Glacial knoll

 I had a letter to mail today, on such a blue and beautiful day, that I decided to take a ride through town and take some pictures for a post that's been on my mind. The drive through town was the same as last year--impassible car and foot traffic clogging the road. 

But it was a beautiful day and they all wanted out, too, and who am I to deny them the pleasure of circling town to find a parking place.

My destination was the township's original cemetery. Most of the original founders are buried there, as are their descendants; it makes me smile to see stone after stone with those old names. For me, the interest is the geography. The cemetery is built on a glacial knoll.

A knoll is an isolated hill. In this area of extensive glacial activity, a glacial knoll is not such an anomaly. It has been tested and declared not a mound. I have no idea what the 1805 settlers thought, but Mr. Stanford and many descendants are on the hill.

The first time I drove through the cemetery, which actually is around, I peered over the hood to locate the road. I still do.  I don't know that my pictures do it justice, but here we go.

The road goes up to the right, and the direction is clearly marked. You can just see the first arrow inside the gate in the first photo.

It's a lovely and well maintained township cemetery. There is a commission that overlooks both township cemeteries.

And the road goes up and up, the hill drops down and down.

We're at the top now, curving around the back and about to start down.

This is the downhill side, through my windshield. That is a wiper reflection on the window.

There are many old nineteenth century stones. Small stones, small children.

This stone is a sad, sad problem in the cemetery. Half way through the twentieth century this cemetery began to acquire the reputation as haunted and demonic. We all know what happened in the last quarter of that century, the internet came. Stories that were propagated in newspaper stories by reporters who had to produce an inch of filler became "truth" on the internet.

Suddenly the cemetery was no longer private and sacred property, it was fair game for teenagers on a lark, mediums doing whatever, cults with unorthodox religious venerations.

Headstones were fair game for destruction. The one pictured has one repair and is waiting for enough taxpayer money to accrue to repair it again. The worst I will tell you is the burning of live reptiles on stones. It is so difficult to conceive of people who feel the right to go where and do what they please. Yes, there are fences around both cemeteries. They are not electric.

Do you see what I encountered on my way out. I intended to show the rest of the circular drive, and instead I encountered two men on motor cycles, determined to ride in the opposite direction. I can see what a thrill they might find that at excessive speed.

I indicated they needed to go the other direction. They continued up the hill. I continued down, directly at them. They split, to pass on the narrow strip of grass. I made it clear that only one of them would succeed. 

They went down and roared on in the proper direction. 

On a lighter note!

Toby spent much of his day in this open widow. What a beautiful day it was! Low to mid seventies. The air conditioning came on once, about four in the afternoon.

Sadly, so sadly, yesterday afternoon and evening had dark skies and torrential rain. I'd planned on supper at Ruth's, with Beth and Caroline. Checking the radar, I could see the same storm would sweep over Ruth, until at least eight in the evening. 

So, I cancelled that engagement. I will drive in most anything, but heavy rain, country lanes and headlights and dark scare me off.  

I spent a lot of time today updating the state of weaving for sale. I found I'd left one of the towels, purple, out of the last color wheel. No doubt about it, I am no graphic designer. So many times later, I did think to list the color names this time.

                               

The latest color finished is blue denim, over there to the left. Just below the purple that went missing. Here it is, singularly:

Almost done with promotion, here. I am about to order more thread, twenty cones of natural for warp, seven colors that sold out, or that I should try. I'm still hemming the blue denim towels, and my work station remains cluttered:

The wheel of towels consumes half the table. I must clear them out tomorrow morning. There is the green I'll use next.

So, when did food get so expensive? Like the post office, it crept up on me unaware. For the last two months, my first grocery expedition of the month has been eighty dollars, almost exclusive of meat. And I bought just one pound of bacon!

When did Facebook change? I use it only to post a new towel for sale. This time, Wow. I have not been there for a month. I called my sister, who uses Facebook constantly for her quilting and said What the Hell happened, and what do I do?

I totally stymied on sharing the post on my Joanne Noragon Weaver page to my Joanne Noragon page. She slipped in and did it, so it came to my home page (and her bazillion quilting friends), and I could share it to my hundred or so friends. Why can't I copy and paste all my never changing information to Facebook posts? 

Often I wonder about the Facebook and Instagram effort. Have either resulted in the sale of a towel? Perhaps I'll keep track.

 

 

A letter to the people

 

Hello, Boston Township and Peninsula.

I live in Hudson Estates now, the trailer park on Akron Cleveland Road. For the last three months my rent check has been significantly late, though the manager has not charged me a late charge. Actually, I thought she was not processing them timely. This month I investigated. I pay my bills through my bank’s bill pay. They mail the check three days prior to the payment date, to have them arrive on time. In August my check mailed to arrive on August 7^th actually arrived August 24^th. I read the news and know the post office is being overhauled. I am extremely anxious to have my vote count in November. Based on my experience with my rent check, I called the Board of Elections to see if it is possible to know if an absentee ballot cast by mail has been received. The answer is NO.  So, I put together a short list to ensure a ballot is counted in November.

Vote in person at your polling station on November 3^rd.

Vote early in person at the Board of Elections and other stations beginning October 2^nd.

Deliver your absentee ballot to the Board of Elections in person.

If you want to know your vote counts this year, I urge you not to rely on the postal service. You can visit the Summit County Board of Elections and read everything you ever want to know about voting, early  voting and absentee voting:  https://www.summitcountyboe.gov/

The next issue of Your Community News will be published mid-September. I'll let you know. If you would like to see what concerns the citizens of a township and a village, visit www.ycn-online.net.

The bank, the post office, park management and me and us

 How do you pay bills these days? Once all was paper, and the checkbook was balanced religiously, monthly. Then I got a new computer, maybe five years ago, and it all changed--for the better.

Another blogger explained to this accountant (albeit with TBI), how to live without a check book. Just let go. As I no longer had a checkbook on the computer, and would never keep a paper checkbook again, I let go.

 I've put in place a desk pad jot method to be sure I don't overdraft the bank before month end. Voila. Home free.

Until the administration began its slow strangle on the post office. Ballots are not the only envelope through the post office. Bill payments are, too.

I've had a light bulb go off about all the companies that collect their money electronically, directly if possible. The cell phone. Internet and television access. Utilities. I think about the electric bill. I switched to paperless. Yea for me, good, tidy citizen.

Every month they noodged me. Stop it with the check you write on your bank account, for the bank to mail to us. Just switch to direct debit! And I did. 

Now I only write one check each month, on my bank's "Pay Bills" app, to the trailer park. There are other stragglers; once a year to my accountant, annually for insurance, quarterly for trash service, and so on (though most of them would like my checking account number, too).

I've had to learn too much about how my fine bank operates. I had to overcome obstacles even to get to someone who knows. My local bank has been closed for the duration of Covid, though I am told it will reopen.

My bank has few stand alone locations in this area. Basically, one in each major locality and the rest are in supermarkets. Brilliant? I don't know. Brilliant for some. My next closest branch, to call and talk to, caters to a large immigrant population, Spanish and Asian. 

I've stood in line while the manager, or a clerk, patiently, and often in another language, helps a non-English speaking person navigate an American check. I've never felt inconvenienced; I'd appreciate someone helping me. Until the coin flips, and the manager cannot understand my question.

How can I know when this check you write is mailed? Where can I read it in your instructions? The manager turned me over to a teller who was too busy to talk and never called me back.

I want to know because a check the bank dated August 7 is received by the park manager on the 24th, who assured me it was the post office and there would be no late charge, honey.

This is the third month in a row. And the bank tells me the checks are mailed three days before the date, to arrive on the date of the check.

Low level rumbling, including me, blames it on the park manager. This is basically a well run park, because, like decent citizens, we manage ourselves and help each other.  And it's time for me to stop blaming the manager, the bank and the post office.

Our government is making it difficult to deliver the mail on time.

I must write an article for the next Community News. I have my personal plan for making my ballot count. I will vote early. There are many other ways, including mail in ballots, also known as absentee voting, legal in every state. But I think we will need to know how to learn our ballot is received and ready to be counted.

This post has been a thinking through process. Thank you for listening. I need to write that article now.

Brit travel books

After supper and dishes and door locking and all, I sat down last night to write a blog. A rambling blob. Look how that's one letter from blog. I see I also did it in extra large type, which possibly accounts for why it was so reasonable to me, last night, after supper.

At the end of the day I no longer hold reasonable thoughts. Coherent. I cannot find words. I quit last night when I lost words. I woke up with the word this morning, but it's gone again. There still is hope it will return, and I'll write it on the pad.

From the ridiculous to the sublime! I got it. I wrote it down. There is a place it's appropriate, and I'll put it there.

Last night I was close to the end of a book that's sucked me straight in. Not Tonight Josephine, a sweet growing up book by a traveler, a Brit. I realized how many Brit travel books I've actually read. I even took a picture of the shelf of books I've read since I no longer have a teenager to talk to.

 

And a picture of the books I'm working on now:

Yesterday I finished weaving the Denim warp. I decided to leave it to today to begin finishing. I would have some supper, write a blog post about Brit books and get up today to finish up the warp and probably clean the house.

My most coherent thought from last night is, much as I disliked Travels in Siberia, none of the travelogues I replaced it with were equally dissatisfying, though far more readable. Notes from a Small Island, The Road to Dribbling, A Walk in the Woods are enough Bryson for a lifetime, and I see I have one left.

Maphead and Accidental Adventurer are much the same thing on opposite sides of the ocean. A Town like Alice does not belong in the pile. It was a compelling book. It was an historical novel. I didn't include Salt Path. For some reason I hold it above the other books. I was going to say that last night, and throw in "from the ridiculous to the sublime" some where about here, except I couldn't say it, and went to bed.

On to today. The day to full the denim toweling and clean the house. On the way to the studio to cut the fabric off the loom and secure the warp, I realized it had not rained overnight and wasn't forecast for today. I stepped outside to bring in the watering bucket, to remind myself to do it.

Cathy called. I'd texted that I'd finally reached the landlady, who claimed to have retrieved my August rent check from the USPS mail box only today, and she would be sure not to charge a late fee, honey. Cathy and I know this is pure horse hockey and discussed her motives extensively. But enough, that's just trailer park talk.

I put the fabric in the washer, sat down to lunch with Not tonight Josephine. I was close to the end. In fact, I'd already read the last chapter. Just to be sure. I put the fabric in the dryer and kept on reading. 

Finished the book, folded the fabric, and "Oh, crap" I forgot to water the plants!

It takes that much water to give everyone a thorough wetting down. Yes, it's heavy and I am very careful getting it outside. 

I did the zinnias no favor, not watering this morning. None of them were "real" zinnias, but they do deserve watering.

Can you see the inch of water left? The flowers were relieved. I haven't cleaned the house. And that's my post on Brit travel books.

The backside of summer

So many ways we add up the coming of the end of summer. It gets warmer and warmer. The children go back to school, often in the thickest heat. 

And of course, nothing is what it was. I've lived through several tornadoes. They're what happen here. A derecho? I never heard the word, until this year. A line of intense and fast moving windstorms. It carries on for a great distance and is characterized by damaging winds.

Cedar Rapids, a little town in Iowa dear to me, was devastated recently by an eight hundred mile derecho. Coming now on another part of the country, in my mind's eye, a hurricane derecho. Two systems may touch down fairly simultaneously, in Texas and Louisiana. Too much summer.

Back in NE Ohio, I'm just looking at the usual indicators of fall. Yellow leaves.

After three months of solid blooms, the yellow leaves begin.

 And the solid blooms continue. The weather isn't mid nineties anymore, but ninety is hot. Temperature, they say, is proportional to the length of the cat:

Poor fellow. Bad angle; makes him look chubby. I think he's lost a pound. If nothing else, half a pound of hair.

I had another haircut last night. I should stop complaining about going nowhere, doing nothing. This is my fourth haircut since lock down ended, and I know a lot of you sport pony tails.

Melanie, my hair cutter, is getting married in September. I realized last night, September is mighty near and asked her when. "September 12th," she said. "My sister's birthday," I responded.

I've known Melanie for years, since before she and Lindsey opened this shop, but both worked for a major chain. One day I went in with all three grands for haircuts, and wondered if I were in the right store. Every station had a new face, and no one was talking.

Apparently the old lot walked out en mass. Perhaps two months later, whatever time they had to let pass to avoid legal problems, one of the operators called me. Never knew how she got my number, but it was good to have them back. That's where Laura got her hair dyed deep red and Emily had hers done teal blue.

I've spent a pleasant half hour looking back for a picture of Melanie. No luck. I don't see the post with magenta and teal hair, and that's probably where I had Mel, too. I'm glad to have a real date to pin her wedding to. Not long now.

Thanks to Yael, I found the post about the red and blue hair, with pictures of Melanie, Lindsey, and Beth, who called me with the new location.

Snip, snip, snippet

 I wonder if I will live long enough to see life again. Please do not think I have imminent thoughts of death. I simply have no life. Like all of us, my chief excitement is gathering up and hugging all our little snippets. Except those west coasts, who complain I'm not wafting cold and rain over the Rockies. Weather moves from west to east, you guys. I put a fan on the picture of towels on the side.

Too Much, Never Enough is not intended to expose Trump for a fraud. Mary Trump always knew something was wrong, and acquired the education to diagnose the man. It is a witty and occasionally funny story of a her own lifetime circulating in a dysfunctional family. 

It is saddest to read incidents I knew existed, among acquaintances or people I knew of. Trump and I are of the same generation. I knew men who avoided the draft. I knew of men who beat the SAT exams. I knew people who were the adjectives we ascribe to the Trump. I just never knew a person who was all the adjectives, a man who could not pass a fifth grade entrance exam, who was coddled into that state by father, family, and then everyone who had invested and could not lose. 

We did not elect him, and I grow more confident we can dismiss him. Lots of work left to do.

Laura sent me a picture this week:

That is an inkle loom, one step up from the most rudimentary form of weaving.

If you look closely at the first picture, she also has filthy fingernails. She has a business, weeding gardens. She starts her route at six in the morning, lunch at noon, and then a little more, depending on weather. Last spring she asked me for pictures of her in the little garden, to pick one for a business card.

School will begin in October.

Cathy and I are going for lunch. Late lunch. She is a certified caregiver, and is on her Monday/Wednesday job with a darling little boy. Someday I'll tell. The parents are "real millenials", she says. They just called her and asked if they can be an hour late. As usual. Late lunch for us.

After we sashay through the deli, another excursion into the big world. We're going for flu shots.

Raining and cold

 I came out of the bedroom this morning, into the kitchen. There was a yellow globe under my chair, ping pong ball sized. My first thought, that little bugger got the yellow ball out of the toy!

Toby's been trying for that for a year. When I got there, it wasn't the ball, it was my reminder to make scalloped potatoes for supper tonight. Far easier to put the reminder on the counter than find a visible place to paste a note. I should have secured it here to begin with. 

Who am I fooling? He knows the table and counters are so far off limits that he puts everything back the way he found it. Who am I lying to now? I sound like the prez.

I had a sack full of things to mail yesterday, and went to the post office right after breakfast. After the clerk circled the delivery date and the web address for the survey she added, for the first time ever, "Please take the survey. We must stay in business."

This current horse play by the president to shut down voting is going to blow up in his face. I don't know what the legislature will do, but this calls for the arm of the law to strangle the president's attempt to strangle the ballots.

I am reading Mary Trump's Too Much and Never Enough. It is a difficult read, and I'm perhaps half through. My biggest takeaway is that Trump's life is a lie, The Art of the Lie. It truly is boggling. Unfortunately, my current book on tape is Michelle Alexander's The New Jim Crow. I must finish one or the other very soon!

My little world just goes along. My hair is so far into my eyes! Yesterday I called for a cut. Melanie's first appointment is Thursday. At six in the evening. I groused a bit, hoping Lindsey would spot something earlier. And no, Thursday at six it is.

Make a plan

 I'll start with the disclaimer bit and get it out of the way. You know I've had two brain injuries, one far worse than the other. I made a good recovery from the massive stroke in 2010, but the head crash on the DC bus, whenever that was, has left my command of time, dates and facts sketchy, at best. If I don't write it down, I won't remember. But...where did I put that note?

Living alone compounds my need to be organized. Consequently, I live on plans. Tiny, easy, plans.

I had a scare today. Laura and I were going to lunch, at the little deli Cathy and I have scoped out and tested and passed as a safe addition to our bubble. Laura called at eleven to cancel.

She and Kamaria, her house mate, have been out shopping and to eat earlier this week, and today Kamaria has a fever and a headache and just feels bad. Bad enough to miss work, not bad enough to trigger a Covid-19 test. So, Laura called and cancelled.

Good for her. She knew what to do. Had a plan.

I made a small plan the other day and began its implementation. I called our Board of Elections and asked for the first day of early voting this year. It is October 2nd, 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. I will be there.

I trust the Summit County Board of Elections. I love the United States Postal Service, but I've lost confidence in its ability to do its job. Through little or no fault of its own, I believe. At the Board's web site I even can track the progress of my ballot, in person, delivered, mailed or cast in November.

We still can beat this man at his game. He wants ultimate authority. It might have happened, except...he did not get enough power soon enough, and his grip on the power he does have is as weak as his grip on reality, as the New York Times so succinctly put it. And finally, I believe Joe Biden will win and if need be, see the former president escorted past the gate by the military.

So, that is my plan. Cast my ballot in person on the first day of early voting.

And, Covid is serious. It's now near the door of someone you know. It may be lapping at the toes of her granddaughter. So, have a plan to say safe, and laugh at the poster I've borrowed from Susan Kane.

Yesterday

 Yesterday actually was an amusing day. You couldn't tell that from my slogging determination to lay the park to rest! I also had a very short shopping list to fill.

Today is far too late to remember what was on my list. I can say, the list was divided between Dollar General and Kreigers. The former plebeian, the latter more esoteric.

Oh, wait, I just remembered two crucial parts of the list. Cornstarch and paper towels, if I could find them. My last roll of a three roll pack of paper towels is essentially gone and no replacement at Dollar General the last several months.

Cornstarch, that essential of our grandmother's cupboard, came from Kreigers, which I found when I stumbled again on my crostata recipe, last spring. And I had five peaches to turn into peach crostata sooner than later.

I pulled into the left lane to turn left for Kreigers when suddenly my head swiveled to check all my lanes, and I pulled back into the right to go to Dollar General first, and then complete the square back home.

Sometimes the covid shallowness of my life just needs a kick in its ass. I reversed my route!

Way at the end of the Dollar General aisle, a single pack of toilet paper graced the stack of empty shelving. Par for the course, and I continued along. On a whim I swing right into the baking supplies aisle, looking slowly up and down. All the way, up and down.

Why? Obstinance. You cannot buy spices at Dollar General. You cannot buy buttermilk. But, might as well look. At the very end, on the left, top shelf, box after box of cornstarch. Out of my reach, of course.

A man was stocking shelves at the other end of the aisle. "Young man..." said I, and he came and reached me down  the most important purchase on my list. I only bought one one pound box. That could be a mistake, since the first was used since May, and does not have the requisite two tablespoons of cornstarch left in the box!

Continuing to the back of the store, I stopped and stared at the package obviously enclosing twelve rolls of tp. Either the separation between top and bottom was indistinct, or this was the only package of paper towels I've looked at since March. Literally the only package, since floor to ceiling and left to right, it was the only thing on the shelves. And, six rolls, not two. 

Into the cart, through checkout and home, to have half a tomato sammie for lunch, and get on with my peach crostata.

Hot water bath and cold water plunge, and the skins slipped right off. These weren't cling free stones, but the peaches cut easily away. The slices filled the measuring cup right up to the four cup mark. I was on such a roll I used brown sugar. Praline, yes! One went into the oven, one the freezer, ready to bake.

I set up the cooling rack and watched the oven carefully. I like mine baked to a nice shade of chocolate/peanut butter! The timer rang and I still left it two more minutes.

I reached both hands into the oven. I didn't pull out the rack. It sort of sticks and I need to find out how to solve that. I also did not have a solid grip on both handles of the pie plate. 

I rose to standing, lifting my arms a bit more, reaching to the right to put down the plate.  The pie plate slipped through my fingers, did a complete somersault and landed. On the floor. The pie plate landed, unhurt, on its bottom.

The crostata landed folded in half, like an omlette.

A big spatula in each hand, I beat the five second rule. By a lot.

It didn't unfold as neatly as it folded, and I've snacked on the crusty deliciousness of the missing edge. It is the best peach praline crostata I've ever made!

Reconciliation

 Promised:

Delivered:

Yesterday, Cathy and I hopped into my car for a Road Trip! I wanted to see the results of the Park Service shifting an acre or so of soil in the Peoples' Park, last October. Perhaps you remember:

All that remained snarkily undisturbed was the tiny corner with the old bubbler, framed by the spruce and the veterans' flagpole, now

completely hidden by untrimmed trees and bushes.

Cathy and I walked the sidewalk in the first picture. The entire area was full, but not crowded, with people. There is ample parking in the lot on the right hand side of the first picture. The corresponding grassed area on the other side of the road actually is brown dirt and earth moving equipment. It probably is destined for more parking, but I did not verify that.

There were people taking pictures with the National Park sign. There were people taking regular pictures. There were people walking dogs. Lots of people and dogs. There were people with kayaks. There is a launch point into the Cuyahoga River behind the Boston Mill Visitor Center, the tan building in the first two pictures. There were people enjoying a lovely and warm August morning.

There were an abundance of millenials, and their children. Like my parent's generation, and my own, they were people who needed a place to park the car while they spent the morning or afternoon walking and enjoying the water, the woods, the trails.

I'm sure they appreciated a decent path to get from the parking lot, to their destination. 

I called the park and talked to a ranger today. I can not believe the tangle of weeds growing e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e is intentional. If they wanted to grow pollinator attracting plants, how could such an awful result have happened?

And the ranger said, the groundscape is a good idea gone bad. Apparently "Land and Resource Management" brought in many truckloads of dirt that was of poor quality and full of non-native invasive seeds. Actually, he confided, they have been pulling the invasives. The landscape department will have another go at it.

So yes, another chunk of Boston history is gone. No one cares except those of us involved.  On the whole, anyone who has title and ownership of anything can tear it down and do something different. The People never had legal title to the property, and the fact The People used and maintained it for over a hundred years is of of no interest to the government. And so it goes.

Nostalgia

 My sister stopped this morning. She is the sort who is up at dawn's early light. She was on a return trip from an orchard in Hiram. I was getting out of the shower.

I think one of those tomatoes will make my chili mac a tad more chili. Take that, mac. For lunch tomorrow, and the next day, tomato sammies. The quite pink peaches will explode in my mouth, and the other three will be crostata.

Jan and I are our end of the family. My children and grandchildren. are not far flung in location, but they are in interest. She's almost eleven years younger, so when I'm gone, it's on her.

I was updating the towels for sale page today, and told myself I'm out of Good Ideas right now. I gave that page a rest and reopened the Characters page. I'll work on if for awhile, just in case someone is interested.

Why was I taking a shower so early in the morning? Because I am going to church tomorrow. I do miss those folks. But then I'm nipping straight out and taking Cathy down to Boston Park at Riverview and Main.

If you've followed this blog for a bit of time, you'll remember I was my township clerk for thirteen years. And, I've lived in this township since 1988, so, a bit of history.

Over all this time, I've watched the Cuyahoga Valley National Park nibble away acre after taxable acre of the township, until it's down to a thousand or fewer citizens to fund the emergency services and police who respond to every distress call and accident in the park.

The Boston Park was a project of mine; it was an undocumented bit of history. I interviewed the citizens, read the documents, wrote the story. And so it was, until a life estate expired and the National Park could take control of The People's Park.

I need more pictures for the township web site. Cathy is wingman.

That was some digression. Back to church. The service is an hour earlier, nine in the morning. I must be up earlier than eight. Say seven. I can face the shower at seven, but that cannot include washing my hair.

Tomorrow afternoon, after the tomato sandwich, I will work on my own little page of history. And work on the current basket of bobbins, denim. Or is this jeans?

This beetle was napping on a zinnia leaf today. It's rather orange, as in red and yellow make orange. Who knows if red and yellow ladybirds are starting a sub species.

I can only listen

I cannot imagine what we will become. I've listened recently to mothers and grandmothers discussing the start of school. It is that time. Laura would have been practicing marching band songs and routines already.

Now the talk is to return in some manner or distance learn. I heard a high schooler saying her younger sister was a happy computer nerd who could sit home and learn everything; she needed to raise her hand.

I read a long column over the weekend by a high school principal in an underfunded district and an even poorer school. He and his staff were the last link the students had to normalcy. They spent the summer scrabbling for Chromebooks and broadcasting equipment. His team of six high school teachers disinfected and set up classrooms, using shower curtains. Then one of them contracted Covid...and died.

Fortunately no one asks me what I would do. I suppose like the high school student, it is all individual decisions.

In the meantime, Governor DeWine tests positive for corona virus.

The State Department lifts the "Do not Travel" advisory. I suppose a million people will book missed vacations. I travel more than anyone I know. My little "Sharp Brake" advisor and tattle tale installed under the dash shows in July I traveled extensively. Two trips for hearing aides and one for Francis' graduation. 

I have taken pictures, mostly no further away than my steps and put there between paragraphs. Pig will have a zinnia soon.

By the time I got to my phone, the full moon nearly slipped away.

I have a new header. Every time I go by the pond at the golf course, I think I should stop for a picture. I also crane my neck for the heron. The one time I saw him I chased him half a dozen U-turns, trying to get a picture. He always was camera shy, but seems even more so, with no golfers about.

On the way home today, I put on my flashers and pulled over. And as I watched and drifted up the road, looking for a good view of the very derelict looking tree and rough course, there was the heron's head and neck above the weeds, on this side of the lake.

I was looking down at the phone to make adjustments when I heard a car coming down the road as fast as I have. Great grey wings and the heron was gone. I took the new header picture anyway. That golf course certainly is sad. 

Raining and cold

It has rained for two days and two more days in the forecast. Nancy called me this week, a nice surprise. I'd noticed tents on the lawn of the Methodist church and she said yes, their General Conference has authorized outdoor services. No card playing, though.

Talking to her was so nice I wound up saying I'd come to the service today, though I did add I had no chair. She immediately countered, there are chairs available and someone would surely bring me one. We crossed texts last night. I told her it would be wet and cold today, so count me out. She texted services were cancelled.

At the informal graduation gathering last weekend, Ruth and I made tentative arrangements to get together this week, and settled on Friday. That morning she called to tell me her trepidation level was high and she has decided not to go.  

Cathy and I did go to lunch yesterday, and then we stopped at Kreigers.  That pleased me; I've done most of my grocery shopping for the month (of August), but I suddenly wanted more tomatoes for more Bruschetta Spaghetti.

So there's that! And this morning my sister called. She had two big red tomatoes from her twenty four plants, and could she drop them off on her way by. Sadly I said no. Not that I wouldn't make a big batch of Bruschetta, but then I'd have to go back for more spaghetti.

By the way, they could have posted a simple "Masks Required", like every other store and business. This bit of signage says to me they are not in favor of this order.

And finally, I spent the day tying the knots. Tie, tie, tie. Then I pulled all the knots through all the heddles (not a bad job), and trimmed off all the loom waste and tidied up to tie onto the apron tomorrow.