A great run

The question is answered. Will they never lose? But they have. The undefeated boys in blue suffered their first loss of the season last night. Marching band can take their uniforms to the dry cleaner and hang them up until the Memorial Day Parade.

Concert band has its first performance December 18th !

Mr. Yesberger's trees, redeux

When the golfing season seemed to end but the carts were still out

I stopped in the clubhouse again, but only saw "we can't have you taking pictures of trees."

So, I gave up the picture idea. They're just a bunch of tree trunks.

But the snow is such another opportunity in contrast

that I had my sister drop me on the Brandywine side, and pick me up after a trip around the block.

Hundreds of Canada geese. Like the King of France's men, they march up the hill and down again.

In the morning the open areas are a sea of brown backs.

At the corner of Truxell and Akron Cleveland Road, across the rough.

No picture yet does justice to the rows and rows of spruce,

so I'm probably through taking pictures of Mr. Yesberger's trees.

Back up Truxell, waiting for my ride.

My header pond, from another angle.

With apologies to American blackbirds

Dear Brigitta,

Last year I had an onslaught of black birds, the large, dark, starlings, grackles, cowbirds, at the end of the season. They raided and pillaged the feeders, throwing much of the seed to the ground in search of whatever they were searching for. 

At the feed store I learned darker birds prefer the richer, more oily seeds and nuts, and they avoid all the light colored seeds. We adopted a strategy of refilling the savaged feeders with safflower the next time and found the raiders would avoid us for a couple of weeks. 

I objected to the wanton waste of their actions, not the actual feeding of them. The ground crew, the doves, the cardinals and the squirrels feasted on the waste on the ground, but I didn't like the little birds, the cheeky little chickadees, the titmouses, needing to be on the ground, under the watchful eye of Purrl, who would not object to a tasty morsel.

I'm thinking the blackbird I saw yesterday may be the first I've observed at the feeder. He ate very politely from the block of cranberries and nuts, then had a go at a regular feeder. All the feeders are calibrated; any too heavy bird or adventurous squirrel closes the feeder. The blackbird was too heavy, and soon left. Given their intelligence I'm surprised he did not learn, as the starlings and grackles did, the system can be defeated by bouncing.

Last winter one squirrel learned to hang on to a tree branch by a thread, slide down the long black hook, reach over the lid of the feeder and snatch a fistful at a time. He got full marks for wit and no squirrel baffle was added to the cylinder feeders.

So, to the blackbird, who may well be the very one who wakes me every morning, I apologize. If you associate with any of those crazed grackles or starlings, you might mention that a raid on my feeders means everyone goes on short rations of safflower seed only for the next week.

Thanksgiving in the tree of birds

There are two more feeders for Emily and Laura to fill this year, and so many birds the tree seems alive with movement.

Today has been grey from start to end. I hoped to get pictures of my flying pigs enjoying the additions, and finally went out at three, for the last grey light. 

One of the new feeders, and probably a downy woodpecker. He had been boosted from the other new feeder.

The other new feeder, commandeered by an American crow. I bought it Wednesday morning, and in a fit of largess the girls picked out the fruit and nut block. It seemed the right thing to do, although it also attracts black birds. This is the first week we've put out "the good stuff," the black bird magnets. They have to eat too, just like the cardinals, I remind myself. Somehow the crow is more acceptable than starlings and cowbirds. A tufted titmouse above the crow's head is waiting.....

American gold finch. Just passing through; all those little white safflower seeds are too troublesome to extract from this feeder,

when it can reach right into this feeder.

"You talking about me?"

Not a great day for pictures; I gave it up rather sooner than later. But, not quite the end.

A final shot of my flying pigs, working on niger seed, keeping that village in Ethiopia funded for another year. 

Back to business

Back before I retired, when I began earning my living by weaving, I was barely middle aged, far more spry, fresh from a manufacturing plant where I knew the value of a costed bill of material. What I did not know about sourcing thread for weaving, however, probably filled a warehouse. Of course it was available from the well known shops of the time, neatly wound on one pound cones, and sold at retail.

Retail! Aarrgghh, as Lucy said. In manufacturing everything is purchased at some level of wholesale; you cannot purchase at retail to sell at retail. This was back in the eighties; there was no internet. I recall purchasing a Thomas Directory, and it was a bit helpful locating some suppliers. I was able to direct one of my competitors to a good source of mop cord, for instance. He wove place mats.

One good source of information was dumpster diving. Jan would stand guard and I would look through the trash behind a shop for return address labels on shipping cartons. Ah, the good old days. Another  source was the U-turn, going back to visit a place of interest. R&M Yarns, for instance. We saw their name emblazoned across their roof, from an interstate in Georgia, on the way to visit our niece.

Over time we built up our list of suppliers for each kind of cotton we used. The thread for the jacket that made up a third of our sales was the only thread we had produced at a mill. Our several hundred pound orders amused them, no doubt; it probably was the overage they held back from regular orders of a ton or so. I called it the jacket from hell; the most constructed garment we made, and I was not sorry to see the last of them leave the booth the last morning we were in business.

Most of our thread came from brokers who dealt in mill ends, the wonderful eclectic world of any kind of cotton thread you can imagine how to use. Mill ends come about when the spinner makes too much of an order, the dyer doesn't get the color right, the thread isn't wound properly—any number of reasons that cause the original customer to reject the lot and the manufacturer have a loss on his hands, to sell to the thread broker at close to cost, and start over.

We bought from two major thread brokers back then, one in Tennessee and one in North Carolina. I have found my Tennessee broker again, and I think the North Carolina broker flitted past my eyes on the internet, but I lost it before I could bookmark it, and haven’t found him again.

Never mind, I've found Sheldon! Spent his career in the New York garment district, retired to Tennessee, to a sort of bus man’s holiday. The first time I pulled into his Tennessee warehouse I actually drove past several times before I decided the very back road Tennessee accumulation of dilapidated metal sheds and garages actually were a warehouse. “The lady from Ohio is here,” I heard him say through my car radio as the slats on a blind across a trailer window parted and his eyes and ear with telephone were revealed.

“Hello, Sheldon, how are you?” I said enthusiastically, last week. “Older and uglier,” he responded, and we were back in business. An old mill in Boiling Springs, North Carolina, is his new warehouse. I told him what I was looking for and I could just see him moving from box to beautiful box of “the large shipment I just got in from…..,” describing the grist and the color.  No matter the order would be small. We both love the stuff.  

I ordered some denim blue flake and some yellow 10/3. I do hope it comes before the holiday; I have a full beam and am about to weave more towels.

The pressure is off

Taking Emily and Joe to inspection last night, there were groups of people at every drive and intersection along the long, long route to school. They jumped and cheered and waved homemade signs at passing autos, exhorting the team to victory and its fans to cheer loudly. The enthusiasm made me smile and wave back. There was no such joy from the rest of the car.

We passed police cars staged along the route. I remembered the newspaper said the team would be given a police escort the several miles from the school to the freeway. The band and team busses would not leave for another ninety minutes, but quite a crowd was assembling. I thought how nice the whole send off would be.

The game was televised on a very local television station and at half time Jan and I tuned in to watch the band perform. They are very good. The home team led by ten or fifteen points.

Toward the end of the third quarter I wandered by again and Jan spun the dial. The boys in blue and white were up by far more than twenty points. I called my son-in-law and simply said there was little chance of a loss, so we needed to discuss options. He asked for the inspection time Saturday and calculated what time they would leave Cincinnati to arrive on time.

The stony face that came through the door at midnight confirmed the probable victory. Miss Emily avoided me so completely I finally asked her to stand still while I delivered my news. She went to bed without a word, and I stifled a grin.

I had an email this morning from the chief band parents, explaining the great victory and providing a link to a written form to request absence from next Saturday’s game. It can be turned in only on Monday; any later and the absence would be unexcused. That did make me smile. I wonder how many will not perform.

These footballers are two victories from a divisional state championship. There’s a lot of skin in this, including the grandma who drove two band members to practice or games three times a week. Let’s all cheer the team, and the band that plays at half time in their support. They've gone a long way.

Will they never lose?

The football team played every game this season, as is expected, and the band played every half time, in support of the team. And the parents and grandparent of the very few band members and football players without personal transport have made every pickup and delivery of those select few. The drill has been in effect since the last week of July, in fact, when the well organized parents of both kinds of player began their annual ritual of living vicariously.

Now it is the end of the third week of November and no, it has not ended. For the first time in longer than I can be bothered to look up, the football team is undefeated. An interview with the coach made the top half of the first page of the local paper. He’s proud of his “guys,” citing names and statistics so far back that only football parents emerged with eyes unglazed.

The season ending so gloriously, what next? Why, sudden death playoffs, of course. With the bands playing every half time, in support of the teams.  Our weather has turned so on the kids that the band director is toying with letting the students march in warm street clothes, the decision for uniforms to be made at the last minute, so bring the uniform, too. Personally I believe that is her bribe to keep her band up to full force as her award winning band has yet to appear on the field in street clothes.

Tomorrow is the third sudden death for the football team; they survived the team that took them out last year, and one other. Tomorrow’s game is against a team they defeated already during the school year. The team is becoming quite cocky, Emily reports, but that goes two ways. Their confidence can carry them to another victory; their overconfidence can end the season. We’ll see.

Bringing me to the present. If the team wins tomorrow, they play again next Saturday. Thanksgiving weekend. Emily began softening me up by reciting all the people she knows who have plans for that weekend. Oddly, they’re all band members, not football players. She was, of course, working up to her Thanksgiving weekend, when one of her parents will be lifting the children from the shelf for the first time in three or four months, and taking his “family” across state for a long weekend with his partner’s parents.

“I guess,” Emily said, “I’ll just have to tell the band director I have a family emergency.”

“Was this a known possibility when you joined marching band?”

“Well, yes, but I would like to spend the weekend with my family.”

I let her bask in that thought for several days before I told her if there was another playoff game that weekend, she would be marching.

The bedroom on the other side of the hall exudes grumpy since then. Given her twelve years of religious upbringing prior to occupying that bedroom I shake my head and wonder when the moral compass will engage.

The world is breaking my heart

That thought flitted through my mind tonight, watching all the youngsters leaving school. Not the world wise, friend centric Emily's, in high school, but the pre-teens and barely teens in middle school, the Laura's, who still run up the stairs two at a time and can walk five blocks to art class, thank you very much, Grandma.

Watching for Laura to come from her after school jazz band practice tonight, I saw Liam come out and begin scanning the parking lot. Liam, Joe’s skippy little brother, whose mother was thrilled to find Laura in band, too, and we could car pool into their high school future.

I texted his mother at once, Is Liam in jazz band? I just saw him. I’d be happy to bring him home in future.

Laura appeared, put her stuff in the back and herself in the front. She was well into describing some new rhythm when my phone beeped, and I asked her to check. Laura read He is!!!! Wow..that would be SO helpful, Joanne!! I have been running out of work for the past two days!!!!! Can I give you gas money?

Tears started, but I didn't let them fall. Laura wondered if she should answer and I said No, I’d catch it when we got home. “So, what other songs are you learning for your concert?”

Back at home I replied  Don’t be silly! It only makes sense. He already knows me; just tell him I’m in the front row for a faster getaway. WooHoo.

The answer Laura read caught me up short and took me straight back to the days Beth started school, and I was a working mom. Apparently moms were not to work back then because the school bus that took her from home in the morning would not drop her at the day care center after kindergarten. We sued them and lost; I’m paraphrasing, but the answer was they did not have to and so would not.

Beth spent kindergarten at my parents, going to Forest Hill, the last class of Mrs. Pollock, my kindergarten teacher. The next year, in first grade, I left work every day to pick her up and take her to day care and go back to work. When Shelly started school I employed the local cab company to take her from school to day care.

I know our problems are our own to solve. On the other hand, if there’s something to be done, step up and help, if possible. My parents did, why don't we? I know Liam and Joe’s mom is a single mother, a school teacher, an English teacher. I’m happy to make her task a little easier by a two block detour.

And now I will stop, and leave the question the news brings to me every day for the universe to ponder—how are we raising so many young people who believe senseless and brutal murdering can improve their world.

Last year

Some of us had a very good day

Not Toby, who would not face it!

Four cans of bird seed 

Filled five bird feeders, just in the nick of time.

And, Laura made jazz band.

She's so excited!

Everything old is new again

In truth, everything old about me remains old, and I’m casting about for a bit of help.

Last summer I wanted to weave again, but had no loom. This happened before, maybe five years ago. I thought I’d do some “heirloom” weaving for my grandchildren. I borrowed Shelly’s loom, idle since she’d put a full towel warp on and didn't finish before we retired. I wove off the towels, nice huck ones, gave them away, and realized I’d exhausted the desire. I sent the loom back.

Last summer I borrowed Beth’s loom, also with a full towel warp on the warp beam. This time you all were drug in too, watching the cat and me rethreading the loom to my favorite towel pattern. I wove off another fifty odd towels, and gave them all away, too.  This time I found I wanted to continue weaving, on a larger loom. Not a 44”, like the old production weaving days, but a 36” LeClerc would be very nice.

I moaned and groaned about the difficulty of locating a used loom I could love. River, a blogger friend in another hemisphere sent me a Kijiji link (apparently the rest of the world’s answer to Craig’s list), and I had a beautiful 36” LeClerc the first Sunday in October.

Shelly downsized her storage unit and sent me all the cotton thread left from weaving for us. Ann perked right up and offered to return the many pounds I forced her to keep, ten years ago. “You’ll weave something,” I assured her. She bought a kennel, instead.

I may weave clothing fabric again, some day, but for the present I’m seeing how many ways I can find to make a scarf. So far, five, and counting. I guessed I needed an Etsy shop, and that was very easy to set up. Then I wanted to put the link on my Blogger page. That was scary, and I begged Cold Lake Cathy to tell me how. Now it’s done, here’s the secret: just use the link part of the picture gadget.

If you've made it this far, wondering, here it is. I think I’ll add Facebook, too. Can’t have too much social media, “they” say, to the person who has never posted to her Facebook page. Now I have a Joanne Noragon Weaver page, too. It has a URL that would reach to Cathy’s front door. In order for it to have a URL for Joanne Noragon Weaver, it needs twenty or so likes, first. I will be so appreciative if twenty or so of you would go to Joanne Noragon Weaver and like me. Thanks so much.

As for those who wished they could wear my towels, visit my Etsy shop and see what passes for wearing towels. The link is the first icon in the right hand column. If there is advice out there, I would love to hear it,too. Thanks, again.

Rambling…

The bathroom is down to twos and threes, from sixes and sevens. Even worse than sleeping in the guest room and traipsing down and upstairs for a toilet a couple of days has been finding the baskets my heart desired for my storage shelves. The first set became too wide when door trim was added. 

The second set was returned when I learned it is necessary to inquire which dimension is which, shopping online. Length, width and height are interchangeable, I found; set two was returned, set three is being shipped.

The faithful old toilet brush, veteran of almost thirty years cleaning, did not reappear when the renovation was complete. Inquiries returned blank stares, so I shopped tonight for a new one. When did toilet plungers and toilet brushes become a combo? One base, two handles. Pop it open and one handle belongs to a plunger, the other the brush.

I stood in the aisle sadly surveying the display of brush, plunger combo packs. Suddenly in the back, almost behind the mop display, a single handle. I pulled it and found a brush, not a plunger. Granted one must open a little door to transfer the business end to the toilet; nevertheless, bonanza, and less than half the price.

Sitting here I realize I missed one item on my mental shopping list. Coffee filters. My monitor is liberally splattered with coffee. You know why. I read it can be dabbed away with a coffee filter dampened with distilled water. We’ll see, when I remember the filters.

I had an hour around town tonight, returning the nine inch deep and ten inch wide baskets, shopping, because Laura’s art teacher is up and teaching, although only two of her old students. The hip replacement was extra complicated and Mrs. P won’t be back in her upstairs, downtown studio until next year.  We went to her home, an hour’s walk from Laura’s school.

Laura’s art assignment over the next two weeks; turn her sketch of two fried eggs into a color portrait of two fried eggs.  The yolks are orange yellow, she explained on the way home; the whites are really grey white, but with crispy brown edges. I like mine over easy, with many little crispy brown circles looking back, but hers already are sunny side up.

A house in town. The ivy makes this tree seem to have leaves, but look at the bare branches beyond the flag pole. We expect winter by Wednesday.

Marching band is not for sissies

Friends and I have compared aches these last several days and mentioned the old saw, “Getting old is not for sissies.” But driving my two band charges to school in time for inspection tonight I realized these young performers are the real brave souls.

It’s been a long time since band camp, way back at the end of July. Since then I've faithfully transported Emily and Joe, twice a week; band practice on Wednesday, the game on Friday, sometimes a band show on Saturday. Joe’s Mom or Dad has as faithfully brought them back.

Last year Joe worried he wasn't up to scratch, but this year he knows he is. He’s moved from critiquing himself to critiquing every band they have or may play against. He’s an OCD youngster with a photographic memory. I can hear the pages in his mind turn as he ranks bands by size, by sound, by director, by style, by uniform, by music.

He’s also a history buff, and in the beginning of the season we had lovely discussions of the merits of various American presidents. But for the last couple of months, all we've heard from the back seat is the merit of the various school bands, on any feature, and in any order he’s using that night.  One night I only had Joe; Emily was already at school. “May I sit in front?” he inquired. “Absolutely!” “Ah, this is much better; we can talk more easily.” I love Joe.

When we discussed history or civics, conversation was two and even three way, when Emily joined in. Now we are obsessing on bands I don’t give a flying blue and white cape with silver braid, and Joe holds the floor, with an occasional remark from Emily.

Joe is still somewhat in awe of the band leader, how well the Code Red will go that night, if their section will be yelled at, how unfair the direction can be. We spent a long time on the rigidness of “march every step, play every note,” and then it went away as a topic. I asked if he was no longer concerned about his ability to do that and Joe replied actually, he realized Bev would know if he marched every step, but not if he played every note, so he has settled on the former as the best course of action.

The squad leaders go to the concession stands during the games and return with snacks for the band members. Joe is a donut fan; he knows what is available at every stadium and their rank in his appreciation. Tonight is a home field playoff and he loves the concession donuts. “And these are the big ones!” he moaned from the back seat. “Donuts?” I asked. “No! The big games. The concessions will be too crowded!” I couldn't explain why his lack of reference was causing me to laugh so hard, but he wasn't fussed.

As we pulled out of his street a light mist began accumulating on the windshield. The closer the stadium, the harder it rained. “Did you know about this?” I asked. “Oh, yes,” from Emily. “It will rain until seven, then turn to snow,” from Joe.

Marching band is not for sissies.

Confidence

I just set aside a small treatise about purpose, finding it, losing it, having it, the usual stuff. Too stuffy. Instead, here’s a story about confidence.

Emily worked a year ago at Heritage Farm, riding herd on little children during pumpkin season, selling trees through the holidays, hoisting them atop cars, tying them closely and firmly with the knots she was taught. Emily would have started up again in the spring, except for that bit of hazing, when she was put bodily through the tree bailer as a mark of being an awesome employee, and she lost her job when the owner did not agree with grandma that no child should be handled by adults and other children.

The summer yielded sporadic part time jobs; her big hope of a job at the nursery across the street did not happen for the simple reason she had too many other commitments that cut into prime selling hours at a nursery. Then school began and we were back in the cycle of band and football two or three times a week; I forgot about jobs.

The fire district report at the last township meeting included mention the district was negotiating the annual contract with the ski resort, and I wrote a note on my hand—ski resort. Back at home I told Emily she might want to check Boston Mills/Brandywine on the internet and see about jobs.

Last Saturday saw us at the job fair. Well, I dropped Emily and went on errands. I picked a choice parking place on returning, and watched a lot of people trail into the resort, empty handed, or with their downloadable application fluttering. Almost everyone who came out had a sheaf of papers that included a pink slip.

Emily’s pink slip was for an appointment for a second interview. Once again I sat in the parking lot, watching pink slips fluttering in. Only one pink slip returned, and it wasn't Emily’s. Her big smile announced she has a job when the season opens. She asked for and got Boston Mills, the closer of the two ski runs, and first shift Saturdays and Sundays. She is assigned to ski lifts because “I like people, I like winter, I like being outdoors.” The sixty percent pay raise, from what farms can get away with to minimum wage went down well, too.

She’s only fifteen, so she had a work permit authorized at school today. Uncle Tom outfitted her in a capacious Carhartt from his extensive collection; she still has sturdy work boots I got her for the farm, the silk and wool emergency hat I knitted in the midst of tree season last winter, and the insulated gloves. I need to get a couple pair of wool socks made, though.

The chauffeur is grateful for a good car heater.

I'm exhausted!

For Ellen, to resolve the orientation.

Standing in the living room, looking through "the little hall" into the bathroom.

Boys! I spent plenty of time moving their stuff to make a path into my room, on the left.

OK. All I'm showing you is today. Day twelve!

Sean by the window, fooling with sink plumbing.

The sink is in the shower.

The shower door directions are in Eric's hands.

Don't miss the cubbies on the right of the shower.

They are the only storage in the entire 6'x8' bathroom.

Twelve of them, floor to ceiling.

The canvas totes to hold bathroom detritus are due any day.

The sink is on the vanity; we have water.

Up front, Eric has some of the door frame installed.

We have shower doors.

A little piece of construction magic that fascinates me.

Eric holds the molding inside out against the wall,

makes a mark, makes a cut,

And has right angle molding, like on the other side of the shower.

Inside the shower. You've seen this before, but not with the doors on. Changes all the angles.

The mirror.

I had a chat at supper with the two lovely young ladies who brush their teeth at this sink.

It is not necessary to look in the mirror to brush one's teeth,

and the grandma expects to see no more toothpaste splattered on the wall.

Finally, they were done.

Wonderful men; fabulous work.

My turn to putz.

Sheers, and reclaimed curtains I wove fifteen years ago,

for the old bathroom door that had a window.

I cut these down.

Purple towels.

Lots of treasures. 

Split oak wastebasket came from a show in Illinois.

Old couple, he ran the machine to split the staves and she wove the baskets.

This clock was in my kitchen in Mentor; I've had it since the late seventies.

It has no glass.

Every grandchild has removed its hands at least once.

Most left them on back of the toilet, but some put them in the wastebasket, so I wouldn't notice.

The beadboard behind the toilet goes to the ceiling. My only statement.

The purple tank topper is a sample Beth made for a rug she wove many of.

The pattern is dog paw; though we affectionately called it puppy toes. 

The toilet paper holder came from an art show in Virginia, the first time the grandchildren lived with us. Becca twisted my matchy, matchy brass tp holder until it broke.

This one spoke to me, so I bought it.

Who knew.

Tomorrow two bucolic water colors by a friend go on the wall, and that's all.

I'm too tired add one more thing tonight.

Not there, yet, and another plan is coming together

It's not a bathroom, yet.

The only "spray" will be from the nozzle of the paint sprayer.

At seven this morning, the bathroom remains in the hands of the crew for another couple of days.

Some of what it takes to paint.

It is beautiful.

But not done.

What do you think of this?

I think it looks like an old lace curtain, on stretchers at my grandmother's front door.

Everything old is new again.

A few more bits will fall into place, and the loom and I will begin a new adventure.

Yesterday Thriller, today Rudolph

The reason for the season came to me today. Thanksgiving is not a retail holiday. It's a grocery holiday. This epiphany might have continued to escape me for the rest of my life, if not for the "thank you card" in my pocket.

A month ago I bought four new tires. Each tire had a twenty dollar rebate. I wonder if this is an effective marketing tool. It was a manufacturer's rebate; I could have asked if other tire brands had rebates, but as I would have bought only Goodyear tires I suppose I should consider the rebate a bonus.

In the past rebates have appeared as a check in my mailbox. Not this time. It was a Goodyear "Thank you Visa debit card." Not good at any ATM, usable only for goods or services. I dislike these "gift" cards so much I pass them along to someone else to use as quickly as possible.

However, it's November and there are two birthdays in my house in December, and each birthday girl has specific tastes in clothing, so today was the day to bite the card, so to speak, and put it back into circulation in the world of retail.

I took Emily and went to the mall, my first such excursion since Laura had her ears pierced. The goal today was to have Emily try on jeans until we nailed the brand and size that fit her. 

Thirteen pair later that turned out to be DKNY. "Worse than shopping for a bra," she moaned on the way home. She knows what will be in her birthday pile. Laura gets a cute little dress.We think Miss Girly Girl will pair it with a blue jean jacket and leggins. She's a little Boho right now.

I had the epiphany five minutes after stepping into Macy's. Giant red baubles hung from the ceiling. Trees, decorations everywhere. Rudolph in the air. We stopped a sales associate for jeans help, and as we walked about loading Emily's arms with jeans the woman said "Yesterday Thriller, today Rudolph."

And it came to me why we go from Halloween to Christmas. It's about retail, and Thanksgiving is a grocery holiday.