the name, as it sounds dignified. My grandfather's first name was August; my father's middle name was August. It's a name I like. Detractors say that the month is flawed because there is no national holiday. But what about all the wonderful, if lesser known, celebrations in August? Here are some of my favorites, along with their celebration dates: National Ice Cream Sandwich Day (2nd); Wiggle Your Toes Day (6th); National Polka Festival!!!(9th); Middle Child Day (that's me) (12th); Bratwurst Festival (16th); National Spongecake Day (23rd); and World Sauntering Day (28th).
With all these things to celebrate, what's not to like about August?
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Take It Outside
I went this week to an outdoor jazz concert with a stunning, sweet friend of mine. We lolled on rolling grass and sipped our way through the evening, encased in a summer eve's blue dome. Near the end of the concert, a plump moon lifted off from the hill behind us. Guess she wanted to see what was going on.
Outdoor concerts are my favorite. People just seem to be more attuned to relaxing and having fun. For most folks, weather conditions aren't a huge factor. Last year, my daughter and I danced to the Gypsy Kings in light rain...didn't matter. A few years earlier, she and I savored B B King playing at the same gorgeous location. It rained, soft brush of moisture, on us for most of the concert. B B King encouraged us to endure the wet, telling us that "pain is part of the blues."
This summer I get to go to at least three more outdoor shows: Pink Martini at the Portland zoo, Doobie Brothers at Edgefield, and Ozomatli near the Seattle Space Needle. This trio of outside shows is going wrap my musical summer up nicely.
I've been thinking about the pleasure of outdoor music and that led me elsewhere: to those activities that we typically do indoors, activities that take on special meaning when we do them outside. I recall the giddiness of sleeping out as a child, stuffing ourselves into our flannel sleeping bags in the back yard, trying to stay awake as long as possible, digging deeper into the cocoon as the temperatures dropped, then waking up cheerily with the sun. I recently posted about sleeping outside in my hammock: pure heaven. My wonderful grandnieces have been sleeping outside, with their folks, on a big trampoline. How fun is that!
Sleeping's not the only activity that's more fun outside than in. Dining, reading, knitting, chatting, playing games...they are all embellished on a stage of tree and sky. When my mom and I join my sis and her husband at a beautiful beach-side house in California, we set up jigsaw puzzles on the deck. Somehow the marine vista improves our puzzle-solving skills. Must say that knitting in my back yard, plunked in a gorgeous Adirondack chair my late husband made, feet perched on a stool, totally surrounded by green that's punctuated with white, magenta, deep violet, and baby pink blossoms, is one of my favorite things to do.
Yes, the outdoors is made for human activities. I'm wanting to expand my realm of fresh air things to include taking a shower. Several designs for an outdoor shower are floating through my imagination. My favorite so far is a wooden frame filled with river rock (for drainage)from which rises a tall pipe and shower head. Don't really want a "curtain," so will have to figure out how to provide needed privacy. Showering outside is a fabulous way to get clean. My late husband and I did that often, whether it was while backpacking, enjoying the incredible pleasure of warm water from our solar showers or while traveling in our truck and camper. He would turn the water heater on and, within an hour, find a perfect place for us to shower, using the external shower on the camper. My goodness, does showering outside at 9,000 feet, in the pines with no one within miles, feel fabulous! As does shampooing in high desert, with thousands of acres of stunningly stark vista as the backdrop!
Outside. I like the idea of taking it outside, no matter what the "it" is. I'll treasure these outdoor times and will reluctantly take my activities inside as the planet tilts toward the cold.
Outdoor concerts are my favorite. People just seem to be more attuned to relaxing and having fun. For most folks, weather conditions aren't a huge factor. Last year, my daughter and I danced to the Gypsy Kings in light rain...didn't matter. A few years earlier, she and I savored B B King playing at the same gorgeous location. It rained, soft brush of moisture, on us for most of the concert. B B King encouraged us to endure the wet, telling us that "pain is part of the blues."
This summer I get to go to at least three more outdoor shows: Pink Martini at the Portland zoo, Doobie Brothers at Edgefield, and Ozomatli near the Seattle Space Needle. This trio of outside shows is going wrap my musical summer up nicely.
I've been thinking about the pleasure of outdoor music and that led me elsewhere: to those activities that we typically do indoors, activities that take on special meaning when we do them outside. I recall the giddiness of sleeping out as a child, stuffing ourselves into our flannel sleeping bags in the back yard, trying to stay awake as long as possible, digging deeper into the cocoon as the temperatures dropped, then waking up cheerily with the sun. I recently posted about sleeping outside in my hammock: pure heaven. My wonderful grandnieces have been sleeping outside, with their folks, on a big trampoline. How fun is that!
Sleeping's not the only activity that's more fun outside than in. Dining, reading, knitting, chatting, playing games...they are all embellished on a stage of tree and sky. When my mom and I join my sis and her husband at a beautiful beach-side house in California, we set up jigsaw puzzles on the deck. Somehow the marine vista improves our puzzle-solving skills. Must say that knitting in my back yard, plunked in a gorgeous Adirondack chair my late husband made, feet perched on a stool, totally surrounded by green that's punctuated with white, magenta, deep violet, and baby pink blossoms, is one of my favorite things to do.
Yes, the outdoors is made for human activities. I'm wanting to expand my realm of fresh air things to include taking a shower. Several designs for an outdoor shower are floating through my imagination. My favorite so far is a wooden frame filled with river rock (for drainage)from which rises a tall pipe and shower head. Don't really want a "curtain," so will have to figure out how to provide needed privacy. Showering outside is a fabulous way to get clean. My late husband and I did that often, whether it was while backpacking, enjoying the incredible pleasure of warm water from our solar showers or while traveling in our truck and camper. He would turn the water heater on and, within an hour, find a perfect place for us to shower, using the external shower on the camper. My goodness, does showering outside at 9,000 feet, in the pines with no one within miles, feel fabulous! As does shampooing in high desert, with thousands of acres of stunningly stark vista as the backdrop!
Outside. I like the idea of taking it outside, no matter what the "it" is. I'll treasure these outdoor times and will reluctantly take my activities inside as the planet tilts toward the cold.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Things Left Behind
My cousins are cleaning house: the house their parents have lived in for decades. The task is daunting.
It makes me think of personal artifacts, of all the "essential" things we pull toward us and store attentively. Should archeologists profile us for feature stories in Intergalactic Geographic, what would they find? What "things" are we leaving for those who follow?
My cousin told me of finding sugar and creamer packets in her dad's travel bag. I found plastic toothpicks, scores of them, in my late husband's road case. I wondered "How many of these gadgets does a guy need?" and then sobbed. His office mates brought me seven boxes of his work possessions. One box was populated with ten years of biweekly pay stubs (that's 260 of them!) arranged, of course, chronologically. I was told that such an accummulation was common in the desks of that unit (left-brain scientist types).
My mom warns me of the impending chores we will have sorting through her belongings. I remind her that I may beat her to it, impudently causing her to go through my things! All the dolls, the pottery, the paper memorabilia, the other antiques, the fabric, and, oh yeah, the yarn! What, indeed, would archeologists make of the miles and miles and miles of spun fiber I have? Wool, alpaca, camel, linen, cotton, tencel, rayon, seaweed and even dog hair fibers are in my yarn stash. What does that all mean? And then there are the folds of fabric! Will future generations understand how darling that brown fake fur vest, lined with perfectly matched brown/black brocade would have been? To them, it may just look like some fuzzy and shiny brown stuff. And the beads! The tiny dogwood blossom necklace being made of freshwater pearls and delicate sable-colored seed beads, following directions in Japanese with (thank goodness) excellent diagrams; will it mean anything to anyone? Sea glass, shells, dried seed pods: these are all destined to be incredible artistic creations! Honestly!
The garage hosts even more artifacts, clutched close in a decade of prowling antique stores and shows, as well as flea markets and yard sales. Tools, dolls, books, pottery: will these priceless items land my estate administrator daughter on the Antiques Roadshow or the terrifying show about hoarders? And what about all the outdoor equipment that no longer gets outside the garage: the snowshoes, backpacks, skis, canoe paddles. What about those? And what about the books? Seinfeld said there's no reason to keep a book once you've read it. Wish I could be that way. I'd have thirteen fewer boxes in my garage. And what about the boxes labeled "Misc?" Scary, what could be in those. May be precious scrapbook spawn or incredibly insignificant brochures. A miasma. So hazy. I don't like thinking about this one bit.
The advice to simplify, to shed ourselves of possessions, is so sensible and so very difficult to follow. And yet, when I listen to my cousins, when I talk to my mom, when I look in my garage and my sewing room, I think that the counsel to rid ourselves of things is very wise. Not just so we can focus on what is truly important to us on this particular day, but so we can spare those who follow the gargantuan task of sorting through all the things left behind.
It makes me think of personal artifacts, of all the "essential" things we pull toward us and store attentively. Should archeologists profile us for feature stories in Intergalactic Geographic, what would they find? What "things" are we leaving for those who follow?
My cousin told me of finding sugar and creamer packets in her dad's travel bag. I found plastic toothpicks, scores of them, in my late husband's road case. I wondered "How many of these gadgets does a guy need?" and then sobbed. His office mates brought me seven boxes of his work possessions. One box was populated with ten years of biweekly pay stubs (that's 260 of them!) arranged, of course, chronologically. I was told that such an accummulation was common in the desks of that unit (left-brain scientist types).
My mom warns me of the impending chores we will have sorting through her belongings. I remind her that I may beat her to it, impudently causing her to go through my things! All the dolls, the pottery, the paper memorabilia, the other antiques, the fabric, and, oh yeah, the yarn! What, indeed, would archeologists make of the miles and miles and miles of spun fiber I have? Wool, alpaca, camel, linen, cotton, tencel, rayon, seaweed and even dog hair fibers are in my yarn stash. What does that all mean? And then there are the folds of fabric! Will future generations understand how darling that brown fake fur vest, lined with perfectly matched brown/black brocade would have been? To them, it may just look like some fuzzy and shiny brown stuff. And the beads! The tiny dogwood blossom necklace being made of freshwater pearls and delicate sable-colored seed beads, following directions in Japanese with (thank goodness) excellent diagrams; will it mean anything to anyone? Sea glass, shells, dried seed pods: these are all destined to be incredible artistic creations! Honestly!
The garage hosts even more artifacts, clutched close in a decade of prowling antique stores and shows, as well as flea markets and yard sales. Tools, dolls, books, pottery: will these priceless items land my estate administrator daughter on the Antiques Roadshow or the terrifying show about hoarders? And what about all the outdoor equipment that no longer gets outside the garage: the snowshoes, backpacks, skis, canoe paddles. What about those? And what about the books? Seinfeld said there's no reason to keep a book once you've read it. Wish I could be that way. I'd have thirteen fewer boxes in my garage. And what about the boxes labeled "Misc?" Scary, what could be in those. May be precious scrapbook spawn or incredibly insignificant brochures. A miasma. So hazy. I don't like thinking about this one bit.
The advice to simplify, to shed ourselves of possessions, is so sensible and so very difficult to follow. And yet, when I listen to my cousins, when I talk to my mom, when I look in my garage and my sewing room, I think that the counsel to rid ourselves of things is very wise. Not just so we can focus on what is truly important to us on this particular day, but so we can spare those who follow the gargantuan task of sorting through all the things left behind.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Sling
I'm a fabric fanatic. Give me yardage and I'll be happy. Love feeling high thread-count cotton, peering at intricate damask, feeling smooth ridges of twill, nuzzling the lambskin cuddle of wool, anticipating the regal primness of ironed linen. I really like turning strips of fabric into clothing, table ware, purses, curtains and toys. One of my favorite fabric constructs is the hammock I made last summer. It was an emergency. I was having an outdoor party and one of the planned lounging sites was a hammock, a wonderful green cotton hammock suspended from two thick wooden rods on a green metal frame. I had inherited it from my dad, who used it, on the rare occasions that he rested, on a deck in mountain pines.
Testing the hammock to make sure I had the tension set right, I ruined it. My frame split the canvas, worn by lots of summer sun, and rendered it useless. What was I to do?
Seeing a heroic moment in the making, I rushed to my favorite fabric store, Caledonia, and sought the assistance of one of its beautiful owners, Dorothy. She helped me find high quality, tightly woven cotton decorating fabric (Waverly, I think) in coordinating plaid and toile prints of forest green and ivory. Perfect! Dorothy gave me wizard's counsel: here's how to do this, and this, and this. And don't forget this. I rushed home, sewed it as she instructed, mounted it on the green metal frame and had a beautiful, handcrafted piece of furniture in my sweet summer yard. It was perfect!
I tested it out. It was ideal. I was set, not just for this party, but for lots of summer time. Since then, I've savored my shifts in the sling. I have grown to really appreciate those ingenious folks who first strung a swath of fabric from one outdoor point to another. Hammocks have been used in lots of settings, from lush jungle to varnished boat deck to palm-studded beach. They're very practical: protecting tropical snoozers from insects, reptiles, and disease; helping nautical dozers sleep in high seas; and enabling "light touch" campers to enjoy high mountain stays with minimal impact.
But the practicality of the hammock isn't why I like it so much. It's the view. When I'm in my hammock, I look up, up into the canopy. When I first got my dad's hammock, I tested it out under various trees in our big, riverside yard. Apple tree shade is different from walnut tree shade and those are both different from that spread by ponderosa pine, apricot tree, and aspen. My husband thought I was a bit crazy, dragging the hammock around from spot to spot, reclining for a bit, then moving it to new shade. I learned a lot about shade, discovering that my favorite shade was that of the apple tree.
Now I'm sheltered by a huge elm tree and that canopy is a universe in itself. A few days ago I watched a squirrel take a nap for nearly an hour, tucked in a crook of branch and trunk. I have traced the amazing stunt flights of house sparrows zipping through branches to land in the chickadee nesting box. I have chuckled at the gilded blitz of goldfinches, dining upside down on the thistle feeder. I have tracked delicate drifts of leaves as breezes meander through the yard.
One of my favorite hammock times is when the sun exits. Dusk is a lyrical hammock time, as birds finish their sonatas and the sky becomes a pale quilt appliqued with dark leaf shapes. Once the ink covers the sky, the hammock spot is even more enchanting. Through the canopy pop stars and planets and cloud drifts and planes. I slept in the hammock for part of the night this week, comforted by the golden retriever asleep right next to me. I was safe that night, protected from insects, reptiles, rough seas, and boredom. The sling in the yard suspended me above the mundane of everyday routine, a precious gift I'm going to enjoy often.
Testing the hammock to make sure I had the tension set right, I ruined it. My frame split the canvas, worn by lots of summer sun, and rendered it useless. What was I to do?
Seeing a heroic moment in the making, I rushed to my favorite fabric store, Caledonia, and sought the assistance of one of its beautiful owners, Dorothy. She helped me find high quality, tightly woven cotton decorating fabric (Waverly, I think) in coordinating plaid and toile prints of forest green and ivory. Perfect! Dorothy gave me wizard's counsel: here's how to do this, and this, and this. And don't forget this. I rushed home, sewed it as she instructed, mounted it on the green metal frame and had a beautiful, handcrafted piece of furniture in my sweet summer yard. It was perfect!
I tested it out. It was ideal. I was set, not just for this party, but for lots of summer time. Since then, I've savored my shifts in the sling. I have grown to really appreciate those ingenious folks who first strung a swath of fabric from one outdoor point to another. Hammocks have been used in lots of settings, from lush jungle to varnished boat deck to palm-studded beach. They're very practical: protecting tropical snoozers from insects, reptiles, and disease; helping nautical dozers sleep in high seas; and enabling "light touch" campers to enjoy high mountain stays with minimal impact.
But the practicality of the hammock isn't why I like it so much. It's the view. When I'm in my hammock, I look up, up into the canopy. When I first got my dad's hammock, I tested it out under various trees in our big, riverside yard. Apple tree shade is different from walnut tree shade and those are both different from that spread by ponderosa pine, apricot tree, and aspen. My husband thought I was a bit crazy, dragging the hammock around from spot to spot, reclining for a bit, then moving it to new shade. I learned a lot about shade, discovering that my favorite shade was that of the apple tree.
Now I'm sheltered by a huge elm tree and that canopy is a universe in itself. A few days ago I watched a squirrel take a nap for nearly an hour, tucked in a crook of branch and trunk. I have traced the amazing stunt flights of house sparrows zipping through branches to land in the chickadee nesting box. I have chuckled at the gilded blitz of goldfinches, dining upside down on the thistle feeder. I have tracked delicate drifts of leaves as breezes meander through the yard.
One of my favorite hammock times is when the sun exits. Dusk is a lyrical hammock time, as birds finish their sonatas and the sky becomes a pale quilt appliqued with dark leaf shapes. Once the ink covers the sky, the hammock spot is even more enchanting. Through the canopy pop stars and planets and cloud drifts and planes. I slept in the hammock for part of the night this week, comforted by the golden retriever asleep right next to me. I was safe that night, protected from insects, reptiles, rough seas, and boredom. The sling in the yard suspended me above the mundane of everyday routine, a precious gift I'm going to enjoy often.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Sweet Part of Summer
If I had to choose a favorite season, I'd pick fall. Something just comes alive in me when it's time to get out my red chamois shirt, the one with lots of holes worn in the sleeves. It's been my autumn companion for decades. Maybe I like this season because I'm a Libra; who can say.
But a close runner up, in the All-Time Perfect Season category, would be early summer. I'm not talking August here. Weeks of three digit heat, frazzled flower beds, air choked with forest fire smoke, sizzling cars, iced offices: not my idea of summer.
The summer I'm liking is the one that's outside the door right now. Mellow. Moist. Rich. Sweet as can be. That's the summer I like.
Just mowed the lawn and then set out a sprinkler. Oh my goodness...look at the shocking purple of those six foot larkspur! I know they're toxic to cattle, but can you imagine a more regal and, at the same time, scruffy flower! Some kind of gypsy flora, I'm thinking. While mowing, I apologized to the bees for chopping off the giddy white spheres of flower on the clover. The lawn looked like it had been hammered with hail before I mowed. Saddened that I took the bees' treasure, I referred them to the hundreds of Barbie-pink pentstemon, the gawky stalks of yarrow, and the inviting pastel cups of mallow. I also reminded them that the clover would be back in a few days.
In early summer, plants are in a good mood. They're not stressed, quite yet, with Sol's stare. Among the happy blooms are columbine. I like the whimsy of yellow columbine clamboring around in my aspen grove. Posted in an idyllic setting of dappled shade, rattly leaves, and moisture, these odd-shaped blooms are thriving. Columbine, whose scientific name refers to their eagle-like shape, are fun flowers. They're hardy and long-lived and prolific. Columbine greet me in late spring, keep blooming for months, and generously spawn new generations.
I'm liking the early summer explosion of the giantic shade tree in my back yard. A "trash" tree, this elm is demeaned by power company staff and horticulturalists alike. But mine is SO huge and shades the house so well, that I rarely need to turn on the air conditioning. It is my summertime friend. Right now, this tree is draping long strands of lovely green leaves above the yard like a Southern debutante. Oh my! Just look at this sweet shade, will you, Ellie Mae?
And the summer morning sounds! I tune out the neighbors' mowers et al and zero in on the gossipy sparrow chirp, the lilting giggle of goldfinch, and the sharp curse of crow. Earlier killdeer and robin had offered their hymns to morning and, on our run, quail broadcast and red-winged blackbird trilled.
The aromas of early summer are hard to match. When I unlock my front door, the fruity sweet of petunia and cranebill geranium greet me. When I perch next to the hummingbird haven, it's the tangy drift of lavendar, phlox, and delphinium. And when I wander to the raised beds, it's the lucious explosion of just-ripe strawberry and the rich pinch of dill and cilantro before they bolt. Mint and oregano rim many flower beds and they're spraying their scent everywhere, all the time!
Yes, I'm thinking early summer is almost my favorite season. I'm savoring every single minute of this lucious time.
But a close runner up, in the All-Time Perfect Season category, would be early summer. I'm not talking August here. Weeks of three digit heat, frazzled flower beds, air choked with forest fire smoke, sizzling cars, iced offices: not my idea of summer.
The summer I'm liking is the one that's outside the door right now. Mellow. Moist. Rich. Sweet as can be. That's the summer I like.
Just mowed the lawn and then set out a sprinkler. Oh my goodness...look at the shocking purple of those six foot larkspur! I know they're toxic to cattle, but can you imagine a more regal and, at the same time, scruffy flower! Some kind of gypsy flora, I'm thinking. While mowing, I apologized to the bees for chopping off the giddy white spheres of flower on the clover. The lawn looked like it had been hammered with hail before I mowed. Saddened that I took the bees' treasure, I referred them to the hundreds of Barbie-pink pentstemon, the gawky stalks of yarrow, and the inviting pastel cups of mallow. I also reminded them that the clover would be back in a few days.
In early summer, plants are in a good mood. They're not stressed, quite yet, with Sol's stare. Among the happy blooms are columbine. I like the whimsy of yellow columbine clamboring around in my aspen grove. Posted in an idyllic setting of dappled shade, rattly leaves, and moisture, these odd-shaped blooms are thriving. Columbine, whose scientific name refers to their eagle-like shape, are fun flowers. They're hardy and long-lived and prolific. Columbine greet me in late spring, keep blooming for months, and generously spawn new generations.
I'm liking the early summer explosion of the giantic shade tree in my back yard. A "trash" tree, this elm is demeaned by power company staff and horticulturalists alike. But mine is SO huge and shades the house so well, that I rarely need to turn on the air conditioning. It is my summertime friend. Right now, this tree is draping long strands of lovely green leaves above the yard like a Southern debutante. Oh my! Just look at this sweet shade, will you, Ellie Mae?
And the summer morning sounds! I tune out the neighbors' mowers et al and zero in on the gossipy sparrow chirp, the lilting giggle of goldfinch, and the sharp curse of crow. Earlier killdeer and robin had offered their hymns to morning and, on our run, quail broadcast and red-winged blackbird trilled.
The aromas of early summer are hard to match. When I unlock my front door, the fruity sweet of petunia and cranebill geranium greet me. When I perch next to the hummingbird haven, it's the tangy drift of lavendar, phlox, and delphinium. And when I wander to the raised beds, it's the lucious explosion of just-ripe strawberry and the rich pinch of dill and cilantro before they bolt. Mint and oregano rim many flower beds and they're spraying their scent everywhere, all the time!
Yes, I'm thinking early summer is almost my favorite season. I'm savoring every single minute of this lucious time.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Knit One
Knitting has been a special hobby of mine for awhile. I've made lots of scarves, baby clothes, hats, sweaters, and even a coat. I've written poetry about the precious gift of knitting:
Each stitch is infused with hope,
not just to become garment,
not just to warm or grace,
but another kind of hope,
a prayer,
a wish,
a memory,
to be preserved in fiber.
from "Knitting," The Silence of Bright Star
www.eloquentbooks.com/TheSilenceOfBrightStar.html
But last weekend I was blessed to work on the most important piece ever and to work with the most precious yarn ever. I knitted a laprobe for my daughter out of yarn spun from the hair of her stunning dog Marilyn. An Audrey Hepburn of a dog, Marilyn was pure grace, with a ladylike prance and a model's posture. She would delicately cross one paw over the other as she reclined. Incredibly beautiful, she turned heads, with her glossy black fur and electric blue eyes. When my daughter and I helped Marilyn cross over the Rainbow Bridge last June, this planet lost one of its elegant queens. She was royalty, through and through.
So knitting something for my daughter, something that was part of Marilyn was a thrilling prospect. I couldn't wait to see and feel the yarn that Christine O'Hara (spinningstrawintogold.com) created. Christine posted a picture of Marilyn (shown in this blog) while she was spinning Marilyn's hair. Surprisingly the yarn was dark brown, even though Marilyn's coat looked black. The undercoat was lighter than the outer and that must have comprised most of the hair combed from Marilyn. The yarn was very soft, like angora or cashmere. I was anxious to transform it with my needles.
And what an ideal setting for me to do so! My daughter's current dog, Trudy (described in an earlier blog), and I spent almost four days together at a blissful hideaway, a house tucked among twelve acres of pinot noir grapes in the wine country of central Oregon. We had perfect knitting weather in this edenic spot: lots of rain and one day of blissful sunshine. Trudy and I sat in the living room enjoying the view and the quiet or lolled in the grassy yard enjoying the birds and the trees and the vista and the quiet. I knitted and Trudy sniffed and snoozed.
Knitting Marilyn was magic. Each stitch was special. The yarn was supple and fine to the touch. Each row brought new sensory pleasure. I was able to knit a laprobe about 18 by 28 to keep my daughter warm. I found a light blue mohair wool mix for trim, echoing the striking light blue of Marilyn's eyes. I liked the result: a fuzzy dark piece of love, looking much like a bearskin, edged in pale sky. Trudy liked it too; when I spread it out on the carpet she stepped onto it, laid down, and closed her eyes. It was sweet seeing the white dog asleep on the hair of the dark dog.
I was pleased to help transform a memory into a momento. Marilyn's presence was all around me as I knitted, a continuation of her insistence on being with my daughter all the time. "The apron strings on this one are short," my daughter used to say. This dog wanted nothing more than to be with the precious creature who rescued her and, even after she left this realm, she was able to be with her. I am so blessed to have helped.
Each stitch is infused with hope,
not just to become garment,
not just to warm or grace,
but another kind of hope,
a prayer,
a wish,
a memory,
to be preserved in fiber.
from "Knitting," The Silence of Bright Star
www.eloquentbooks.com/TheSilenceOfBrightStar.html
But last weekend I was blessed to work on the most important piece ever and to work with the most precious yarn ever. I knitted a laprobe for my daughter out of yarn spun from the hair of her stunning dog Marilyn. An Audrey Hepburn of a dog, Marilyn was pure grace, with a ladylike prance and a model's posture. She would delicately cross one paw over the other as she reclined. Incredibly beautiful, she turned heads, with her glossy black fur and electric blue eyes. When my daughter and I helped Marilyn cross over the Rainbow Bridge last June, this planet lost one of its elegant queens. She was royalty, through and through.
So knitting something for my daughter, something that was part of Marilyn was a thrilling prospect. I couldn't wait to see and feel the yarn that Christine O'Hara (spinningstrawintogold.com) created. Christine posted a picture of Marilyn (shown in this blog) while she was spinning Marilyn's hair. Surprisingly the yarn was dark brown, even though Marilyn's coat looked black. The undercoat was lighter than the outer and that must have comprised most of the hair combed from Marilyn. The yarn was very soft, like angora or cashmere. I was anxious to transform it with my needles.
And what an ideal setting for me to do so! My daughter's current dog, Trudy (described in an earlier blog), and I spent almost four days together at a blissful hideaway, a house tucked among twelve acres of pinot noir grapes in the wine country of central Oregon. We had perfect knitting weather in this edenic spot: lots of rain and one day of blissful sunshine. Trudy and I sat in the living room enjoying the view and the quiet or lolled in the grassy yard enjoying the birds and the trees and the vista and the quiet. I knitted and Trudy sniffed and snoozed.
Knitting Marilyn was magic. Each stitch was special. The yarn was supple and fine to the touch. Each row brought new sensory pleasure. I was able to knit a laprobe about 18 by 28 to keep my daughter warm. I found a light blue mohair wool mix for trim, echoing the striking light blue of Marilyn's eyes. I liked the result: a fuzzy dark piece of love, looking much like a bearskin, edged in pale sky. Trudy liked it too; when I spread it out on the carpet she stepped onto it, laid down, and closed her eyes. It was sweet seeing the white dog asleep on the hair of the dark dog.
I was pleased to help transform a memory into a momento. Marilyn's presence was all around me as I knitted, a continuation of her insistence on being with my daughter all the time. "The apron strings on this one are short," my daughter used to say. This dog wanted nothing more than to be with the precious creature who rescued her and, even after she left this realm, she was able to be with her. I am so blessed to have helped.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Prey
I had planned for us to walk for miles along the wooded trail, a former railroad bed, meandering through pine forest, high desert, grassy meadow over this long weekend. My dog Sadie and I were set. Goretex, good sox, sunscreen, cashmere hat, gloves, water, snacks: we were prepared. A pre-trek jaunt was dress rehearsal. Parking spots, “urban” areas (of 20 homes or more), trestles, river access, I pinned them all on my mental map of this unique hiking highway. I was especially excited about the stretch of trail that veered from auto routes into an “uninhabited” stretch of canyon. Sadie and I were set for one long day on the rail to river trail, no matter what the unsettled weather shot our way.
Then I made the mistake of talking to locals. Not just any locals, but seasoned, sensible, well-rounded locals. Folks whose observations I valued. Folks whose declarations were not typically histrionic. Folks who knew this country deeply, after decades and decades of out-in-it residence. One who’d hunted rattlesnakes as a kid and who calmly stayed in his sleeping bag as cougar cubs caroused through camp. These were not lightweights, these men telling me about what it’s like out there now.
Wolves, I learned, have changed lots of things. Their presence is, without a doubt, very disturbing to people around here. I heard of the golden retriever snatched from the farmyard just up the highway. I heard of the huge male wolf carrying a thirty-pound raccoon across the road as if it were a kitten, just up the highway. I heard of the wolf who popped up here and there in a farmyard and who met his end ten feet from the rancher’s wife, just up the highway. I heard of the pair that moved into the neighborhood a few miles from town, just down the highway. I heard of the large male wolf that stared at a seasoned mushroom hunter from twelve feet away, not afraid, not startled, not curious, but just there, just suddenly there, just up the highway. I heard of the hunter on the other side of the state who shot repeatedly at the wolves attacking his hounds, emptying, then filling his gun. I was told that he flung one of his dogs over his shoulder and had to defend this dog from a wolf at his feet, even while he was gunning down its packmates.
I heard level-headed grandfathers say that, because they have dogs and grandkids, they now pack heat when heading into the wilds. I was instructed to do the same. I thought about it. I thought about it. I thought about my ditzy dog who, if confronted with a wolf pack would most likely either try to play or conquer, neither of which is a smart move. I thought about my own fear of bears, knowing that I would most likely lose any semblance of composure should a wolf cross our path.
And I thought of a poem I wrote about being prey:
Wolves? You too. Bring your pals.
Make me a canine banquet.
You scare me much less
than the pack of dizzied symptoms
that is Alzheimer’s.
Take my flesh.
Let my mind remember it.
From “Predation,” The Silence of Bright Star www.eloquentbooks.com/TheSilenceOfBrightStar.html
The brave stance of these lines wilted when it was time for Sadie and me to begin our trek. I did, in fact, change our plans. We still explored the gorgeous trail, especially the section that heads into the remote canyon. We still savored the luscious green and wildflower splash of this high mountain May. We still enjoyed the bright flash of yellow, white, blue songbirds. But we didn’t hike for miles and miles, off on a solitary adventure. We did most of our gazing from spots within view of the road and only hiked a section of the trail near a town, a town so small that a sign posted in its core says “Yes, this is Fruitvale.”
So why did I let the local counsel change my plans? Why did I succumb to the fear of others? I’m not sure. I’m a brave person, one who travels by herself, frequently heading out to remote places all alone. I’ve been a solitary traveler often in my adult life. Why now did I change my plans in response to dangerous possibilities?
I do not know the answer. I do know that the notion of being prey, of my dog being prey, was not one I liked. Rationally, I understand the statistics about wolf attacks on humans and know that the creatures have most likely moved further up slope, where elk calves and deer fauns are abundant. But, for some reason, I chose to be more cautious than usual on this wildland trail.
I don’t think I was convinced that we would encounter wolves. Just didn’t feel like hiking with a victim’s mindset. Didn’t want to keep looking over my shoulder, gasping at each snapped twig, hyperventilating at each shadow. Just didn't want to spend my time feeling like the frail heroine in Rackham's fairy tale illustration shown here. Just didn’t want to spend my time on the trail acting like prey.
Then I made the mistake of talking to locals. Not just any locals, but seasoned, sensible, well-rounded locals. Folks whose observations I valued. Folks whose declarations were not typically histrionic. Folks who knew this country deeply, after decades and decades of out-in-it residence. One who’d hunted rattlesnakes as a kid and who calmly stayed in his sleeping bag as cougar cubs caroused through camp. These were not lightweights, these men telling me about what it’s like out there now.
Wolves, I learned, have changed lots of things. Their presence is, without a doubt, very disturbing to people around here. I heard of the golden retriever snatched from the farmyard just up the highway. I heard of the huge male wolf carrying a thirty-pound raccoon across the road as if it were a kitten, just up the highway. I heard of the wolf who popped up here and there in a farmyard and who met his end ten feet from the rancher’s wife, just up the highway. I heard of the pair that moved into the neighborhood a few miles from town, just down the highway. I heard of the large male wolf that stared at a seasoned mushroom hunter from twelve feet away, not afraid, not startled, not curious, but just there, just suddenly there, just up the highway. I heard of the hunter on the other side of the state who shot repeatedly at the wolves attacking his hounds, emptying, then filling his gun. I was told that he flung one of his dogs over his shoulder and had to defend this dog from a wolf at his feet, even while he was gunning down its packmates.
I heard level-headed grandfathers say that, because they have dogs and grandkids, they now pack heat when heading into the wilds. I was instructed to do the same. I thought about it. I thought about it. I thought about my ditzy dog who, if confronted with a wolf pack would most likely either try to play or conquer, neither of which is a smart move. I thought about my own fear of bears, knowing that I would most likely lose any semblance of composure should a wolf cross our path.
And I thought of a poem I wrote about being prey:
Wolves? You too. Bring your pals.
Make me a canine banquet.
You scare me much less
than the pack of dizzied symptoms
that is Alzheimer’s.
Take my flesh.
Let my mind remember it.
From “Predation,” The Silence of Bright Star www.eloquentbooks.com/TheSilenceOfBrightStar.html
The brave stance of these lines wilted when it was time for Sadie and me to begin our trek. I did, in fact, change our plans. We still explored the gorgeous trail, especially the section that heads into the remote canyon. We still savored the luscious green and wildflower splash of this high mountain May. We still enjoyed the bright flash of yellow, white, blue songbirds. But we didn’t hike for miles and miles, off on a solitary adventure. We did most of our gazing from spots within view of the road and only hiked a section of the trail near a town, a town so small that a sign posted in its core says “Yes, this is Fruitvale.”
So why did I let the local counsel change my plans? Why did I succumb to the fear of others? I’m not sure. I’m a brave person, one who travels by herself, frequently heading out to remote places all alone. I’ve been a solitary traveler often in my adult life. Why now did I change my plans in response to dangerous possibilities?
I do not know the answer. I do know that the notion of being prey, of my dog being prey, was not one I liked. Rationally, I understand the statistics about wolf attacks on humans and know that the creatures have most likely moved further up slope, where elk calves and deer fauns are abundant. But, for some reason, I chose to be more cautious than usual on this wildland trail.
I don’t think I was convinced that we would encounter wolves. Just didn’t feel like hiking with a victim’s mindset. Didn’t want to keep looking over my shoulder, gasping at each snapped twig, hyperventilating at each shadow. Just didn't want to spend my time feeling like the frail heroine in Rackham's fairy tale illustration shown here. Just didn’t want to spend my time on the trail acting like prey.
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