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Wednesday, July 27, 2016

But, where do I vote?

My camera has not been out for a spin for so long, I threw it over my shoulder this morning. There could be one decent picture lurking in our drought out landscape.


One turkey vulture hanging over the salt shed. Far fewer take their morning roost here, since the two dead trees were removed, after they fell, one through the salt shed roof.

You may recall, the vultures lay eggs on flat roofs, like the school house roof, and leave them to hatch. Or, roll over the edge.

I had a turkey vulture morning.

There was a call on my machine,
"I used to vote right there in your schoolhouse, but I moved to Parma. Where do I vote now?"

Actually, I do a lot of public service stuff.

The caller now lives in a different county, and needs to register the new address with the Board of Elections of the county.

So, I looked up that county's Board of Elections before I returned the call.

"Now you live in Cuyahoga County. You must register your new address with them, and they will tell you where to vote."

"How do I do that?"

"You can call them. The phone number is ......"

"I'm driving. Can you text it to me?"

I keep reading the expression "facepalm moment.' I used it, and then texted the number on my personal cell phone. I could call it a turkey vulture moment, but facepalm has it covered without knowing about eggs rolling off the roof.


I paid the bill for the blocks to build a new material bin. The old wooden bins were collapsing and rotted to dust, thirty or forty years later.

Of course there was controversy when the new road super asked for authorization to buy these blocks. The iconoclasts at the decision table could not bear the thought of concrete replacing the wood.

The new road super brought in a quote for building two new wooden storage bins. It was, of course, twice the cost of the concrete blocks. The decision makers compromised; one bin this year, one next.

Not before they had a decision maker conversation on how to make them more attractive, including placing them at an angle to the building. Eventually the person of no authority said, peevishly, "It's a road department yard for crying out loud. It will never be pretty; let it be."

The discussion moved along to real topics, and today I paid the bill.


Leaving, I encountered these tourists with four kayaks.  
"Where is the river?"

I sent them back the way they came in.
How can you miss a river when you crossed it on a bridge?


In closing, a stand of black eyed Susan's that the winter salt in the parking lot has never decimated.
Hardy things, black eyed Susan's.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

Another four years begin...

Laura is in 9th grade this year, and off to band camp.



A little look at memory lane:
Emily, in 9th grade.
She goes to college in the fall.



Hamilton in 12th grade, the next year.
He's at Cuyahoga Community College.


Another four years begin...

Laura is in 9th grade this year, and off to band camp.



A little look at memory lane:
Emily, in 9th grade.
She goes to college in the fall.



Hamilton in 12th grade, the next year.
He's at Cuyahoga Community College.


Wednesday, July 20, 2016

A happy landing

I’ve been weaving for the last year or so, using up the dwindling supply of cottons we purchased fifteen or twenty years ago.  My search for new thread for weaving was futile. F.U.T.I.L.E.  In the old days we wove with mill ends from good factories. The thread available now is imported and expensive. If it were good thread I would consider using it, and raising my prices. But, everything I found resembled twine, prickly and scratchy as all get out.

The last two warps I put on were wonderful. An all white warp of 12/2; exquisite hand. Ran through my fingers like butter. The last warp was the last of the white, with red, orange and yellow stripes. It actually was sad to weave it; everything I put on the loom would be the last and would be gone before the year was out.

Then came to decision to sell the house, and when the contract was signed, the packing began. We had an auctioneer come through to take things. The loom did not register with him, and the sewing equipment was of no interest. “No one does this anymore!”

The Cleveland Institute of Art downsized its textile program a couple of years ago, and two young women, in collaboration with CIA, put all the looms and equipment back together in a warehouse on Cleveland’s east side. It is the Praxis Fiber Workshop; its director is Jessica Pinsky. Stop right now and explore the link. This is a wonderful undertaking. I wish there were a good photo of a third of a football field filled with three long rows of world class looms. Mind boggling!


Of course Jessica would be delighted to take my studio off my hands. So, one fine day the moving company I hired to do the job showed up, loaded it up (“One, two three, lift!”) and we took it to Cleveland.


A box or two of miscellaneous essentials.


The Siruba industrial serger. It weighs two or three hundred pounds. The movers "One, two three," lifted it and took it away.


Helyn!


Boxes of soft, soft cotton.


The last warp. It went to Cleveland just like this. I could not bring myself to throw another shuttle.


The yoga skirts from the last warp. Behind them, the white shirts from the next to last warp. 
My July sales sheet shows them gone. That's a good thing.