Weaving Terms

Day 110: Several of my loyal and faithful readers have remarked to me recently that they feel like they're reading a foreign language when I'm talking about weaving. I find it odd that this didn't surface as I rambled on about fungi, slime molds, lichens or some rare plant I'd stumbled across in the backcountry, but there ya go: no accounting for how a writer's efforts are received by their audience, and I'm just happy to know that my work is being read. All things considered (not the least of which might be the paucity of bloggable material during isolation), I have decided that over the next several days, I will present a few weaving terms with explanatory photographs which hopefully will help folks follow along.

Let's start at the very beginning (a very good place to start, do-re-mi). If you look at a piece of woven cloth, you will see that it is comprised of threads running both vertically and horizontally. Turn it so that the selvedges (edges) are on your left and right. The threads which run lengthwise are the warp threads (left), and those running across are the weft (a patterned weft is shown top right). The warp threads are held taut by the loom, tied down on either end. Today, we'll just concern ourselves with the weft (the "active" thread controlled by the weaver's shuttle) and how it passes through the warp.

In order to make cloth, some sort of over-under pattern must be established. The simplest is tabby weave: one thread up, one down across the entire width of the cloth. The first looms were established to make this easier by raising or lowering every other thread simultaneously rather than picking them up one at a time by hand. On a floor loom, this is done by depressing a treadle which in turn operates a mechanical device in which that half of the threads are held. This device (harness and heddles) will be explained in a future post. When the alternate threads are raised or lowered and the developing cloth is viewed from the side, it will be seen that there is a triangular gap between the two layers of "up" and "down" threads. This is called the shed (lower right photo). Doesn't it remind you of a woodshed? See how the "roof" slopes down toward the front? The shuttle carrying the weaving thread (weft) is passed through the shed, and the "throw" is beaten into place. Then the weaver depresses a different treadle and the opposite threads are raised or lowered, forming the alternate shed. The shuttle goes through again, the thread is beaten into place, and the first two rows of cloth have been formed, interlaced over-and-under like weaving a basket. In the top right photo, the lavender threads are woven in that over-and-under (tabby) pattern. Indeed, much of the cloth on the market today as both yardage and finished goods is woven either as tabby or as twill (a sequence of four threads progressing on the diagonal), but as you can see in the dark blue pattern above, there are many other possibilities to be made by simply raising or lowering different threads. That's where heddles come in, and for that, you'll have to tune in tomorrow.

Lucet Braiding

Day 109: Lucet braiding is a simple cord-making technique and dates back at least to mediaeval times, possibly earlier. It is closely allied to French spool-knitting, a later development. The first lucets were probably no more than forked sticks, and over the history of the craft became more refined to include an outward bend at the tips of the tines as a means of assuring that the work would not slip off while the thread was being passed over the previous loop. Almost any smooth thread or cord can be used to create a lucet braid as long as it can be manipulated with the fingers. The diameter of the braid is dependent on the size of the fiber and tensioning. A braid can be as loose or firm as the fiber artist requires. One of the main differences between lucet braiding and French knitting is that the lucet tool is generally only two-pronged. Some three- and four-pronged versions exist, but these are largely modern innovations. The resultant braid worked on a two-pronged lucet is square, but beads or other embellishments can be added while working. Gimp materials (those carried by the braid but not actually braided themselves) may also be added to give width or character to the work. Here, I am using a modern rosewood lucet to create a braid from crochet cotton which will be used as the drawstring for a sprang bag of the same material.

Tomentose

Day 108: Botanical word for the day: tomentose, i.e., a covering of fine, woolly hairs. It derives from Latin "tomentum" which, to my great amusement, means "cushion stuffing," although today's cushions are largely stuffed with polyurethane foam. What advantages would there be for a plant to have evolved tomentose foliage? Several, as it turns out, the first being that the woolly surface is more difficult for insects to navigate and thus they tend to avoid tomentose leaves. The matted hairs of the tomentum (here used in the non-cushion sense) also insulate tender surface cells from frost and wind. They also reduce the rate of transpiration and reflect harsh sunlight. Harking back to an earlier point in this discussion, an article in a recent issue of Scientific American suggests that plants which have more textured leaf surfaces are affected by fewer insect pests. Scientists monitored the difficulties beetles had in traversing leaves with various microscopic surface structures and found that they took longer to cross a given distance on a textured leaf than on a smooth-surfaced one.

Safety Net

Day 107: Imagine, if you will, that you are a Kestrel or other small hawk with a mind to a tasty dinner of junco or sparrow. Would you not choose the easiest route to your meal over navigating a maze of tangled branches through which the smaller birds can flit with greater ease? This is why the contorted filbert is such a popular feature among my avian friends. It affords them protection from predators. A chickadee can negotiate the obstacle course with alacrity and indeed, the 'dees and the nuthatch frequently hang out deep within the interior of this wildly twisted shrub. The Steller's Jays and other larger birds must pick their way through if they wish to transit to the other side. The few times a hawk has attempted to stoop on a songbird here, it has given up all hope to sit forlornly on an outer branch while the "little people" hid in the core of its architecture. As much as I would love to add another contorted filbert to my yard, the tree has resisted every method I've tried to propagate it: cuttings of both old wood and new, air and soil layering, application of growth hormone. I suppose I could try grafting it onto native filbert stock, but that would first require transplanting and establishing the native species. No, I think the birds and I will just have to make do with this solitary "safety net."

Virgin Warp

Day 105: Since the arrival of the 16" rigid heddle loom, I have been debating what to put on it as its inaugural project. It wasn't that I was short of ideas, but rather short of the fibers necessary to put any of them into action. I recently found a book I didn't know I had, and within its pages discovered the textural weave my mother frequently used for towels, a pickup pattern I had been trying to decipher for ages. However, part of the character of my mom's towels was dictated by her use of a cotton thread plied with a strand of a contrasting colour. It was something she had picked up at Mill Ends, a Portland outlet no longer in operation, and I have been unable to find anything which would be a suitable substitute (note to self: spin your own using 8/2 with a strand of sewing thread or Nomis). Surveying my fiber cupboard offered no compelling options, so the new rigid heddle stood empty until this morning. I finally settled on a quick-and-dirty worsted warp stripe scarf in colours called "soft purple" and "eggplant," but I am not yet sure if I'll weave it into checks or a surface-textured cloth. I'll play with a couple of ideas until I find something I like.

Always Better Homemade

Day 105: They're always better when they're homemade. I may not be much of a cook otherwise, but I am proud of my baking skills, especially when it comes to bread products. English muffins are a favourite. They are made from a soft dough which requires no kneading. First of all, however, you will need to have the forms/rings. Amazon has quite a few different styles, and they usually come in sets of 12. Mine are tinned, and roughly 50 years old. Modern versions are likely to be stainless steel. My recipe as given below is lavishly adapted from one in an old cookbook, and delivers light, airy muffins with a marvelous crumb.

2 1/4 tsp. salt
3 Tbsp. sugar
1/4 + 1 1/2 tsp. butter
1 3/4 cups scalded milk
2 1/4 tsp. dry yeast
1/4 cup water
1 egg
3 1/4 cups bread flour
Cornmeal

Place the salt, sugar and butter in a large bowl and pour the scalded milk over them. Stir to dissolve, and then cool to lukewarm. Soften the yeast in 1/4 cup warm water. Give it about 15 minutes to fully activate. Add one cup of flour to the milk mixture and beat well. Add softened yeast and egg, and beat until fully combined. Gradually add the remaining flour, mixing thoroughly until a good batter forms. The batter will be soft. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise in a warm location for 1 1/2 hours.

Grease two cookie sheets and the insides of the muffin rings. Sprinkle the sheets and rings with a light dusting of cornmeal. Spoon batter into rings and "encourage" it to adhere to the sides by pushing it out until it sticks. Dust the tops of each muffin with more cornmeal and pat each one flat. Cover with a cloth and let rise for an hour. Bake at 425 degrees for 14 minutes, flipping the muffins over halfway through the bake time. Once baked, remove the rings. When cool, split with a fork by inserting it into the sides of each muffin all the way around. Lift the halves apart. These freeze very well. Makes a dozen delicious muffins just begging for butter or homemade jam.

An Inkling

Day 104: For anyone wanting to learn to weave, here is a relatively inexpensive and uncomplicated way to get an inkling of what is involved. Now whether or not the words "inkling" and "inkle" are etymologically related is a matter of some debate. A good dictionary will tell you that the former most likely has its origins in the Middle English term "yngkiling," i.e., to indicate or hint at, but on the flip side, the authors of that same dictionary are bound to refuse to commit themselves to identifying the root for "inkle." More liberal sources may suggest that it derives from Old Norse, though to me it suggests Scotland which, all things considered, would be a logical extension. In any event, the inkle loom or something which was built along the same principles was used widely throughout Europe for centuries before our time as a means to create sturdy, warp-faced bands from a variety of weaving fibers. The manner in which the warp is wound over pegs allows the weaver to create two different sheds by raising or lowering half the threads with a single motion of the hand. The shuttle is then passed through the gap and the weft thread is beaten into place. By alternating "up" with "down," a simple over-and-under weave is created. Variations may be used at the weaver's discretion using the "pick-up" process to raise or lower threads not affiliated with the current shed, allowing more versatility in creating unique designs. Tablet weaving may also be done on an inkle loom.

Honeycomb And Flowers

Day 103: The Hexagon quilt was a joy to assemble and now that I'm well into the hand quilting of it, I have yet another reason to add it to my favourite patterns. It is proving to be much quicker to stitch than I'd anticipated, and I am roughly a quarter of the way done with it already. The measure of a quilter's skill can be better appreciated when the back side is presented to view. It is there that the design is shown to best advantage, as well as the regularity of the stitching. In this instance, I am only putting "daisies" in the gold center of each motif; the surrounding prints and white pieces are shadow-quilted, following the seams of the hexagons. On the back, the "beehive effect" is showcased by the cells, some of which contain precious "pollen" in the character of the flowers. I'm debating whether or not to add one strategically-placed bee just to see if the intended recipients notice.

New Toys

Day 102: After banking almost all of my first economic stimulus check, I decided that the second one might be better applied to some stimulus toward keeping me sane. To that end, I bought myself two new toys, and each has a tale behind it. The first is a bit sad, and concerns the rigid-heddle loom I was given by a friend in our Morris dancing group. I was excited to have a larger rigid heddle at my disposal and warped it up with a project at nearly the full width. After creating six inches of cloth, it was time to advance the warp. To my ultimate dismay, I found that one of the gears would not engage, apparently worn out from use. I managed to transfer the weaving to my floor loom (a process I devoutly hope never to have to repeat!) and thus saved the piece, but the rigid heddle was beyond hope. I was back where I started, with a 10" SampleIt as my only rigid heddle. The new one is a 16" Ashford, mounted here on a floor stand. I purchased it from a dealer in Oregon, but it was shipped to me express mail at no charge all the way from New Zealand!

The second half of the story is funny in hindsight. One of the essential tools any weaver must have is a warping board or warping reel of some sort to aid in measuring out long warp threads. I have a large warping board, so when my mother passed away and I was sorting through her weaving supplies, I decided to yard-sale her smaller warping board which, as I realized several years later, wasn't a warping board at all, but her inkle loom! I'll chalk the mistake up to having been pretty stressed-out at the time, but believe me, I felt pretty silly about it when I discovered what I'd done. Such being the case, I wanted to add an inkle loom to my weaving studio partly to hold the tablet-weaving projects I am currently draping over the 10" rigid heddle (an unorthodox procedure), but also to be able to make inkle bands in the approved manner.

All three items (the rigid heddle, its stand and the inkle loom) required some assembly and the wood (New Zealand white birch) was unfinished. Presently, I'm waiting for the first coat of varnish to dry, anxious to come up to warp speed on both of my new toys.

Thoughts Of Spring

Day 101: Nothing like being ahead of the game! I've already laid in veg and flower seeds for this year's garden, including two different lettuces, Sungold tomatoes, blue Nigella, black peony poppies, Gazanias and a fascinating Mexican gherkin which makes one-inch cucumbers resembling miniature watermelons. Now I have to exercise that most difficult gardening skill: restraint. All too often, my anxiety to dig in gets ahead of the season and I wind up with leggy plants as a result of starting them too early. When the instructions say, "Plant indoors three to four weeks before last frost," they mean it. That will put your seedlings at the optimum growth phase for transplanting. Of course here in the Pacific Northwest, this requires a certain amount of second-guessing the weather and a dash of good luck because "last frost" can be anywhere between early May and mid-June, so you might want to consider starting two sets of seeds a week apart. And remember, always be prepared for Jack Frost to drop in uninvited. Keep the bubble-wrap handy to protect those tender shoots!

LBJ

Day 100: You'll probably never hear a birder refer to a Steller's Jay (Cyanocitta stelleri) as an "LBJ," the birding parlance for "little brown job," although that's an accurate description of the colour if not the size. Yep, you heard right: Steller's Jays are brown. For that matter, so are Blue Jays, Bluebirds, Lazuli Buntings or any of the other birds we perceive as blue. The fact is that blue pigmentation does not exist in birds, but feathers may appear blue as a product of structural colouration, i.e., the way the feather reflects light. This phenomenon is more readily apparent in hummingbirds. When viewed at one angle, the males' heads or throat patches may appear bright red, but at a slightly different angle, may look dark or black. This change is due to the way light waves interact with microscopic layers within the feather structure. Some wavelengths pass through the feather and others are reflected back to the observer's eye. This same principle causes Steller's Jay to look blue to us.

Symbolism

Day 99: I am too emotionally exhausted from the stresses of the last year or, to be more precise, the last four to be able to put into words what I am feeling today. I will let this simple photo speak for me, its promise of a brighter, better future apparent in the fresh, hopeful shoots of daffodils, stalwartly undeterred by poor soil and the rocks and bits of broken glass which invariably rise to the surface on the heels of each dark winter. Yet on a personal note, I feel the need to remain a bulb for a while longer before poking my head through the ground, time to husband my reserves, to recover from the expenditure of energies demanded by the struggle to stay alive. Perhaps I'll find the strength to bloom come summer.

Cat Nap

Day 98: Years ago, I saw a cartoon of two cats sprawled on the back of a couch. One was saying to the other, "I just don't know how I can get by on only seventeen and a half hours of sleep a day." I was amused by the accuracy of the observation, but it raised a question in my mind: How can a cat who spends 90 percent of life relaxing or otherwise idle still have the muscular vitality to leap three or four feet into the air to catch a fly and then take off running at high speed without a warm-up? It made me painfully aware (perhaps literally so) that as chemical machines go, the human body is astonishingly inefficient. Could I slam-dunk a basketball immediately upon getting out of bed? Could I run a mile at full tilt without first stretching? Certainly not now, not at this age, and probably not when I was in peak form forty years ago. Tippy is no spring chicken. I see signs of his age creeping into his eyes and posture, yet he does dashes like a kitten. Maybe the secret lies in that seventeen and a half hours of sleep he gets each day. Maybe I should give that a try.

Faithful Friends

Day 97: This is a nod to the most faithful of friends, the Dark-Eyed Juncos (Oregon Junco, Junco hyemalis) who come to my feeders every day of the year. They are so reliably present that they fade into the background of my observations with the same facility that their camouflage effectively hides them from view among the greys and browns of Pacific Northwest winter, their chirps so familiar to my ear that I do not notice them beneath the buzz of hummingbirds and harsh jay-chatter. My eye disregards them when a Song or White-Crowned Sparrow lands among their numbers, or is drawn away by the Spotted Towhee's red eye or Grosbeak's yellow flash. They do not come to my hand like the Chickadees, but often scurry about, searching for seeds beside or under my lawn chair in summer, careful to stay out from underfoot, if perhaps only by inches. I do not mean to ignore them, but they are the socks and underwear of my birding wardrobe; essential, yet not often given much consideration in the day's outline. To continue the metaphor, I would feel embarrasingly undressed without them, to be sure. This day is yours, little Juncos. Thank you for being there.

Storm Glass

Day 96: One thing you can say for the weather in the Pacific Northwest: it's consistent. My storm glass (a Christmas gift from one of my sisters-of-the-heart) has looked pretty much like this since the day I set it out. The crystals in the bottom indicate "thick air" and/or frost, and have increased or decreased only slightly on any given day in the last month. A mixture of ammonium chloride, potassium nitrate, camphor, ethanol and distilled water, the storm glass was commonly used by mariners in the latter part of the 1800s. The appearance of the liquid is largely a reflection of current conditions, but is also affected by changes in barometric pressure and notable variations in temperature. To that extent, it can predict incoming storms with a certain degree of reliability. I'm still waiting for it to display flakes or small stars, indicating there's snow coming soon.

Tablet-Woven Bands

Day 95: Afflicted with both panic syndrome and PTSD, my nerves are torn ragged at present, so I've resorted to doing short-term projects for the time being because I can't sit still more than two or three minutes at a stretch. Tablet-weaving is easy to leave off and pick up again as long as you remember which row you're on, so I've been playing with different techniques and learning something along the way without having to devote too much mental energy to the endeavour. That said, once life has returned to some semblance of normalcy (assuming, of course, that that will occur), I recently found instructions for incorporating a tablet-woven strip into a loom-woven piece as part of the weaving process as opposed to stitching it in, and am looking forward to giving the method a try. It's likely to take more focus than I can muster presently, though. And, believe it or not, I do have a plan for these bands.

Youth And Middle Age

Day 94: Platismatia glauca, known commonly as Ragbag for its soft feel, is in its early growth phase a light olive green (top). As the lichen matures, its colour fades to a bluish-grey (bottom), and in the later part of its life cycle, develops a pinkish tinge. It is one of the lichens commonly used in the dyeing of handspun wool and is said to give shades from light tan to brown. Although I've never dyed any of my handspun yarn, Platismatia glauca is quite abundant in our area and would be one of the options I would consider. It would be interesting to experiment with it in different growth phases to see if the dye quality changes with the colour of the lichens used.

These specimens were windfall, literally. The storm which took out my power a few days ago left my yard littered with small branches and a few rather large ones. I doubt I could harvest enough Platismatia from them to dye a skein of wool, although it's a tempting thought.

Thelephora Terrestris

Day 93: Thelephora terrestris may look like a shelf fungus (polypore) from above, but its fans are soft and flexible and the underside is leathery and smooth. Commonly called Earthfan, it is ectomycorrhizal, which is to say that it forms a symbiotic relationship with the roots of certain plants, in this case those of conifer species. It is often considered a "weed" in greenhouses and conifer plantations because of its abundance, but in fact it is an important part of the carbon cycle in the forest. The network of hyphae (mycelial filaments) it forms around the roots of its symbiotic partner permit better uptake of water and minerals from the soil. Friends have often heard me say it: fungus is at the root of everything, and quite literally in instances such as this.

Double-Faced Tablet Weaving

Day 92: This is a quick catch-up post because I was without power for most of yesterday and was still without phone or internet at bedtime. An inveterate morning person, I nevertheless got up at 5 AM to a totally dark house, then sat in the illumination of my "pocket light switch" (a gift from a dear friend, it is a toggled LED about 3" square) trying to work sudoku until I had enough daylight to weave. After several dozen attempts, I managed to get the propane fireplace to stay lit. Since the weather was not particularly cold, it kept the living room temperature just warm enough that I didn't need to bundle up in a quilt. Working in dim light makes me appreciate the fine work done by people before electricity was available. At any rate, once the sky had brightened (a term I use loosely to describe a lighter shade of gloom), I was able to follow my draft for a double-faced tablet-woven band. The clours reverse on opposite sides of the weaving.

Pseudohydnum Gelatinosum

Day 91: Whenever I write about fungi in my weekly column on the Park's Facebook account, I can pretty much bet that one of the first ten comments will be a question about edibility. As many times as I have explained that there is a vast difference between "edible" and "desirable as food," and talked about how certain mushroom species can confused with others which are potentially harmful, that same question always crops up: "Can I eat them?" Okay, here's one you can try.

Pseudohydnum gelatinosum is sometimes referred to as a "toothed fungus." This is not accurate. Although it has toothlike structures on the lower surface, it is in fact a jelly fungus. It is sometimes called "Cat's-tongue," a logical common name. Any cat owner can vouch for the visual similarity, but its resemblance to that organ stops there. The spines are soft and the fungus has the texture of a slightly soggy gumdrop. These features plus its pleasing translucence make it easy to identify and, if you're feeling adventurous, you can find recipes for candied Cat's-tongue on line. Raw, its taste is said to be somewhat less interesting than that of a wad of cold unflavoured gelatin. Somehow, I don't quite believe that candying would be much of an improvement.

Peltigera Membranacea, Membranous Dog Lichen

Day 90: Although they resemble roots, rhizines such as those found on the undersides of Peltigera lichens, these non-vascular structures do not play a role in the lichens' uptake of nutrients. Rather, they are what attach it to its substrate material. They occur in many forms and sizes: hairlike, forked, branched, bottle-brush; short, long, dense, sparse and so on. The morphology of the rhizines is diagnostic in many foliose lichen genera, so a hand lens is a valuable tool to have in the field. In this instance, we have Peltigera membranacea, commonly known as Membranous Dog Lichen. Why "Dog?" The common name has always baffled me, so I turned to the internet for help with the mystery. According to Encyclopedia Britannica, it addresses the resemblance of the fruiting bodies to dogs' teeth. Personally, I think they look more like zombie fingernails.

Abundant Dacrymyces

Day 89: Sometimes what a fungus or lichen is growing on can be an important factor in making a field identification. Dacrymyces chrysospermus (above, and formerly known as D. palmatus) and Tremella mesenterica can appear very similar. When presented with a specimen which is not attached to substrate material, the determination must be made with a microscope. However, when found in the wild, these two are easy to tell apart in certain circumstances. Dacrymyces grows on conifer wood and Tremella on hardwood. Now I have to say that I have seen some relatively large colonies of both in my day, but none quite as enormous as those I found a few days ago on a nearby trail. I've included my cold-reddened hand in this shot for reference which, although quite small as adult hands go, should be sufficient to give a rough idea of the size of the fungus. Nor was this the only example I encountered on my brief walk. Some were growing on standing snags, others on trees which had been down for years and, conveniently, all on Douglas-fir.

Sphaerophorus

Day 88: Bugger. And forgive me for that. Just when it looks like the taxonomy of a species is finally going to settle down, some sadist has to come along and propose a new classification. This particular Sphaerophorus has flip-flopped between "globosus" and "venerabilis" multiple times in the last decade and, if you'll look back through my posts, I've identified it as both with footnotes and foul language. Well, here we go again. Apparently it is sufficiently dissimilar to merit its own name: Sphaerophorus tuckermanii. I quote: "The perplexing morphological variation in form of the S. globosus complex, to which this species belongs, has created much confusion, including misapplication of S. tuckermanii to what is now S. venerabilis. Hognabba and Wedine (2003) demonstrated three distinct evoluntionary lines: S. globosus growing on the ground in arctic-alpine habitats and as an epiphyte in Europe; S. tuckermanii, a Pacific Northwest epiphyte with many coralloid branches; and S. venerabilis, a Pacific Northwest epiphyte with few coralloid branches." Now I might be wrong about this particular specimen, but I don't think so. Walking through trailless forest, I was drawn to it as if it was a Crow-magnet and remarked from ten feet away, "Venerabilis? Um...something is wrong here. I'm going to have to double-check that." Really, people, can't we at least have one point in the universe remain stable for a week or two? Life is chaotic enough without lichens switching identities every few months.

Canopy Lichens

Day 87: Winter storms do a lot of damage, but in some ways, they are beneficial to the overall ecology. Browsing wildlife such as deer and elk may find foraging difficult when the ground is snow-covered and new, tender vegetation has not yet begun to sprout. When winds rage through the woods, breaking branches and bringing them down to the forest floor, this puts another food source at the animals' level: lichens, and specifically "canopy lichens" such as this specimen of Platismatia herrei. It's also a good time for lichenologists who are too old to strap on tree-climbing spikes.

Until yesterday, I had only found examples of Platismatia herrei at one location along a loop trail measuring one mile in length. I suspected it existed elsewhere within the property which, as a matter of fact, has multiple small and interesting pocket ecologies within its confines. I was delighted when, not more than a hundred yards from my customary entrance point and well removed from the known site, I found this lovely globose specimen at my feet. That set me to looking more closely, and indeed, I found many more examples of the lichen along my walk. Herrei does not grow exclusively in the canopy, although that seems to be its preference at this location. It is commonly known as Tattered Rag, and is easily the laciest in appearance, at least here in the Pacific Northwest.

Forest Bathing

Day 86: Between traffic and weather, my freedom to take walks locally was severely curtailed in early June. After being nearly struck by a careless driver on three separate occasions, I was unwilling to test my luck any further. For a while, I shifted to the exercise bike to stay in shape, but when wildfire smoke made even that impossible, I pretty much just crawled into the cave-like confines of my house and only ventured out into the yard. Traffic was at record levels through the summer and only backed off slightly as cooler temperatures set in. Rain kept people home, but it also kept me inside. Now whether or not it had anything to do with the political unrest yesterday, when I woke this morning, one of the first things I noticed was silence. Even at 4:30 AM or earlier, the road has been busy every day. Five minutes went by before I heard the first car. "Maybe," I said to myself, "maybe I can take a walk today."

A short but little-known trail near my home has felt the tread of my boots over the years I've lived here, whether I was participating in the Park's fitness challenge, walking just for the sake of walking, or on a botanical mission of one form or another. Of course, I don't always stick to the path when I'm botanizing, but today, I found enough treasures for a week's post material. Equally important, the experience of "forest bathing" was sorely needed by a stressed-out Crow. I feel green again.

The Way We Were

Day 85: "How old are you, Crow?" a friend asks.

"Too," say I.

"Two?" she queries, and then illogically, "Were you, like, born in a leap year or something?"

"No," I explain. "I'm too...as in 'too old.' Way too old."

And there's the problem. The birthdays keep racking up, and no one ever pulls any out of the pile.

I've found that the older you get, the less likely people are to believe your stories. If they don't write them off entirely as fabrications, they attribute some measure of exaggeration to the tale. I mean, who is going to believe that a little old lady no bigger than a minute was once an alpinist who climbed Mount Rainier six times by five different routes and spent a night camped on the summit? A few still-breathing friends might remember a mean, lean climbing machine who hiked with two-thirds her body weight in a backpack on a twelve-day trip, but new acquaintances are like as not to think, "Uh-huh, yeah, sure you did." Likewise, there are only a handful of people who will recall the harpist who played in the Governor's Mansion on seventeen occasions during Booth Gardner's administration. Chances are, though, that they won't even remember Booth Gardner, let alone the dainty performer whose ethereal notes drifted down from the balcony over his dinner guests...dainty in that iteration, an ice-climber in another. Yes, I was a professional musician for many years.

Music has always been a major focal point in my life. I was trained as a keyboardist, and always have preferred to make music as opposed to listening to it. My primary instrument was harpsichord, secondarily piano, and my tastes ran from William Byrd to Mozart, anything later being deemed as "modern" and not worth my time. The harp was my performance instrument, and most of the pieces I played were original. However, my large harp suffered a fatal injury and I was forced to give it up when I couldn't afford the repair. Today, my home holds a number of musical instruments (harpsichord and piano included), but many of them are "just for fun." If I find myself singin' the blues, it'll most likely be to an accompaniment on ukulele or blues box guitar.

Mushroom Band

Day 84: The problem, you see, is that there are so many projects asking to be done, and only one of me to do them, and while I'm doing them, my brain is working on developing future projects, and...well, I'm sure you understand my dilemma. Tablet weaving has again captured my attention after a forty-year absence from the art, and after turning out a couple of 1-inch bands, an idea began rattling around in my brain about mushrooms, Mario mushrooms, those iconic red and white Amanitas found in faerie tales and forests. Now the internet is full of a lot of things, but tablet-woven mushrooms eluded my most diligent searches. Therefore, I would have to create my own. I borrowed sparingly from an existing draft which bore no resemblance to mushrooms in the slightest, and voila! I have mushrooms on mounds of moss with sky (blue, atypical for the Pacific Northwest) behind them. I plan to make a series of bands, all different, to stitch together as a bag or throw pillow top.

Parrot Tree

Day 83: I don't recall that I've explained the whole story, right from the get-go, of how Evening Grosbeaks came to be known as Porch Parrots to my husband and me. It began with his parrot, a very possessive bird who only put up with me in the absence of his Papa. Carlo didn't skirt around his loyalty, and in fact would announce, "Papa's Parrot!" to anyone who got too close before flying off Bruce's shoulder and attacking the interloper. I had double-pierced earlobes long before it became fashionable, thanks to that bird, but when Bruce was at work, Carlo was tractable and even affectionate toward me. My mother, on the other hand, was afraid to come through the door if Carlo was sitting on Bruce's shoulder.

One year's blithe September weather found Bruce and I hiking the Wonderland Trail which circles Mount Rainier. When we arrived at our camp in Summerland, Bruce went off to find water while I set up the tent. Suddenly, he burst back onto the scene, shouting for me to follow: "Mama! Come quick! There's a whole tree full of parrots!" He had never seen an Evening Grosbeak, and although he knew they were not psittacines, the size of their bills suggested the nickname.

When Mount St. Helens blew in 1980, the Grosbeaks were on their spring migration. The blast disrupted their flight, blew them off course toward the west, placing our home in their path. Perhaps it was one bird, perhaps half a dozen who found the seed we put out for the finches in our window boxes, but within a week or so, they arrived en masse. Their occupancy of our porch supplied the adjective, and "Porch Parrots" became a thing.

These days, I use "Parrots" to describe Grosbeaks of either species (Evening and Black-Headed) who dine at my feeders, but "Porch Parrots" is reserved for Coccothraustes vespertinus. This scene, a photograph taken only yesterday in my yard, calls to mind the hundred or so "parrots" Bruce first witnessed decorating a fir tree at Summerland.

Who Goes There?

Day 82: Snow level dropped almost 1000' below the predicted altitude overnight, taking many area residents by surprise, if perhaps not the midnight prowler who has on more than one occasion been responsible for toppling a bird feeder. S/he's a big one, this raccoon, with a hind foot dimension of 4.5 x 2 inches. I've seen the critter shambling about under the big Doug-fir and would estimate its weight (conservatively) at 30 -35 pounds. Raccoons are fairly common in the area, and a good reason to keep small pets indoors if you weren't already doing so. The bird feeders are a big draw to be sure, as are my garbage and recycling bins, the latter smelling of rinsed cat food cans, but both are raccoon-proof. Frustrated, said raccoon has been known to push the garbage bin several feet away from the wall while trying to figure out a way to open it. Raccoon tracks are easy to identify. Their toes splay outward, leaving a print which resembles the five fingers of a human hand. Toenail imprints may also be seen in snow or soil. The hind foot leaves a "heel print," but most commonly, the front paws do not.

As Goes The Loaf

Day 81: You have only one chance to get this right: "As goes the loaf, so goes the year." Although I was unable to document the saying, I believe it is of Scottish or British origin, and asserts that the first loaf of bread baked after New Year's Day predicts the course the year will follow. Will it be lumpy? Crusty and hard? Will it fail to rise entirely? I wasn't willing to take any chances, and fell back on my tried-and-true sourdough, changed up a bit with half a cup of whole-wheat flour to replace an equivalent measure of white, along with an appreciable handful of golden flaxseed to add character. I don't want 2021 to be plain or boring, and neither do I want it to be ponderously heavy or tasteless. The whole wheat offers a mild piquancy, gives it a hint of down-home, neighbourly goodness and the seeds provide small and tasty surprises. No one wants peppercorns and pea gravel in their breakfast toast, and that was certainly the fare offered up by 2020. I was pleased when the loaf emerged from the oven without cracks, rifts or fissures, perfectly golden-brown and raised to a perfect crown.

Fiber Manipulation 2021

Day 80: If I was asked to write "How I Spent 2020," the largest chapter (indeed, perhaps 85 percent of the essay) would be on fiber arts. I see nothing to indicate that 2021 will follow a different course. I'm already off to a grand start with one towel finished since Christmas and another well on the way (a project done on my big loom, right), and besides having knitting projects on needles and on the rake, cardweaving (above, left) plus a piece of sprang, a quilt, spinning, kumihimo using yarn and a crocheted tablecloth all going presently, I am anxious to get started on a hand-manipulated piece for rigid heddle and am just waiting for the supplies to arrive. I have my maternal grandmother to thank for initiating me into many of the ways one can create textiles, and for instilling in me the patience to see such long-term projects through to completion. Admittedly, I'd have preferred to spend more time outdoors, but on the same hand, I am enjoying my adventures with strings of all sorts.