Day's End

There's nothing like being busy all day long, from sunrise to sunset.

Kind of makes you feel like a homesteader --

Okay, not a homesteader, that would be an exaggeration that the ghosts of homesteaders would haunt me for. Nevertheless, I was busy today from before the sun rose until ... well, it's well after dark and I'm not done yet.

A simple enough start: I got up, dressed, and said my morning prayers. I took care of the livestock, receiving grateful doggie kisses in return. I fed myself, sat in the morning sun with Bernie for about ten blissful minutes, and then set to the hard task of the day: calling our homeowner's insurance.

Saturday's torrential downpour for some unknown reason caused a leak in the garage ceiling in a number of places -- a freakout disaster for me because that's where my studio is. Fortunately, the leak did not touch any of my canvases or papers or pastels, and Bernie was clever enough to get a bucket under the worst leak before it soaked the rugs.

Indeed, the insurance people were very helpful. I told AAA that I had never had to call them before, and what should I do? They had a plan in seconds (wow, almost like they do this as a business) and investigators and more investigators would be here by suppertime to investigate all the wet bits and possible causes.

Then it was getting the Piker Press up and running for the week. The major obstacle was trying -- after three years of not doing it -- to get a Fever Dreams cartoon to upload properly. That, and the omnipresent laundry cycle, took until it was time for a quick lunch, then ...

The neighborhood erupted like a bunch of ants. The man across the street had some lumber for us (for kindling, or whatever) and some pavers, which we did need for a project, and then the neighbor next to him was trying to unload landscape blocks (which are damned expensive) and did we want them (hell, yes, a savings of about a hundred dollars. Haul, stack, haul, stack.

The insurance dudes arrived. Lots of explanation and chat, photos, photos, then the next round of insurance dudes, lots of paperwork, more explanation and chat, finally done, time to return to the laundry room to fold two bigass loads of clothes and stuff, shift the next two batches.

So good to see the sun go down, and find my chair and my laptop and finally relax.

The Classical Tale of the Season to Come

Sunset light caught the tender reddish leaves sprouting  on the pomegranate tree, lovely against the mostly cloudy sky and the remains of the ornamental pear blossoms in the background.

This is a light only seen when the weather is unsettled; the sun is gentler, the sky softer. The leaves are a color only seen in spring, before the photosynthesis machine hits high gear, and green -- thick, tough green -- becomes the color of the day.

My son-in-law and I ran out onto the porch this afternoon to watch the heavens open up and a deluge of rain pour down, in one of the heaviest storms we've seen this year. We couldn't even go to the edge of the porch without being soaked; water was standing three inches deep on the south side of the house. I'd been out in the studio in the garage, working away at a sketch, and heard the sound of the weather change from pattering rain to a roar -- I think I have to run and see what new entertainment has been provided, and so I raced through the house to the front door so that I could see it without getting completely soaked.

It's Spring, and everything from the constellations to the atmosphere, the trees' branches to the tiny weed seeds in the soaked earth are telling us a story.

After every Winter, it's a story that I love to hear, over and over again.

A Finchable Day

Ha, ha, the weather report was wrong!

Instead of overcast and showers, we had blue sky and poofy white clouds, and the occasional dark bluish cloud, and a sprinkle, and even a tiny hail shower... but it was mostly sunshine, and much warmer than they said it would be.

Some American goldfinches stopped by the feeder, an additional treat for the eye. It was hard to get a good shot of them, because they are much more shy than the littler lesser goldfinches (those greedy thugs!) and they kept a close eye on where I was with the camera.

I don't want to spook them; I'd like to see them more than once or twice a year.

So the sun was very welcome, but so was the rain over the weekend -- between the sogginess and the high winds, nearly all the blossoms were blown off my neighbor's ornamental pear. This is good because the blossoms, shining white, smell like rotten meat. Every year I eye my garbage can with disgust, and then realize that although the can is no Pampered Chef vessel, it also doesn't smell THAT bad!

Sunshine, finches ... I think Spring is off to a good start.

Oh, Did You Really Think It Wouldn't?

We have PG&E for our electric power. That's "Pacific Gas and Electric" for those not in the acronym know.

The people across the street, in a subdivision built some five years later than ours, have Modesto Irrigation District as their power suppliers.

That's the stage. Yesterday, after viewing the weather forecast and the weather alerts, I patrolled the yards and made sure we were wind-safe (high winds being predicted) and considered making copious amounts of braised chicken in case the power went out.

We backed out of the chicken cookup; surely the power wouldn't go out again so soon, as we'd spent a dark evening just a couple days ago when the power went out during a moderate rain.

The lasagna Bernie had put in the oven had another 30 minutes to go when we lost power today.

Now, there was enough heat in the oven to bake the creation through, and we had a lovely lasagna lunch in spite of the lack of power, but still. This is 2011 and it was just a spring rainstorm, and the wind advisory had long since expired. And yes, the people across the street still had power, as they always do when we are in the dark.

PG&E ... not entirely worthless, but not to be counted on. I knew that. I should have made chicken the day before.

Nevertheless, it bears mentioning that when the power was out the other evening, we lit a couple candles and hung out in the kitchen where the wood stove kept everything nice and warm, and there being no TV or computers, Bernie and I just sat and talked over glasses of wine. Frankly, I was glad for the outage. Perhaps PG&E should schedule its screw-ups for the evening hours all the time.

Even the Sky Weeps

I remember falling in love with him when his parents walked along with us at the Arts Festival, and he kept up with us by means of doing continuous cartwheels, a big smile on his little face. He might have been six.

I remember his admiring look and him saying "Wow" when I took him and his brother to the swimming pool with me, after I'd appeared in my bikini, ready to leave the house. Was he twelve already?

I remember overhearing him asking his brother if maybe their father and mother would remarry each other, and his older brother telling him gruffly, "No, they're never getting back together, so just stop it." They were nine and twelve, I think.

He learned to play a number of musical instruments well, but especially loved the French horn, and was good enough to play with a symphony orchestra, though by that time he was already a stranger to me, due to the contentious drama of the family.

Oh, well.

In time, my Christianity and especially my Catholic way of life were too much to surmount. No amount of love and good will, or good memories of childhood were enough to allow him to reach back through the steel doors of liberalism and re-touch the relationship.

For a short while, a few years ago, he sent bloglike emails to his entire mailing list, regaling his contacts with his celebration of ostentatious promiscuity and how he loved the gay community in Denver. He went through one love of his life after another, one party after another, one bar after another. I think everyone in his family just wished he would settle down and be happy. And then the emails stopped. Completely.

The rain that has poured down all day today echoes my emotions; my eyes have been burning all day, as though they were crying a little constantly -- not enough for falling tears, but enough to hurt. Sleepily I woke this morning to the cloudy skies, taking stock of what would be on the agenda for today, then feeling a great weight to the heart as I remembered the evening before.

Yesterday, I heard about it for the first time. My youngest nephew is HIV+.

Maters!

Here are the ladies!

The big plants in the middle are Early Girl tomatoes, and to either side are Shady Lady variety. Both are exquisite in taste, and one of the buds on the southernmost Early Girl has already opened. The half-whiskey barrel planter in which they reside has been raised about a foot and a half, so that when they cascade, they won't lie on the ground ... much.

I'm looking forward to tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes this year. I wonder, do these plants know that they are my pets?

The Fat Sparrow

This fat English sparrow has been a point of interest for us for about two weeks. He is undoubtedly the fattest sparrow we've ever seen; while he dines on the back patio, it's hard to see if he even has feet.

He's a solitary little soul, for the most part; he spends his day hopping around the garden eating grass seeds (when he's exhausted the birdseed on the patio) and sitting by himself on the fence or in the lemon tree. He's never far from the source of food.

Flying seems to be a major effort for him, though, which isn't surprising considering he's ball-shaped rather than bird shaped. My son-in-law and I watched him take off the other day from the feeding spot on the patio -- he really had to work at getting the altitude he needed to make the top of the fence.

Saturday I got up before sunrise, and in the low light saw the fat little fellow sitting amidst the seed-hulls of the previous day's feeding. He was so still that I thought he was dead. I watched him for while, and by and by he shook himself a little and hopped off to the side to check for any stray seeds that might have fallen into the cracks between the stones. 

Is he sick? Or is he just old, and nearing the end of his life? The two are not the same, not really. One is a malady, the other a normal thing. I don't see other sparrows attacking him, so I don't think he's ill, per se, but he is on his own. He doesn't squeak plaintively, calling for company, so I assume he's not in distress. 

He reminds me of me, a bit. Like him, I rather prefer not to be in flocks or crowds; I like my food and drink to be near at hand; I'm definitely slowing down. And, I have to admit, like him, I'm starting to look a bit scruffy. 

In the Gospel of Luke, it says:

Are not five sparrows sold for two small coins? Yet not one of them has escaped the notice of God. Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows.

I have to think that God cares about us as much as I worry about this fat sparrow, hoping that he'll reach the end of his birdie days peacefully, or at least with a good purpose. (He does seem a likely candidate for helping the neighborhood hawk feed her children.)

In the mean time, we make sure there is plenty of food out there for him and the white-crowned sparrows preparing for their migration north, and try to pay attention to the little things in life, as God does.

 I was able to snap a photo of him as he conversed with another male English sparrow later. Perhaps it's a nephew, or even a son. His unkempt looks contrast with the left-most fellow's sleekness.

"Kid, fly as far and fast as you can -- while you can. And keep this place in mind for the lunch counter when you get old."

 He's right. This is definitely the place.

Horse Day

It was a horse day.

After the last two (too) strenuous rides past bee-boxes and stings, I opted to spend some quality time with Lord Duquesne in the arena rather than take him out on the orchard roads.

Before I groomed and saddled him, however, I turned him loose in the arena, so that if he felt like bucking and carrying on like a wild ass of the desert, he could do so without jarring my spine. He trotted back and forth with his tail in the air (a sign that he was feeling full of his senior self) and touched noses with the two little goats who recently arrived at the ranch.

Then I curried and curried and curried and left waffle-shaped wads of hair all over the saddling area. Currying, if you don't know the term, involves running a rubber scrubbing tool over the horse's coat in small circles, trying to keep more or less in the direction of the horse's hair. It loosens a lot of dirt and dandruff and loose hair, bringing it to the surface so that the next step, brushing, can sweep the junk off and leave the horse looking shiny and clean.

Then it was time for the arena, and some basic communication reboots. Turns with a direct rein, turns with a lifted rein, turns with an indirect rein. Left, and then to the right. Walk, stop, walk, stop. Walk, stop, move hindquarters but keep the forequarters still as possible. Turn on the hindquarters, keeping them as still as possible while the forequarters make the circle. Right, left. Back up, try to make that a straight move, not weaving from side to side. Work on walking so close to the fence that the stirrup bonks against it. Walk sideways, right, left. More backing up. More turns, both directions.

"Give me your head." This is a tough one for a high-headed horse like Dink. We stood, and I gently, gently, suggested with the reins and the bit that he tuck his chin in towards his chest. When he did it, I shouted, "Good boy!" and let him stretch his neck down to relax.

After almost thirty minutes, my thighs were tired from all the strong but subtle cues I'd had to give him. This was not about yanking reins and kicking the horse's sides. Ideally, if you were watching from the side of the arena, you wouldn't be able to see the cues, they'd be so unobtrusive.

We're not that good, by any means.

But we're good enough to open gates without me having to dismount; we're good enough that if my hat blows off in the wind, I can lift it up from the ground with my whip (which is NOT EVER for whacking Dink); and we're good enough that when we were all done, and I was brushing his sweaty hide, Dink reached around with his head and gently draped it over my shoulder, a horsey hug. He knew he did well.

Oh, clever horse!

A Sky That Blue

What an intoxicating day!

After the gloom of January, and the nasty cold spots and heavy rains of February, today was simply heavenly. It was so warm that I draped a halter-style shirt over my chubby frame and lay on the cement deck by the pool and pulled tiny weeds out from around my California poppies; slathered with sunblock, soaking in the heat of the sun, I could almost imagine swinging a foot over and dipping it in the water.

But no, that water's still as cold as Sierra snowpack runoff.

For over an hour I lounged, picking weeds while Bernie made magic with his grill: chicken wings and burgers. The sky was that blue, as the little finch could attest.

Earlier in the day, we picked up a 44-lb bag of dog food at the feed store, and saw about 200 baby chickens, Rhode Island Reds, Leghorns, Barred Rock, and Black Australorp, all peeping at deafening levels, all so heavily laden with cuteness that I wanted to take a dozen home with me.

And later in the day, we sat in the garage and watched the kids playing, listened to the mockingbirds making nesting noises, and watched the sun go down.

Now that's what I call entertainment.

Spring Cleaning

 The rain that washed our neighbor's ornamental plum tree didn't diminish its blossoms at all.

Indeed, the rain and the mild overnight temperatures conspired to make me more ambitious than usual, and I decided to delve more deeply into areas of my life that I have long neglected.

Far from psychological in nature, these areas are in my closet and my bathroom vanity, and I would rather go to a lengthy and soul-searching Confession in church than face my negligence and laziness to be exposed in those easily-forgotten ... landfills.

While the wind advisory played itself out, and the intermittent showers dampened the landscape once again, I got down on all fours with a pair of reading glasses on my nose and a trashbag close at hand. Gingerly, I reached into the vanity cupboard and pulled out a basket with assorted ... stuff in it, two cans of shaving gel, one lotion bottle, a discolored container of aloe vera gel, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a box of tissues.

Some of that I kept.

The rest was a conglomerate of out-of-date junk (imagine, a tube of toothpaste with an expiration date of 2007!) and stuff I had long forgotten I had. You know those pads you can stick on sore muscles for pain relief? They go out of code, too. And wart remover, and calcium pills big enough to choke a horse, and goodness, that's where that tube of sunblock went three years ago!

The obvious dead stuff entombed in the trash bag, I was free to sort through the basket, and found enough dental floss and gum strengthening sticks to last us another five to ten years, courtesy of our dentist's penchant for loading up goody bags with cheap toothbrushes and stuff every time each of us had a visit. (No wonder he charged so much!)

With everything out of the cabinet, I was able to clean up the dust and what is that? -- spider droppings??? Yuchhhh!

All tidied up, now. I have to say that if I were to peek in some acquaintance's vanity and see such order, I'd probably think that they had some kind of compulsive "neat-nut" problem going on. Yet I will remain satisfied
with my exertions today (I think I've gone back to view the final result at least six times just to marvel at the difference) and accept the suddenly sunny and poofy-cloud-filled afternoon as a kind of reward.

Here's to Spring!

Another Season

Another year, another batch of almond blossoms.

This happens every Spring, and some would be so inured to the occasion as to say "Yadda, yadda, yadda," which would be really a rude thing to say to such magnificence.

True that all of the blossoms have five petals, and most of them have a center that is pinkish; some are whiter and some are pinker than others in the petals themselves. But that doesn't make them Oh, sniff, it's that season again.

The play of light and shadow on a sunny day -- that differs every year; the branches grow, and who knows how many buds will open on a branch, and will they face into the sun, or away?

I walk through orchards, and look at the blossoms and am just blown away by their beauty, their individual tenderness. That one petal, near the right of center and below, with the shadows playing across it -- how can I not feel joy at the exquisite feast for my eyes, for the unique masterpiece of Life it portrays? I capture it on camera, and can call it to mind even when the winter is so dim and cold and achy that it seems that light and warmth and comfort will never come again.

That's why we should look at people's faces, too, you know. They have seasons, too. Their seasons aren't so regular, of course, but sometimes, if you're watching, they bloom, and the blossoming is so beautiful that you want to take them home with you and feed them lunch, memorize the loveliness and hold it in your heart forever.

The season of blossom is worthy of remembrance, because it is also a symbol of hope.

Spring Needs a Few Tweaks

Wait. This was supposed to be the week of the height of the almond blossom bloom. It wasn't supposed to be COLD and rainy. This week should be balmy, and fragrant with almond blossom perfume.

And didn't Alex's book on gardening say that the last frost date for this area is mid-January? And didn't I already have my tomatoes in the ground by the end of February last year?

Alex covered all the frost-tender plants last night, and we'll have to have them covered tonight, too. The storm blew furiously through the area rapidly yesterday, drops of rain dancing four inches off the sidewalk towards the end. The cold temperatures didn't materialize during the rain, so we didn't get the predicted snow, not here.

It looks like we're going to have to get another 1/4 cord of wood on Monday; most years we've used 1  1/2 cords to heat for the winter, but this year, we had to use wood early in the season as well as late, bringing us up to over 1 3/4 cords we've bought.

The cold weather that has dithered around has moderated the blossoms, too; on January 20th I saw my first open almond blossom, and fretted that the bloom was coming too early, but the chill and rainy weather has delayed things somewhat.

Somewhat? Somewhat? Who am I kidding? I hate being cold this late in the year! This is irresponsible, and I'm going to sue the jet stream for cramping my style, or throwing me off my groove, or for mental and physical cruelty! I demand highs in the 60's, or recompense in the form of free long johns!

Damned If You Do ...

I've been watching the BBC and Aljazeera a lot since the first days of the demonstrations in Egypt.

I thought Tunisia was a fluke; surely such demonstrations would not affect neighboring countries. As the crowds grew in Cairo, I was astonished, then fascinated, then amazed. I sincerely hope that the Egyptians are able to form a new government that takes into account the desires and needs of its people.

Like many, then, I wondered if people in other countries would realize how strong they could be if they simply pulled together and said, "This must change." Yeah, right. Like that could happen in Iran, or Syria, or Libya.

Now Libyans are trying for something similar, or at least they were; Muammar Gaddafi's response was to treat the demonstrations as a civil war, and shed so much blood that war is what it seems to have become.

In spite of my best wishes for the people who are trying to change their lives for the better, I have been struck by the difference in the Egyptian protesters' interviews and those in Libya. Protesters in Egypt spoke of their pride in their people for making a stand, for enduring the hardship of the protest, for being willing to make it clear that they wanted change. However, for the last three days, I've been listening to Libyans bitterly complaining about the US not storming in with a military presence to stop the government's bloody reaction.

What if we had? Why, simply this: Gaddafi would have seen an invasion of his country by foreign dogs as something that justified all-out retaliation. Out-gunned? Yes. Out-manned? Yes. Willing to refrain from using biological warfare? NO. Had we gone in, the people would have borne the horrific wrath of a madman. We would have been branded as the fools and criminals who brought Hell to the land.

And having not forged in, waving flags and automatic weapons, now we're "weak" and "heartless" and "hoping that Gaddafi wins."

I sat on the patio yesterday, watching the breeze and the sunlight in the eucalyptus, wishing that all strife could be resolved peacefully, and very, very glad that I live where I do. Truly a blessed place. But I could not help but wonder that if we, as a nation, had stayed the hell out of Iraq, that by now, Iraqis might have taken to their streets, and of themselves, changed the regime to one that suited them better.

3/4 of February

The rain stopped some time last night.

I watched the puddle on the brick patio outside our bedroom window grow into a small lake yesterday; the north side yard was under an inch of water. The fish pond out front filled to the brim ... but the rain was such a cold one that Lil and the dogs couldn't go out and play in the gutters by the street, nor could I open the garage door and watch the rain from my studio.

The rain has thrown me off track. My heart says I should be out worshiping God in his creation of the almond blossoms at this time of year, but my aging old body and the rain tell me to stay inside where it's warm, and thank God for the steady gentle heat of the woodstove.

Tomorrow my plan is to work on the remaining bits of the Press in the morning, and then after the day warms, I want to go ride Dink and see the sunlight on the white and pink blossoms, and revel in their scent. I intend to pack my camera in the car, and when the ride is done, take some pictures of the blossoms out there. Even though I've had Dink at the Spurgeon's ranch for many years, I've never taken pictures of the blossoms of the trees in their neighboring orchards.

In fact I might try to pack my camera in one of the voluminous pockets of my cotton jacket, and see what kind of photos can be taken from the back of a good horse.

Surprise!

It was a dark and stormy day.

With a coat and umbrella, I walked to the mailbox to retrieve the last three days' mail, which had been jammed nearly solid by the mailman.

Let me aside that I have little sympathy for crowded mailboxes. We could reduce the carbon footprint of this country by 20% if we just stopped sending newsprint junk mail. I've talked to the P. O. about this stuff, and they say there's nothing they can do about it, which is horseshit. So if not checking my mail for three days causes a problem with the Postal Service, too damn bad.

Nevertheless, when I arrived back at the house and dumped the grocery-bag's worth of stuff that had decompressed from the little mailbox, and sorted through it, lo and behold, there was an unexpected treat: a royalty check from Lulu.

Now that can brighten up a day like this in one second flat.

The Storm Before the Calm

 Amid swelling buds

a finch perches in the rain

waiting for his food

This poor lesser goldfinch looked absolutely miserable in the steady cold rain today. There was not enough food in the finch sock for more than two or three finches at a time, so they had to take turns. However, I bought a big bag of seed today, so tomorrow they can glut themselves.

At this point I suspect that the almond farmers with early-bearing trees are sweating it a bit. The bloom isn't FULL on yet, but we're not done with the rain for a few days, if the weather service is right.

On the other hand, the weather service is rarely right, so perhaps all will be fine.

And back on the first hand, the weather service was calling for snow flurries today, and though we didn't get any here on the floor of the Valley, the mountains to the west are white-topped, as we saw when the rain clouds finally lifted enough to disclose a horizon. In fact, the 10-day forecast places two days of snow showers right on top of the Ripon Almond Blossom Festival.

Hahahahahaha! Like that's gonna happen.

In the mean time, while the weather service predicts doom and gloom and ice crystals, this little creature visited our pool:

A Pacific tree frog! He is tiny, (about the size of my last thumb joint) and every time we'd try to sneak up on him to take a picture, he'd dive for the bottom of the pool. So I had to shoot from our bedroom window, and couldn't get a good close-up.

In spite of the cold and the rain, he knows it is Spring. We heard coyotes singing on Tuesday night; I'm longing to hear this little fellow joining the nightly chorus.

Dogs in the River

I don't take a camera when we know dogs are going into the river.

Today is the last warm day we'll have for a while; rainy, blustery weather is on its way again, for a little while. We went and hauled another load of wood with our cars yesterday, and that will not only get us through next week's chill but should also last us until next fall. However, with the impending chilly low fronts headed toward us, I knew that today was a day for Howie to have a bath. And what is the point of bathing a dog who is only a little in need of the bath? How much better to have to bathe a dog who has been in the river mud and REALLY needs a bath!

The Stanislaus River is low right now -- the Sierra snowpack that feeds it isn't ready for a big melt yet. The result is a large sand bar exposed down by the river park. Good place for dogs to play ... and apparently, a good place for families, too. There were a couple dozen people there, with lawn chairs and sunblock and picnic foods, sitting in the warmish air (65 degrees) and letting their kids wade in the shallow shelf off the beach.

Fortunately, they were all on the eastern end of the beach, which left the western end for two dogs thrilled to be allowed in the water. Howie, upon learning that he was allowed in, waded into the water and lay down in it, something he has loved all his life. Now, I understand that behavior when it is really hot, but when the water is icy and the day is barely warm?

They chased sticks and brought them back; they stuck their heads underwater and found water-logged sticks to bring to shore. They leaped and splashed and plunged into the deeper river channel and had to swim against the current to get back to us, and then charged back into the icy water a zillion times more.

We had dog towels ready back at the car, and dog shampoo waiting for our return to the house. Sebastian willingly got in the shower with his Daddy, loving a continuation of water games, but Howie had to endure a long bath outside where there's a nozzle with a strong flow, due to his dirt-trapping undercoat. For him, we hooked up a hose to the kitchen sink so he could have a warm rinse.

No surprise that both dogs are snugged in already for the night, Sebastian in his Muvver's bed (I hope she doesn't mind damp sheets) and Howie on the love seat in the living room with a blanket over him. (I went to pet him a few minutes ago and found him shivering, my poor lamb. I'll give him some warm broth and rice with his food tonight.)

And then it's back to Winter for a week.

Sewing A Little

The weather has been pretty fine here. So fine that I've been opening up my studio (that is, I raise the garage door) to the air in the afternoons.

On Wednesday, I "worked" in the studio all afternoon. That is to say, I collected most of the detritus that always ends up in my studio. I think it's because I like my work spaces to be clear of "stuff" that the open floor is a magnet for bags of recyclables, toys, lumber, fans, heaters ... Anyway, I put stuff away or threw stuff out and took the recyclables to the recycling center. Bernie ran the vacuum for me out there, and voila -- an enticing place to inhabit.

Thus, yesterday I was able to haul out my sewing machine and finish five (small) sewing projects: hemming three pairs of Lil's pants and mending some rips in pajamas. In addition, I did the last machine seams on my ottoman project, shown there in blue denim. The final sewing (on the opposite side) will be by hand as soon as I get some nice blue thread.

The sewing machine I have isn't a very good one, I'm afraid. It's adequate to my needs these days, I suppose.

My mother worked in a "shirt factory" while I was in grade school. She had some bodacious sewing skills. I used to love going to Selinsgrove, an exotic hour away from our town, to visit a discount fabric store. Most of what we picked out was under three dollars a yard -- for the good stuff -- and oh, the bliss of finding fabric for a dollar a yard or less! Mom made me gorgeous skirts with matching jackets; I made myself simple dresses for school under her tutelage. She encouraged me to buy cheap fabric and make funky seventies clothes. We worked together on my prom dress -- I did the tedious hand sewing of a bazillion tiny fabric loops for the button back -- a gorgeous yellow satin, full skirted creation with a lacy-filmy over-jacket (there is a name for that sort of thing, but after nearly 40 years I've forgotten what it is) that was absolutely beautiful and unique.

In 1988 I stopped sewing pretty much completely for ten years. By then, alas, I'd forgotten much of what I'd known, and hadn't kept up with the technology. I made an upholstery cover for a window seat in 1997 and then somewhen along the line, my old sewing machine died.

I bought the current machine to do just what I did yesterday -- little stuff. For now, that's enough.

Stumbling Through the Super Bowl

Everyone knows that the Steelers lost.

How disappointing it was, and yet, I have to admit, Green Bay just plain old outplayed Pittsburgh. Packers' quarterback Aaron Rodgers looked just about flawless, and the Steelers' QB Ben "Trap 'Em in the Bathroom" Rothlisberger played like he was hung over or didn't sleep the night before.

I thought that Randle El was underutilized.

Bah.

Packers' offense seemed to know how to keep Troy Polamalu  out of the picture, and I think that's what gave them the win. Probably every coach in the NFL will be studying this game to see how to neutralize Polamalu's stunning speed in the future.

We had a houseful of guests (which I always love) and none of them was cruel enough to gloat about Green Bay's victory. They all knew I'm a Steeler fan ... how could they not, when I was wearing a Steelers t-shirt?

Ah, next season ...

Maybe next season someone else will have an HDTV and we won't be the hosts. Lord, there was a lot of food left over.

Something New Emerges

This will be the very first Spring Bernie and I will have been able to spend together.

We met in September of 1974, briefly, and went on growing closer, engaged in December of that year, and married the following April. But in order to get married, he had to find employment, and we were in Pennsylvania, where spring comes in late late April if they're lucky, and May usually. So by the time Spring rolled around that year, he was working.

We've often wished we could have been little kids together, to have time to just play. We would have only gone home for meals and sleep. I would have got him in trouble, getting muddy and wet in the creek, and he would have led bike hikes as far as we could ride.

Now, things have changed. He and I are not separated by jobs, or three hours of road travel (we grew up far apart in PA).  Instead, we go to bed at approximately the same time, and get up at approximately the same time. We go to the grocery store together, to the bank, to the office supply, to the library. We'll ride bikes together soon (after the bees settle down to their pollinating job), and see first morning showings of new movies, irresponsibly having popcorn and Coke for breakfast.

Today we went down to the river again, after it had warmed up a little. I wore knee braces so that I wouldn't have to stay on the level, and we trekked off the main trail to a path that runs along the edge of the river, passing by a lovely sandy beach near a swamp where frogs will soon be singing songs of love.

No worries, no "We have to keep it short or you'll be too tired at work." No hurries, no "We have to go before eleven because you have to leave early because of the traffic."

We've been lovers for 36 years, we've been husband and wife; we've been partners and co-workers, mom and dad, Dziadzy and Gran ... and now we get our wish: to play all day long if we want, kids together at last.