Pussywillow Dreams

Day 149: Skunk's an old granny, deaf, and she sleeps like a rock when she takes a catnap. Crashed in front of the heater, her eyes were half-open and her whiskers and toes were twitching in dream, but she never knew I was sneaking a branch of pussywillows up next to her pussyfoots, careful to keep the flashlight beam from striking her face so I could bring the silver out in all its furry goodness.

The pussywillows bloomed late this year. I've been watching several spots for them, and only found one blooming in January in someone's driveway. These came from a new location for me, a vacant lot next to a store in town. Oh, I have them mapped, rest assured! They're getting harder and harder to find each year, and I'd like to know why.

Where Nisqually Meets Little Mashel

Day 148 (bonus edition): Once upon a time, there was a bridge here where the Little Mashel's gentle flow meets the galloping Nisqually River, connecting Thurston County to Pierce County with a sturdy concrete expanse. It served the public little and was known only to loggers and locals who enjoyed being able to shave twenty miles off a trip to Mount Rainier each way, but it also held appeal for those folk looking to conduct drug deals or to conduct under-age beer parties. Law enforcement was called to the site too many times, and the result was that the bridge was road was gated at either end, cutting off legitimate travellers as well as those bent toward illegal activities. Finally, the bridge was blasted apart, its four pylons standing like pillars in the river, gathering dead wood around their bases until it was swept away by flood.

Today, few people go here except the workers at Pack Forest and a handful of fishermen in salmon season. The view isn't particularly scenic, nor would you expect to see much wildlife along the way. It is, however, a quiet walk which passes through scotch-broom prairie, thence to enter mossy green forest where trickling feeder streams chuckle and Pacific wrens fill the air with song. It is a pleasant walk to the river, and one I enjoy taking alone.

Spring Emerger - Coltsfoot

Day 148: As things fell out, my work schedule changed at the last minute and I found myself with a day on my hands and moderately nice weather in the bargain. I set out toward town and shopping, but the closer I got to Pack Forest, the more I was tempted to walk down the old road to the river. "Nah, I'll wait 'til it warms up this afternoon," one side of my head argued. "Yeah, but what if the weather turns crummy?" said the other side. In the end, the river walk won and a mile in, I felt a raindrop. Then I felt another, then another, but no more followed those three even though the sun disappeared behind greyish cloud.

The rivers (Little Mashel and the Nisqually) were pretty much as I'd seen them last, though with much of the annual vegetation still dormant and the deciduous trees still leafless, the views were more open. It was not until I had turned back and was halfway up the shady and damp hillside that I noticed and true sign of spring. Along the ditched bank, Coltsfoot was emerging.

A plant of bogs and streamsides, Petasites frigidus palmatus (or P. palmatus, if you prefer) has deeply notched leaves with "teeth" at the points. The flowers when fully open are white. When mature, the leaves may measure more than a foot across, and the flower stalk may reach a height of two feet. Common in the Pacific Northwest, Coltsfoot is one of the true harbingers of Spring.

Coarse Lace

Day 147: Bobbin lace is generally done with very fine threads, but that's not to say that you can't use heavier materials as well. This little coaster-mat is a good starter piece for the novice and more advanced lace-makers will find that it can be worked in a number of different ways on the same pricking. Done at this scale (#30 crochet cotton), it is easy to see how the lace forms. Fourteen pairs of bobbins are required and the finished mat is approximately four inches square.

The Winged Adventure

Day 146: I must admit to a terrible temptation to say "I barqued my shin," but this tattoo is above my ankle, so the phrase wouldn't be semantically accurate. That said, the ship is in fact a three-masted barque, a very maneuverable small vessel, easy to handle with a minimal crew, excellent for dodging in and out of hidden coves and therefore the perfect choice for a pirate such as Capt. Morgan Corbye who, I am given to understand, is becoming quite restless for a raid. She has been ashore far too long for comfort and the Winged Adventure has been careened, her decks holystoned, her masts and rigging serviced, and the good Captain is anxious to set sail. To date, I have not been able to verify a report of an altercation involving the Harbourmaster, several cases of rum and the Captain's hat, but I feel certain that when said Harbourmaster is located, he will dispel any rumours which may be presently in circulation.

Black Hats

Day 145: My love of hats dates back to childhood and the magic of my mother's "hatbox." In reality, the hatbox was a round tin of adequate diameter and height to hold half a dozen toppers. My favorite was a felt hat similar to the modern "Boy George" hat shown on the right, dark purple with a bright red ribbon band and matching feather, perfect for a little girl who even in those days enjoyed playing pirate.

While my closet sports quite a number of hats in various styles and colors, my "good" hats are black. The "Boy George" is felt and I often dress it up with a band of beading or colored ribbon. The Akubra Snowy River was manufactured in Australia and is ornamented with cockatoo feathers and a heart-shaped pin. The heavy leather tricorn is that worn by flamboyant pirate captain Morgan Corbye, proving that while some of us must grow old, we don't have to grow up.

A Handy Contraption

Day 144: Here's a handy contraption for you! This little gadget converts bobbin winding from work to fun, and gets you on the road to making lace a whole lot faster! Simply give the thread a few turns around the bobbin to hold it in place, then mount the butt in the vise jaws and tighten them with the slider, then crank away. The thread is guided with your other hand to keep the wraps relatively level, and it only takes a minute to wind a bobbin to capacity. This device is a real time-saver!

I've looked at a number of bobbin winders over the years, but any which would accommodate my bobbins was out of my price range. I discovered this one on line and decided to take a chance on it. No instructions came with it and I'm still not quite sure I have the bobbin mounted correctly, but it seems to work just fine. I also ordered a larger 20-inch "cookie" pillow made from Ethafoam to replace my old straw-filled 16-inch pillow which was getting a bit too soft to hold pins securely. I covered the Ethafoam with a broadcloth drawstring bag, a temporary solution until I find a more suitable fabric. Tonight, I'll be merrily winding away, and tomorrow I'll start a new piece of lace!

Ravaged Lace

Day 143: I have no one to blame but myself for this. Tip's predilection for protecting the household against invasive receipts and other threats is well-known. He seeks them out in places where no cats go in daylight, hunting them with the greatest stealth. How was I to know that lace was dangerous?

I finished the handkerchief edging before leaving for work yesterday and patted it out flat on the harpsichord to admire my handiwork. With other things on my mind when I got home, I wasn't even thinking about attaching it to a square of muslin, but that was supposed to be one of the first things on my agenda this morning. However, as my eyes drifted toward the harpsichord, they caught a glimpse of something crumpled at the base of one of the legs. "What the heck is that?" I asked myself, and in the next split second knew exactly what I was seeing. My hopes of being able to pull it back into shape were dashed as soon as I saw the severed threads. Oh, he'd gone straight for the heart...two of them, as a matter of fact...and it would take me as long or longer to mend the poor ravaged lace as it would to create a new edging.

When something like this occurs, there's only one thing you can sensibly do: laugh. Anything else would be bad for your digestion. The guilt is mine entirely. I never forbade the eating of lace. I never told him it wasn't to be hunted. It was my own fault for leaving the little hearts to tempt him. Anybody have a three-sided handkerchief they need to trim?

Snowed Under At Work

Day 142: You might say I was a little snowed under at work today! From my second-story window, I had a great view of visitors indulging in all types of snow-play, including a family who spent an hour or more constructing an eight-foot tall snowman in front of the National Park Inn. The white stuff was perfect for packing, and kids and adults alike were having a field day throwing snowballs, sledding and building forts. I took half an hour for a leisurely stroll around the Trail of the Shadows, and caught this shot of the Admin Building just before I went back to my paperwork.

Parrot Party

Day 141: My internet service was down when I got up, and the automated message was saying that they hoped to have service restored by 8 AM the following day. By evening, they'd moved that prediction to 6 AM, so I was hopeful. However, when the red light prompted me to give them another call this morning, the prerecorded message informed me that it would be at least 5 PM before service was restored. "Due to networking upgrades, you will not be able to connect to the internet." The semanticist in me had to chuckle at that wording. Yes, upgrading to no internet might be a good thing in today's world!

Okay, so the internet was down, but that wouldn't stop me from taking pictures, and the whole gang of porch parrots (Evening Grosbeaks to those of you who haven't been initiated into the club) has descended on the feeders to issue imperative demands for black-oil seed. "Churp! Churp! Feed me! I'm hungry!" And so it begins. I will be making many trips to the seed store over the next five or six months in order to supply these beautiful birds with their favorite food. If it came down to dinner for me or seed for the porchies, the porchies would win, simply because they give me so much more pleasure than food could ever do.

Have A Heart

Day 140: In my book, there are two foods so divine that I could eat them every day and never tire of them. One is cranberry sauce and the other is artichokes. No, I don't eat them together!

There is, of course, the debate about what condiment to use with an artichoke. My preference lies with mayonnaise rather than butter. I find that butter masks the delicate flavour of this prince of vegetables whereas mayonnaise adds just the right note of piquancy to the meaty-nutty taste. That said, artichoke hearts are a treat in and of themselves regardless of what spice may or may not have been included in the marinade.

Tonight, we achieve epicurean Nirvana in the Crow's kitchen: a fresh jumbo artichoke with marinated hearts for dessert!

A Solitary Pursuit

Day 139:
When I took up the flute,
I became a flutist,
So I took up the lute,
But I was not a lutist.
Instead, I was a lautenist!
Why wasn't I a flautenist?
I think
I'll just
Play harmonica.

The poem celebrating one of the vagaries of the English language is original, and although I do not play the lute, I can at least manage Christmas carols on the flute. As for the harmonica, it or an earlier version nearly always travelled with me when I was planning to spend any length of time in the backcountry, off trail and far, far away from anyone I might offend. My repertoire is eclectic, including such all-time favorites as "The Purple People Eater," "Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms," "St. James Infirmary Blues" and "Big Rock Candy Mountain." I play for two purposes, the first being my own enjoyment and the second being to shift the elk over to the next valley so they don't trip over my tent lines in the night. In either case, the old saw holds true: "if you can't play good, play loud."

The harmonica is an instrument which begs to be used out-of-doors. It wants space and the aroma of a campfire and the chuckle of a stream as an accompaniment. It wants to tell you stories of cowboys and station hands and down-and-outers. It wants its music to be served up with coffee in a tincup and flapjacks fried on a cast-iron skillet. It wants to make memories in one place, and then bundle them up in a bedroll to move to the next camp down the line. It does not ask for an audience or applause. It wants only to be a faithful offsider to you as you wait for the billy to boil. A harmonica is a friend who does not disparage your lack of talent or skill but instead joins you at the close of day in acknowledgement of labour or miles, offering a companiable congratulation for having endured. "Good on ya, mate," it says, no matter how you play it. "Let's have another song."

Zoom

Day 138: Oh, I know you'll tell me all about proper posture and wind resistance and muscle efficiency and all that stuff, but no matter how long I tried to train myself to ride bent forward, I simply was not comfortable on my bike unless I could sit up relatively straight in the way we used to ride our single-speeds as kids. I like to look forward as I ride, not down at the pavement, and after thirty or forty miles, I'd get a heck of a stiff neck from having my head tipped back. Since my average ride is in that distance range, I decided to customize my basic Schwinn mountain bike. The solution to the problem was fairly simple, although it also meant I had to have the brake cables changed out as well: add an extender to the stem. Now I can ride for hours in total comfort, although I'm still waiting for the weather to warm up before I set out on an all-day trip.

Raven Beads

Day 137: I don't often wear jewelry unless I am otherwise costumed, but on the rare social occasion that I do, it is invariably a unique piece and usually includes some representation of my iconic corvid cousins. When a friend gave me this assortment of hand-crafted clay Ravens, I decided that they needed to be displayed together. The beading separating them was worked around a core of satin cord using color-matched #11 seed beads and #6 crow beads. The pseudo-Native American styling of the Raven heads gives a very primitive look to the piece.

Ancient Ruins

Day 136: If there was anything Lt. Crow enjoyed more than being a member of Star Fleet and serving aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise, it was mountaineering. When the Away Team discovered an ancient ruin on an unpopulated planet, she quickly volunteered to make an ascent of a crumbling tower in order to document how the structure might have been used. While Capt. Picard and Commander Riker kept watchful for anomalous geomagnetic readings and the occasional hirsute or reptilian monster, Lt. Data belayed his fellow engineer as she climbed up the rocky exterior. Upon reaching a low point in the wall, she shone a light inside and let an expletive fly.

"What is it? What do you see, Lieutenant?" Picard was most anxious for the safety of all his crew. If danger was waiting in the interior of the silo, he wanted information, not swearing. "Lieutenant, give me your report."

Crow looked down at her companions and laughed. "You are not gonna believe this. This thing is packed about a third of the way up with empty beer cans!"

Three Colors Of Lace

Day 135: It has been exactly one week since I began a Little Hearts bobbin lace handkerchief edging, and I finished up the lacemaking last night. While I enjoy making the lace, sewing it to handkerchief fabric is something I tend to put off until necessity forces me to it, i.e., I need a hankie for a gift. Today, I not only sewed the new edging onto fabric, I also brought out two other completed edgings and stitched them up as well. All three are destined to go in the mail within the next few days, a good excuse to start another one!

This delicate lace is made with a soft-finish #60 cotton, the same weight as sewing thread but not spun as hard. The gimp is #5 perle.

First Sighting Of The Season

Day 134: The Evening Grosbeaks are back! Nah, I'm not trying to sell you a bill of good here. They really did put in their first showing of the season today, all two of them, and I was standing at the fence talking to the neighbors and didn't have the Albatross around my neck. By the time I got inside, my two Porch Parrot friends had moved on, so I grabbed this little stuffie and propped him up in the blue spruce in the back yard. Evening Grosbeaks are always cause for celebration, although I do wish I'd picked up another bag of black-oil sunflower seed while I was in town.

Montana Moss

Day 133: Don't be fooled by appearances! The "moss" in moss agate is not a bryophyte fossil. It is a mineral called pyrolusite (a manganese ore) which often forms dark-colored dendritic structures in quartz. Sometimes iron is also present and may appear as yellow or rusty bands.Some of the most beautiful specimens come from Montana, hence the popular name Montana moss. Agate is considered a semi-precious gem material. Quartz is a relatively hard stone (7 on the Mohs scale) and may be clear to opaque, and highly colored. One of the most plentiful minerals on Earth, it makes lovely jewelry!

Half An Inch Wide

Day 132: It takes a lot of cordwood to make a little half-inch wide lace! Yes, twenty-five bobbins go into the manufacture of "Little Hearts," my favorite handkerchief edging from "100 Traditional Bobbin Lace Patterns" by Geraldine Stott and Bridget Cook.

This image shows a different type of bolster referred to as a "cookie pillow." Mine is not quite as big as I'd like (16" diameter) and when I get close to a corner, the bobbins are difficult to manipulate because they hang off the edge. The stuffing for the pillow must be packed until it is very firm in order to stabilize the pins which hold the lace in shape. Many lacemakers use finely cut straw for the filling as I have done here, pounding it with a rolling pin or a mallet until it is compacted. The pattern is pricked in hard-card and the design is inked onto it as a guide. The edges of the card are pinned down and the pinheads covered with ribbon or cloth to prevent snagging of the lace-making threads. You do not want knots in bobbin lace, so you must take measures to keep delicate threads from being broken. At the end of each session at the pillow, the lace-maker stretches one or more pieces of elastic across the bobbins to prevent them from becoming tangled.

The sound of hardwoods clinking against each other is quite musical, reminiscent of a bamboo windchime, and a good ear can tell one wood from another by the tone. Ebony has a sharp, high note, zebrawood a softer and more muted sound. Some of these bobbins are ones I turned myself, based on the style of the others which were purchased from a private source. One special bobbin appears here as well, a gift from one of my wonderful internet friends! Thank you, Di!

Crazy Daisy Winder

Day 131: I doubt many people will recognize the Crazy Daisy daisy winders which were used in making this full-sized afghan. In fact, I'm not sure they're even available today other than as antiques. I learned the art of making daisies from my grandmother before I was of school age, a delightful and quick project for young hands. The winder in the background was her own and still functions perfectly.

This novel tool resembles a ship's wheel when the spokes are extended by turning the knurled knob in the center. Yarn is wound around them, crossing in the center for one or two complete circuits of the wheel. The centers are backstitched firmly once or twice to bind the petals together, and then the knob is turned in reverse and the completed daisy pops off into your lap. Daisies can be crocheted together. Made with lightweight yarn and used in conjunction with hairpin lace (a type of needlework made on a "staple" of wire), they make a pretty scarf. It takes a lot of daisies for a complete afghan, but they're a nice diversion from granny squares if you want to use up tag ends of yarn.

Avast, Ye Scurvy Cats!

Day 130: "Avast, ye scurvy cats! 'Tis Black Whiskers th' Pirate an' I be wantin' yer booty! Sheath them claws or feel th' bite o' me cutlass. I'll shave ye bald, ye feline scoundrels! Be a'ter 'andin' over th' chow an' make it right snappy!"

Oh dear! Black Whiskers may find his adventure taking a left turn if he takes on the Captain and crew of the Her Majesty Skunk's flagship, the Hairball. First Mate Tip has sworn to rid the galley of piratical mice and indeed has ushered a few to the gibbet. Beware, Black Whiskers, lest ye find yerse'f drawn and quartered!

Bit of a diversion today for 365 Caws. It's a boring old Saturday. What can I say?

Those Were The Days

Day 129: The man had a Volkswagen Beetle, a suitcase full of photographic equipment and a walk-in closet in his house which he'd converted into a black-and-white darkroom. When he invited me over to look at his prints with the added temptation of a fondue dinner, how could I sensibly refuse? The ultimate outcome of that dinner was that we got married eight months later, and thus a new chapter opened in my photographic career.

I laugh to admit it now, but Bruce's Mamiya-Sekor terrified me. There were too many settings, too many things to remember. I enjoyed photography, but my experience was limited to a box Brownie and a Polaroid Instamatic, not exactly what you'd call "good equipment" although they'd served my plebian purposes well over the years. Still, I resisted learning to use a "real" camera until I found myself planning a backpacking trip with my mother. The week before we were scheduled to leave, I sat down with Bruce and had him show me the basic functions, i.e., how to set the ASA, how to spot-meter and so on. That he trusted me in the wilds with his good camera rather surprised me, but then, his only outdoor experience consisted of a campout in a park as a Boy Scout and a forced-march dayhike I'd compelled him to take. We both had a lot to learn about each other! I returned home a week later with some spectacular images of mist rising on a mountain lake, of towering cliffs, of wildflower meadows and of wildflowers. I'd found a new passion in my husband's hobby, and as long as I promised not to break the camera, he was willing to let me take it whenever I went hiking.

Several years later when I went to work for the Park, one of my colleagues offered the identical twin of Bruce's camera to me at a price I couldn't refuse. It came with a zoom lens and a warning that the spot-meter was broken. By then, I'd learned to make educated guesses as to settings, and in any case, always bracketed my shots. With "his" and "hers" Mamiya-Sekors, we burned through rolls of film by the case. We both liked shooting in black-and-white because we could develop it at home, but as I became more keen on taking wildflower and bird photos, I gravitated toward color. Finally, we moved from the house with the walk-in darkroom and had to resort to commercial processing all around.

I owe a lot to Bruce for teaching me the tricks of the trade, and for allowing me to take his camera into the field during those early years. Had it not been for his insistence that I learn to use the Mamiya-Sekor, I might be doing nothing more than point-and-shoot snapshots today.

Three Crow Pepper

Day 128: It should come as no surprise that I have a wealth of crow-related items decorating the shelves and walls of my home, some items purchased by me but the bulk of them gifts from friends who know my love of the corvid species. Most of my collection is modern, including this made-in-China reproduction of a white pepper tin. The Three Crow line of seasonings was produced as late as the 1930s by the Atlantic Spice Company, then headquartered in Rockland, Maine. The crow silhouette is metal, its legs designed to with garden placement in mind. I let the crow stand guard in a flower pot indoors.

My association with crows (particularly crows, and to a lesser extent ravens) goes back to childhood when my father dubbed me "Wings" for my coal-black hair which I always wore swept back. As I would help him with planting corn in the spring, he would recite a rhyme to me as he placed four kernels in each hill: "One for the worm, one for the crow, one to die and one to grow." I seized upon the reference to crows in the assurance that that one individual seed would be the one to produce the corn put on my plate in autumn. When my dad tied the cut stalks in shocks to put beside the gate at harvest time, I would wait for the crows to search for the immature ears Daddy left for their enjoyment.

As an adult, my study of the corvids took a more scholastic turn and friends joked with me about being one of the flock. "Crow" became my nickname, and now hardly anyone calls me by my given name.

Hello, Lads!

Day 127: "Hello, lads!" Thus it was that Morgan Corbye addressed the captain and first mate, having obtained with all due stealth the interior of the captain's own cabin where, with the crew taking leave ashore, the two men sat in private council. She had boarded the vessel under cover of darkness, her approach to the ship made on a makeshift raft of barrel staves lashed together in such quantity as would bear only her slight weight. The Winged Adventure and her crew stood ready for her signal, hidden in a narrow estuary the larger ship could not navigate, tucked away amid a screen of verdure which masked the river mouth. The element of surprise was ever Captain Corbye's trump card and she played it well on this occasion, passing a small oil-filled bomb from hand to hand in the manner of a jongleur, casual in spite of the rapidly shortening fuse. "And where will ye be 'avin' this, now?"

Her reputation preceded her, but that did not stop the mate's foolish flinch toward his pistol. He found his sleeve pinioned with a black-bladed dagger before the motion could be completed and wisely took note that its counterpart had sprung to Capt. Corbye's free hand. The pirate relieved him of the pistol and applied it forcibly to his head and, in the very next instant, had her second knife in the small of his captain's back, urging him onto the deck as the fuse of the bomb sputtered dangerously close to ignition. Upon arriving topside, she threw the grenade overboard and watched it explode just before it touched the water. As always, her timing was impeccable. The watch of the Winged Adventure called all hands to stations at the signal and soon the barque hove to alongside. A score of men swarmed aboard to pry up hatches, removing to the graceful ship cases of tinned meat, fruit and flour, supplies sorely needed by those who spend their lives upon the sea.

Yet Morgan Corbye was not done with the captain and his mate who by that time had regained a semblance of consciousness. She ordered them to strip and bound them, naked, to the spars where indeed their crew found them on the following day, the Winged Adventure long since beyond the horizon. "'Tis not fer th' wealth I be a pirate," says she of her modest commerce. "'Tis fer th' freedom o' bein' me own self, an' that be th' truth o' it."

Let Me Reference Brodo

Day 126: Irwin M. Brodo's "Lichens of North America" could easily be called "the field guide from hell." If you wanted to carry it on a field trip, I would strongly recommend hiring a fair-haired boy with a stout back. It weighs at least seven pounds according to my bathroom scale (possibly eight) and its encyclopedic size is matched by its content. Photos by Sylvia and Stephen Sharnoff appear on every page and for almost every species. It is the most expensive single-volume field guide I have ever added to my collection.

While I will not be bringing specimens home for chemical testing, I trust Brodo will increase my accuracy as far as identifying lichens from photos and field notes, and since my study of these fascinating "non-plants" is one I have long hoped to enlarge, I may have to build a stand for "Lichens of North America." It certainly isn't going to rest lightly on my chest as bedtime reading!

Charlie

Day 125: Meet Charlie, preserved via the medium of taxidermy in the museum at Longmire (Mount Rainier National Park) for those visitors who hopefully will never encounter one of his kin in the wild. In his day, Charlie probably weighed around 150 pounds and would have measured about 30" in height at the shoulders. His body would have measured about seven feet from nose to the tip of his tail, the tail comprising a third of the length. He could run at speeds in excess of 40 miles per hour, but his strongest hunting ability was stealth. A cougar is a stalker, quietly creeping up on its prey before leaping upon it and killing it with one quick bite to the neck. You'd never know what hit you if Charlie wanted you for dinner.

In my years of backpacking and hiking, I have never seen a cougar. I have come upon fresh kills (a situation which made me very nervous!) and I have seen cougar tracks in my yard. In the last two months, our rangers have reported seeing a cougar twice in the pasture across the road. We are cougar-wary here, and watchful whenever we go out.

Poor old Charlie does his duty these days as museum mascot and sentinel. He's getting a little moth-eaten and sun-faded, but he still puts the chill up my spine when I think sharing the trail with one of his relatives

Anti-Crow

Day 124: It pains me to have to put this in 365 Caws today, but I've been at my fishing buddy's watching the SuperBowl and didn't have a chance to take any other photos.

This is not me. This is the Anti-Crow. This is everything I am not, with the exceptions of "tiny" and the fact that I have a pirate ship tattooed on my right leg. I do not wear skirts or blouses. I do not carry a purse. I do not put powder and paint on my face. My real hair is grey and goes every which way, and I never wear anything on my feet except boots or moccasin-style shoes. My own mother wouldn't recognize me in this photo. So why do I have this outfit in my closet? I dunno. Maybe I'll find a need to be somebody else for a day, though I doubt it.

Hands Down

Day 123: Hands down, bobbin lace is a delightful form of needlework, and "hands down" is the key to being able to create lace quickly and efficiently. Although in beginners, there is a strong temptation to lift the bobbins from underneath, the palms of the hands should be turned to face the bolster, not upward. This allows the needlworker to quickly pick up and exchange the positions of two adjacent bobbins, either "crossing" them to the right or "twisting" them to the left. Occasionally, you will find an instruction book which reverses those two terms, so pick a method and stick with it while keeping that in mind. There are no knots in bobbin lace, only weaving of the threads over and under one another. Additional twists may be added to paired bobbins to give more stability to open areas of the lace.

Bobbins are most often made of wood and come in a variety of styles. Some artists prefer to weight the ends with beads to keep the bobbins from rolling on the bolster, as well as making it easy to identify pairs. The lace itself is formed over a paper pattern called a "pricking," and is held in place with pins at the centers of each stitch. Most pattern books simply provide pricking diagrams which must be transferred to cardstock or other firm paper. The paper is pricked before it is mounted on the bolster, making it easier to insert pins at the appropriate spots. Here I am working with sewing thread, "ship's hawser" by bobbin lace standards where finer threads are the general rule.

Vegscape With Crow

Day 122: Put away that desktop Zen garden and try some vegscaping! Ever since I saw my first diorama created with garden veggies as landscaping items, I have wanted to make one of my own. The problem is that our little country grocer doesn't carry the wide variety of leafy greens which you might find in larger urban stores, so my choices were rather limited. Celery and parsley stand in for background shrubbery here (the cilantro should have been removed from the shelf several days ago), with broccoli bushes growing among red potato boulders. The crow is perched on a mushroom. The marsh plants surrounding the pond are the ends of little green onions (scallions). The fence was the most fun to build. Both posts and rails are made of carrot, "nailed" together with bits of toothpick. I had intended for there to be water in the pond, but somehow I must have broken through the foil. It leaked out into the sand as soon as I filled it! Fortunately, I had a protective sheet under the diorama just in case that very thing occurred.

Art is not necessarily about creating something enduring. It is about the creative process. Let your imagination run wild the next time you're at the grocer's, and think about doing some vegscaping of your own!