Red Light District

Day 180: It's a little difficult to tell boys from girls when they're in the Red Light district. The Rufous Hummingbirds returned a few days ago, and I immediately cooked up a batch of nectar for them. This young lady preferred to dine in the red glow coming through the feeder. I almost mistook her for a male!

That said, this has been a great day for birdwatching in my own yard. I have seen both male and female Hummingbirds without any doubt, and had Red-Winged Blackbirds earlier this morning. If that wasn't enough, Mr. Raven allowed me to approach within twenty feet of him to deliver his breakfast to the crow board. I am sure he must be one of my resident pair or he would not be so bold.

Salmonberry Pollinator

Day 179 (Part B..ee): What could possibly be more cliché in photography than the obligatory "bug in the frame?" I had cooperative bees today while on a hike in Pack Forest. I'd stopped to take a photo of the Salmonberry blossom, envisioning exactly the background blur you see here, but when I aimed the camera and had my finger on the button, the bee I hadn't anticipated landed on the flower! You can't pass up a bonus like that!

Highest Point In Pack Forest

Day 179: With weather and scheduling working against me, I have been more sedentary this winter than I've been in the last forty years. I put aside Angry Birds and needlework today, and headed out to Pack Forest, one of my favorite early-season areas. Before the day was through, I'd bagged the three highest peaks in the forest and logged almost nine miles, stopping briefly at this highest point for lunch.

Was that where I picked up my passengers? While I was sitting on the rock? I hadn't gone bushwhacking, although I had gotten down on my hands and knees for a few photos. In any event, I only discovered them on my way home when I felt a sharp pain on one shoulder blade. Tick! Aaaaagggghhhh!!!

I hate ticks. We never used to worry about ticks in Washington, but times are changing. Every year, I manage to pick up at least one and usually find it before it attaches. Not today! The big one (and there were three in all!) was firmly embedded and came away with a hefty POP! I checked to be certain I'd gotten the head, and thought I had, but the spot is still sore.

Maybe I don't like hiking in Pack Forest as much as I did before. I had fun, but I'm not sure the tradeoff is worth it.

Don't Wanna, Don't Hafta

Day 178: There's not much I can do about growing old, but so far, I've successfully resisted growing up. Don't wanna, don't hafta. You can't make me, so neener-neener-neener on you!

I got an email message from my boss-and-friend Kevin a few days ago asking if he could stop by on his way home. "I have something for you," he said. Well, gosh! That's pretty good bait! I certainly wasn't going to say no. When he arrived, he got out of the car with something held behind his back, something he adroitly kept out of my line of sight even while I was showing him the new heat pump. He has two kids so I think he's had plenty of opportunity to practice, but I was not allowed even a sliver of a glimpse of the object until we went indoors. With a big grin, he then handed me an Angry Birds coloring book! His wife had found it in a shop, and of course I immediately came to mind because it was at his home that I first became acquainted with the game.

Some months ago, I purchased a "crayon tower," 150 colors in a telescoping container for a photo shoot. Today, I decided to put it to use. I was shocked and dismayed to discover that you just can't get the vibrant colors out of these modern ones like you could from the ones of my childhood. I suppose they're made with synthetic wax or something it wouldn't hurt a kid to eat. Maybe crayons have gotten "all growed up" and are taking themselves too seriously these days...unlike me.

I Love Presents

Day 177: I love presents! And handmade ones are the very best anyone could ever hope to receive!

Yesterday a small box arrived from Canada. I knew it was coming and I knew what it contained, although I didn't know the specifics. When I opened it, out tumbled eighteen beautifully turned bobbin lace bobbins. I've spent this morning attaching the spangles (beads) which help keep the bobbins in place on the bolster.

These will count among my most treasured needlecraft tools because they were made especially for me by my wonderful friend Di Bédard. Thank you so much!

Heating Head

Day 176: This is the "head" of the ductless mini heat pump, the part which circulates the warmed or cooled air. Yes, the pump also functions as an air conditioner! No more sweltering August days for me! It may also be set to dehumidify.

Mr. Slim

Day 175: Meet Mr. Slim. He arrived at my house today with a promise to provide efficient and enviromentally sound service, to cool me when the temperatures soar and to end once and for all the woes incumbent with a failing, half-century old oil furnace. Conservative estimates say that he will save me at least 50% of my annual heating expenses, possibly as much as 75%. As I sit here with his gentle warm breath on my neck, I can well believe it.

It has been an all-day process to get Mr. Slim and his smaller brother ensconced and, as is so common in any type of home improvement, there were a few unexpected obstacles which had to be surmounted, including a reluctant transplant of my best patch of wintergreen. There were fittings which didn't fit, couplings which didn't couple, wires which didn't reach and level spots which weren't, but each issue was overcome in turn. Emissaries were dispatched, envoys were sent with packages of parts, and when ten hours had elapsed, Mr. Slim gave forth a joyous blast of warm circulating air which brought me up to "toasty" in no time at all.

I'm sure as our friendship matures, there will be some learning experiences for me, but one thing I can assure you: I will not have a moment's regret at putting aside my reliance on oil as a heat source.

Crochet A Bead Daisy

Day 174: Of the many bead-crocheted necklaces I've made, most have been either solid colors or geometric repeating patterns. It's easy to transfer beads from a skein onto crochet thread, a little more time-consuming to pick them up in batches of two or three from storage containers. It's another thing entirely to work with a complex pattern. The repeat in this necklace requires 36 beads per daisy. Using three different colors for the flowers means that you pick up 108 individual beads before you are back to the starting point. If you lose count or miss a bead, you will find yourself unstringing hours of work or breaking 107 beads to keep the pattern in sequence. Fortunately, it's easy to join a new thread in this type of work! I usually thread half the required beads before starting, moving them down the crochet thread for several yards and then rewinding it onto the ball. The beads will have to be moved several times before they are all worked into the project.

The Craft Of Quilling

Day 173: The craft of paper quilling has been around for at least 500 years, but you'll draw raised eyebrows from most of your friends if you mention it. Some may recall a grandmother or aunt who made little pictures out of rolled-up paper, but they won't be able to tell you what the art form is called. The craft experienced a renewal of popularity in modern times during the early part of the 20th Century.

The name derives from the fact that originally strips of paper were rolled around an actual feather quill. Later, use of a bodkin or quilling needle allowed quillers to have finer control over the dimensions and tightness of the coils. Once rolled, a coil is set aside to relax and open before being shaped. If accuracy is desired (like for making the white snowflake), coils may be put in a quilling frame with holes of a specific dimension. After the coil has relaxed, the loose outer end of the paper strip is glued down and then the coil is ready to be pinched into shape. A variety of different shapes can be made: circles, teardrops, ellipses and so on, or they may be loosened to form leaves or stems. Finished coils are glued together to form flowers or patterns, and the finished piece may then be affixed to paper or cardstock for display.

Quilling supplies are readily available on line and paper comes in a wide variety of colors and widths. Some craft stores carry paper and basic tools, but if you want to try it with little monetary outlay, just cut 1/4" strips of colored computer paper and use a tapestry needle or large sewing needle for your quilling tool. The only other items you'll need are tacky glue and some cardstock for mounting your artwork!

The Gardner Years

Day 172: Yesterday I learned that a man I admired greatly had passed away on March 15. Understandably, I was shocked and saddened by the news, moreso because I had known him personally.

Booth Gardner was Washington's 19th Governor. At the time he was elected, I was a young harper who had just gotten her first serious engagement after a few years of performing at dinner events. As I was packing my equipment away, a woman approached me and asked if I would be interested in playing at the newly-elected Governor's wife's Inaugural Tea. I jumped at the chance. That fortuitous event led to another engagement at an inaugural dinner, and then to more invitations to play at the Governor's Mansion over Gov. Gardner's eight years in office.

Booth Gardner was a humble man, a philanthropist and as genuine a person as one could hope to see in public office. He was clear in his politics, firm in his convictions, and a champion of the working man. If he had a personal agenda, it was only to be admired and respected by his constituents, and his every action spoke of his commitment to that goal. He brought the state to the forefront of environmental legislation early in his career despite family ties to one of the largest timber companies in the region.

However, it is not for his politics that I remember Booth Gardner. It is for our first meeting when he offered a handshake and I, in my mediaeval garb and persona, placed my hand daintily in his and gave a curtsey. It was hard to keep in character when he responded with a curtsey of his own! Later that evening, I took him aside to explain that a gentleman bows. He was not the least bit embarrassed by the gaffe, and we spent fifteen minutes practicing the proper etiquette before I went home.

Eagle Peak

Day 171 (Part Two): A foot or more of fresh snow fell at Longmire over the last day and a half or so, and when I went out for my lunchtime walk, it was snowing hard. The trail to Eagle Peak was unbroken, and the fresh expanse of white encouraged me to go as far as time might allow. But time was not what turned me back. I tired quickly of postholing past my knees. Since I was not wearing gaiters, my boots filled with snow and it caked on the legs of my uniform trousers. Literally retracing my steps, I reluctantly headed back to the office as the sun peeped out. Mount Rainier gathered the dark clouds close, leaving Eagle Peak to rise above the frigid Nisqually.

Warning! Do Not Leave Camera Unattended!

Day 171: I wish I could say I took this photo. It was taken with my camera, but I was over in the Volunteer Lounge refreshing "Angry Birds" on my Kindle Fire. I did not discover that someone -ahem!- had been tampering with my stuff until I got home and loaded the day's photos into the computer. It took a full fifteen minutes before I could stop laughing long enough to draw a breath!

Daffy Spring Weather

Day 170: The weather's gone daffy! I got up to two inches of snow on the ground this morning, and it was falling so thickly, I could barely see the fence. As the day warmed up, the stuff on the ground melted off (for the most part), but it continued to come down hard. This is the kind of snow I like best, looks like a blizzard going on outside the window, but it doesn't stack up on the ground.

In a couple of weeks, I'll have white drifts of another sort in my garden. The narcissuses (or "narcissi," if you prefer) are getting ready to open! But for today, Spring's gone back to bed beneath a blanket of snow, reluctant to get up and go about her business.

One Of Those Days

Day 169: "People are no damn good." The little guy on the plaque imparted that bit of wisdom to me when I was about eight years old. He was featured on a square-sided coffee mug which my uncle Gus gave my mom for Christmas. My mom used the mug rarely and only for cocoa, and as many times as I tried to talk her into giving it to me, she only turned it over into my keeping a few years before she passed away. The mug is still in my possession, but I felt the sentiment needed a wider audience. I created the plaque by using a photocopier to enlarge it and then traced it with India ink. The varnish has yellowed over the years, but "People Are No Damn Good" hangs on the "trivia wall" in the kitchen (an eclectic collection of small whatnots). The mug still sees occasional use during eggnog season.

I've always wanted to do a personal version of my mascot, and I can't help but think I'm starting to look like my mother. She was the spittin' image of the nebbish on the mug.

Danger Zone

Day 168:

Just sayin...

*****

Okay, I'm sure they meant "blackbird" rather than "black bird," but it made me laugh to think that my fame preceded me all the way to the State Capital which was where I found this sign. The only black birds I saw were some very friendly crows who walked along with me for a ways. Blackbirds of the one-word sort (Red-Winged, Brewer's and their relatives) can be very territorial during mating and nesting seasons. Perhaps it wasn't the brightest design idea to install a man-made cattail pond in the midst of office buildings!

Daisy Chains

Day 167: Daisy chains are easy to make and a good way to use up leftover beads from other projects. Many variations are possible, and my two favorites are shown here (single and double daisy). The completed chains can be used for necklaces or bracelets. The multicolored chain at top left is my "color sampler." When I go shopping for beads, I carry it with me to be sure I don't purchase a duplicate color. As soon as I get home with new beads, I add another daisy to the chain.

A Feast Fit For A Pirate

Day 166: Across the table from me, Captain Morgan Corbye impaled the steaming haggis with a skean dhu and allowed the scent of spice to fill the close confines of her cabin. Intensely proud of her Scottish heritage, Capt. Corbye had charged the ship's cook with delivering her St. Patrick's Day feast, and had poor John Peeke presented corned beef and cabbage, he would have been lashed severely. That your historian might have been asked to share in the meal was too distant a possibility to consider. I had already noted that there was but a single plate on the oaken boards. I only hoped that I could keep my stomach from growling while the Captain dined leisurely.

Between bites, the Captain gave into reminiscence and, in a moment of deep reverie, she spoke of her mother's love for the Isle of Skye. "'Twas frae there that me grandfer come," she said, and added under her breath, "Wrong side o' th' blanket, that one." When I assured her that most of us have bastards somewhere in our history, she gave a coarse laugh and intentionally misconstrued my meaning, saying, "Aye, an' there be a bloody lot o' them in th' Corbyes, 'tis no denyin'."

Peeke interrupted us then by placing a large bowl of neeps (turnips) in the center of the spread. Captain Corbye had gone so far a-woolgathering that she passed over the opportunity to reprimand him for the late serving. As if from the instinct of some half-remembered social convention, she pushed the vegetable across to me with the point of her knife. The moment gave me pause to wonder: who might Morgan Corbye have become had she not turned to piracy those years ago when she enlisted with Edgar Service?

Back When Shakes Were Shaken

Day 165: Blenders and food processors may have been invented before I was a kid, but they certainly weren't a household item. When you wanted to make a milkshake, you put the ice cream in a shaker cup, added flavouring and milk, and if you wanted a malt, you threw in a couple of tablespoons of powdered malted milk, in those days readily available at the grocery store. The shaker cup had three parts: the cup itself, a dome cap with a perforated top, and a second smaller lid to cap off the holes. Once you had the ingredients in the cup, you put on the two lids and started shaking. You had to remember to keep a finger on the smaller lid because it was prone to fly off otherwise, and my dad was notorious for forgetting. It was highly amusing to a small Crow to watch him give the cup a couple of shakes, only to have the lid fly off, spreading milk and ice cream all around the kitchen. My mom would even laugh at the surprised look on his face!

Today, I got down the old shaker, filled it with vanilla ice cream, milk, caramel syrup and a healthy helping of the powdered malt a local burger joint owner graciously orders for me once a year or so. I had forgotten how the aluminum iced up on the exterior during the shaking process, but unlike my dad, I didn't forget to hold the small lid with my finger. No restaurant can top a home-made malted milk shake!

Happy First Day Of Skunk Cabbage!

Day 164: I didn't know it when I left for town this morning, but today was a holiday. Oh, not the kind of holiday you're thinking about, no, but to me, the First Day of Skunk Cabbage is one of the major celebrations of the year. It marks the turning of the season. Winter is gone. Spring is here. The date is flexible, of course, based solely upon when I personally observe that bright splash of color in some local bog. The vivid yellow spathe and chartreuse spadix emerge before the leaves of this odiforous plant, unlike its eastern red-purple cousin whose leaves pop through the ground before the flower. Skunk Cabbage blooms in March in the Pacific Northwest, and I've seldom celebrated this day so early in the month. I won't argue! Let Spring come in on the scent of Skunk Cabbage! It's an acquired appreciation, but I love it!

A Few Of My Favorite Things

Day 163: Sisters-of-the-heart, the three of us: Goldfinch, Mouse and Crow, each living in a different state. We met first in an on-line forum and even then, recognized something ephemeral connecting us. It took several years before we contrived to meet in person, and only two at a time for the first several visits. Then we managed to pull it all together, Da Finch and Da Mouse flying westward to meet the Crow, thence to wreak mirthful havoc in two states before going our separate ways again, at least for a time.

We share our stories in email and on the phone. We laugh and joke and sing. We help shoulder each other's griefs and miseries, and though we sometimes argue, we love one another as dearly as blood family. Surprises are found frequently in the mailboxes we maintain, particularly around holidays. I received one such treasured box of goodies today. Pirates, a marvelous marble and the best-ever tart grapefruit candy you could ever hope for! Can you tell my sister-of-the-heart Finchy knows my preferences? Thank you!

Alpenstock

Day 162: There is no denying that the spirit of exploration and adventure runs thickly in my veins even though my exploits are somewhat tamer now than they were twenty years ago. Like the bear who went over the mountain, I go to see what I can see, and like the bear discovered, it's usually nothing more than the other side of the mountain, "usually" being the operative word. Those few times I've discovered a geologic phenomenon, a new path, a rare wildflower or a bird for my Life List have been enough to spur me into other adventures on the odd chance of finding something I haven't seen before.

Despite the frets of friends and recommendations by authoritative bodies, I hike alone. You can't experience wilderness with someone chatting in your ear. When a bit of tree bark appears to move upward, you have to freeze in place instantaneously without worrying about someone running into you from behind, or you'll never confirm that yes, it really was a Brown Creeper. Sure, there are risks in hiking solo (and especially at my age), but they have to be balanced against the rewards. I generally let someone know where I'm headed, although all too often, that's no guarantee that I'll keep to the flight plan I've filed.

Today, I borrowed an alpenstock from the office and with no particular goal in mind, wound up on the snow-covered Eagle Peak trail. My time was occupied in close observation of lichens and sporophytes magnified by water droplets, heedless of the rain. It might not have been the most exciting adventure I've ever had, but it was nevertheless quite fulfilling, as only time in the solitude of the forest can be.

Scientific Exploration

Day 161: Last week, the call went out among Park employees for people willing to volunteer at the local elementary school's annual Science Fair. "Oh, how fun!" I said to myself, and submitted my name as I recollected the Science Fairs of my early years and the young experimenters who waited patiently beside their displays as the teachers or judges worked their way around the room. I had visions of quiet and order among the ranks, foolish me. What I found was, if not quite chaos, something which called to mind spit on a hot griddle, little child-shaped energy packets popping off all four walls and the ceiling, and decibel levels which surely must have approached harmful levels. I also found a wealth of inquisitive and intelligent minds, clever presentations, thorough methods which would have made any college professor proud of the student, and even better, I learned a few things from these K-6 kids. Some of them showed a remarkable environmental sensitivity in their hypotheses while others just had fun with chemistry or physics. Would I sign up for the same duty next year? Uh...can I have a day or two to recover before I answer that question, please?

Huck Embroidery

Day 160: The art of huckaback ("huck embroidery" or erroneously, "Swedish weaving") is most frequently executed on a specialized cotton or linen fabric. The weave of the fabric provides "floats," i.e., warp threads which are not caught down by the weft, and the embroidery floss or perle cotton is passed beneath these floats to create a surface pattern. A blunt needle is used. Generally, the patterns are geometric. Often seen as edgings for dish towels, huck may also be used to cover a piece of fabric in its entirety for use as a bag or pillow top. The stitches of huck are fairly basic: straight stitch, offsets, backstitch and loops. It works up quickly, and if you want a portable project, just fold up your work and stick it in a pocket!

Do Not Leave Pets In Car

Day 159: Parsnip Pete had a mishap on his way home from the store yesterday. It was a warm afternoon and although I'd provided him with adequate shade and left the window cracked while I attended a birthday party, the temperature inside the car rose to critical levels. The eggs and vegetables survived, but Pete had a meltdown.

Proof Against Merchandising

Day 158: I like to fancy that I'm proof against any type of merchandising, but every now and then, I find myself caught up by something I simply cannot resist. Red labels, prices ending in "99," elaborate end cap displays...nah, I walk right past them and don't give them a second glance. I shop by going straight to the items on my list, adding them to my cart and making a beeline for the checkout. No gimmick is going to trip me up into spending money I don't need to spend.

Except Angry Birds. No, I am not buying every Angry Birds item I see, but I do have an Angry Birds stuffie and some fridge magnets and...well...when it came time to buy Easter candy, I went for Angry Birds without giving a single thought to what the candy itself might taste like. It claims to be "fruit flavored," but a strong odor of bubblegum filled the room when I opened the package. Gack. And yes, I'm going to save the Golden Egg for last. Sheesh, did you have to ask?

Special Friends

Day 157: The Corvid family aside, no other bird tugs at my heartstrings in the way the Evening Grosbeaks do, largely because of my experiences with them. Nicknamed "porch parrots" in my household, my first acquaintance with them came during a backpacking trip. My husband and I were staying at Summerland, on the margin of the subalpine zone on Mount Rainier, and he had gone to a glacial stream for water while I set up the tent and put our gear inside. As I was working, I heard him shout, "Come here! Come quick! I've got a whole tree full of parrots!" As a non-birder, he can be forgiven the description. Evening Grosbeaks have very large bills which turn chartreuse green in mating season and otherwise resemble outsized American Goldfinches.

Our next meeting with the species came following the eruption of Mount St. Helens. The birds were in migration in the area on May 18, 1980 and thousands were killed in the blast. Others were blown off their flyway. Disoriented, burned, blinded by ash, one flock found its way to our feeders where an ample supply of food encouraged them to stay throughout the season. The following year they returned to introduce their brood to the territory. We were on the map from that point on, and not only did hundreds of them come to our feeding stations, they invaded the neighbors' feeders as well. When I moved here, one neighbor promised to keep up the tradition and does so to this day.

My encounters were not limited to watching them at a distance. Several years ago, I discovered an injured bird on my back step, his wing badly broken. With some experience in bird rehabilitation behind me, I brought my patient indoors and kept him in my back bedroom for six weeks while the wing healed. Flying lessons followed, and when he had regained strength in the wing, I released him, and none too soon because he was becoming habituated to the point that he would hold "hands" with me. For at least the next two years, Friend (identifiable by a growth on his leg) returned to the contorted filbert. I never saw him with a mate.

The porchies are back in force now, and I take my daily entertainment in watching them whether I am inside or outdoors. Like many of the birds in my yard, they show little fear of me or the camera.

A Basket Of Pysanky

Day 156: Making pysanky is a craft I haven't done in close to twenty years, largely because I was unable to find supplies in my pre-internet days, but I've hung onto the tools in case the mood ever strikes me again. I normally work with an electric kistka (the "pen" which applies the wax to the egg), but I've only shown the traditional kistkas here.

Pysanky are made using whole raw eggs. Melted wax is applied with the kistka, first covering all areas of the egg which the artist wants to remain white. The egg is then put into the lightest-colored dye bath (usually yellow). The next waxing covers the areas which are to be left yellow, and so on down the line, the egg steeping in progressively darker dyes until it reaches the final bath (usually dark blue or black). When the egg is removed from the final dye bath, it is lightly heated over a candle and the wax is carefully wiped away. Then it is varnished. Once the varnish is dry, the tricky task of removing the white and yolk is initiated. A small hole is made in either end of the egg and a metal stirrer is used to perforate the yolk. Some artists blow the "middles" out by mouth, but it is much safer to use an egg-blowing bulb such as the one shown to the left of the lathe. Care must be taken not to exert too much pressure because eggs do occasionally burst during the removal of their insides. Once the interior has been rinsed with water, the eggs are left to dry out for a couple of weeks before the holes are sealed with wax. The dyes used in making pysanky are generally not light-fast, so these remarkable "Easter eggs" should be kept out of sun or bright light.

Corax The Magnificent

Day 155: The largest Raven I have ever seen came strutting up to the front stoop of the Administration Building at Longmire today as if he purposed to walk into the Hiker Information Center to ask for a permit. Visitors passed within twenty feet of him, and although he kept a watchful eye on them, his composure was unruffled until someone made a sharp noise. He was also fully aware of me above him, leaning out the office window for this shot.

Ravens are fairly common around Mount Rainier, and now is their nesting season. My resident pair at home are setting up housekeeping somewhere close by. This will be their third year together. I am fairly sure that this bird is one of the pair I've often seen together around Longmire.

Smocking Pleater

Day 154: Yet another needleworker's tool surfaces from the Crow's closet! My Read smocking pleater was manufactured in South Africa about thirty years ago and has been an invaluable time-saver over the years. It eliminates the need for the transfer of dots and tedious hand-gathering. It's easier to use if you have an assistant to start the feed of fabric into the teeth while a second person rotates the wheels, but by moistening the leading edge of the cloth slightly so it sticks temporarily, the process can be managed by one person.

Here, I'm only gathering a narrow width of muslin for demonstration purposes. Three toothed rollers force the cloth onto specially designed needles, gathering it into very uniform pleats. If you were gathering a shirt-length of material, the excess would hang from the device beyond the ends of the rollers. Pieces of a garment are generally gathered separately and construction is done before smocking begins.

I've made dozens of baby garments, shirts and pillow tops. This wide-yoked midriff top has raglan sleeves, and is the only example of pleated smocking I still own. Might have to do something about that!

Fiesta!

Day 153: Though many people complain that the "heat" of peppers overpowers the other flavours in spicy-hot dishes, I would disagree. Certainly, it takes some getting used to, training the palate as it were, but for those of us who enjoy fiery dishes, you can never have enough hot peppers.

Four jalapeños, four Serranos and one Anaheim for sweetness are stewing in the slow-cooker with a pound and a half of cubed pork loin and assorted other vegs and spices. Chili verde is one of my favorite Mexican entrees, and the aroma filling the house is making my stomach growl already. Just prior to serving, I'll thicken the juices with flour to make a light gravy which will be used as the topper for meat and peppers rolled up inside steamed flour tortillas, and then it will be fiesta time!

Blueberry Bead Bracelet

Day 152: The kit to make this cute little bracelet was a Christmas gift from a friend who said she'd purchased it as much for the packaging (inset) as for the content, and I had to agree. The little Wren with her brolly, sou'wester and matching gumboots reminds me of characters from the storybooks of my youth.

The project has been sitting next to my weather station since Christmas Day, a spot where I knew it would remind me that it needed to be made. Each morning, I would see it there and say to myself, "I have got to work on that today," and after entering weather data on the chart, I would promptly forget all about it until the following day. Last night, I took a firmer stand and put it atop the bobbin lace pillow. It took about ten minutes to complete with a minor adjustment to the instructions to shorten it to fit my tiny wrist. The blueberries would fool you into thinking they were real if someone slipped them into your breakfast cereal!

Seventh Veil

Day 151: Inelegant, ungainly, lumpy, bulgy, knobby, awkward...any of these terms could be applied to the human body, making it one of the most interesting and difficult subjects for even the best photographers. The camera has a way of bringing out the worst in us, revealing such a wealth of flaws that we may well wonder why we find our own kind attractive, but the appeal is in the very imperfections inherent in the body's form. For all our graceless topography, we carry a sense of poetry about us, one line flowing into another, curves moderating angles. Remarkable in our lack of physical beauty, we are a creature nonetheless aesthetically pleasing in each other's eyes.

It's Not Just My Imagination

Day 150 (Part Two):
Spring has sprung,
The grass has riz.
I wonder where
The daisies is?

Spring has definitely sprung! It's not my imagination. My garden seemed to sprout clusters of daffodils and grape hyacinths overnight. The ones closest to the house have buds already. Oh, Spring is here!

The Harbourmaster's Error

Day 150 (Part One): The Harbourmaster gave Capt. Corbye a rude shove which sent her tumbling into the Winged Adventure's jollyboat and out of sight of the gathering crowd who had witnessed his escort of the saucy pirate from the pub. Their line of travel had been far from straight and between lurches port and starboard, the voice of authority could be heard informing the good captain that certain fees had not been paid, nor would her presence in the village be excused for any amount of gold and particularly not in her present state of inebriation. Coming partly to her knees, Corbye groped for her tricorn, not seeing where it had come to rest on the dock as it flew from her head during her fall. "I'll no' be departin' wi'out me bloody 'at!" she objected vehemently, only to have the Harbourmaster offer a kick toward her hand which missed and left a muddy imprint on the tricorn's upturned brim, noticeable when it came to rest on the thwart. Had he seen the spark kindle in her eye at that moment, the official would have found no comfort in his sudden disillusionment. Morgan Corbye was not drunk as he supposed, though to all events and purposes she seemed to be quite intoxicated as she fumbled to free the boat's painter from the cleat.

To say that Captain Corbye and Harbourmaster Beale were on less than friendly terms would be to put it mildly. Long had the captain known that the exorbitant tithes on incoming and outgoing goods were but in part governmental greed, and that only marginally more than half the docking levy ever reached the village coffers. Though Morgan Corbye was a pirate of the high seas, the worse villain was Beale, dry-shod landlubber he, with his permits and taxes and penalties slipped in substantial part into his own pockets. The very inn from which Captain Corbye had been ushered with such incivility was in fact foundering under Harbourmaster Beale's own avaricious and self-serving piracies.

A few days earlier, Captain Corbye had learned that a shipment of rum had been brought into port, a shipment on which Beale intended to capitalize. Initiating a surcharge of twenty percent above the official liquor tax, the government agent placed the goods marginally beyond the innkeeper's financial reach; thus the desperate proprietor, his cellar nearly empty, sought a loan from one of the village's more wealthy inhabitants. Harbourmaster Beale's wife's brother, no less mercenary than the Harbourmaster, set extortionate terms in regard to interest, terms which the innkeeper found so unreasonable that he was forced to turn down the contract and return to his place of business to make shift as best he could. When the pirate captain subsequently offered good gold for an evening's libations, the barman was compelled to inform her that no rum was to be had until Beale's greed was satisfied. Ever the champion of the downtrodden, Morgan Corbye listened raptly to his tale, her mind racing. In the next few hours, her plans to settle old scores with Harbourmaster Beale had been formed.

Thus it came about that upon the next evening while feigning insobriety, she allowed herself to be pushed and shoved and verbally abused as the bait she knew Beale could not resist. At the same time, her crew was hard at work to offload cases of liquor further down the docks, delivering them to the back door of the pub, untaxed save for an honorarium of bottles with which to supply the Winged Adventure's galley. Beale, however, had committed another insult against her in the kick he delivered to her hat, an offense which could not be let stand unavenged. Returning with her crew that same night, the pirate assisted the proprietor with relabelling his fresh stores as ale, and a crudely penned note was found upon the stoop of the local constabulary the following morning, informing representatives of civil law in the matter of the Harbourmaster's black-market trade in liquor. With an outbuilding on his property filled with empty rum cases, the evidence against Beale was singularly damning. Their tongues firmly in cheek, Captain Corbye and her crew pledged his good health in a toast of excellent rum as the Winged Adventure sailed out of port.