I can't face an empty day. I need to have some activity, even if it's "wasting time". I count wasting time as setting out to read the news, for instance, and being dragged down rabbit holes for all those little clickable sites that take you on for seeming hours to look at "rare historic photos", ad infinitum. Pretty soon it's lunch time.
Yesterday I finished another batch of towels, and this color is a keeper. It's lime, and lime popsicle is the apt description. It looks and feels that cool.
The color wheel is simply too bland now, so the next color will be blue:
The snow has stopped, replaced by bitterly cold air. Typing that made me smile. The next couple of weeks will be in the teens. That is cold, for sure. But I remember a finals week, back in the nineteen sixties. The temps were below zero for a very long time, and we walked from building to building, warming up in each one, then going on.
I wonder if millenials do that. Or just stay home.
The only other big occupation in my life is knitting socks. I sent the inauguration socks to my friend Ann. She and Drea are big fans of wool socks, working on cement floors at the kennel. Ann showed them off and Drea said they actually are exciting news.
This pair is for Drea. The foot is within a couple rows of decreasing for the toe, but I just texted to confirm Drea's foot is ten inches long. I still have towels to hem while I wait.
Learning over to knit socks has been fascinating. It used to be something I did. I love wool socks, and have lots of winter to wear them in. I even knit summer socks occasionally, from embroidery floss.
Socks are a mindless activity, once learned. Knitting is mindless, even great repetitive patterns like Aran or lace sweaters. The mind knows the feel of each stitch on the needle and when it's time to change the stitch because the feel has changed.
But, I had to relearn, and having sustained a right brain injury this time, my attitude was Oh Well. Too Bad. Tough Beans. I was four years even picking up an almost completed sock found in the knitting bag. Showing my fingers and brain the movements required, and this time on my own. My mother and grandmother long gone. Oh well. I plowed on through.