Calling All Waxwings!

Day 291: The table is set, and I am expecting company. Any day now, a Cedar Waxwing will notice that the Sitka Mountain-ash berries have turned orange. Another bird will follow that one, and another and another, and easily within the space of five days, the tree will be stripped bare. It was precisely for this reason that I planted the tree: to provide a feast for guests who come to stay for a fleeting few days each autumn. To be sure, they'll leave behind a mess in my driveway, but the trade-off is worth it to see their soft, smooth colours and bold black masks where they perch among the foliage, the illusion of light and shadow artfully portrayed by their feathers. Come one, come all! I'm waiting for you, Waxwings!

Gettin' My Gandhi On

Day 290: Seeking to broaden my spinning skills earlier this year, I purchased a small kit which included a tahkli spindle, its bowl and several ounces of cotton. Within a few days, I was hooked despite the fact that I was making some rather lumpy and thick thread. In another leap forward, I bought a book charkha, essentially a fold-out spinning wheel in a wooden box the size of a hefty hardbound novel. By the time I had run through the two least appealing-colours of kit cotton, I was achieving a thread suitable for weaving. There was one problem: the charkha was designed to spin singles, not to ply, so I cobbled together an arrangement whereby I could create a two-ply thread with my standard spinning wheel with the singles mounted in the charkha's spindle storage holders. The system worked quite well and in fact, allows me to put more single-spun thread on each tahkli, and therefore more yardage in my finished skeins. Here you see two fully loaded spindles. To give an idea of scale, each cone of thread is roughly 2.5 inches long. While I'm not sufficiently ambitious to think that I will ever spin enough thread to weave and sew into a whole garment, I'm still gettin' my Gandhi on.

Happy Face

Day 289: I'm not big on bedding plants, but this one came to me for free by virtue of having been planted somewhere it did not belong. Rather than throwing it in the trash, I allowed it to follow me home where I stuck it in my shady front flower bed where it has produced a steady (if small) succession of flowers. I love the fine yellow edge on the maroon blossoms! If it goes to seed and reproduces true to colour, so much the better. Flower morphology is frequently used to distinguish "pansies" from "violets" and "violas" (common names which are sometimes applied interchangeably) although all three belong to the genus Viola. "Pansy" generally refers to the large-flowered types which have two upright petals, two side petals which incline upwards, and one downward-pointing petal: the "happy faces" of the gardening trade.

Hardanger In Progress

Day 288: As I am delving into the deep recesses of my crafts cupboards for things to do during my self-imposed pandemic isolation, a few unfinished projects are surfacing. I had barely begun this one when I tucked it away, and thereby hangs a tale. For ten years or so, I had an arrangement with a woman who ran a Scandinavian gift and needlework shop to provide her with sample pieces she could display as enticement for customers looking to start their own projects. The terms of our agreement were that in exchange for free supplies and pattern books, my finished works would hang on the walls of her shop for six months. I usually left them with her for much longer, often until the particular pattern I had used became unavailable. We frequently sat in the shop together, sometimes stitching and chatting for an entire afternoon. Over the period of our acquaintance, I must have made easily a hundred or more pieces of hardanger, but one day when I arrived at her door, the shop was closed. I thought nothing of it at the time and simply went home to start a new piece from one of the books and fabrics already in my stockpile. Several months passed before I stopped by the shop again, but again, her door was shut. Some time later, I found out that she had passed away. I found it difficult to pick up my work again, reproaching myself for having not made a better attempt to contact her, but I had had no hint that she was ill or failing. I folded the fabric, bagged it with the threads I had chosen from her shelves, and tucked it away to be forgotten until a few days ago. I will complete it now, as a remembrance of her generosity and kindness to me.

Hardy Fuchsia "Genii"

Day 287: Even when not in bloom, Hardy Fuchsia "Genii" adds a spectacular accent to the flower bed. Its chartreuse-gold foliage fairly glows against darker greens, and when the flowers emerge, it sets off the combination of pink and purple in a striking manner. "Genii" has the potential for becoming an unruly, leggy shrub, but can be pruned to a smaller size without detriment to the plant while keeping foliage production more concentrated. New leaves appear on both fresh and old stems, emerging somewhat later from last year's wood. I usually prune old stems back to a foot in height or take them out entirely. Hardy at least to 0°, "Genii" takes the cold better than many other hardy fuchsia cultivars and will reward you year after year with delicate flowers reminiscent of those of its larger annual cousins.

Scrappy Constellation

Day 286: The Scrappy Stars have been assembled as a full constellation! This quilt top grew beyond my original intentions when I decided to put "streets and alleys" between the blocks. Originally planned as a lap quilt, it will now measure 84" x 66" when finished. Although construction took far less time than any other quilt I've sewn, it was not as easy to piece as it might appear. Still, it is a design I may use again since it went together so quickly. The next phase, of course, is to do the actual hand-quilting which binds the backing and batting to the top, and at the very least, that will take 6-12 months. I still have a little work to do on the Hexagons and am debating whether I want to jump right into the Scrappy Stars or move the quilting frame out of my living room for a while. It's occupied a major portion of my floor space since 2017! The Constellation already has its destiny laid out: a surprise for another friend who has no idea it's headed her way. This is my way. For me, the enjoyment is in the making, not in the having.

Perfectly Notched

Day 285: For some weeks now, I have been hoping for the proper conditions which cause the Mountain to cast an atmospheric shadow just prior to sunrise. It all came together yesterday morning, with two unexpected bonuses. When I first observed the shadow forming, it was the typical wedge shape angling toward the south. I grabbed the camera and darted across the road where I could avoid having power lines in the image, but as I did so, a second dark wedge appeared off the left shoulder. The shadows were being thrown by Columbia Crest (the true summit, central from this vantage point) and Liberty Cap (the northern peak). This double shadow alone was a phenomenon I had not previously seen, but as I was snapping photos, the sun began rising, perfectly notched in the low point between the two summits. Old Sol will be in this position only for a few days each summer, and although weather has permitted me to see the notched sunrise occur a few times previously, it was never in conjunction with the atmospheric shadow (and certainly not with a pair of shadows).

New Kids' Corner

Day 284: Any time I go out on Lake St. Clair, the first order of business is to visit the Sundews, and of course now I have a second group of "kids" to monitor, so I started with them. They're not easily visible in this photo, and my reason for posting it is to show you just how difficult they are to spot. See that slight red cast at the base of the green vegetation? From fifty feet away, that hue draws me like a magnet. It could just be stems of something else, but it might be Sundews. That was how I found the original Sundew Island (a piece of broken dock similar to this one): a touch of red. There are several hundred Sundews in this photo, believe it or not, but not a one of them had an open flower, which was what I was hoping for on Thursday. The sun had not yet risen above the tree tops, so I paddled around the lake for a few hours before approaching the second group I call Jack's Lot. Nope, no flowers there either. Buds, but no flowers. Still, a day on the water is better than a day at home, and a visit with the "kids" is always good.

Test Pilots

Day 283: While paddling around Lake St. Clair yesterday, I heard the familiar call of an Osprey from their annual nesting site on a small island. Looking up to the broken crown of a tall Doug-fir, I could see what I initially took for a parent bird sitting on the rim of the massive nest. Occasionally, it would stretch its wings or turn its head, and after watching for several minutes, I decided to move on. Coming around on the other side of the tree, I turned the 'yak toward the nest again and thought I could see a second bird. The first raised its wings several times, and then the second began flapping and fluttering. At that point, I realized that these were two juveniles experimenting with the mechanics of flight. The second bird seemed to rise from the nest slightly as it beat its wings, and then suddenly, it lifted clear of the nest and caught three or four feet of air before settling back into the bowl. It only happened once in the ten minutes I watched them, and I was fortunate to be able to capture photos of the best action.

Mexican Sour Gherkin

Day 282: There are several reasons for my daily posts. The first, of course, is to educate. Another is to make science less terrifying to those who flunked it in junior high school, and yet another is to encourage my readers to take up new handcrafts. These considerations fall within the definition of "outreach," i.e., in some way connecting my readers to a broader world. However, many of my images and descriptions also serve as a phenological journal, allowing me to look back to see when a particular plant emerged or was in bloom. Thus it is that today I am recording the development of several minute yellow flowers and the promise of a nice crop of Mexican Sour Gherkins which, at maturity, will look like miniature watermelons, pale green with dark green stripes. Their diameter will not exceed one inch. Almost seedless and slightly tart (hence the name), they are in fact a cucumber and can be eaten straight off the vine. The plants prefer to climb, so I have been training the tendrils on coarse garden string and a tomato cage, and the tips of some of the stems have already gone over the top. It is drought-tolerant once established and, growers are cautioned, "bears heavily all season." I'm looking forward to bite-sized cukes among the other unusual vegs and fruits in my garden.

Banded Alder Borer, Rosalia Funebris

Day 281: No matter how you read it, that is one whopping big bug! I discovered this Banded Alder Borer (Rosalia funebris) inside a bucket on my back porch yesterday, one of perhaps half a dozen I've seen in my lifetime. Nevertheless, they are not considered uncommon in the Pacific Northwest where they are native, nor are they regarded as pests despite their unfortunate common name. The adults lay their eggs in downed and decaying hardwood or in crevices in dying trees. The larvae then bore into the wood. Mature Alder Borers generally feed on flowers. Despite the nasty-looking pincers, they do not bite, but when provoked, they can emit a hissing sound or squeak (this fellow wasn't complaining, despite being held captive in a petri dish for a few minutes while I photographed him). Individuals within the species often display variation in the shape and size of the black bands marking the elytra (wing covers). As some field guides may suggest in a curious sidebar, adult Rosalia are known to be attracted to the smell of fresh paint.

Galactic Cluster Formation

Day 270: Another project which was laid aside temporarily in favour of other crafts was the piecing of the Scrappy Star quilt I started in September. I had almost all the blocks completed, but ran into a snag when the fabric I had wanted to use for the "streets and alleys" between them was out of stock. Ten months later, it is still unavailable, and none of Joann's current offerings appeals to me, so I chose to go with white, which sets the stars off nicely in any event. The finished quilt top will be seven rows of nine blocks with a narrow white border and a coloured binding. One of the prints used in the stars came all the way from New Zealand (the blue nautical motif in the star five down from the top left). Curiously, when I first laid the stars out on the floor to arrange, I discovered I had 58. At that point, there were two ways I could have gone: omit two and make the quilt 7 x 8 (56 blocks, as was my original intention), or make five more stars for a galactic cluster of 63. A quick forage in my quilting box supplied the fabrics necessary for the additional blocks. I'm still trying to figure out how I managed to miscalculate in the first place.

Blackwork Off My Plate

Day 279: Tucked into a bookshelf where I only remembered it when I was getting out a new volume of sudoku puzzles, the blackwork Dresden plate I started some four years ago wasn't getting much attention. It was nearly finished when I stowed it there (I think because I had guests coming and did some quick tidying), but for some reason, I just wasn't getting back to it. Finding it again a few days ago, I decided to remedy the situation. For those of you unfamiliar with this style of needlework, it's similar to counted cross-stitch in that it is usually worked on counted-thread canvas (not always, but it's easier). Geometric designs are often shaded from dark to light by gradually omitting some of the stitches, as can be seen in the blades just right of noon and and those appearing in every fourth unit around the clock here. The possibilities for variation make blackwork visually rich despite being monochromatic. The blackwork plate is now off my plate, waiting to be mounted in its frame to match a companion piece (a maze).

Garden Report

Day 278: My gardening is now under supervision. While I was instructing the Mexican Sour Gherkins in proper climbing techniques and wondering how I was ever going to manage to eat all the Akebia fruits from my hand-pollination successes, he landed on the chicken-wire fence to oversee my work. We engaged in eye contact and a one-sided conversation for several minutes, and then he flew down to the ground inside the Berry Pen. He's been on the back porch several times this morning and cleaned up all the "lazy seeds" (shelled sunflower seeds) I laid out for his breakfast. He's beginning to look less tatty as he sheds the last of his baby feathers and his colour starts to come in, but those stubby tailfeathers make me laugh every time I see him. Poor kid's got no rudder! But he flies straight and true, and if anything can be said for his foraging skills, he knows exactly where the food comes from: me.

Follower

Day 277: Let me say this: I enjoy having followers as much as the next person, but this is getting out of hand. Day before yesterday, I had just gone out the back door to take down the swallow houses when a friend showed up with a bag of fresh produce from a local organic grower. I stopped what I was doing to chat with her, and then when she left, I set the bag on the back step and went about my intended task. When I went back in the house, I grabbed the bag and stuffed it in the fridge and then stepped over  to the sink to wash my hands. Before I could turn on the water, a young Grosbeak landed in the window...on the INSIDE. As I wrapped my hands around the poor terrified thing, s/he took hold of my finger in a gentle, not painful bite (and trust me, Grosbeaks can bite hard with those big bills). I released the bird outdoors where it flew off immediately. How it got in is a mystery. I had not left the door open, nor had it flown out of the veggie bag. That leaves only two solutions: it was either on my head and I didn't notice, or it flew/walked in when I came back inside, following me as some of them do, knowing that I am the Bringer of Food.

I'm usually able to identify at least a few individuals among the youngsters each year based on how far their plumage has developed. As I picked my follower up to release him/her, I noticed a broader than usual yellow patch on the right wing and a few tufts of down on the top of the head. The yellow patch didn't register in my mind at first, so I was referring to the bird in the feminine based on the grey colouration. Later, I realized that this was a fledgling male whose colour was just beginning to develop.

Later that same day, I was heartened to see the same bird being fed by its mother. That behaviour told me that it was too young to have been one of the ones I've hand-fed, and therefore it couldn't have imprinted on me. However, an hour or so later, I found it sitting on the step, perhaps waiting for the door into another world to open again. I got down on my hands and knees to open the door, ready to make a grab if my new friend walked inside. I needn't have worried. The door squeaked in its frame and my Follower flew off.

I saw Follower many times yesterday, eating from spilled seed on the ground or tagging after a male who must be Daddy, begging to be fed. But when I went to fill the feeders in the late afternoon, there he was, perched on top of the heat pump housing beside the back door, looking longingly (or so I imagined) at the magic door to Bringer of Food's cozy nest. It's nice to feel appreciated.

Grows Like A Weed

Day 276: Crocosmia grows like a weed here in the Pacific Northwest, so vigorously that in fact I am still digging it out of my east flower bed after ten years of diligently removing each new plant from its original position. It needs space to spread, so put it in a spot you wish to fill in, and it will reward you with a lavish display of vivid blooms. This particular cultivar is called "Lucifer," and the photos do not do the intense red flowers justice. They are spectacular against the dark green of our Doug-fir forests, or even among the lighter greens of the curated garden. The foliage is reminiscent of cat-tail leaves, long and strappy. Although I have not yet tried it, it occurred to me that it might make good material for basket-weaving, twisted and twined in the manner of iris or daylily leaves. Nature gives us many raw materials for crafts, although we generally overlook them. Give some thought to what's in your own garden. What might you put to good use?

Kiwi Berries!

Day 275: While watering the garden yesterday evening, I happened to raise my eyes from ground level and what did I see? Two kiwi berries, hiding deep among the foliage! If you'll recall, our 100-degree hot spell caused hundreds of potential fruit to drop before it had begun to swell, at a point where I could not say for certain whether fertilization had occurred. Purportedly, this variety of Hardy Kiwi ("Issai") is self-fertile, but I have never gotten fruit from either of two vines. I'd hoped that this year it would produce a crop, having bloomed at the same time pollinators were on the wing. Those hundreds of little kiwis showed enormous potential, but then the heat wave hit, and even the gooseberries and currants shed most of their fruit. Fortunately, both were close to ripe and I was able to salvage enough for a batch of jam (I picked the few remaining late ones last night). The kiwis, however, were a sad failure. No bigger than a pencil eraser, they dropped from the vines like a sudden green hailstorm. Had they all developed, I'd have had enough kiwi berries to feed a small army. When temperatures cooled down, I did a visual inspection and found one berry sheltering under the dense foliage at the peak of the arch trellis. That solo berry is still hanging on, and these two make it a trio; maybe not enough for a snack, but scientific evidence that Issai is self-fertile after all.

Going Extinct

Day 274: There is a reason I am showing you another photo of Cephalanthera austiniae today. I want to embed it firmly in your minds so that you can tell your children and grandchildren that you've seen pictures of them growing in the wild, that you knew someone who stood beside the actual living plants in an obscure corner of Mount Rainier's forests. In the last 24 hours, I have read two articles which say that Phantoms will vanish by 2100 AD, victims of climate change. Cephalanthera is not the only species of holomycotrophic orchid threatened by global warming, but in scientific studies, it has been shown that it is perhaps one of the most vulnerable to rising temperatures and loss of habitat. Does that tell you why I am so close-mouthed about their location? And does it not wrench your heart to contemplate their almost-certain loss? I've often used the phrase "everything is holding hands with something else" when discussing the natural world. It would seem that Cephalanthera is losing its grip. And then what, people? We're already sliding down the slippery slope toward our own demise as a species and, I hasten to remind you, we greased the skids and are continuing to lavish on fresh oil.

Cephalanthera

Day 273: Navigating trailless forest in pre-dawn twilight presents a few challenges most hikers will never experience, but in order to be through the gate before casual Park visitors started lining up and to have the strenuous portion of my hike behind me before the heat of the day, I was out well before sunrise, pushing through the devil's club and clambering over tangles of logs and limbs en route to the only location in Mount Rainier National Park where Cephalanthera austiniae is known to occur. The sun still had not climbed above the horizon when I spotted the first one. As I unshouldered my pack and set up the tripod to capture its pristine whiteness in the flat light, a second one caught my eye, then a third and fourth together, and a fifth beside them. The census eventually reached fifteen: not a record, but definitely a respectable number, and all within a plot of land generously estimated to be 150' x 75'. Why here? What mycorrhizal component exists in this pocket ecology to support these plants? The Phantom knows, but I do not.

Weaving Fusion

Day 272: I recently saw a demonstration of a weaving technique which coupled loom weaving with tablet weaving to produce a cloth with at least one ornamental band in a specific position. Rather than setting up a test on a longer warp, I decided to use thrums from previous projects since I only needed to weave a small piece to see how it worked. I installed a variable-dent reed (sectional reed) in my rigid heddle loom so that there was a gap in the center, threading both side sections in the usual way. The warp for the center band was put on eight cards, just enough to make a cute little diamond pattern. With each change of the rigid heddle reed, the tablets are turned according to the draft and the shuttle passes through both the shed controlled by the reed and that created by the cards. I found that beating was best done with the shuttle. The process has its quirks and requires a bit more effort on the weaver's part to achieve uniform thread spacing, but it is entirely workable and interesting to weave. A sectional reed is not required for this technique. If using a standard rigid heddle reed, simply pass two tablet threads through each slot, skipping the eyes in the banded section. On a regular loom, leave the tablet threads unheddled and thread them through the reed in the normal manner. I see lots of possibilities here!

Shirley And Bud

Day 271: If you've been following along for any time, you'll know that I have a fondness for black flowers: tulips, hellebore, hollyhocks, iris and so on. At my former home, I had black Shirley poppies just outside my door, but having not anticipated a move, I didn't think to gather seeds the autumn before I moved. Only this year, I found them available in a single-colour packet (as opposed to being in a mix), so of course I had to add them to the rampant chaos of the Barren Wasteland where they will be allowed to re-seed lavishly. Also known as "corn poppies," the Shirley takes its common name from the English parish where William Wilks served as vicar. An adept horticulturist, Rev. Wilks hybridized Papaver rhoeas to produce a number of varieties, largely in shades of red and pink. Work by his successors led to other colours, including picotee (bordered petals) types and my much-loved black. Shirley and Bud make a handsome couple, don't you think?

Classic Black

Day 270: "Hollyhock" may well be the first common name I learned for a plant, and they certainly set me on the path to an appreciation of flowers. They grew in profusion behind my grandmother's house, towering spires of pink, red and white, and not a double in the lot. At the impressionable age of three and a half, I was entrusted with one of my mother's childhood books which was illustrated in the style of the 1920s showing flowers in anthropomorphic form. Lady Hollyhock, from whom I learned the name, wore a dress which could have come from my grandmother's garden, and in my imagination, she lived somewhere in those delightful blooms. As an adult, Hollyhocks were a must-have in my own yard, and generally were placed where they could lean against a sunny wall or fence. However, singles had given way to the more popular double varieties, and seeds had to be begged from friends or nicked from untended plants in passing until one company began offering "heritage" varieties. I was overjoyed to find a black one among the commercial offerings, something I had not seen previously. Today, a line of them stands along the south wall of my house, their abundantly flowered spikes visible through the Loom Room window. In thirty years of cultivation, they are putting on the best show ever this year, Lady Hollyhock in a classic "little black dress."

Sundews - The Strip

Day 269: Some years ago, I took a handful of bird photos and captioned them according to what the birds' poses suggested. Birds put a lot more personality in their body language than one might expect, so this was a fairly easy task. On the other hand, plants are fairly static...or are they? Sundews in particular lend themselves to anthropomorphization rather well, what with their wild hairdos and spatulate faces. Even their curled, nodding inflorescences hint at mood and manner. And of course you can never have too many photos of Sundews, so here are a few "characters" from my most recent outing on Lake St. Clair. Regular programming will resume tomorrow.

Strategies

Day 269: If you have ever accidentally come into contact with fly-paper or a sticky trap, you can appreciate an insect's panicked reaction to becoming stuck on a Sundew. The difference is that you were in no danger of being consumed, and only had to find some sort of approved solvent to cleanse the gluey residue from your fingers once you'd pried yourself loose. You did not struggle and further ensnare yourself with each flutter of your wings or thrashing of your limbs; you did not feel enzymes beginning to dissolve your soft tissues like some bizarre form of flesh-eating bacteria. A Round-leaved Sundew is ruthless. Each of the fine hairs surrounding its spatulate disk is tipped with a drop of something far less forgiving than instant glue, creating an ambush which only the strongest can elude. The righthand photo shows a Sundew from which an insect has escaped. Notice that at the 1 o'clock position, the hairs are missing from the disk, wrenched away by a more fortunate bug than most. On the other hand, the predatory strength of Sundew "glue" is clearly indicated in the lefthand image (side view) where a single Drosera paddle has snagged a damselfly dinner. And forgive me, for as curious as those of you who have ever licked a piece of frozen metal may be, it must be stated that I have never prodded a Sundew. Sorry, kids. If you want that experience, you'll have to find your own plants.

They Hunt In Packs

Day 267: Warning: you are going to see several days of Sundew posts. It's been a year and a half since I had a chance to visit my "kids," and if I can put up with your offspring/pet posts, it's only fair that you can endure these. Besides, they are just SO CUTE! Each one displays something unique, its "personality," if you will, but don't be deceived by appearances. These creatures hunt in packs, albeit non-mobile ones.

Arnie recently sent me an article which described a different species of Drosera and its behaviour: D. makinoi, which is found in Japan. The researchers who studied it ran a statistical analysis to determine if closer-packed communities of plants captured more or less prey species, and the size of the prey they obtained. They found a correlation between plant density and larger captures which, if you think about it, makes perfect sense. They posited that D. makinoi's long, slender leaves helped multiple plants snag a shared meal. On the other hand, though, they found no such correlation with Drosera rotundifolia (Round-leaved Sundew), and that's a point with which I will take firm issue. I have seen too many damselflies captured in the tightly-packed rosettes of Lake St. Clair's Sundew colonies, and will argue that plant density most certainly does work as a hunting strategy, at least there. In fact, I think damselflies are the primary food source for the group I've dubbed "Jack's Lot," shown in the photo above. One damsel may find herself helpless in the clutches of four or five hungry little Droseras at once! And when there has been a hatch of damsels, the Droseras gorge.

In a sidebar, I am pleased to announce that I found a second population of rotundifolia on the lake. It was near where I first discovered the broken, floating remnants of a dock I called "Sundew Island." During the winter several years ago, Sundew Island went adrift. I was able to find pieces of it for a couple of years, but eventually, all traces of it disappeared. The new population occupies another bit of broken dock which may some day go wandering, but I'll be looking for it, wanting to keep an eye on my "kids," wherever they may roam.

Summer And Winter Weave

Day 266: The floor loom stood empty for less than 24 hours before I started hanging the warp I'd measured out a couple of weeks ago. I knew exactly what I wanted to do: a "summer and winter" weave lap robe in 8/2 cotton. Why do they call it "summer and winter?" The weave produces a fabric which is light on one side ("summer," right, underside on the loom) and dark on the other ("winter," left). Although the two sides are distinctly different, they are not exact opposites of one another, given the fact that the warp is a single colour. The threading (i.e., the order in which the threads pass through four sets of heddles) and alternating colours of weft picks produce the pattern. In this case, I have opted for a traditional blue/white theme, but modern weavers now weave "summer and winter" in whatever colour pattern they choose. Blue/white and red/white are the most commonly found in vintage pieces. Weaving "summer and winter" is a painstaking process. Each coloured pattern throw is followed by a white tabby pick, so the weaver is constantly changing active shuttles. The sequence does not lend itself to easy memorization except that the tabby picks always raise the same two heddles depending on which direction the shuttle will be travelling (in this case, 1/2 from the right, 3/4 from the left). I find it easiest to let my hands "remember" the order of the tabbies while letting my mind focus on the pattern throws. I also find myself looking at my feet more often than in other weaving because the treadling is easy to confuse.

Goldmine

Day 265: There's a goldmine right outside my window. I can't recall a year when I've had as many American Goldfinches as have come to the feeders this summer, nor that they have ever taken up residence for so long. With Grosbeaks packed shoulder to shoulder on the trays (a situation which often leads to arguments and beak-fights), the Goldfinches have learned that the safest place to feed is on the ground. There's no dearth of seed there. The Grosbeaks are sloppy eaters and their cast-offs afford a banquet to those who couldn't book a table before the crowds arrived, but when the grass gets a little tall, searching for tidbits can be challenging nevertheless. I weed-whacked this morning, and before I'd even put the machine away, my guests showed their gratitude by showing up in droves. It's a busy place out there!

Hosta Inflorescence

Day 264: Well, I got through last week's heat wave by dint of having air conditioning, a luxury almost unheard-of in the Pacific Northwest. My garden, however, did not fare as well. Almost every berry on the kiwi vines, currant bushes and gooseberries dropped like a stone. Oddly, the blueberries (scant as they are) held on, but it wasn't just bad for fruit. The leaves on a number of plants withered in the drying winds which accompanied the high temps, and the hostas in particular suffered where they were exposed to it. The edges and tips curled and shrivelled, but deep within the shady centers of the plants, the emerging inflorescences survived. Various hostas display a variety of floral structures, but I love this one for its resemblance to the artichoke. Tipped with purple, its creamy green bracts are quite lovely.

Bird's-eye Towels

Day 263: The floor loom is naked once again. This morning, I finished up a square "leftover" and a small sample piece for my files, using up the last of a warp hung on a traditional bird's-eye draft. Quite a bit of pattern variation is possible using bird's-eye and coupling it with colour changes provides an even greater range of possibilities. I think my favourite among these are the two rainbows, and they were also the easiest to weave. The one on the left shows the pattern as it appears on the reverse. The most problematic was the blue second from the right in the top row. The treadling between blue and light blue did not proceed in an exact opposite, making it easy to throw the pattern off. The towels have not yet been fulled by washing, so the weave appears somewhat loose and irregular at this point. Once they've been through the wash, the fibers will plump up and become more compact. Some shrinkage will occur during washing because they are 100% cotton.

Philadelphus

Day 262: With roughly 60 different species of Philadelphus and a raft of varieties of those under nursery cultivation, it's no wonder that my mother and I used to disagree on what plant was growing in our respective yards. My Philadelphus was tall and leggy, a mass of stems/trunks rising from its base, blooming in clusters. Hers was a shrub, ornamental, with its flowers closely spaced along the entire length of each branch. Seeing the two plants side by side, you would not have thought them to be related. We spent many years arguing over Philadelphus, but as my knowledge of plants grew, I discovered that we were both right. Mine turned out to be a native species, Philadelphus lewisii. Hers was likely a variety of P. coronarius. In either case, when they bloomed, any debate over the common name "mock-orange" was cut short by the scent. Both emitted an unmistakable fragrance which could be detected a city block away. Currently, my untidy, sprangly P. lewisii is perfuming my yard and attracting both swallowtails and hummingbirds, which just goes to show that you don't have to be beautiful to be appealing.

Paint What You Love

Day 261: After two pitiful attempts at painting a scientifically-accurate Delphinium, I was beginning to feel rather frustrated and was questioning whether or not watercolours were a medium I could work in. I went a couple of days without drawing anything before saying as much to an artistic friend, but when I confided in her that I was feeling "rather deflated," she said I needed to shut off the strongly dominant analytical portion of my brain. I wasn't quite sure how to do that, but the following afternoon as I sat at the window with a Delphinium spike immediately outside, I thought, "Okay, I will try to paint what a Delphinium feels like." Using the actual plant only as a general reference, I did a quick pencil sketch and then moved into the kitchen to paint it, the model out of sight. When I was done, there was no question as to what flower I had portrayed: unmistakably a Delphinium, and decidedly a better representation than my first two attempts. The next day, I ventured out into the Barren Wasteland in early morning light, captured the basic shapes of California Poppies, Rose Campion and peppermint, applying watercolours indoors in a location where I could not see the plants. Again, the painting is not scientifically accurate, but the plants are readily recognizable. Yesterday's subject was a fidgety Goldfinch who perched in the raspberries, and although I took quite liberal artistic license with the composition, both bird and plant are identifiable. Maybe there's hope yet that my clinical mind can give way to its poorly developed creative counterpart to allow me to express my love of nature in watercolours. All three paintings were done on 5.5" x 8.5" mixed-media paper.