Variations On A Boring Theme

Day 272: The floor loom is finally empty, and I can't recall when it took me longer to get through six towels. Although the weave is summer-and-winter and should have been something I'd enjoy, the fact that there was virtually no way to change it up other than making the pattern areas larger or smaller made it one of the most boring weaving exercises in my long history at the loom. Much (most) summer-and-winter is done on a single-coloured warp with the tabby ground (plain weave) being the same. The pattern threads (floats) are where the fun comes in, creating an almost-but-not-quite-reverse colour scheme on the back side. That's where the name comes from: summer (light) on one side, winter (dark) on the other. While the patterns of these towels do reverse, the yellow never predominates. It's "autumn" on both sides. Switching to a yellow weft made the weave unattractive, so I was stuck using two shuttles of burgundy throughout the whole project. Technically, the weave was summer-and-winter, but it lacked the character which is the main appeal of the pattern. My next project will be "true" summer-and-winter: cream warp and tabby alternating with whatever colour strikes my fancy as I move from one towel to the next. I've had the warp measured for months, waiting in the wings as I struggled, inch by inch, to get this off the loom.

Hypericum HIndsight

Day 271: Oh, those infamous words, "It seemed like a good idea at the time!" Had I known then what I know now, I would not have pilfered a slip of Hypericum calycinum from K-Mart's parking lot planting over thirty years ago, but as the plant is showy and relatively common in landscape installations here in the Pacific Northwest, I thought it would be a quick way to add some colour to my yard. At the time, I was desperate. There was nothing here except for the yew hedge, a Whatzit Tree (an abundantly floral weeping unidentifiable), Big Doug and a straggly lilac, hardly sufficient habitat for the birds I hoped to invite. I was looking for freebies, and K-Mart's Hypericum pinged my radar. Armed with a hand trowel, I managed to sever the tough stolons and brought home three or four slips which, once they established, began to spread with unparalleled vigor. I took to mowing the excess to keep the growth in check. This, as I understand it, is a viable solution to the plant's tendency toward invasiveness. Although not classified as an invasive by reason of being fairly easy to confine, Hypericum calycinum would take over the world, given enough opportunity. The bees love the flowers, and I have to admit that those huge yellow blossoms still appeal to me, so I maintain a patch under the rail fence, limiting its potential explosion with judicious use of the weed-whacker.

Sittin' On The Cat

Day 270: This silly occupation is known as "sittin' on the cat," and begins with Tippy inviting me to follow him to the bedroom doorway and then back to the middle of the living room where he then stops, expecting me to perform my role in the game. I step so that my feet are on either side of his midsection, then kneel down, letting a small part of my weight rest on his hindquarters as he lies down on the carpet. He starts purring even before I begin rubbing his chest and throat, and I often bend forward so that we can touch noses. "I'm sittin' on the cat," I say. "You're such a silly little Boy." Skunk also enjoyed the same routine when she was still with us, although Tippy only began requesting my participation over the last year or so. That said, both he and Skunk would grab my ankle if I tried to walk away before they'd had enough. My Boy is about to celebrate his 15th birthday, still a silly kitten full of love.

Hoya Ilagiorum In Encore

Day 269: Hoya ilagiorum is giving an encore performance with a single dense cluster of flowers which seem to be getting redder with each successive blooming period. An intermittent bloomer, it's been six weeks since the plant was in flower, a schedule it will probably keep for at least one more early autumn display. Once the summer flush is complete, it will enter a rest period for a few months. Many Hoyas have a specific seasonal bloom schedule, but my three favourites (H. ilagiorum, H. fitchii and H. bella) flower several times each year. Reputed to be almost indestructible, I have managed to kill one or two over the years as have a few of my friends, but generally speaking, Hoyas are tolerant of neglectful conditions and even benefit from their planting medium being allowed to dry out. In any event, ilagiorum is thriving under my somewhat casual care, and I would recommend it for anyone who wants a Hoya of a different colour.

Deptford Pink, Dianthus Armeria

Day 268: Pink or not, I love Dianthus armeria, the Deptford Pink, and I very nearly eliminated them from the Barren Wasteland by overzealously collecting the seed to share with friends. I neglected to consider that they are an annual, and as such, need to re-sow themselves as their primary means of reproduction. But like many plants, they also have a backup plan. The roots sometimes form additional basal rosettes, so although the plant you see today may be dead and gone in the space of a few years, its clones may persist to form genetically identical offshoots of their own. The species was introduced to North America so long ago that it is now considered naturalized. Although the stems may grow to two feet in height, they are thready and thin. The freckled flowers appear at the tips and are relatively small, measuring only half an inch at maximum. They close in late afternoon or early evening.

Shadow On The Sky

Day 267: Several conditions have to align for the Mountain to throw a shadow against the sky, and I've been missing the event by minutes on these last few hazy mornings. Today, though, I threw back the curtains at exactly the right moment and, pausing only long enough to appreciate the bonus of fog in the foreground, ran across the road with camera in hand. As the sun crept nearer to the horizon, the shadow began to fade and was nearly gone by the time I'd snapped half a dozen photos. The haze is due to an inversion layer, not the Canadian wildfires. There is some smoke in it from local vegetation fires (Fourth of July fireworks delivered quite a few of those), but nothing like the conditions being experienced in the eastern part of the country. Still, it's been hot and dry with daytime temps in the 90s and no sign of precipitation in the forecast. Fire season is upon us. Please be careful.

Cultural Appropriation

Day 266: A recent fascination with the Japanese style of embroidery known as sashiko (translated as "little stabs") and its related craft of boro has raised a question in my mind. In poring over YouTube videos, I encountered one from a Japanese needleworker saying that they felt it was time to speak out about cultural appropriation. I was rather shocked, because as a fiber artist, I use techniques from numerous different cultures without giving thought to the traditions behind them, although I try to mention their origins when I write about them. Nevertheless, I have not felt the need to explain that knitting and crocheting come from the Middle East, or that weaving is an Egyptian art. It would never have occurred to me to think of them as having been culturally appropriated from those sources. However, in pursuing the two distinctively Japanese crafts of sashiko and boro (particularly the latter), I began to wonder where the line might be drawn. To the best of my limited knowledge, nothing resembling boro is found in any other culture. Sashiko has "cousins" in cross-stitch, blackwork/whitework, and chicken-scratch (the latter almost certainly a purely American invention), but none of them has been coupled with patching/darning in the way sashiko has been used to create the unique look of boro. The closest "relative" I can think of would be crazy-quilting when the patches are held down by ornamental embroidery stitches. On the other hand, sashiko is comprised solely of running stitches. Although the way they are placed defines the style as Japanese, the stitch itself is universal.