True Leaf

Day 200: Where there's life, there's hope, and I am hoping for sweet little Sungold cherry tomatoes to add to my lettuce salads later this summer. The seeds were a COVID-share; a friend dropped them on my porch when she heard that I had not bought tomato plants before the stay-at-home order was put in place. I put them in four pots, and was pleasantly surprised when all nine seeds sprouted, leaving me plenty of wiggle-room to thin. "One for the worm, one for the crow, one to die and one to grow" was my father's adage for planting seed corn. It seems to work for tomatoes as well. True leaves are now beginning to appear on my seedlings. At this point, they are vulnerable to "damping off," but I only need one to survive for the garden. I should have a crop somewhat later than if I had planted a commercial start, but Sungold is a prolific producer, a single plant yielding more bite-sized fruit than I can use. For now, the seedlings are sitting just inside the kitchen door where they can look over their future home and think about how they'll flourish when I let them out of confinement.

Purple Finch Male

Day 199: Backyard birding has taken on a whole new relevance since COVID-19 appeared on our maps, and although I'm not likely to see any new species, it's a delight when one of the "summer folk" arrives. I presently have a disproportionate number of female Purple Finches giving the few brightly coloured males a wide selection of potential mates. The female is an LBJ, "Little Brown Job" in birder parlance, and sometimes difficult to identify at first glance because she resembles a sparrow. Look for a light "eyebrow," a heavy, seed-cracking beak and a dark lateral (side) stripe on the throat which begins at the lower part of the bill. The male is much easier to pin down. He looks as if he'd bathed in raspberry juice. Where the species overlap, males can be confused with those of House Finch, but remember: Houses have shingles, i.e., their breasts are marked with dark flecks. The breast of the male Purple Finch is clear.

Canada Goose

Day 198: As if it wasn't tough enough to squeeze my daily walk in between traffic, possible human contact and disputes with a herd of elk over the right-of-way, now I have to contend with Canada geese. Make no mistake: this is a large bird, and the advantage it has over humans is that it can fly, and it does not hesitate to do so, straight toward anyone it perceives as being in its territory. In this particular scenario, Mr. Goose and I were on opposite sides of a barbed-wire fence, but we were in eye contact for some time as the goose assessed whether or not I was a rival. I know to pick my battles; I can rout a herd of elk, but Goose won the staring contest and I moved on.

Branta canadensis populations are somewhat reduced from what they were in Washington a decade ago, but in many areas, they continue to be abundant and are considered pests. Public education about geese is important to controlling their numbers. When favoured by human contributions to food sources, goose populations can rise quite rapidly, so eliminating potential foods is an effective deterrent. Many parks post signs cautioning people not to feed geese and ducks. This not only discourages them from visiting the space, but is also better for the overall health of the birds. Two groups of honkers populate the state: residents (non-migratory) and non-residents (migratory). For a young goose to migrate, it must be taught its route by its parents. If the parents are non-migratory, all subsequent generations will be non-migratory as well. That said, if you're watching a flock of cute little goslings, don't forget to look behind you occasionally. "Getting goosed" can be a very painful and memorable experience.

The McLeod Project

Day 197: They call it the "loud MacLeod." The tartan of MacLeod/McLeod of Lewis is even more recognizable than Royal Stewart, being one of very few "plaids" with a yellow ground (a "plaid," incidentally, is a garment rather than a pattern). It also happens to be my family's tartan by way of an indiscretion committed by my grandfather's mother with a man of the clan, a dalliance which, according to his personal research, led to my grandfather's birth. My grandfather went to Skye in the early 1900s to speak with people who had known his family and found enough support for the story to convince him of his right to the tartan. Although that bloodline is somewhat diluted in its present incarnation (me), I am proud to be a McLeod (the spelling used in our line), if from the "wrong side of the blanket."

The necessity for sticking close to home has found me digging into my stash of fibers with a critical eye to potential projects. I had on hand a good supply of Caron "Simply Soft" worsted in gold, harvest red and black, having used the colours previously to make ladybug and bee hats for Joppa Flats. Those, or as close as makes no nevermind, are the colours of Clan McLeod. Obviously quite a bit heavier than I would have liked, availability suggested a project to follow the tablecloth: a McLeod shawl. I was able to find the exact sett written in the code unique to tartan weaving, and reinterpreted it to proportions reasonable for the yarn. Admittedly, the width of a shawl only allows for one full repeat flanked by a half-repeat to either side, but at approximately six feet in length, there will be five red intersections. The worsted-weight fiber makes the weaving move very quickly. By yesterday evening, I had woven over two feet even though I had spent very little time at the loom. I suspect the McLeod Project will be done by Tuesday.

Tablecloth In Two Parts

Day 196: I have never had a problem keeping myself amused when alone. I've spent a large portion of my life alone, if perhaps not in quite the isolated state I find myself in lately, but alone nevertheless and sometimes for protracted periods of time. After several days of planning, on April 2, I measured out the warp for a tablecloth to be woven in two panels to be joined side-by-side. The next couple of days were spent dressing the loom, i.e., hanging the warp according to a strict draft and preparing to weave. On April 5, I began the actual weaving.

One of the things I've learned about myself over the years is that I tend to attack a project with great vigour at the beginning, a practice which usually results in burn-out and having to force myself to finish. To combat that, I decided to ration myself to one colour sequence each day. I found myself getting up every morning looking forward to my stint at the loom, and was often tempted to work into the next day's ration in the evening. I only allowed myself that luxury twice when I was particularly furious at some piece of public covidiocy and wanted to work off my frustrations. Of course, this meant that my following day's allotment was cut short, so I busied myself with planning for my next weaving. I finished the panels on April 24, and yesterday wove one final sequence as a sample before removing the tablecloth from the loom. All that remains to finish the piece is to hand-weave the panels together (a tedious process at best, but not one I will postpone for any great length of time).

The fiber I chose for the tablecoth was an 8/2 cotton with a soft finish. Fortunately, I had all the colours on hand. In the upper photo, you can see the unwoven space between the panels at the center of the piece. In order to achieve perfect squares, I had to exercise some restraint in beating the threads into place, stopping to measure every half inch so that I could compensate, or to pick back if absolutely necessary. The squares are 1", in a sequence of seven colours repeating five times across the width. The sample on the left shows the raw fabric, the one on the right shows it after "fulling," i.e., washing it to expand the fibers and then shrinking it by drying. Fulling also resolves any minor gaps left by uneven beating (something even the best weavers can't fully prevent).

As I mentioned a little earlier in this post, I devoted some time between bouts of weaving in planning my next project, a shawl in knitting worsted using the sett for my ancestral tartan, MacLeod of Lewis, also known as "the loud MacLeod." I had the colours on hand, having used them to make bee and ladybug hats: rich yellow, black and red. Before I went to bed last night, I had warped the loom for the shawl and had woven one yellow and one black sequence, and this piece will progress much more rapidly even with careful rationing.

Oniscus Asellus, European Sowbug

Day 195: Inspired by a recent blog post from Mass Audubon Joppa Flats Education Center (you know, the people I make knit hats for!), I went sowbug hunting in my yard with a mind to enlightening my readership with regard to these helpful little crustaceans. Yep, that's your first lesson right there: crustaceans. Sowbugs and Pillbugs (aka Roly-polys) are not insects. In fact, they are more closely akin to crayfish (crawdads) than to insects. They belong to the greater taxonomic Order of Isopoda (isopods). Sowbugs and Pillbugs both belong to the suborder Oniscidea, Sowbugs to the taxonomic family Oniscidae (note the spelling difference in the ending, please) and Pillbugs to Armadillidiidae (proofreader's nightmare, that one). The scientific name of Pillbugs should give you a clue on how to tell them apart. Pillbugs can roll up like an armadillo; Sowbugs cannot. Another physical difference is that Sowbugs have two short tails. Pillbugs have none. Sowbugs also have two pair of antennae, although the second pair is difficult to see without a magnifier. Although many people get "creeped out" at the thought of Roly-polys, they are in fact harmless and helpful. They thrive on decaying plant matter, and do not bite or sting. There are a number of species in each Family, and on this occasion, those I could find seeking cool, moist places under rocks and old wood in my yard all appeared to be an introduced species, Oniscus asellus, the European Sowbug.

White-Crowned Sparrow, Zonotrichia Leucophrys

Day 194: I refer to them as "racing-stripe sparrows" or "the guys with the go-faster stripes." The head of the White-Crowned Sparrow (Zonotrichia leucophrys) is marked by three distinct white stripes, one through each eye and one on the crown which meet at the back of the head, which makes the bird look as if it's wearing a bicycle helmet. When the bird is excited or curious, it may raise its crown feathers. As a species, they are gregarious little critters, often feeding among other birds including juncos and other sparrows. Their primary diet consists of weed and grass seeds, as well as a wide variety of insects and even some small fruits such as elderberries or blackberries. Their feeding habits resemble those of the Spotted Towhee: hop, scratch, hop-back-scratch. This action raises seeds and bugs to the surface where they are more accessible. White-Crowned Sparrows tend to stay in any given area, so their song often shows dialectic differences in different regions. Males which live on the border between two regions may learn to sing two different dialects. The locals can often be heard calling for "more cheezies," one of the mnemonics which can be used to identify this bird by ear.

Viola Glabella, Stream Violet

Day 193: Viola glabella (Stream Violet) loves the shady, moist ground beneath my big Doug-fir. In fact, it's one of the few things which will grow there, other than a few tough, wiry weeds and the occasional errant yew seedling gone astray from my hedge. I am cheered daily by their bright faces in the early months of spring, and continue to be amused by their oxymoronic name. The thought of "violet" as "yellow" tickles my funny-bone, and yet about half our native Violas bear yellow flowers. Want to tell your violets apart? Get out your hand lens and look for "beards" in the heart of the blossom, and make a note on which petals they occur. Presence or absence of "bee-guide" stripes will give you additional information, as will the shape of the leaf and the serrations along its margins. That said, you may encounter one which doesn't fall within the pages of any field guide presently: Viola pluviae. It is the newest addition to the genus from the Pacific Northwest, having been separated from Viola palustris in 2018. It occurs in Mount Rainier National Park and (thank you very much) it's lavender-blue.

A Walk In The Woods

Day 192: They say timing is everything. Not many people know about this little loop trail, but those who do use it frequently during certain hours of the day. By hitting it between reasonably predictable surges, I was able to negotiate it without seeing a single human, although I did have to walk along the highway during busier hours to reach it. My feet have trod the path so many times that I feel I could almost navigate it blindfolded but for the occasional newly fallen branch or pile of deer droppings. Some days during former years of the Park's "fitness challenge," I looped around it three or four times to add mileage to my total. I will find no new lichens, no new vascular plants here; I already know them all on a first-name basis. That said, there are still things to discover among the ferns and mosses: bird's-nest fungi, turkey-tail in a rainbow of colours, bryophytes I have no hope of ever identifying. Nor will I find silence here, a commodity I crave. The road is too close by, although the whish and rumble of traffic fails to drown the call of the Varied Thrush or the liquid melody of Pacific Wren. If these woods hold no discoveries nor a fully immersive forest experience, they still allow me some peace in spirit and occasion for observation of minutae, and for a moment, however brief, my mind can be entirely distracted from the goings-on of the external world. It's not a perfect solution, but it's the best I have for now.

New Tenant

Day 191: I am pleased to report that at least one of the two apartments I provide for the summer tourists has been rented. The House of Chirp is presently occupied by Tree Swallows, easily distinguished from the Violet-Greens even in this partial view by the lack of white above the eye. I have not observed any activity in Pussywillow Cottage, set a respectable distance to the right of this duplex, but I sometimes miss the comings and goings until the fledglings begin appearing at the door. The House of Chirp's "mother-in-law" annex is never occupied; it is too small for a comfortable nest. Another generation of swallows has begun, and if the world of humans falls to pieces around us, I can take some consolation in the hope that they will survive what we have done to their world. It's time to leave the planet to species which will not abuse it as we have done, for all of our vaunted "intelligence."

Sourdough

Day 190: If you will forgive the pun, bread-making has experienced quite a rise in popularity since COVID-19 has left stores short of the ready-made product. I've seen a number of people complaining that yeast is also in short supply, so why not make sourdough instead? Can't find commercial starter? Make your own! Most homes contain enough free yeast spores to get a starter going from scratch. Here's how:

Using a wooden or plastic spoon (no metal!), mix together 1 cup of lukewarm milk, 1 cup of sifted flour and 1/2 cup of sugar. Allow the mixture to stand UNCOVERED for 4-7 days, stirring it down once a day. It may crust up; stir the crust into the liquid. When it has fermented sufficiently, it will be nice and bubbly. Your starter is now ready to use. Store it in the refrigerator. Separation in the starter is normal during storage. If a greyish liquid has risen to the top, stir it in until the starter is smooth and uniform before use.

You will need to allow two days to make sourdough bread. To begin, you will make a "sponge." Use only wooden or plastic utensils! The evening before you plan to bake, combine 1/2 cup of starter with 1 1/4 cups of flour and 1 cup of lukewarm water. Cover it lightly and set it in a warm place to "work" overnight. It should be bubbly and thick within 12 hours.

Recipe:
1 1/2 cups of sponge
3 - 3 1/4 cups of sifted flour (360-400 grams bread flour)
1 Tbsp. sugar
3/4 cup milk
1 Tbsp. butter
1 tsp. salt

For those of you who prefer to measure ingredients by weight, here's the conversion, but note well that if you are using other than bread flour, you may have to adjust the measurement:

Sponge:
125g starter
150g flour
235g water at 110 F.

Dough:
380g Sponge
360-400g flour
14g Sugar
14g Butter
6g Salt
180g Milk.

To make the bread itself, warm the milk, to which has been added the butter, salt and sugar. Cool to lukewarm. Place measured "sponge" in a bowl. Return the remainder to your starter storage jar and put it back in the fridge. To the sponge, add 1/2 cup of sifted flour and stir it in well. Then add the cooled milk mixture and stir it in. Now begin adding flour. When the dough becomes too stiff to stir with a spoon, put it on a well-floured board and begin kneading. You should knead for 10-12 minutes to ensure a smoothly textured loaf. Never force the dough to take more flour than it will readily accept.

Place the finished dough in a greased bowl and turn it once so that all sides are lightly greased. Cover with a cloth and allow to raise in a warm spot for 2 hours. Punch it down (i.e., knead it for a minute or so between your hands) and return to the bowl, and allow to raise for another 30 minutes. Punch the dough down again, and form it into a loaf. The loaf may be placed in a greased loaf pan or shaped and put on a greased cookie sheet at this point. Cover with a cloth, and allow to raise for another 1.5 hours. Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees. Before baking, slash the top of the loaf diagonally in several places. Bake for 45 minutes. Remove from oven and brush the top lightly with butter. To perform a "doneness check," turn the loaf out onto a cooling rack. It should sound somewhat hollow when tapped on the bottom.

I like to substitute 1/2 cup of millet flour for an equivalent portion of white. I also throw in a little golden flaxseed and golden flaxseed meal, and/or any other edible seed (teff, sesame, etc.) for crunch.

See? You didn't really need to go to the store, did you? And once you've experienced the delicious taste and hearty texture of homemade bread, you'll never buy the "whipped air" product again.

Use It Up, Wear It Out

Day 189: I like having new stuff as much as the next person, but having grown up in poverty, I heard the phrase, "Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without" enough times that it became embedded in my psyche. I repurpose whenever possible, in the manner which served my mother well and my grandmother and great-grandmother before her. It was what you did when goods weren't readily available in the pioneer days, during the Great Depression and during two world wars. In fact, many of the skills which today we refer to as "crafts" were born out of necessity, like the making of rag rugs.

Traditionally woven or braided from strips of wool suiting for warmth and durability, rag rugs were also made of lighter weight cottons although the more decorative ginghams, calicos and flour-sack prints usually found their way into quilts instead where the variety of patterns allowed for greater creativity. Floor coverings need to be sturdy and weighty, so heavy cotton cord was used for warp. The strips of weft fabric were beaten firmly into place, packed as tightly as possible for greater durability. Here, I cut my strips from worn-out t-shirts, stitching the ends together until the length filled each shuttle to capacity. When I reached the far end, I simply hand-sewed the near end of the next length to the one on the loom and began weaving again with a new shuttle. Each rug measures 18" x 33", perfect for in front of my kitchen sink. A future project will be made from strips of denim, already cut and waiting to be sewn together, repurposed to good use from jeans which only thought they had seen their better days.

Little Baby Lettuces

Day 188: Look carefully in the foreground. Those are the cotyledon leaves of little baby lettuces, courtesy of the sister-of-my-heart who lives clear across the country in New Hampshire.

Y'see, I zigged when I should have zagged. A few days before the first cases of COVID-19 appeared in a Kirkland WA nursing home, I was in town shopping. I wandered past the vegetable seed displays and said to myself, "Nah, it's too early yet. I'll get seeds in a couple of weeks." I wasn't expecting to be staying at home, trying to insulate myself against a dangerous disease. I thought life was going to continue normally, as did we all.

Because I am in two high-risk groups (my age, and the fact that I had pneumonia two years ago), I am not venturing out of my own neighbourhood, not for any reason. Some friends think I'm over-reacting, but I'd rather be safe than sorry, as the saying goes. However, my self-enforced isolation has put a substantial dent in my plans for the garden this year, and after bemoaning that fact to Patty, I found four packets of lettuce seed in my mailbox a few days later, shipped from far-away New Hampshire where a stay-at-home order was not in place at the time. There may not be any tomatoes to add to my salad, but at least I'll have greens and, if I'm lucky and tend them assiduously, the blueberries, raspberries and kiwi fruit should bear as well. With time on my hands, I'll have no excuse for letting the weeds grow.

Shadow On The Sky

Day 187: In a concerted effort to avoid both people and traffic, I've been taking daily walks just one side or the other of sunrise. It's my favourite time of day in any event, although it's been a bit on the chilly side. Sometimes I see elk (oftener than not). Sometimes I hear the Varied Thrush's first announcement of the day. Other times, I watch tendrils of mist rise as the ground warms, inviting the robins to search for insects and worms. On this rare day, atmospheric conditions aligned perfectly to have the Mountain cast a faint shadow on the sky as the sun crept toward the horizon. Had I not gone when I did, had I waited fifteen minutes to begin my walk, I would have missed it. It's moments like these which make me think getting out of bed is worth it after all.

When Projects Go Awry

Day 186: I've decided to call this episode "When Projects Go Awry," although it could easily be titled, "Making The Best Of A Bad Thing." Y'see, a year or so ago, I decided to make a braided rag rug out of strips of old t-shirt fabric. I kept at it for a couple of weeks until my little rug was approximately bath-mat sized, trying to convince myself that I could keep going despite the excruciating pain in my repaired shoulder. I'd push through an hour per day...a half-hour...fifteen minutes...six inches...let me just get around the corner...but regardless of when I laid it aside or how many days I let elapse between stints of working on it, the agony in the damaged tendons and atrophied muscles would keep me awake at night, on the verge of tears from pain. It takes a bit to put me off a project once I've begun it, but I finally realized that I was not going to be able to complete the rug without further injuring myself. Bottom line: time to throw in the towel.

Still, I put the mat away in the form I'd last worked on it, and it hounded me every time I saw it in my crafts room. A few days ago, a friend mentioned that she wanted to weave some rag rugs, you might have seen a flash of light come on over my head. It seemed entirely reasonable that I could undo all my hard work and use the t-shirt strips for a woven rug. Not only that, it would give me an excuse to bring my tabletop loom out of garage storage. As my readers may recall, I've been rationing my stints at the floor loom to one colour sequence per day, drawing out the pleasurable work of creating a tablecloth, so setting up the table loom to weave rag rugs seemed like a justifiable deviation from my general rule of "only one of any fiber-art at a time" on the basis of scale (yeah, I know...that's stretching it).  It also gave me a chance to put to good use the two antique rag shuttles handed down to me from a friend's friend's grandmother. As projects go, this is a quick one. After spending a day unstitching and another unbraiding, I had half a rug done by bedtime yesterday even with the other weaving I had done as a matter of course. Now I need to sew more strips together so I can finish the job.

Fritillary Lilies

Day 185: Every year when my Fritillary Lilies come into bloom, I ask the same question: what possible genetic advantage does the colouration of the flowers provide? Dear Fritillaria meleagris, WHY? I've never seen insects playing chess or checkers, so you can't be trying to attract pollinators, and I don't know that a gingham bonnet signified that one pioneer woman would make a better mother than another, so you're not displaying a readiness to reproduce. What exactly is going on here?

Whatever the reason for Checkered Lilies' checkerspots, they do amuse me. Mine have been growing and multiplying in the same large flower pot for at least five years, left outside to endure winter temperatures which occasionally dip into the single digits with no loss of bulb strength. They're somewhat crowded in amongst Snowflakes and some errant chives, having compelled a handful of tulips into giving up the fight for space. Like most members of the Lily family, they're at their best for only a short time, but even so, they give me far more enjoyment than a whole bedful of daffodils with their quirky, cocky, checkered bells.

Geometricat

Day 184: Some of us are really enjoying the sunshine despite being required to stay indoors, and we seem to be putting our artistic skills to use as well. As soon as the sun rises above the neighbour's belt of Douglas-firs and the sun streams in through the east window, Tippy arranges himself in the middle of the sunspot, in this case exhibiting no little degree of talent at composition in a geometric style. The crossings of his paws complement the sharp angles in the lower corners, the curve of his back and tummy reflecting the arching shadow. Even the bend of his tail is echoed in a rigid, narrow diagonal which bounds a wedge of light. Don't look to credit me with any creativity for this shot; I just snapped the photo. Tippy is the real artist here, my clever little Boy.

Ribes Sanguineum, Red-Flowering Currant

Day 183: Ribes saunguineum (Red-flowering Currant) is native to the Pacific Northwest with a range which extends from British Columbia to California. Its rosy flowers occur in drooping racemes to be followed by dusty blue edible fruits. I use the word "edible" with some reluctance and will repeat here a variation of a phrase I used only yesterday: "edible" and "desirable as food" should not be confused. While the fruits of Red-flowering Currant are enjoyed by some who have developed a taste for their seedy, acrid pulp, I find them undesirable when fresh. However, they make a passin' fair substitute for blueberries when baking muffins, although you might wish to add more sugar to combat a lingering and somewhat musty aftertaste. That said, I do not grow them for the table; I grow them for the hummingbirds.

Whenever practicable, birds, bees and butterflies should be drawn to the garden with native species. To do otherwise, i.e., to plant non-native species known to attract avian and insect life, is to pull them away from their real work of pollinating and perpetuating the native plants of an area. When offered chocolate, which of us would not turn away from the peas and carrots on our plate in preference for it? Presented with sweeter, non-native fare, "the b's" will turn away from native wildflowers, leaving many unpollinated and non-reproductive; wildflower numbers decline, and "the b's" decline with them, unable to sustain themselves on non-natives which do not fill their dietary requirements. As the cycle repeats year after year, the effects become more noticeable, with improperly nourished birds, bees and butterflies becoming more susceptible to disease. That caution given, there is the additional reward of seeing a wider assortment of "b's" coming to a yard filled with native plants: rusty Rufous Hummingbirds hovering at these pink flowers just one example "currantly" occurring outside my window.

Bloomin' Springtime

Day 182: Although Easter is not a holiday with any personal relevance, it brings with it a definite feeling of renewal in that it occurs at a time when spring bulbs are putting on their annual gala. My flower beds are not at peak daffodil time yet, but there are enough to delight any Easter bunny who happened to be looking for a place to hide his eggs. When I was a youngster, there was always a red one nestled in a cup of tulip leaves or a purple one tucked into place among the minarets of grape hyacinth. Daffodils nearly always concealed those dyed green or blue, camouflaged by the play of light and shadow filtering through the strappy foliage. It might be that the Easter bunny gave me early lessons in observation, for rather than putting eggs where I was sure to find them, he concealed them with great skill. Of course I was cautioned not to trample the flowers in their beds, so I would sit at the edge, studying the plants until a wink of improper colour caught my eye. Later, I learned that this way of observing at the environment is described as not 'looking for something,' but 'looking for something which shouldn't be there.' It is a system which has served me well. That said, I never saw the Easter bunny at his work, but one year I caught his minion in the act of hiding an egg in the bookcase headboard of my bed. Easter was never quite the same after that.

Oemleria Cerasiformis, Indian Plum

Day 181: Commonly known as Indian Plum or Osoberry, Oemleria cerasiformis is unique in that it is the only member of its genus. Moving up the scale, we can see that it is a member of the Rosaceae, a botanical Family with such widely diverse "cousins" as roses, rowan trees and raspberries, almonds, apricots and apples. It is a dioecious shrub, which is to say that male and female flowers are borne on separate plants, and its fruits are considered edible, if bitter. The fruit is yellowish-red when immature, darkening to a reddish-purple when ripe. Its leaves and bark may also be used to make tea, although I can't speak to its desirability as such. As I have said repeatedly, many plants which are considered "edible" do not necessarily fall into the narrower category of "desirable as food," which is to say that you could assuage a burning hunger by eating them without poisoning yourself, although you wouldn't consider serving them up to guests. I think I'll give Oemleria tea a miss, thank you.

The Light In The Forest

Day 180: Trillium ovatum, the Trillium which used to be so common in Pacific Northwest forests, is becoming harder to find every year. In my childhood, they were everywhere, so abundant that I thought nothing of picking one or two to bring home to stick in a vase on the kitchen table, thus eliciting from my mother what may well have been my first lesson in plant ecology: that if the flower and leaves are picked, the plant has no means to photosynthesize, weakening the bulb until it is rendered non-vital, i.e., it dies. At age six or seven, I was so horrorstruck by this revelation and my part in it that I immediately went on a campaign, attempting to educate my classmates and to stop them from gathering the flowers. I don't know that I had much success, nor even in later years when I tried to discourage friends from digging the bulbs to transplant into their flower beds. Trilliums do not transplant well, and such misguided personal harvesting has been a factor in their current decline. Nurseries do offer cultivars bred to be more forgiving, although once put in place, they should be left there permanently. As for our woodland species, please let the light of their blooms shine in the forests of their choosing, undisturbed.

Spotted Towhee, Pipilo Maculatus

Day 179: Once known as "Rufous-sided Towhee" here in the Pacific Northwest and considered to be one and the same with the eastern species, Pipilo maculatus (Spotted Towhee) was separated from Pipilo erythrophthalmus (Eastern Towhee) in 1995 after decades of debate. The bird, however, is only indirectly the subject of this discussion. Instead, we're going to talk Latin.

Ironically, both "maculatus" and "erythrophthalmus" could be applied to either species. Both are spotted and both have red eyes. That's what the two terms mean. Now while most of you won't readily be able to pull up from memory many English words with roots in "erythr-," but "ophthalmus" should ring a few bells. Have you ever been referred to an ophthalmologist for an eye problem? That medical professional may have used an ophthalmoscope to look into your eyes. Yes, "-ophthalmus" is a clue to an identifying characteristic: it tells us to notice the bird's eye. If you happen to have some medical background, you might recognize "eryth-" as being part of the word for a red blood cell: erythrocyte. "Eryth-" in "erythrophthalmus" further indicates that the eye is red.

Let's move on to "maculatus." This one is easier. The English term "maculate" is not one you hear commonly, but it is a valid adjective and means "spotted" or "stained." However, don't strain your brain in trying to remember that. Just think of its opposite: immaculate. Something "immaculate" is without stain or spot.

Seriously, folks, you use a lot more Latin in your daily conversation than you probably realize, Greek too. English is a youngster as languages go, and "modern" English (i.e., English in a form you'd be able to understand with relatively little difficulty) is only about 500 years old. Step back a little more than a century into Chaucer's day and "woot ye wel what I meene of this" as it applies to the English of his era. If you think of Latin as a "dead language," think again. It's alive and well in scientific nomenclature, and also in our everyday speech.

The Weaver At The Loom

Day 178: I know. I said there weren't going to be any more weaving posts for a while, but I forgot the most important one: the weaver at the loom. I was done with the daily goal of another full colour sequence on the tablecloth by early afternoon yesterday, and thus was faced with a dilemma. I am really enjoying this project because it takes a fair bit of concentration to repeat four treadling steps over fifteen throws. In other words, I'm counting 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4 at the same time I'm counting 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 1, 2, 3...and so on. You get a step off if you're not paying attention. And paying attention is good right now because it keeps my mind off people dying and bastards lying. That said, because I am enjoying the weaving of this particular project so much, I am debating whether to ration myself to one sequence per day, working on any of my other dozen projects to fill the remaining hours, or to sit at the loom, happily weaving away. I'm inclined to go with rationing because that's the kind of person I am, half-lifing the chocolate or cookie supply as the days wear on. Should the weaving compulsion be with me, I also have a project on the rigid heddle currently, a rather boring tabby in Lily's "Sugar & Cream," far from my favourite fiber in any event. It needs to be done; therefore, I should be working on it. Likewise, it's become painfully obvious that my sisters-of-the-heart are not going to be visiting any time soon to work on Mousie's grandmother's quilt, so I wish to devote a portion of the day to completing as much of it as I can (and it's coming along famously). Still, there is something about the music (and I use the term quite loosely) of the floor loom's operation and the demand upon my brain which makes weaving the tablecloth ever so much more appealing. My next project might not call to me in the same way. "Choices, choices!" thinks the weaver at the loom as her shuttle passes back and forth through the rainbow web.

Hellebore In The Rain

Day 177: It's been several days since I took this photo through my living room window, really the best view of the Oriental Hellebore (Lenten Rose) since from that angle, it's not hidden by daffodil leaves. As garden plants go, I find it quite rewarding. Once it's done with its lengthy winter-late spring blooming cycle, the leaves darken and become substantially larger, shading out any nasty weeds which might be hiding closer to the ground. It endures dry days without much noticeable effect, remaining richly green until late autumn. The plant then retreats into dormancy for a period of 8-10 weeks before new flower heads begin to appear. If you plant a Hellebore, be sure to give it lots of space. It can become quite large. That said, it is easily divided and "spares" can always be transplanted to other areas of your yard. Keep it out of full sun. Morning light is sufficient to keep it healthy, and if you have a variety with coloured flowers, a little shade will keep them vibrant.

Rainbow Tablecloth - Sneak Peek

Day 176: The vision is coming to life! Yesterday, I wove one full colour sequence, fifteen throws of each of seven colours shading from red to purple. This sequence will repeat ten times for each half of the tablecloth, i.e., I will weave a total of twenty repeats broken into two panels of ten each. In other words, this will be the last weaving post you see from me for a while because there won't be anything different going on. For now, though, I'd like to explain a couple tricks of the trade I'm using during the process.

First of all, you may notice a white section in the photo on the left (it's less apparent in the photo on the right). This is the header. It will be turned under when the tablecloth is ready to hem. It helps space out the warp threads uniformly. A similar band will be added at the end of each panel. Second, that short white thread isn't something I dropped there accidentally. It gives me a handy reference point for measuring the colour band currently in progress. Because I am striving for a 50/50 weave, each weft stripe needs to be made with fifteen throws of the shuttle and to measure exactly one inch to match the warp measurements. At the end of each colour, I pull the white thread from the beginning of the stripe and reinsert it at the end. If I've beaten the weft irregularly, I may need to pick back several throws and re-do them, although minor spacing deviations will be unnoticeable once the fabric is fulled.

When weaving a twill, special care must be taken with the selvedges (the outer edges of the fabric web). It is all too easy to wind up with a "floating" warp thread which never gets caught into the weft. At the selvedges, the weaver must be sure that the weft goes under or over the outer thread in the manner of a tabby (plain) weave. As I have learned to do over the years, I've added an extra thread of black cotton carpet warp on each side to minimize draw-in, spaced one dent apart from the actual fabric. These threads pass through heddles numbered identically with the first and last threads of the cloth. To identify these two strands of carpet warp and their adjacent coloured threads, I've tied a small, loose loop of string around them. By taking up the loop with one hand, I can easily raise or lower the two selvedge threads together in a tabby pattern while throwing the shuttle with my opposite hand. The carpet warp thread will be carefully drawn out of the fabric when the weaving is completed. It all sounds very complicated, but in practice, it is fairly simple and not overly "fiddly." A rhythmic pattern emerges as the weaver works which, accompanied by the soft clatter of heddles and repetitive footwork on the treadles, is almost meditational. Weaving is an enormously satisfying craft.

Dressing The Loom 2

Day 175: With the hardest part behind me, yesterday I settled in to finish dressing the loom. Because my 15-dent reed was too short to accommodate a 36-inch width, I used a longer 10-dent, drawing two threads through every other slot. While in a plain tabby weave (over-and-under), this might create a "tracking" pattern in the fabric, weaving a twill will make it less obvious. It will be even less apparent when the fabric is fulled, i.e., washed to expand the fibers of the soft 8/2 cotton. Once the ends were through the reed, I tied them to the front apron, keeping the tension even. The photo on the right illustrates a "shed," the space between threads when the harnesses are raised or lowered. The diagonal twill pattern consists of four sheds, created by raising harnesses 1/4, 1/2, 2/3 and 3/4 in strict sequence. This is where any mistakes in threading the heddles will make themselves known. If one should be found, the weaver has no choice but to unthread the reed and heddles if s/he wants to weave a flawless piece. Today, the weaving begins.

Dressing The Loom 1

Day 174: At a time when I'm desperately short of natural-history materials for my daily posts, I am pleased that several friends have expressed interest in the step-by-step process of weaving. Because this is a large project made with relatively fine thread, one or two phases are all I can hope to achieve in a single day.

Having wound the warp onto the back beam using my (jokingly) patented "Gatorade Method," I was ready to proceed with drawing the threads through their individual heddles yesterday morning. The heddles on this loom are held in four harnesses (i.e., it is a "four-shaft loom"). To weave a twill pattern, the heddles must be threaded in precise order, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4. There's no room for mistakes here, so of course that meant I committed one: I miscounted heddles on the #3 harness, shorting the pattern by 20. I was not so far into the threading when I discovered the error, but even so, fixing it was a major undertaking because the heddles WERE partly threaded and I didn't want to pull out two hours' work. The alternative solution was to figure out how to add additional heddles to the harness, if indeed that was even possible. By raising the #3 harness and supporting it with a spacer, I was able to access the screw securing the lower heddle rod. By lowering the #3 harness, raising #1, #2 and #4 and supporting them with a spacer, I was able to get at the screw for the upper heddle rod somewhat more easily. This part wasn't as hard as I'd expected it to be, and I thought I was home, free and easy. However, when I threaded new heddles onto the lower rod, I discovered they were an inch too short to mount on the upper rod. Bugger! Apparently I'd bought them for a different loom (probably the table loom I never use). Now the heddle-exchange project had taken on a much larger dimension. I had plenty of spare heddles on other harnesses, so by means of a lot of fiddling and diddling, I removed them from #2 and placed them on #3. In the process, I knocked a plant off the shelf and spread dirt all over the craft room floor. Needless to say, by this point, I had used up my daily allotment of profanity and was taking out a loan for more. By bedtime, I was still 75 threads short of done, but my nerves and back were shrieking. This morning, I finished up the threading of the heddles and am now ready for the next phase: threading the reed. Then let the weaving commence!

Gatorade Warping Method

Day 173: When one lives alone as I do (and have done for over thirty years), the old saying "necessity is the mother of invention" chimes at least weekly, if not daily. Warping a floor loom is a project which normally takes two people, one to crank the warp onto the beam, the other to stretch and manipulate the threads to maintain uniform tension and prevent tangling. I developed the "solitaire" Gatorade Method after much experimentation with fishing weights, canned goods, rubber bands and assorted other household items until at last I came up with a workable system. Each water-filled bottle has a yarn tie around the neck, knotted in such a fashion that there is a loop through which I can insert my index finger and thumb to grasp a bundle of warp threads and draw them through. The bundle is then secured with an easy-to-remove spring clothespin and the bottle is suspended at a height just clearing the floor. Bundles of threads are kept relatively small as another means of maintaining even tension; here, ten bottles hold a total of 527 ends across a 36" width. Once the full width has been weighted, I move to the rear of the loom and start cranking the warp onto the back beam. When the lids of the Gatorade bottles reach the bottom of the front breast beam, I then return to the front to rehang the weights. Progress is slow. At best, I can wind about two feet of warp before having to change the weights, carefully adjusting the leash sticks (those rods which temporarily hold the warp crossings until the threads are pulled through the heddles), cranking slowly to prevent any thread breakage. Once the full warp is wound onto the back beam (yesterday's goal), I can then thread the heddles and the reed. The heddles govern the texture of the weave. In this case, I will be using a four-shaft twill, a simple, mindless pattern to keep me occupied during the next month of lockdown.

Warping

Day 172: Any weaving project begins with visualization. Then comes the actual planning, based on the width and length of fabric required to complete it. Many things must be taken into account when weaving turns to math: the weight of thread governs the number of threads per inch, as do repeats of a colour pattern and/or type of weave. Once these things have been determined, the weaver then sets to measuring the warp, winding it over a series of pegs set into a rectangular frame, i.e., the "warping board" to the length desired. Wastage must be allowed for in measuring the warp. In this case, the rainbow check tablecloth in my imagination requires two 36"-wide lengths of 72" since I cannot weave the full two-yard width in twill on a 48" loom. At least five more feet of warp will be considered waste (a figure I know from experience), so I have measured out 525 ends plus two selvedge threads at six yards each which gives me five repeats of 7 colours, 15 warp threads per colour for the half-width warp, to be put on the loom at 15 dents per inch and woven at 15 throws per inch ("balanced weave").  While I would have preferred a brighter orange than the rust which follows red in the repeat, desperate times call for desperate measures. It took a stay-at-home order to inspire me to warp the big loom for this project, so I think I can make a few minor allowances.

International Tatting Day

Day 171: Who would have thought that there was such a thing as "International Tatting Day?" I didn't know it until I called to order more materials from my favourite supplier and was told that in honour of the day, I would receive a free ball of thread for every four I selected. Since I already had seven balls on my list, the offer was a no-brainer. Known also as "frivolite" in French and "chiacchierino" in Italian (the two countries famed for their development and execution of the art), tatting looks complicated but in fact is nothing more than a series of rings and chains made up of clove hitches or half hitches made over a core thread. It can be made with a shuttle or with a special needle. It can be very delicate when made with 80-weight thread or finer, or it can resemble macramé if done with heavy cord. Its lacy appearance is influenced by picots (loops of a single thread) placed between the knots. Surprisingly versatile in the manner in which its elements can be joined and combined, tatting is less popular among needleworkers than crochet or knitting, yet it is easy to learn and very portable. I am happy to say it seems to be experiencing a resurgence of interest, as evidenced by the fact that in the late 1990s, it was accorded its own international day, April 1.