Yarrow

Day 323: Common Yarrow (Achillea millefolium) can be a pest in the garden, and although it came to me in a "native wildflower" mix, this plant may be genetically distinct from our native species. Both native and non-native types are found in Washington. It comes in a wide variety of colours: white, yellow, orange and several intensities of pink. It is sometimes called Milfoil, but it is not related to the invasive aquatic weed. The misleading appellation derives from the similarity in appearance of the lacy foliage (have I mentioned how much I dislike common names?). It is sometimes used medicinally, however it is toxic to both cats and dogs. It self-seeds and establishes easily, but can be difficult to remove for that reason. As an ornamental, the white varieties leave a bit to be desired, at least in this writer's opinion.

Green Gold

Day 322: First frost missed me by a scant few miles and about 200' in elevation. For cryin' out loud! It's still August! It's way too early to be thinking about frosty nights! I don't recall that we've ever made it all the way through September without a frost, but neither do I remember it happening so close to me in what is historically our hottest month of the year. The occasion inspired me to prune back some of the kiwi foliage so that maximum sun will reach the berries, and in so doing, I discovered a few more on the east end of the tangle. Kiwis are vigorous (I repeat "vigorous") vines and need to be trimmed three times a year to obtain maximum yield. That said, "maximum yield" for me this year will be roughly 10 end-of-thumb sized fruits, as delicious as their large, furry cousins. Why so few? Cold nights persisted into late spring, and if that wasn't enough, they alternated every few days with temps at 90 or above. The poor vines didn't know if they were coming or going, and only produced a few blossoms.

Who, Me?

Day 321: Before you say it, I've heard all the horror stories...dryers, washing machines, microwaves, ovens...and I emphatically do NOT want to hear them again. Please keep them to yourselves. This activity is only allowed under strict supervision, and I monitor him every second when I'm loading wet clothes into the dryer to be sure there is no possibility of an accident. Don't ask me what the appeal is for being covered in wet laundry. I'm not a cat. I can understand wanting to burrow into all the soft, warm, mama-smelling things when the cycle is done, but wet? There's no accounting for cats. In any event, today was wash day, and as soon as I opened the dryer door, Merry came streaking in and leapt inside. I did feel compelled to advise, "That's not really a kitty place," but he just gave me the "Who, me?" stare.

Flip Book

Day 320: Remember those little flip books you had when you were in elementary school? This sequence reminds me of them. The sad, sad sack started yesterday afternoon in the middle of the living room floor. A streak of silver-grey lightning bolted out of the kitchen, into the fold, and kept right on going until the combination came up against the Turbo Scratcher. And the ball made the mistake of moving, whereupon it was attacked while still within the dark confines of the sack. A head appeared through a gap in the paper, eyes searching for the missing ball. As the poor ball passed under a hole in the sack, the sack's impeller spun free and landed on top of it, stopping any further motion. Then a real search began, hands groping, patting, burrowing, and the ball, now freed from the restricting weight, broke free again and shot into the open in a desperate attempt at escape. It was not to be. Half an hour later, ball, sack and cat were all pretty well worn out and silence once more ruled the living room, but the game was not forgotten. Before breakfast, it started up again, leaving the sack in much worse condition than it began. Never underestimate the amount of energy contained in a kitten.

Happy Faces

Day 319: Viola tricolor goes by a vast number of common names. I either call them Violas or Johnny-Jump-ups, but you might know them as Wild Pansy or Heart's-ease, or more rarely, Heart's Delight, Tickle-my-fancy, Come-and-cuddle-me, and Wikipedia suggests Jack-jump-up-and-kiss-me, three faces in a hood, love in idleness, or pink of my john. I can honestly say I've never heard any of the last four, but apparently "love in idleness" occurs several times in Shakespeare. In any event, they're a cute little flower, but in a tended flower bed, they can be a real nuisance. They reseed themselves with a vengeance, and although they're lovely en masse in the spring, the foliage goes brown as soon as hot weather arrives. I don't mind letting these johnnies jump up in my yard, but I desire no love in idleness or pink of anyone's john in my bed!

Still Life With Sourdough

Day 318: What one comestible would you be unwilling to forgo? I think I would give up coffee before I gave up homemade bread, and that's saying a lot. In the last fifty-plus years, I have probably purchased less than two dozen loaves of the commercial substance I refer to as "whipped air," and that only when I needed to make croutons for stuffing or possibly emergency sandwiches. The stuff sold in grocery stores is barely edible. True bread has substance and weight. It "sticks to your ribs," as my mother used to say. Since discovering how to make a high-hydration sourdough in a Dutch oven, it has been my go-to, with occasional detours for cinnamon swirl, bagels, a millet loaf I call "birdseed bread" or oatmeal-whole wheat. I feel white is too boring to bother with, although sometimes I'll make a sweeter egg bread. If I'm ever confined to a home or hospital where meals are prepared, I hope someone among my friends will smuggle in homemade bread.

Fall Migration

Day 317: Fall migration is under way, so if you're of a birding bent, be on the alert for migratory species, including an influx of some species you may see throughout the summer. Black-headed Grosbeaks (Pheucticus melanocephalus) are a common sight at my feeders from May to September with a few outliers at the extremes, but currently, they're here in droves, parents with youngsters in tow, the juveniles still at the begging stage. The young are fed by both parents, and indicate their desire for food by trembling their wings, raising their open beaks and slightly lowering their shoulders. It's fun to watch mom or dad trying to educate them into finding food for themselves by refusing the first few pleas while eating a little, as if to say, "Look, here it is. Just bend over and pick up a seed. I'm not going to do this forever." My yard has been full of young birds for several weeks now, from Mourning Doves to Goldfinches, Grosbeaks (both Black-headed and Evening), even the young Steller's Jays who will remain here through the winter. Yesterday, the family of Grey Jays stopped by for a snack. They'll be headed UP, not south, going back to the snowy alpine areas where they've cached food to carry them through the cold months.

First Figs

Day 316: Another horticultural success! I probably should have given them a few more days on the tree to reach peak sweetness, but I've had my mouth set for figs for weeks as I have watched these mature into plump fruit. There are still three or four more to come, but one of them doesn't look like it's swelling, and then there are two which came on later that I know won't fully develop before first frost. Nevertheless, I now have high hopes for future figginess from this tree since it seems to have reached the tipping point between "ornamental" and "bearing." My next project is to coax the Medlar tree into producing enough fruit for jelly. It's coming along nicely, and I doubt it will take as long as the fig to give me a crop.

Dove Line

Day 315: Although pigeons drive me nuts because they clean out my bird feeders in a matter of seconds, Mourning Doves (Zenaida macroura) don't inspire me to rush the window screaming profanity and waving my arms. In fact, I rather enjoy them. A few visit the seed trays, but for the most part, they're content to clean up what the other birds scatter on the ground. It's been twenty years or so since the first pair showed up in my yard. The following year brought a couple more, and then by the third year, I had a flock of eight. The population has grown somewhat since then, but even so, it has remained at a dozen or so, possibly limited by the availability of other natural forage. This morning's assembly reminded me of a Pixar short called "For the Birds." All it wants is for a clumsy owl to land in the middle of the chorus line.

Fairybells In Fruit

Day 314: My very own pet Prosartes hookeri, growing out under Big Doug, is fruiting, and I hope that means it will seed itself and fill in as I remove more and more of the Stinky Bob. I think my weeding efforts may have been what brought this native plant's seeds to the surface. In fact, Big Doug has two specimens of Fairybells growing at his base. The second did not produce berries, or if it did, they were consumed by critters unknown. Squirrels would be the most likely culprit, and the berries are edible by humans, although bland in taste. Perhaps my diligent program of squirrel relocation also played a role in these plants' occurrence in my yard.

Cross-Stitch Kit

Day 313: Ages ago, a senior friend who was downsizing her crafts stash invited me to take anything I thought I could use. Among the items I selected were several cross-stitch kits, which by now must surely qualify as "vintage," having come down through her hands so far back that she couldn't recall where or when she had purchased them. Most of us crafty types have a few of those hanging around in our closets and trunks, even me. Most of what I took from her has either been worked or passed on, but I had saved this one back "for special." It consists of twelve individual motifs of birds, most in nests or nesting boxes, with two in flight, and is worked on 18-count Aida. The pattern is printed in three colours: black, red and blue. It is very difficult to read in the original, so I had each motif enlarged. Even so, the detail is so fine that I occasionally miss a stitch and have to add it when I notice its absence, an oversight which may cause problems later on if I run short of a colour. That's why I seldom work on kits. The manufacturers seldom seem to take into account that each missed stitch will have a "tail" at either end, consuming more thread than they may have included. Nor do they allow for errors, but thankfully, I make very few of those, or catch them early enough that I can salvage the thread without too much wear on it as it is withdrawn from the canvas. At least with individual motifs, if I run short of a certain colour, I'll be able to substitute something I have on hand, although in this case, not all the threads can be approximated with DMC. A certain amount of thinking ahead is needed here.

Alpha

Day 312: Admitting defeat doesn't come easily to many of us, but eventually the truth of the matter becomes so painfully obvious that only a fool would persist in denying it. Today, I relinquished my alpha status with respect to the harpsichord, although I did insist on covering it with a thick and somewhat moth-eaten Pendleton blanket. My first attempt involved a quilt, and it didn't register with me that it had been stored in a trunk with a pennyroyal packet. The lingering scent of pennyroyal had the same (or even stronger) effect as catnip on my Wild Child who, at great peril to my skin, had to be stuffed in the Time-out Box until it wore off. Casting about for any other protection I could offer the wood, the Pendleton came to mind. It was also savagely attacked, although the novelty wore off after half an hour or so. However, a secondary problem arose, in that now paws could reach both a dangling Hoya vine and a framed needlework piece if he really stretched himself. The plant has been moved. The needlework may have to be. Little by little, I'm learning whothe real boss is around here.

All Dressed Up And...

Day 311: The farthest I've ever been outside the United States was Kamloops BC, and that was due to a navigational error on my husband's part. It created something of a dilemma because he was supposed to be at work the following morning, so we caught a few hours' sleep in the car and a quick breakfast in the aforementioned city at an hour when even the loggers were still snoozing. Then it was back to Seattle where no one really expected him to be on time for work anyway. Bruce lived in his own little world, but that's another story. As for the passport (my first), you might say I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go, but on the off chance that I might eventually be able to afford to fly back east to visit my sisters-of-the-heart, I have the required documentation. How many of you remember when Americans used to be appalled at the fact that in the Soviet Union a person could not travel out of their own area without carrying "papers" attesting to their identities? We were mind-boggled to think that individuals could not travel within their own country without meeting bureaucratic stipulations. What do we see now when we hold up the mirror? Am I likely to ever travel as far as Canada again? No. But at least I should be able to fly out of my home state unless things take a much more serious turn in November.

Cats, Definitely

Day 310: No dogs were in evidence, but it was definitely raining cats as Merry ricocheted off every available surface in the house with the possible exception of the ceiling, and I'm not quite sure he missed that. Our weather went from partly cloudy to pitch-black dark over the space of a quarter hour, followed by thunder, lightning and a cloudburst which dumped approximately three-quarters of an inch of rain in ten minutes' time. By the time it was done, over an inch had accumulated in the pluviometer. The rain fascinated Merry as it flowed in rivers down the windows, but the thunder and lightning terrified him. It was a new and altogether frightening experience for him, and he was sure it was something I was making happen. As he bounced off chairs, walls, forbidden surfaces, he would launch attacks on my leg in passing, biting if he could, or nearly taking me down with a flying tackle from behind. I managed to drop the Containment Blanket over him at one point, and held him in my arms with just his head sticking out as I spoke softly and comfortingly to him to calm him down. Even after the storm subsided, he was wound tight as a clock spring until bedtime arrived. Then, he dropped like a rock and slept straight through until 4 AM. We don't often get powerful storms here like this one, and I have to admit that had I not been intensely focused on trying to project a sense of security to my poor kitty, I might have been a little frightened myself.

Crocosmia In Orange

Day 309: Around on the far end of the garage where I only see it when I'm wandering around the yard looking for post-worthy botanical bits, an orange Crocosmia is struggling to survive. It came to me as seed, courtesy of my botany partners, and was the only one of several dozen which germinated. I am assuming that since it was grown from seed as opposed to a developed bulb, it's taking longer to establish than my old red "Lucifer." It has sent out a blossom spike annually for the last several years, but the plant itself, although healthy, is not spreading with the same vigor as the red variety. I'll probably regret saying this some day ("be careful what you wish for"), but I do hope it eventually takes off. It's such a lovely colour, and not one seen as commonly as red.

Mantel Cat

Day 308: Bastet/Bubastis/Bast was an Egyptian deity, often portrayed with a woman's body and a cat's head, but this reproduction of a museum piece shows her in full cat form. As a god, she can sit on the fireplace mantel if she damn well wants to, a privilege Merry is coming to understand does not apply to him. The problem is that although he's bigger than she is now, he's close to the same colour, and sometimes when I come around the corner with my weapon in hand (the spray bottle), I don't always recognize him when he's sitting in roughly the same pose. To date, I have not sprayed Bast without differentiating statue cat from live cat, but sometimes Merry, sitting very still, gets away with several minutes of forbidden mischief before my eyes sort him out.

A Matter Of Tasteless

Day 307: You've heard it said that some things are a matter of taste. In the case of Red-Flowering Currant fruits, I'd amend that to being a matter of tasteless. A certain friend will no doubt argue the point with me, but I find these purportedly edible berries to be insipid with an afternote which can only be described as "dusty." Consequently, I have never gathered enough of them to try making jam or muffins, unwilling to waste the effort on something I feel is beyond all help. It just goes to demonstrate a maxim I have often repeated: "edible" and "desirable as food" are two entirely different things. Cardboard is "edible," but you wouldn't want a serving of it on your dinner plate.

It's Cat Stitch!

Day 306: When my sister-of-the-heart Patty sent me a photo of the new crochet stitch she'd just discovered, I knew I had to have the pattern. It's called "cat stitch," for reasons which should be obvious if you look at it...dozens of cats, row upon row. It may well have another name and in fact, it's based in a simple shell stitch with conjoined double-crochets forming the legs over two previous rows. I also learned a new technique here which I'm surprised I'd never seen before: using "stacked singles" at the start of each row to make a faux double-crochet rather than chaining two on the turn. It makes for a much neater edge. This piece is just a sample using yarn from my stash (Caron "Simply Soft" with a 3.5mm hook). I'm going to run out of the rust after only a few repeats, so a purchase of cat-hued yarns may be in order. Old dogs may not be able to learn new tricks, but old cat ladies can.

Kissin' Cousins

Day 305: Observing Pennyroyal (Mentha pulegium, left) and Peppermint (Mentha x piperita, right), you would be correct in assuming that their similar characteristics meant they were related. However true that may be in this case, it is not always a safe assumption. As botanical research has entered a new phase with the advent of genetic testing and DNA sampling, we are finding that many species we thought were related based on shared morphology such as flower/leaf shape are actually not related at all, and in other cases, plants we thought were distinctly different species and sometimes even different genera are in fact close kin. This is all very exciting if you're a taxonomist, job security at the very least. For the rest of us, though, it's a major headache as we try to update our field guides with new nomenclature and attempt to readjust our aging brains to accept new names in replacement of the ones we've used for decades. Even the Peppermint shown above has not escaped revision. Once thought to be a distinct species (M. piperita), we now know that it is a hybrid of two or more "kissin' cousins," hence the "x" given as its middle name.

The Time-Out Box

Day 304: The sound of silence was deafening. I laid my book down and walked over to the kitchen door. "Off," I said. He was on the table and he knew he wasn't supposed to be there, because he got down immediately. I went back to reading. A few minutes later (less than a full paragraph), I heard a rattle of metal on porcelain. I put the book aside again, grabbed the spray bottle in passing. "Off!" I said, somewhat more emphatically, and reinforced it with a well-directed stream at the bottom which was just visible above the rim of the kitchen sink. It took another squirt to make my point, but he jumped out and to the floor. Once again, I picked up my book. I'm a fast reader, but I hadn't gotten through a sentence before another familiar sound got my attention. The spray bottle was right at hand. "OFF!" I said, and nailed him three times before he jumped down from the washing machine. He followed me into the living room and flopped on the floor to lick himself dry. Half a page later, he jumped up on the harpsichord, a serious no-no. "OFF!!!" I said. "OFF! OFF! OFF! You know you're not supposed to be up there!" He made himself flat as a sheet of typing paper in the hopes of becoming invisible. I gave him a firm shove, and he leapt across to his kitty perch. He didn't stay long, and although I thought he'd gone back out into the kitchen, the next noises came from the bedroom: the sound of picture frames being tipped over on the dresser. He tried to dart under the bed to escape, but I was quicker. "That's it. You've pushed one button too many, buster. You're going in the Time-Out Box until you promise to be good." Ten minutes later, I let him out, and before I could sit down with my book again, he'd occupied my chair and was already almost asleep. It takes a lot of patience to raise a kitten.

It's Showtime!

Day 303: It's showtime! Submissions for textiles in the Washington State Fair are to be delivered to the fairgrounds Friday through Sunday of the coming week. I have three entries: handwoven yardage (5 yards), an overshot coverlet, and handspun lace-weight bamboo yarn. I will not be attending the Fair this year due to covid concerns (once is enough, thank you), so if you go, look for them on the upper level of the Pavilion. Please don't spoil the surprise by telling me if any of them took a ribbon. The anticipation of finding out first-hand is almost as good as Christmas when I go to pick them up in late September.

Dorset-style Nosegay

Day 302: There is some debate among Dorset button aficionados as to whether nosegays, trees and other modern variations can truly be considered a "Dorset button." This one seems to be almost everyone's current favourite, and you'll see a lot of versions of it on the internet, but is it really a Dorset button? Obviously, it wasn't made in Dorset (I stitched it in my living room), so that's one count against it as far as the sticklers are concerned. Was it made in the era when handmade buttons were the only kind around? Again, obviously not. Is there a cut-off date for "genuine" Dorset button manufacture? Not to my knowledge. Nor does it even qualify as "vintage." The same type of debate rages over sashiko embroidery, but with even greater cultural implications. If a needleworker creates something using the same methods and materials, how can it not be called authentic? The problem here is that I am of two minds. I can see both sides of the argument. However, it is always best to err on the side of caution, and lest I give offence unwittingly, let me just say this button was made in a "modern Dorset" style.

Blueberry Harvest

Day 301: At its inception, the Berry Pen contained three blueberry bushes. Oddly, the native was the first one to bite the dust, and that after only producing two or three crops. A standard-size commercial cultivar lasted another two or three years, and then it too simply gave up the ghost. The survivor is a dwarf variety called "Jelly Bean," and what it lacks in quantity, it makes up for in diameter. The berries are just as sweet as the candy which gives it its name, and fresh off the bush, sun-warm and squishy, there's no better snack on a hot afternoon. I have to keep the bush netted in early season because the Juncos are overly fond of the nectar in the flowers  They snip them off right at the stem with their little scissors-like beaks! Strangely enough, they're not at all interested in the fruit.

International Cat Day

Day 300: When I went to bed last night, I had no idea that today would be International Cat Day. Had I known, I would have saved Merry's portrait for the occasion. I cannot let the day go unobserved, so instead, I am going to tell you an endearing story. Y'see, Merry is at the age where his permanent teeth are coming in. His little mouth hurts sometimes, and it makes him cranky and bitey. I'm not always attuned to what's going on because kittens have to have their "wild animal" moments as they strive to become civilized, but Merry is a smart little guy. Three times now, he has retrieved his toothbrush from the table, communicating to me that he wants his gums rubbed with the flat side of the bristles. This morning, he couldn't get enough of it, and even after I had applied his enzymatic kitty toothpaste, he wanted me to continue massaging with the brush. Our companion creatures are a lot more intelligent than most people give them credit for. He's only 18 weeks old, and he's already figured out how to get at least one point across to his rather dim-bulb mama. That merits celebrating on International Cat Day.

The Six Pound Portrait

Day 299: On June 10, Merry came home with me as a little bitty pocket cat weighing two pounds eleven ounces (I actually didn't weigh him until the following day). He was such a tiny, delicate thing, all turned over for ears, and with golden eyes just starting to show green around the irises. He's now just shy of six pounds, and his eyes have become much more green, the colour typical of adult Russian Blues. Average weight for an 18-week kitten according to Mr. Google should be about 4.1 pounds, but even at 6, he's rangy and lanky. In other words, he's going to be a moose when he grows up! I couldn't resist snapping this photo this morning. I have one of Tippy in almost the identical pose.

Just Poppy-ed Up!

Day 298: Look what just "poppy-ed" up in the Barren Wasteland! Last fall, a Parkie friend who is now at Olympic NP sent me a small bag of seed from the poppies she has growing along her hellstrip. I've admired them for years in the photos she posts, but I thought they were the traditional Flanders poppies, i.e., solid red. What a delightful surprise to find out that they are closer to vermilion, and that they have a white picotee edge! She sent them in the typical "pepper shaker" pods, which I crushed and broadcast in a prepared area where I know poppies do well. However, only a few of the seeds were viable, but the few which are now developing buds should be enough to re-seed themselves until they fill their dedicated space. Thank you, Lee and Pam!

Prioritizing

Day 297: When I lost Tippy in early June, I had to make a decision: did I want to sacrifice my summer to raising up a kitten who would require almost constant supervision? The answer came more easily than I imagined, since a house without a cat was simply too much to bear (at this point, I'm going to make it public - I'm a childless cat lady, and you know what that means). To date, the longest I've been away from home was three hours, during which time Merry had to be confined in his carrier to keep him from demolishing the house, and he expressed his opinion of his term in purdah by attacking my leg as soon as I let him out. The legs, you understand, are what takes his mama away. Slowly but surely, we're establishing house rules. "Off!" is a very difficult concept for a four-month old kitten, as is "That's not yours." Much patience is required on my part, obviously. That said, there were certain activities I could not do without, namely getting some form of exercise. We have finally come to the point that Merry will behave himself for twenty minutes unsupervised (well, if he's already worn out from playing) while I ride the exercise bike to keep myself in shape.

Diaspore

Day 296: From the time I was a very young kid, I enjoyed collecting rocks. My interest was piqued further when one day on my way to school, I picked up an egg-shaped lump and threw it against a handy boulder where it broke apart to reveal crystals and a radiating round white mass similar to the green ones shown here. At 8 or 9 years old, I was convinced I'd found a fossil mushroom and, to this day, I'm not sure what it really was, but it occupied a place of honour on my dresser alongside a geode, a 3-inch quartz crystal and a 1-inch diameter garnet as well as other less intriguing specimens. As an adult, I kept a mineral collection in various display cases, and I dabbled in cutting cabochons from agate and other semi-precious stones. During a dayhike, I happened to find this conglomerate lump in an unlikely location and rather than forget to pick it up on the way back, I tucked it into my pack and carted it around all day. On arriving home, I tried to identify the green mineral but was unable to determine much about it other than its hardness (near 7 on the Mohs scale). Years later, I asked a visiting geologist for his expert opinion. He was reluctant to commit without testing, so I allowed him to chip off a bit to take back to his lab. A few weeks later, the diagnosis came in: diaspore, an aluminum hydroxide oxide which occurs only very rarely in gemstone quality (obviously, this specimen is not gem grade). I was very grateful to finally have a label to put on it, and it remains one of the best finds of my rockhounding career.

The Entire Kiwi Crop

Day 295: There you have it, people: my entire crop of hardy kiwi fruit for the 2024 growing season, all three of them. I pruned the vines so very carefully last fall, opening up the tangle to allow for new growth, taking out the non-productive branches, doing it as "by the book" as I could manage. Theoretically, I should have been up to my eyeballs in fruit but for that wildly fluctuating spring weather, blistering hot one day, dipping close to freezing the next. It hit right as the vines were beginning to show the first inclination to bud. Only these few survived. The vines are too firmly established to move to a more protected location, but on the "up" side, they're dense enough to provide nice shade on the north side of the trellises.

The Basic Dorset Button

Day 294: I thought a revisit to Dorset buttons was in order for today so that I could show you a real one (as opposed to "needle-lace" style). Have I mentioned that I don't get out much these days, what with a little wild creature to tame, gas prices, hot weather, and a round of covid combining to keep me off the trails? I'm a bit desperate for material again, so bear with me. Anyway, the traditional and most basic Dorset button is made in this manner: using a single length of thread (4 meters here), a closely packed base of buttonhole stitch is applied over a ring (in this case, a 1" plastic curtain ring). The bumps around the outer edge are turned to the inside of the ring, and then using the same thread, a web of spokes is wound over it, progressing as if following the numbers on a clock. The number of spokes is up to the individual. When the spokes are complete, the center of the web will appear quite chaotic until a few cross-stitches are worked at the middle to separate them. Once the spokes have been isolated, the winding of the wheel begins. The thread is brought up from the back to the left of a spoke (assuming the worker is right-handed), then taken down through to the right of the same spoke. It is brought up again two spokes to the left (counting the spoke just wrapped). It is then taken down to the right of the leftmost spoke, creating a wrap around it. Again, bring the thread up two spokes to the left, and repeat around and around and around and around until the web of spokes is covered. I ran a bit short of thread before getting all the way out to the buttonholed ring, and because it's difficult to join a new thread seamlessly, I decided to let it stand as is. After all, this was just for a demonstration and, in fact, many old buttons were made this way without completely covering the spokes. With different ways to wind, many different patterns can be made over the spokes, even many which are not geometric, such as trees and nosegays.

Dorset Buttons

Day 293: Some years ago when my sister-of-the-heart Patty was here for a visit, I was dragging out various and sundry craft items to show her, one of which was hand-made greeting cards. I think I'd kinda overwhelmed her by then because she said laughingly, "Oh, and I suppose you made the paper, too!" I was reminded of a similar incident twenty years earlier, but I was compelled to answer honestly and somewhat sheepishly, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did."

Yesterday, I got a note from Patty asking if I'd ever heard of "Dorset buttons." After all, I am a fiberartist, and while I haven't dabbled in every single type of thread-craft, I've certainly hit quite a few of the less commonly seen ones. "Yep," I said. "Lemme see if I can find mine." It took less time than expected, and although Dorset buttons are usually (but not always) made over a ring instead of a button form, these fall within the broader definition. Technically, they would be further distinguished with the term "needle-lace buttons," and the method of working is similar to that used in hardanger to fill open areas, or on a larger scale, in making traditional "god's-eye" decorations. A framework of threads is laid down, and then a pattern is created on the web by wrapping it in a specified order. The designs shown here are "checkerboard leek" (blue, top left), "star leek" (blue, bottom) and "Victorian star" (lavender-grey, top right). All were made with #8 perle cotton on a 3/4" shankless form. Almost any stiff material can be used as a base: cardboard, plastic discs, even commercially made buttons. As a general rule, they were meant to be removed before laundering, and often had a second button sewn to the back side to fit into a matched pair of buttonholes in the garment in the same manner cufflinks are used. After sending Patty the photo, I started to wonder where my instructions were. It took longer to find the directions than it did to find the buttons!