Never, in our forty-year correspondence (OK, so it’s not forty years, but maybe if FEELS that way?), have we gone so long without communicating. Should the demolition of your apartment be such a trial? Should my evacuation from Nashville with children, a mere summer vacation, cause such a rift?
Apparently so. Imagine what would happen if, like, something actually significant ever happened to us. We must summon some Fortitude, woman!
My biggest problem (other than making sure Clif remembers not to slam on the brakes when he’s flying down the gravel-covered hills here) is bandwidth. To score some wi-fi, I have to go down to the library and sit on the porch. I’m sure, when the Monteagle Assembly was created 124 years ago, they built that porch so that their descendants could sit there, in a friendly little circle, with their computers in their laps, shopping for slipcovers and checking their email.
Sorry for not writing; I’ve been kind of distracted with the chores of daily life, and with the three-morning mosaic workshop that resulted in a gruesome blister from the tile clippers and a completed project that can only be called Homemade. I now see how crappy mosaic mirrors end up in people’s houses. I get it. I made one. It’s going to be hanging on the wall for the next fifty years, and NO I’m not going to show you a picture of it.
Our cottage here in Monteagle never fails to surprise me. The wildlife situation is a real peaks ‘n’ valleys deal. Peak: outside the kitchen window, a fambly of bluebirds has taken up residence in the bird house.
Bluebirds of Freaking Happiness, Kay. Feeding, I’m guessing, small baby bluebirds of happiness in there, with big fat green worms and papery moths. I sit and watch them like it’s a TV show, the world’s slowest Discovery Channel documentary.
Valley: This time, we arrive here, I set to making up beds, and I discover the slightest, merest hint that, possibly, a small Despereaux has been snoozing under my pillow at some point in during the winter. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEOWKS! JEEZUMS! At this point I have now laundered every iota of bedding in the house, and I may wash it all again. Hell, I’m getting a kettle and boiling it all. I’m throwing it away. I’m moving.
That Tweedy Blanket
I keep staying up late, after the fellas finally konk out, adding squares to the tweedy mitered blanket. I started this thing just to experiment with the tweedy stash, but at this point the experimenting needs to STOP and the order needs to appear. It’s true: too much choice is a bad thing. Willynilly will not carry the day when you’re working on a 64-square blanket.
To get a handle on this thing, I took inspiration from Cara’s fancypants layouts of her green log cabin square blanket, but I’m not exactly as high tech as she is:
This plan gives me hope that someday, I’ll have a blanket. Randomness is one thing, but if you get too much wabi in your sabi, it’s just a mess. I’m pretty sure that some squares are going to get voted off the island, but I’m going to crank a while longer to see which ones really stick out.
I do love these yarns, and it’s a great project for late-night knitting when you’re sitting and wondering if that scratchy sound is a branch against the window or VERMIN INHABITING YOUR HOUSE.
PS I’ll leave you with a photo I took at 50 miles an hour as we drove down highway 89A a few weeks ago, on the way from Flagstaff to Sedona. I just read about the forest fires that are threatening this beautiful Oak Creek Canyon, and it gives me a pang. Fires are a part of nature, but it’s rugged when you see it all go up in flames.