Reed And Shuttles

Day 114: My collection of weaving accoutrements is growing, and now includes two antique rag bobbins, a gift from sister-of-my-heart Mousie. They belonged to her oldest friend's mother and grandmother, and I feel very privileged that she managed to convince the friend to part with them on my behalf. I have been wanting to do some rag-woven rugs, but had no shuttles large enough to hold more than just a few yards of prepared fabric. On the other hand, the 15-dent reed behind them is brand-new and will be used for finer pieces similar to the table runners I'm presently making. The runners are warped at 15 dents using a 4.5" high reed from my table loom. My floor loom takes a 5" reed, so I had to be inventive. I started off by padding the channel with foam and cardboard. I did a test run and the reed stayed in place. However, after working about a foot and a half of the actual cloth, the reed jumped out of its track and was left dangling by the warp! I reinstalled it with only a minor amount of profanity, but for additional security, I wired it in. As a stop-gap measure, it works, but I realized that since most of my weaving is done with 8/2 cotton, I really needed a 15-dent reed which was made to fit the loom. Old or new, a weaver needs the proper tools.

Pirate's Hideaway

Day 317: There are very few places where a small craft can be beached on the shores of Lac de Ste. Claire, and the hideaway of a certain notorious pirate certainly looks like an unlikely harbour from the water even at close range. It is set in deep shade, and although its particular shingle permits access, navigation into its protection is difficult to say the least, the line of course obstructed by deadheads of various shape and size. Only the most experienced helmsmen venture here, and only the most intrepid explorers go beyond the sanctuary afforded in its most immediate shelter. An ancient cedar stands as gatekeeper, ready to repel intrusion with its weaponry of sharply honed branches. The tangled lands beyond the shore are habitat for the most fearsome and enormous banana slugs known to exist, defended against all comers by the combined forces of well-armed nettle and blackberry.

Prunes And Prisms

Day 113: I was only about four years old when my grandmother (a teacher in the early 1900s) explained to me that smiling was an affectation of the vulgar. "A proper young woman should never allow her teeth to be seen," she told me. "You must practice holding your mouth in a prim manner by repeating the words 'prunes' and 'prisms' several times throughout the day." Although I ignored this rather Victorian piece of advice for the most part, I did take to heart her counsel about not frowning or squinting. Today, I have but a few lines on my ancient forehead. In fact, my age shows primarily around my mouth, perhaps because I neglected those pert, proper prunes and prisms prescribed in Grandma's school of etiquette.

Farmall 130

Day 137: Much of the Foothills Trail passes through farmland, and just east of Orting, it passes by what is either a junk yard or a cattle farm or a combination of the two. A wide variety of old vehicles and equipment is parked beside the barn and fence, everything from a "honey wagon" to decrepit semis, hay rakes, cultivators and a few hulk cars. There's a Farmall tractor near the barn, too far away for a decent picture even if I could isolate it from the junk surrounding it, a big tractor like you'd expect to see working in the field. Today, something "new" (and I use the word in the sense of "newly observed") caught my eye as I was walking: the smallest Farmall I have ever seen, just my size. Rusty, missing more pieces than it possessed, it still struck a chord with me. My daddy drove a Farmall. My memories of it are vague and largely stimulated by photographs taken before I was born, but I do recall riding on his lap one sunny afternoon, the dust and scent of dry hay rising around us in a cloud. There's a soft spot in my heart for these old red tractors, regardless of their size or condition (or perhaps because of it). Like a stray kitten, if this worn and weary waif followed me home, I'd find a spot where it could sleep in comfort and give it the love it deserves.

Nose-and-Eyelashes Snow

Day 99: It's not uncommon to see groups of Parkies walking the campground loop at Longmire on their lunch hours in all sorts of weather. After all, we're an exercise-oriented lot. However, now that the winter Fitness Challenge is on, neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail will keep rangers from their appointed rounds. Each one of us who is participating in the Challenge is committed to chalk up the aerobic equivalent of 100 miles between January 7 and March 30, competing against other parks in the region. Some people participate as individuals, while others form teams of no more than eleven. A team must contribute at least 1200 miles to qualify. I joined the Wanderers, the Interpretive Division team.

Today, one of my colleagues (a fellow Wanderer) suggested a walk to the back gate, never mind that it was snowing. It was a delightful fall..."snowflakes that stay on your nose and eyelashes" snow; soft, tickly snow, a drier snow than the usual Pacific Northwest slop, and it kept up steadily until we were back inside the building, resuming our daily tasks. We walked three miles, Kristyn and I, laughing and chatting while keeping up a good aerobic pace, following the footsteps of some other walker determined to get their mileage for the day. Exercise done in good company puts the lie to "no pain, no gain," and almost seems like it shouldn't count.

'Tis The Season To Be Puzzling

Day 79: Snow, rain, wind, and cold mean it's time to break out the jigsaw puzzles. I only work on them in the wintertime, but I do the same ones year after year after year. Sometimes I make it through the whole stack (about two dozen). Other times, I'll only put together two or three before some other project takes my fancy. My preference is for 1000-piece puzzles, and although I generally choose those which look the most challenging insofar as color palette is concerned, this montage of old-fashioned seed packets is one of my favorites. Hmmm...this conversion to a sepiatone photograph looks like it would make a pretty good puzzle, too. Puzzle within a puzzle! Now that's something I haven't seen on a store shelf.

Divisions On A Ground

Day 69: There were six of us, just enough that the more experienced musicians could carry those who were less adept at recorder, and we played a range of instruments from tenor to sopranino. Bruce wanted a bass, but our stringent budget wouldn't allow. Oh, but of the lot of us, he deserved one! Bruce was without a doubt the most proficient player among us and surprisingly, he was the only member of our group who couldn't read a note of music, committing to memory his part as I played it for him or improvising his own accompaniments. We called ourselves "The CPR Consort," a joking reference to the Cheap Plastic Recorders our troupe carried while strolling through neighborhoods of Olympia, wandering minstrels spreading Christmas cheer. The better wooden instruments were reserved for indoor performance, unsuited for use in the cold and moist winter conditions of the Pacific Northwest. Under my direction, we played at malls, at hospitals and at retirement homes, and the same six of us (give or take the occasional member) doubled as "The Dozemary Singers," costumed in period dress to present an a capella selection of lesser-known mediaeval Christmas songs.

It seems to me that those were simpler times. Carolers could wander the streets without fear of being pelted with snowballs, rocks or being taunted or mugged. It was considered rude for performers to ask for payment, but if a homeowner offered you hot cider or cookies, you accepted them with a gracious "thank you" and rewarded his kindness with another piece. You sang or played for the joy of making music, for raising the spirits of your listeners, for the feeling of community and good will engendered by giving of your talent. When your music was made manifest by mist rising before your face or curling like smoke from the recorder, when your fingers grew creaky with the cold and your tremolos were unintentional, you nevertheless found it hard to say, "Enough, I want to go somewhere warm."

To my way of thinking, today's world could use some old-fashioned "CPR" to put the warmth back in Christmas, to give it heart.

Mountain Magic

Day 33: The first real snow has fallen at Longmire, and the upper Mountain shows far less rock than it did two weeks ago. Winter is making its descent from the summit, threading its fingers into the valleys, covering the ridgelines, sharpening the bite of wild river waters. Yet for all that, some deciduous trees hold valiantly to their leaves, not ready to consign exclusive reign of the forests to the evergreens; but theirs is a repeating phase of history, a battle lost. I feel a kinship with them as I walk the campground road, my hands burning with the nip of cold and my Vibram soles slipping on the ice. Were it not for a woolly cap, my ears might turn color and drop at the next passing breeze. Here at the Mountain's foot, Autumn is no more than a fortnight of transitional weather, like the passage of Man through the golden prime 'twixt youth and age.