Line Art

Day 29: It's not that they haven't been working diligently. They have, but it seems like an inordinate amount of time has passed since work began on the resetting of power lines along our road. It was early August when they dropped off a pole in my yard, and at least a month elapsed before the phone company showed up to bury their share of the wires.

I cannot help wondering how far into winter this project will extend. Already the grass is regrowing where the phone company trenched, and daily I see the linemen at their tasks. I wish I knew what they were doing up there, because I have seen no major change in the scene for weeks. They're busy at it, rain or shine, whatever they may be achieving. Job security, perhaps?

Marlinespike Fusion Fun

Day 28 (Part Two): Saturday...a mere three days ago...I decided to go out on a limb and order some 550 paracord from an on-line source which didn't have an 800-number to back it up as bona fide. I'm very cautious about things like that; too cautious, friends will tell you. Nevertheless, I decided to take a chance. I received an email confirmation immediately, and then started figuratively chewing my fingernails as I waited to determine if I'd been suckered. To my everlasting surprise, when I got home from work tonight, my mailbox held a squishy package. I pulled it out, wondering if a friend had sent me a surprise, and was amazed to see the return address. Not only had they shipped my cord for free, they'd shipped it by priority mail!

As for the project books, "fusion ties" are really nothing more than the elementary knots found in decorative marlinespike seamanship. Paracord is softer and easier to work than rope, and therefore an excellent material for bracelets, lanyards and key fobs. Plus, it comes in really cool colors! More fun for those long winter evenings!

Window Onto An Uncertain Budget

Day 28: Our end-of-fiscal year paperwork must be done by tomorrow at Mount Rainier National Park, and if ever there was a more uncertain future for us and for National Parks across the country, it has not existed during my tenure. Even the best-case budget plan means cutbacks; the worst-case scenario threatens visitor services and even critical operations, factors which might lead to the Parks closing their gates.

Looking out into the rainy compound at Longmire from a temporarily private office, the bleak visual metaphor reminded me that we cannot exist without funding for maintenance, for roads, for trail repair, for interpretive programs, for the wages of the paid employees who are crucial to the many unseen functions of the Park. It would be idealistic to believe that we could carry on with volunteers alone, but who would train them? Who would supervise them? In a perfect world, such an idea might be workable, but the world is not so perfect as that.

My window is dusty and rain-spotted, the glass sagging with age and the wooden frame weathered from without and from within. If that's not a metaphor, I'll eat my hat.

Frog Dancer

Day 27 (Part A): If I have achieved nothing today, I have this photo to show for it. I had an idea (it seemed like a good one at the time) but unfortunately didn't discover that my studio (read, "living room") had some serious shortfalls until I started setting up. Literally, the window needed to be taller or my perch needed six inches less height. By the time the issue made itself apparent, I had already moved cat furniture, two chairs and the harpsichord and was consequently not in the best of moods when I donned all the paraphernalia of a cross-cultural Frog Spirit dancer. Repeated scrambles onto a footstool left me hot and sweaty and cross. I finally said in my inimitable fashion, "(unprintable), I've either got it or I don't," whereupon I disrobed and put everything back in place.

I was not pleased with any of the results from that first session, a circumstance which set me to pointlessly pacing as I tried to figure out what I could find for a "blog shot" on a rainy afternoon. I wasn't doing well, not at all. On the edge of frustration, I decided to take a nap, but no sooner than I'd laid down than another idea hit me: go build a shorter box. The next half hour was spent in the garage with sawdust flying.

Satisfied that at least I had created something which would be useful in my studio in the long term, I then sat down to do some knotwork. Almost immediately, I sprang back up. When once again the harpsichord, the chairs and the cat furniture were moved out of the way, I put the new box to the test, sweating myself into a pool as I ran back and forth from the camera to my appointed perch.

The chairs, the harpsichord and the cat furniture are all back in their accustomed places. My costume is packed away in the cedar chest and the heavy wooden frog mask is hung back on the wall. The essay I intended to write has gone completely out of mind, and I'm sitting here laughing at myself for wasting a whole day on one silly photo. Eh, I could have been watching TV (if I had TV).

Prodigal's Return

Day 27 (Part B): At 9 AM, Fuzzy Wuzzy was MIA and I figured he'd dropped more deeply into the Euonymus than I could readily see, protected from bird predation by those long urticarial guard hairs which can be irritating to humans as well. At least that's what I was telling myself hopefully, not wanting to admit the possibility that he'd met a natural end. I kept checking from the kitchen...the wall of the garage is visible from the window...and a little later, I thought I could see color which wasn't the pink of old Euonymus. Sure enough, there was my little friend, back again, and boy, was I relieved! Perhaps he's still looking for the perfect shelter. Tonight's bedcheck finds him missing again. I wonder if he'll be back in the morning?

New Address

Day 26 (Part B): If you tuned in to 365 Caws yesterday, you would have seen this little fellow hanging onto the side of the garage for dear life, braving wind and rain in response to his biological imperative. After several hours had elapsed from the time I first discovered him, he was dislodged. Examining the Euonymus beneath the wall, I found him clinging to a twig. Overnight, he climbed to the top of it and reestablished himself in a slightly more secure spot.

Upon reviewing all the possibilities, I am 99% certain of my identification of his species as a Virginian Tiger Moth caterpillar (Spilosoma virginica, confirmation pending). Despite the name, this species occurs commonly in my area.

Cat Basket

Day 26: Yard sales, boot sales, jumbles...whatever you want to call them, to me they are something to be assiduously avoided. Call it a preventative measure, if you will: insurance against the impulse to purchase things I neither need nor have space to accommodate. However, sometimes I find myself in a position where temptation cannot be avoided and the inevitable occurs; in this case, a kitten who followed me home from a bake sale/bazaar I attended with my fishing buddy and his family.

The basket on which she sits is large and squat, perfect for a small knitting project, and I would guess that it was made by someone who labors for a wage of mere pennies per day. Cat Herself is obviously hand-carved and functions as the lifter for the snug-fitting lid. Her gaze seems to say, "The yarn in this basket belongs to me, so you two other cats, you go find something else to play with and leave it alone."

Five dollars was a small price to pay for such a loyal guardian for my stitchery, but did I need another basket? Perhaps not, but like the philosophy which governs many cat owners, I answered that question by saying, "What's another one, more or less?"

Biological Imperative

Day 25: Driven by a biological imperative, this little fellow has picked a poor spot for his winter home. Presumably, he has attached himself to the north side of my garage by a thread, or at least so I'm guessing. He has not budged in an hour and has so far resisted the wind's best attempts to disloge him. I do not know his species, but in this year of scant butterflies, the options are rather few. Of greater concern is a question: could I (or should I) attempt to effect a rescue or simply let Nature take its course? As harsh as it seems, I suspect I would do more damage by intervening than I might prevent by interfering For all I know about the processes which compel this tiny creature, perhaps it is doing precisely what it needs to do to survive.

Brush Yoar Teef

Day 24: Tip and Skunk have asked me to make a Public Service Announcement regarding increased consumption of sweets during the holiday seasons. In Tip's words, "Brush yoar teef!"

Both of my cats are poster children for good dental hygiene, having been trained in healthy brushing habits from early on. First introduced to the idea with a gentle gum massage using my index finger, it only took a few weeks before they would accept dry-brushing. I allowed each cat to select a position in which they were comfortable. Skunk sits facing me, while Tip prefers to sit at an angle on my lap which allows me to make nose contact with him occasionally in reassurance. Another helpful hint is to avoid direct eye contact. If your cat looks squarely at you during the process, avert or close your eyes to mitigate the sense of threat implied by a hard stare. Don't try to restrain your pet. It's better to take small steps toward the goal than to attempt to force them into submission (which won't work, I guarantee it). Brushing twice a week should be sufficient, especially if accompanied by use of a dental rinse (available from your veterinarian).

Only use a toothpaste specifically designed for pets, and introduce it only after dry-brushing has been fully accepted. Most pet-formula pastes are sticky, and your furry friends may resent it getting on their faces in the process of getting it in their mouths. Apply a small amount to the toothbrush and then gently lift the upper lip with a finger or the brush so that the paste only contacts teeth and gums. My kids let me know if they need a quick dry-brushing between their routine toothpaste treatments by sitting beside their toothbrush holder. If your cat wants to chew while you're brushing, gently support their lower jaw as I am doing with Tip's in the photo. And this should go without saying: don't share toothbrushes between cats. You wouldn't use someone else's, and neither should they.

Ship's Cat

Day 23: Aye, an' you'd be thinkin' th' ship's cat were wot kept th' vermin away, would ye no'? 'Tis a few rats wot may feel its claws if I be no' findin' me a adventure soon. Th' Black Blade is a mite weary o' port, mates, an' I be thinkin' o' puttin' t' sea ag'in.

I sits 'ere o' nights, plattin' them tails, 'earin' th' tides go out frae beach an' bottle. Th' rum's nigh gone, an' th' chocolate 'tis naught but a tickle in th' nose. Aye, I be lookin' t' raid somewheres an' I'll wager I knows where t' best profit. Avast! An' mind yer doors, fer no' all them scoundrels and scallywags wot's knockin' be so innercent.

Civilizations

Day 22: When I arrived back at the office sopping wet from the knees down, there was no room to doubt that I'd been worshipping at the Temple of Cladonia again. Nothing brings out the life in these strange entities like a shower, and the last to fall here had had a touch of snow amid its plentiful drops. As warm as it was in my cozy corner, the cold dampness of my uniform pantlegs chilled my shins, never mind that I'd left a trail of fir needles on the stairway carpet.

Out behind the public buildings and the maintenance bays at Longmire, the Nisqually River flows at the base of a rock outcrop populated with one of the most easily accessible collections of lichen I know. The residents of Cladonia Central are a varied lot, living in perfect harmony with colonies of bryophytes and other kindred spirits. Not a one of them objects to the damp or cold; in fact, they revel in it, and if I am to take advantage of their hospitality, it would be unseemly for me to complain against the very things they enjoy the most. That said, I really should start wearing rainpants when I go a-calling on them.

Happy Hallowthanksmas!

Day 21: When I was young, Hallowe'en happened in October. After a suitable interval, it was followed in November by Thanksgiving. The "Christmas season" opened officially with the Friday following Thanksgiving, but didn't really get into full sway until the stores started pushing their wares by reminding people that "There are only ten shopping days left!" You did not see witches beside paper turkeys, nor did you see pilgrim hats beside Santa and his reindeer. There was a division of holidays which allowed celebrants time to recover from one fit or gorging on candy before moving onto the next with its pumpkin pies, and time for the turkey to settle nicely in the stomach before the cookies and fruitcakes started to arrive from relatives. There was enjoyment to be had in anticipating a unique holiday each month of the dreary winter, traditions to brighten the spirit and pull family closer together.

Now the festivities are all a-jumble, and I don't need to tell you that commercialism and greed form the foundations for store shelves burdened with ghouls and Christmas angels side-by-side. You already know that. You hate the obligatory shopping steeped in oneupsmanship as do I: "But I know they're going to spend at least $10 on us, so we have to get them something nicer."

So where's it going to stop? If we need two months to gear up for Christmas, why not put the Hallowe'en candy out in August? Let's start celebrating Valentine's Day in December! Let's have Easter baskets on the shelves at least by early February! Or why not...and this is a daring suggestion...go back to shopping in season and save our nerves from all the hype?

Is it too early for me to wish you a Happy Hallowthanksmas? I think not.

Jessica And Kindness

Day 20: For all of being rather small, downtown Puyallup is home to an eclectic collection of sculptures in styles ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. It was in pursuit of the latter that I parked near the library and crossed through a park no larger than a city block. Upon arriving at the far side, I knelt down on the sidewalk beneath a light shower of raindrops without giving any consideration to how my crab-walking crouch might appear to passersby as I maneuvered for the best position to photograph this odd creature. One bicyclist nearly ran me down, apologizing for interrupting me at my work as he went past, and then I heard another voice from behind which said, "Oh, you have a camera. I thought maybe you were hurt or something."

I looked up at a man close to my own age standing astride a bike which clearly held the sum of his worldly belongings. Kindly put, he qualified as a "street person." Another might have dismissed him more curtly as "some homeless guy." Before I could thank him for his concern, he began an agitated narrative regarding "Jessica," for so his peers of the street had nicknamed the sculpture after one of their own. He told me the real Jessica even jokes about the resemblance the figure bears to her cockeyed countenance, saying that the sculptor must have seen her and used her as a model. There was little space in the one-sided conversation for me to utter anything but the occasional chuckle until the words had all drained from my companion but for an introduction. He gave me his real name and then added, "But they call me Steelhead. Who are you?" I introduced myself as Crow, which launched him on another monologue regarding crows and seagulls and an injured starling he'd rescued and was feeding daily. As abruptly as it had begun, the stream of consciousness chatter ceased. Steelhead hopped onto the seat of his bike and pedalled away, calling back to me, "See ya again some time!"

I felt a little ashamed of myself. I kept anticipating the touch for money. It never came. A down-on-his-luck stranger had stopped only to ascertain my well-being, grey-haired and tatty creature that I am, perhaps mistaking me for one of his own. It was a kindness from an unexpected quarter, and one which begs to be balanced in the overall ledger of life.

Strength In Adversity

Day 19: First inducted into the model pool in July, for the last month or more, this onion was supplanted by younger talent and went to a forgotten corner to sulk over its decline in status. It had a lot of time to think of a strategy whereby it could regain the limelight, hoping meanwhile to avoid the stew-kettle of ignominy, and today reappeared for an interview with a fresh perspective. One has to admire its commitment and determination, drawn clearly from the very core of its being, and must applaud its strength through the dark adversity inflicted upon it during its isolation. There is courage bursting forth here, deserving of accolade. Perhaps it counsels us to emulate it, to survive even the dreariest of times. Without words, the humble and forgotten onion speaks volumes with its one quiet utterance of green.

Learn Something New Every Day

Day 18: Years ago, I encountered a simple and wise phrase which became the byword of my life from that moment on: "Learn something new every day." It doesn't have to be a big "something." It could be as simple as picking up a bit of new information about an historical event from a casual reading of the newspaper to digging through a five-foot stack of field guides in order to identify a plant. It could be Googling for the properties of tungsten or when best to plant crocuses, or it could be teaching yourself a whole new skill like...well, like how to use a soroban.

Two weeks ago, I didn't know that there were two main types of abacus in common modern usage, the Japanese soroban with four beads in the lower register, and the Chinese suanpan with five. I discovered that fact when the whim struck me to buy a cheapo model for my next round of mental exercise. I had figured it would come with instructions, at least for addition and subtraction, but it did not. Again, I resorted to Googling, only to have a verified "safe" site crash my computer with its advertising plague. Thoroughly put off from that resource by the experience, I turned to Plan B: the library. Our wonderful Timberland system had nothing to offer anywhere in its stacks, but my favorite librarian had pity on me and with her greater Googling skills and the library computer, came up with a thirty-page document which should be sufficient to teach me the four basic arithmetical functions. I suppose that will have to do, since I'm not likely to need square roots when balancing my checkbook.

Mental calisthenics, here! A-one, and a-two, and a three! Pinch those beads together! Slide! Reset!

Alien Microcosm

Day 17: Out behind Longmire, a social trail leads along above the Nisqually River and below a spectacularly lichen-covered outcrop of rock. You would think that nothing would grow where the soil was so sparse, but both mosses and lichens have taken root in hairline fractures in the granodiorite until it is now like an enormous Chia Pet, hulking among the trees. I wanted to spend more time there during the summer, but with the weather so dry, the tendrils of lichen had such a parched appearance that they were unappealing in a photograph. Now that the rains have begun in earnest, they've plumped up nicely and are putting forth apothecia, brown fruiting bodies which will at some point disperse their spores.

There are at least four species of lichen in this tangle, Cladonia bellidiflora out of focus in the right background and a small specimen of bright green Frog Pelt (Peltigera) in the lower right the only ones I can identify with any degree of certainty. I have long since given up on trying to break it down any finer than a species name because many varieties require staining and/or microscopic analysis to separate. I am quite content to view them as the exquisite things they are, like transplants from some alien world.

One, And Only One

Day 16: My mother's tight-fistedness was notorious. A Scotsman of the first water, it was never so apparent as when Hallowe'en rolled around. She would buy several bags of her favorite candies, and when the trick-or-treaters knocked on her door, she would never allow them to serve themselves, handing out one piece to each child from the bowl behind the door.

One Hallowe'en, my husband and I decided to play a trick on her in repayment for her stingy nature. As small as I am, it was no problem for me to appear child-sized when covered with a bedsheet and walking on my knees. With Bruce hiding around the corner of the house, I approached her door and knocked on the glass. When she answered, I held out a woefully empty paper bag and in a small, quiet voice made the standard request: "Trick or treat!" My mom's response was what one might have expected, "Oh, a cute little ghostie!" She reached into the concealed bowl, and when her hand appeared again, it was to drop one and only one piece of saltwater taffy in my bag. Any child receiving the same treatment would tell you they heard it echo when it hit bottom.

I tipped my head downward carefully, not to let my eyes give me away. The sorry offering looked so lonely that I then said squeakily, "Kin I have another one?" My mother firmly said, "No," and not another word.

Somewhat at a loss as to what my next move should be, I pondered for half a minute as I stood in front of her open door. As she made to close it, I was forced to extemporize. "Kin I use your bathroom?" I asked hastily. The answer I received was a curt and hard, "NO," and the door was being shut as it was uttered.

Now the final stage of the original plan was played out. I stood up. Clearly, a rising ghost was not what my mom expected, and she went (as the saying goes) "arse over teakettle" backwards in utter shock. At that point, Bruce stepped onto the porch, and with both of us making reassuring noises in between our hoots of laughter, order was restored. That said, I still never managed to get another piece of taffy out of her.

Past Pull Date, Darn It!

Day 15: I've just come home from a five-mile, 1000' elevation gain mushroom hunt without a single bite for dinner. It's too early for Chanterelles yet, although yesterday when I first spotted this Shaggymane (Coprinus comatus), it seemed like a patrol of my favorite Chanterelle spots was worth a try.

Oh, this fellow was already too far gone for picking, but the change in 24 hours was quite dramatic. A member of the Inky Cap family, once Shaggymanes begin to deteriorate, their flesh turns bitter. Yesterday, the 4" cap of this specimen revealed only an inch and a half of stem below its base. Today, the cap measures only a little over an inch and a half, two-thirds of its depth gone to inky slush. Even the second little button at the base was beginning to turn.

Despite my venture having been fruitless as far as my occupation as hunter-gatherer is concerned, it was a lovely day for a hike up to Kirkland Pass and Hugo Peak. I do not regret the expenditure of energy in the least, despite the fact that calories burned were not matched by calories collected.

Mill Town's Ghost

Day 14: Once upon a time and not so long ago, Eatonville was a thriving mill town. Nestled in the heart of logging country, timber was brought in by truck and shipped out to Tacoma by rail as finished lumber. There was a lot of economic rivalry between mills in those days, and eventually Eatonville's yards and old sawdust burner were shut down as their competitors gained a foothold.

As a child travelling with my family from eastern Washington, we sometimes went past the sawdust burner at night. It was always aglow with the fires within, and sparks often flew above the wire mesh cap which was designed to prevent them from escaping. In a way, the sawdust burner was a somewhat sinister figure on the landscape, the type of "monster" which frightens small children, although in a delicious way. Even though I frequently fell asleep in the car on the way home, I would always try to stay awake to see it and its counterpart at National.

I do not recall when the mill shut down because we moved to the west side of the Cascades when I was still quite young. By the time I was an adult, the burner was standing cold, surrounded by a few relics of buildings associated with the mill. It was still standing when I moved into my present home, but it was all too obviously on the verge of collapse, holes in the mesh cap and sheet-metal panels peeling away from the sides.

It's been a few years now since a windstorm polished it off for once and all, but on the side of the town's motel, it is commemorated in a mural. To create this image, I first photographed the mural, then sneaked in past the "No Trespassing" signs until I could set up the tripod to obtain the same point of view. Using the mural as a PaintShopPro texture, I overlaid the modern-day photo with the outlines of the mill town in its heyday, my old pal the Sawdust Burner rising like a ghost from the spot where it once stood.

Tibetan Prayer Flags

Day 12: The mountains of the Himalayan Range are the ultimate draw for any serious climber, though only a select few ever go on to conquer any of their peaks. Their names glitter with romance: Everest, K2, Kangchenjunga, the Gasherbrums, Nanga Parbat, Lhotse, all towering over 8000 meters above sea level. Yet not too far from my door, many a future or former Himalayan alpinist has gripped another challenge. Mount Rainier draws both fools and the finest. Few of the former reach its summit, and not all of the latter.

An ascent of Mount Rainier is not to be taken lightly. Over the years, it has taken many lives, and some of them my friends. As you drive up the highway toward the Nisqually Entrance, you may notice brightly colored Tibetan prayer flags fluttering in the wind at homes and mountaineering services. They acknowledge in traditional fashion those climbers now climb the great mountains in spirit only, whether far away in an exotic land or right here at home.

I never went to the Himalayas, nor even to Denali. My days of climbing are over, but with six ascents of Mount Rainier by five routes under my belt, I cannot help but wish myself young again, and empowered by a belief in my own immortality.

Before There Were Angry Birds...

Day 11: Before there were Angry Birds, there was Frogger. Before there were computers in almost every home, there were Atari game consoles, and Frogger was one of the few games I ever played. The premise is simple: get your frog across the road without getting it run over by a truck. Oooops! Didn't work quite the way you had it planned, did it?

You would think that a person who loved frogs would despise this game, but my mother (one of the froggiest frog-fanciers ever to be born) simply loved it. The only other electronic game she enjoyed was Merlin, and that was because she said it was good practice for her memory skills. Frogger certainly didn't have anything like that to redeem it in her eyes, but nevertheless, she not only played the game when she came to visit us, she would watch in fascination as either my husband or I managed to have a frog or two survive to the next level.

Perhaps as a bird lover, there's a parallel here with my own fascination for Angry Birds in its various incarnations. Just as my mother wanted her favorite froggy people to succeed despite the odds against them, I desire to see my wingless avian friends beat down their foes. That said, the Angry Birds seem to have a much higher rate of success than those poor amphibians who, at least in my hands, are well on their way to the endangered species list.

Pottering About With Potions

Day 10: My tastes in reading matter are somewhat eclectic, although I shy away from the bulk of modern fare. I am not a fan of sex and violence, nor of gore and savagery, and right there, I've eliminated 90% of today's general fiction. Charles Dickens is more my speed, and books intended for younger readers.

When the Harry Potter books first came out, a friend who is a children's librarian encouraged me to read them. I was not impressed at first. I found Rowling's style rather unrefined and her humour a bit maudlin. It took reading through "Chamber of Secrets" and then rereading "Sorceror's Stone" before I truly became a fan. However, even on my first read-through, I was convinced of one thing: in the end, Severus Snape would prove himself to be one of the "good guys." There was not a single doubt in my mind, and I began studying each book for the clues which would lead to the eventual "reveal." I found quite a few.

In the end, of course, my suspicions were proved to be correct. I got to say "I told you so" to several people, including my librarian friend. After all, I am a writer. It was the kind of storyline twist I'd have used if I wrote novels, although I'd probably have let a bit more slip than those few teasers Rowling allowed to leak out of the bag.

Marlinespike

Day 9: There are three equally valid spellings for the name of this tool: marlinespike, marlinspike and marlingspike. The term derives from a particular form of tarred cordage called...you guess it...marline, marlin or marling. The tool is often made of a hard wood such as lignum vitae, or of metal. Some have actually been made from the bill of a marlin (fish), a fact which causes some confusion in etymological debates. In any event, no one who works with rope on a serious basis should be without one of these handy implements. I finally found one suitable for my small hands and the smaller materials I prefer, saving the points of my poor, abused embroidery scissors for more delicate work.

Although I am not working aboard a ship, I attached a wrist lanyard to my marlinespike. It keeps me from having to search for it down behind the cushions of my chair (a place which is home to any number of pins, beads and pencil stubs). The lanyard was quite quick and simple to make: two eye splices meeting in the center, a seizing 'round the ends of both, a running Turk's-Head to cover it, and another to serve as a slider to tighten the lanyard around the wrist. As a former mountain climber, I am no stranger to having all sorts of things attached to my person lest they be lost in an inattentive moment. A tool gone over the side does you no good at all!

Ma Nature's Quilt

Day 8: The Pacific Northwest is not known for its Autumn color, not like the eastern parts of the country. Our hues tend toward the gold except in gardens and yards where non-native species are cultivated. The one significant exception to that is Vine Maple (Acer circinatum). Although it often passes years without turning the intense red seen here, when it does change to a vivid shade, it is a sight to see: startling patches of vermilion lurching out from beneath a wall of dark forest green, or scarlet flame caught among the bronzed yellows of Big-Leaf Maple, its cousin.

If Ma Nature was to sew a quilt, I like to think she would choose calicos such as this bold print, matching them with a solid of blue noontime sky. She would stitch the patchwork with a deep brown thread, lightly, and not to make too firm a coverlet. Then she would present her gift in time for the recipients to bundle themselves cozily within it against the advancing frost. Its colors would call to memory those prior days of sun and warmth, and would make the winter pass more swiftly.

The storms are coming, and soon. I am glad the seamstress finished her work so timely.

Fishing Buddies

Day 7: The story of how my fishing buddy and I first met is amusing and also a little embarrassing for your author.

Y'see, although S. was born and raised in Puyallup, he and his family moved away to California and spent over 40 years out of state. When they finally decided to move "home" again, one of the first things my soon-to-be friend wanted to do was take a small inventory of the local fish. Geared up with the fare which had served him well in California, he chose Alder Lake for his initial piscatorial adventure. On the cold March morning when he parked his rig in Elbe, the lake was open but the Nisqually River which feeds it was not, and as you all know, I'm a stickler for abiding by the rules. To gain access to the lake itself, it was necessary to walk about a quarter mile on the river shingle to reach the mouth where it was legal to fish, and it was at that self-same mouth where he caught his first glimpse of what he thought was a small Oriental man with a line in the water. At approximately the same moment, I noticed an older man studying the river as if he purposed to take a few out-of-season cutthroat. I kept my eye on him as he edged closer.

It wasn't too long before we each realized our mistakes. I was neither Oriental nor a man, and after spotting me engaged in my deliberate business, he abandoned all intention to fish the river despite the fact that a local storekeeper had erroneously informed him that it was "open below the bridge." A fisherman worth his salt on new turf always pumps any available "local" for techniques and tips! I invited him to fish beside me, and after a survey of his tackle box, I gave him bait and lures and proceeded to show him how it ought to be done. The only problem was that the fish were being decidedly uncooperative.

We fished for an hour or so with no luck, and then suddenly something took my bait and ran with it. I could tell it was a big fish, and with nothing yet in my creel, I desperately wanted to land it, if only so I could gloat. I played it skillfully, but as I got it closer to shore, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my companion was edging closer to me. "Oh, no!" I thought. "He's going to grab my line and try to help!" My attention shifted from the fish to him although I kept reeling, and when I felt tension on the line, I looked down to see a magnificent cutty wedged between two rocks. My compatriot took another step toward me and I reacted instinctively with an upward jerk of the rod which I hoped would beach my prize. I heard a "Ping!" as the line parted. Dazed, the fish hesitated and I made a dive for it...all too literally. I stepped on a rock which rolled, and I went face-first in the lake, emerging without a single dry spot on me except the top of my hat. The fish fled in panic, and who could blame it?

With that having been the only bite I'd had in several hours, I told my companion that I was going to go home and change clothes. It was rather too chilly, and a stout wind had come up as well. As I began to leave, he stepped into my spot and almost immediately had another bite. The cutties had waked up and wanted breakfast! I would have been a poor fisherman indeed if I'd left at that point, so I took up a new station. Several fish later, my friend noticed that I was shivering violently, so he bundled me in his jacket. We continued to fish until I had a limit of five and he was content with four fine trout. Regrettably, none was as big as "the one that got away," but we were both happy.

On the walk back to the car, this man I had never before met asked me a question, "Would you like to go fishing with me again some time?" and although I have fished alone for most of my life, I replied, "Yeah, I think I'd enjoy that."

Together, the two of us have fished with the fly, chucked PowerBait and drowned worms at almost all the lakes within a 25-mile radius over the last ten years. Our friendship is solid as a rock. If falling in a lake headfirst is what it takes to find a fishing buddy as good as S., I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.

Marlinespike Seamanship

Day 6: No handcraft is a quick job, but I have had little time to work on any marlinespike seamanship pieces this last week, and I really need to devote some time to the project if I mean to have enough for an exhibit in next year's Puyallup Fair. Each of the six grommeted eyelets in this sailor's ditty bag took an hour to install. Canvas is tough, and my hands are old and arthritic.

The lanyard was the last piece to craft, and certainly the most enjoyable part of the project. The center section of three lengths of rope were platted in a flat braid for the hanging loop, then seized with buttonhole thread before the first of two Matthew Walker knots was installed. A handle was then made using a continuous Crown Sennit of six strands, terminated with a second Matthew Walker. A Turk's Head slider was made separately and the six legs of the lanyard were drawn through it before each leg was eye-spliced through the eyelets and seized with buttonhole twist to secure the ends. Traditionally, these seizings and the visible stitching might have been done in blue or black, but to personalize the bag, I used dark green. Additionally, a sailor might paint or stitch his initials or name onto the bag, although often his skill at ropework was sufficient to identify a ditty bag as having been made by a particular individual.

Fire Retardant

Day 5: They've brought in the "big guns." Smaller planes are dropping white fire retardant chemicals in frequent passes over the ridge, and every twenty minutes or so (presumably the turn-around time for a reload), at least one larger plane makes a pass with the red stuff. It is hard to tell which trees have been singed and which ones are coated with the retardant. Helicopter flights are also continuing.

In The Thick Of It

Day 5: Three helicopters are now in the air, and the DNR crew told me that they will probably be bringing in planes to drop fire retardant chemicals shortly. The fire was nine acres (relatively small) a few hours ago, but they are concerned about it crossing the ridgeline as the day heats up. It was kept small by cold overnight temperatures and humidity, but now thermal updrafts are a concern.

Dump

Day 5: There are two helicopters working on this side of the ridge now, one along the crest and one on the lower reach of the fire. When they dip down below the treeline at the old Ceccanti farm, it only takes a second or two for the buckets to be refilled. I don't believe there's a pond back there, so they are undoubtedly reloading from a tanker. Smoke is rising in a more concentrated column than before, which indicates to me that they're driving the fire into one centralized area. This is no quick job, the suppression of a fire in tall timber. They're doing an excellent job of bringing it under control.

Fire

Day 5: It started about 2 AM and is creeping slowly downward. The Department of Natual Resources has assured us that helicopters are on the way, and the chief is waiting patiently for someone to bring him the key so he can get his ground crews through the gate. Yes, seriously! I am hearing the sound of a helicopter as I type this and I see a DNR truck out front. Stay tuned.

A Special Friend

Day 4: Of all the people who have touched my life, there has been none as sweet and dear as my fishing buddy's wife. Today we celebrated her 91st birthday: the two of them, both daughters, one granddaughter and her husband, two great-grandchildren and I. Ten years ago, they welcomed me into the bosom of the family and have stood by me as if I were their own daughter, a fact for which I will always be grateful. This one's for you, Y. Happy Birthday!

Sunspot Skunk

Day 3: Skunk is my old "grandma kitty." Now over twelve years old, I've had her since she was just a little baby cat. She came to me pretty wild, having been birthed in a shed on a farm where she'd been attacked and injured by dogs, so several years passed before she would consent to sit on a lap. Now she thinks nothing of insinuating herself under whatever project I may be engaged in, wiggling beneath fabric or a book until she can stretch full length along my legs. She has health issues, poor old gal. She has arthritis and she was deafened by a reaction to a medication she was given for an ear infection several years ago. She's learned to respond to hand signs if I can get her attention to indicate I'm about to serve up her dinner or to invite her onto the bed. Like most cats and especially those who have creaky joints, her favorite place is in the sun. My good girl!

Where Away Adventure?

Day 2: Where away adventure, lads? I hears it on th' wind, namin' me in a whisper wot durst no' be denied. 'Tis out there fer th' takin', an' them wot never dares wi' never know it, marooned in theys cozy armchairs like sad an' sorry castaways on fergotten islands, dead o' soul an' spirit, an' no excuse fer livin'. Wot chance may gi'e us, let 'er come fer good or ill, fer t' master circumstance be th' better proof o' character t' fellow an' self alike. Seize th' day! Let no man o' ye turn 'is face frae Fate, fer 'im wot sails wi' th' Black Blade sails into it bold as brass, an' no regrets. 'Oist th' mains'l, ye bloody shirkin' dogsbodies, an' make fast th' lines! 'Tis now t' do or die!

Sweet Dreams

Day 1: This is my Boy, Tip-short-for-Tipperary. I'm prejudiced, of course, but I don't think you could ever find a sweeter, more gentle fellow. Oh, he's full of bounce and mischief, but when it comes time for tickling, he responds with sheathed claws and gentle nibbles. He has two speeds, Warp 9.9 and Full Stop (the latter being about the only time I can catch him with the camera). Technically, his coloration is called "tuxedo" because his tummy is white, although you don't notice it until he abruptly flops at your feet and turns it up for a round of tickling. That's an essential part of our daily routine. He demands a tickle every time I walk from one room to another. He also sports a few white hairs on his chest, fewer still on the top of his head, one white whisker on his left cheek and another on his chin. Such a character! And such a sweetheart, especially when he's being a goofy-gus.

H. K. Porter 106923-W 20-Watt Insulator

Day 365, and the end of Year Two: Thanks to a friend who is knowledgeable about such things and/or has contacts who can fill in the blanks, I can provide you with some interesting information about the "gift" left on my doorstep by our local power crew. The fellows know I have a small collection of old insulators, so when this one was slated for upgrade, they knew I'd enjoy having it. I have no idea what its value might be, although they said they'd never seen one like it, and the best-guess estimate as to its age places its manufacture in the 1950s era.

It is a wood-mount, 20-watt electrical-grade polycarbonate resin insulator, and according to H. K. Porter (the manufacturer) is able to resist damage by pellets, rocks, BB's, small bore rifles, accidental dropping during installation or mishandling during transit. It is 1600% lighter weight than a comparable glass insulator. It remains ductile and impact resistant to -60°F and does not distort in 250° heat. Its electrical performance retains its characteristics over a wide range of frequencies and temperatures. It is abrasion resistant, flame retardant and will not support combustion. Insulators such as this one are used by railroads for telephone, telegraph and other communication lines.

In its retirement, it will find a place of honor on one of my windowsills, unlike its more common ceramic cousins which are relegated to the garage. After more than fifty years of service, I think it deserves a bit of respect.

Stay tuned for Year Three, opening tomorrow!

Inked

Day 364: Wot's a pirate wi'out a tattoo, I asks ye? 'Twas 'bout time I done this. Been thinkin' on it, not quite settled in me mind fer summat wot signified. Of a mornin', 'twas like stroke o' lightnin' 'it me 'ead: me little crow wot's been a avatar fer me these many years! 'E ain't so big as 'e looks 'ere, an' 'is feathers is lookin' a mite ruffled until 'e gets hisse'f all settled, but there 'e be fer good an' fer aye, an' th' Black Blade 'as got 'erse'f a right pirate's tattoo.

Dolmas Tonight!

Day 363: I think the best part of having a grapevine...especially a hit-or-miss one...is that a couple of times each Autumn, I can make dolmas with my very own homegrown grape leaves. I won't go so far as to try to convince you that this recipe is authentic; no, it's the Crow version, but it sure is good. You will need

24 large fresh grape leaves
3/4 pound of ground lamb (hamburger will do in a pinch)
1 1/2 cups cooked rice
1 can of tomato sauce
2 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
1 Tbsp. minced garlic (fresh or bottled)
1 Tbsp. (or more) dried dill weed
1/2 tsp. paprika
lemon juice
salt and pepper

Begin by removing the stems and an inch or so of the central vein of each grape leaf with a pair of scissors. Rinse the leaves well in cool water, and then blanch in boiling water in batches of six for four minutes per batch. Drain the leaves and while they are still warm, carefully separate them and lay them out in a flat stack on a plate. Fry up the lamb (or burger) until it is nearly cooked, then add salt, pepper, paprika, dill and garlic and continue frying until the lamb is nicely browned. Remove from the stove and add the cooked rice and olive oil. Stir together until evenly mixed.

Spread a thin layer of tomato sauce in the bottom of a casserole (I use a 13 x 9" glass one). Lay one of the grape leaves out on a plate, overlapping the base sections where the central vein was removed. Place approximately 1 Tbsp. of meat mixture near the base, fold the base up once, turn the sides of the grape leaf in, and then continue rolling to the tip. Place the roll in the casserole. Continue until all grape leaves have been rolled up. Now sprinkle the rolls with a lavish helping of lemon juice. Top with the remaining tomato sauce. Cover the casserole with foil and bake at 375° for an hour and a half.

Dolmas may be served cold for a summer treat or hot for an autumn dinner dish. A nice Chardonnay goes well with these delicious morsels.