It isn't Sunday, just for starters

When things aren't happening as planned, my tidy little world appears crumbling, in my head at least, and sometimes in fact. I'm the person who has to know everything! It is absolutely true, I need to understand how things will happen, and how soon or distant.

For the last month or two nothing has been on track. Nothing!

This discourages me. The last time I was considering moving to an independent living facility, I had two interventions. The first was the cat, which I could not rehome, and the second the pandemic, which gave everyone a new attitude.

I put out a great burst of positivity that lasted literally a year and a half. Having no more grandchildren responsibility, I moved on to weaving. Set up shop, ordered a great deal of thread, and worked away, like Silas Marner.

All plans must wind down in time. No momentum is sustainable forever. Some universal law or another. I'm winding on a new warp under a great deal more tension. It's very hard on my arm, but once done, I will like it far more than the last. More tension means more yardage on the loom and off the tubes on the spool rack. And then, O Shit, more tubes will run out than I have replacements.

Time to reassess my life. Sales last year were very good, but definitely fell away this year. Not of concern, unless I buy a lot more thread, some of which I will need to finish the current warp.

I was kicking that can around this weekend when suddenly several things happened. The first order in four or five weeks came in. Then another. Then the gallery in town, where I used the show, asked me to come back, with the towels. And in the meantime, I decided I may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, so I signed up for six shows this summer at the Peninsula Flea.

And I called my supplier and put in a big thread order.

Then I went to town to mail my orders. I came home by a ten mile detour, just so I could drive up Truxell and get a current picture of the corkscrew willow header of my blog, and look what I found:

Valley Fire out on maneuvers. Those are the pumps into the lake, the ones that Nick, an especial favorite fireman of mine, painted red back when I was the department clerk. I'll guess they were just clearing lines; I know they refill that pumper truck with "city water" from a nearby town.

When I first pulled up, they were pumping that plume out over the lake. I couldn't get out of the car fast enough for a shot.

I came on home, stopping for the mail and to put my packet of material through the rent payment slot. That was another thing irritating me over the weekend, as you may recall. Making me grumpy and wanting to blow this popsicle stand.

It sure was windy, and my hair blew in my eyes and my mouth. It has been growing far too long, and part of feeling sorry for myself. So, I made an appointment for it to be cut tomorrow, before anything else.