Shuffling a bit ragged

Hello, all. I wrote last the middle of last week, Wednesday. Since then I just kept straightening. As Shelly's muscular, furniture moving friend said, "You've made it look homey". Kind of him, and I have. All that needed finished was the loom area, and that happened Sunday. Shelly and I straightened out the entire thread situation and we left it good to go.

Sunday night I rounded up the trash to put outside the door at nine p.m. Shuffling along with my cane and another bag of trash I caught a right toe with a left toe, and holy memory of my last fall, I was down in a perfect face plant. My forehead, my glasses and my nose flat on the tile floor. Also my left knee and right palm. Only my nose broke.

Another ambulance ride, this time about nine-thirty at night. They CT'd my brain and x-rayed my knee and other things they were concerned about. Home about three in the morning. A nurse opened all the doors and the ambulance fellows wheeled me back to my door. I asked them to put out the trash as they left.

I was able to get an eye doctor appointment for today. I learned it has been more than five years since I purchased these frames and lenses. They can do little for the nick in the left lens. You can see it there, at the end of my eye, there on the right. So I bit the bullet and bought $650 worth of new frame and lenses. In two weeks I'll look quite different.

Tomorrow I'll work on an ENT appointment. I doubt anyone would want to mess with a broken nose right now. I was thinking you all must be pretty fed up with such a disastrous specimen. The good news is, nothing broke but my nose. The worst bit of that is being stuffy and the trail of blood I managed to keep on the tile. When I came home from the hospital, it was cleaned up. 

So between my bouts of drama, I have registered to vote! Clearing the most important jobs off my desk first! I probably should get an absentee ballot, but I can't do that until I know my name is registered on the polls.

We should also be thinking long and hard about our Florida and Canadian east blogger friends. Knowing they are loved can help when facing a storm stronger than they are. Now I'll post this and go read blogs.

Back on the internet

Hello. I'm in my comfortable desk chair, and falling asleep every couple of minutes. It's 4:33, and at five sharp I should be seated at the dinner table and looking engrossed in the conversations about me. So, there will be a long period of silence in this post. That's probably a good thing; I just took a series of pictures of the state of affairs, but they have not yet loaded.

It was a grueling move. The two young men had me out of the old place in two hours flat. But it took them six hours to load me into here, and that through no fault of their own. I am in the middle of everything in this building; no shortcuts I noticed. Down an excessively long hall, up one level, and retrace the route to the end of another hall. Brutal. That means a lot of walking for me, too, and I intend to become accustomed.

I'm sure you'd prefer a tour to homily's, so here goes. Come in a door, past the bathroom and coat closet, past the hall table and the tiny kitchen. Nothing else is tidy, yet.

About face, to the main part of the room, which consists of the loom, the shipping table, the sewing table and some furniture. Lots of furniture, and I gave some away today.

The thread cupboard and the red sofa became a sort of wall from the rest of the room, which house the green chair, the computer and the "cat's room".

 

The computer is on the near end of the black table. Behind the green chair is a "window seat", two or three feet deep and equally as high. When I saw it, I saw a cat up there, owning the window. When all else is right, I'll find an old cat to live there. 

And finally, the closet bedroom. Everyone remarks on claustrophobia. If the room were a foot wider and had a window over the bed, it would be my childhood bedroom.

Closing in

I've concluded it's crummy to be 80 years aged and packing to move--by myself.  So I treated myself!

It probably is the best pecan roll I've ever purchased, and sight unseen, no less. The shopper deserved every bit of the tip I left her.

One room, the studio, is done. Complete. The bathroom is stripped down to toothbrush, toothpaste, my comb, soap and a towel.

I'm down to my bedroom, and boxes are beginning to pile up. Most of the shelves in the closet are empty. I have about ten linear feet of shelving in my new bedroom, plus the metal shelving I've been dragging behind me the last several moves. Things will have a home.

I'm not up for more than half a day of work, and the rest of today is to empty the black shelving into the U-Haul box and seal it up. And finish the pecan roll. And keep sending "you can do it" gifs to Shelly, for her state nursing board exams tomorrow.

The weather is decidedly colder. Mid seventies all week, back to eighty for the weekend.

Well, down to the last fork full; back to packing.

P.S.: I'm the only one keeping track, I'm sure, but for the record of the work of New York banks, the first replacement credit card arrived today. The three to five business days to receipt card. The card compromised Sunday, August 28th, arrived today, September 13.

And if you are familiar with Ohio, it was mailed from Westerville, Ohio. That town is located on the three digit interstate that circles Columbus and shoots traffic off to Indiana, West Virginia and Kentucky. It takes less than two and a half hours to drive down Interstate 71 to Westerville. 

Back again

I just deleted a several page rant titled Screwed again by a New York Bank. I wrote it one week ago, on return from the last Peninsula Flea. I was quite ill, and lack of the anticipated replacement card was all I could manage.

Last Sunday: I woke for the necessaries. No card.

Last Monday: I woke for the necessaries and part of supper. No card.

Last Tuesday: Ditto, plus breakfast. I like breakfast. I get up for breakfast. Visited admissions lady, pocketed keys. Card arrived, picked up script and some food. (Out of food by now.)

Last Wednesday: I still slept all day, and ate some food, and wrapped my fingers around moving on the 19th. Went back to sleep.

Last Thursday: Made two boxes, packed one. Read some blogs, ate some food, slept a lot.

Yesterday: Packed and napped.

Today: Packed a lot more and napped. 

The studio is done; the bathroom is done, except last minute stuff. It's a week to go and just my bedroom to do. Sounds like an easy week of packing and napping.

I must get back into a regular routine! Next week!

As hard as I try...

The next couple of weeks are to be all about packing, to move on the 18th. I really have little to pack, so that's good.

One thing I need not pack is my trusty credit card. Sunday morning the first message that greeted me wanted to know if I made a certain purchase. "Yes" and you're good to go; "No" and your credit card is suspended. You guessed the answer. A new card will be in your hands in five days.

In the meantime, I must reserve a moving truck and give them a down payment. It's the same company that moved me the last couple of times, and Tammy said "That's OK; you're truck is reserved.

I need groceries by Friday, or I will be eating at my sister's. I'm getting my hair cut tomorrow. I always put that on my debit card, which could bottom out now. And worst of all, I have to refill my $300 script and that always goes on the credit card! I could wish the damn little thief would rot in hell, but we know that will never happen. 

Tuesday I went to the orthopedic place to be fitted for the foot brace that will lift my toe. I like Laura, the orthidic specialist. I was her last patient of the day, and she was completely willing to review all my options with me. In short, my lack of exercise has caught up with me; I need to develop stronger legs and hips to effectively use the brace. So, I will. 

I may even spring for a bathing suit (on the new credit card) and use the pool at The Atrium. Or not. Here I am waiting for Laura to sort out the braces.

In the meantime, I've begun packing. The studio will be the worst, but the thread is done. Here is a little yellow flower I found in the drive. Yellow is happy.

Research complete

There has been a lot of thinking in my room, lately. The thinking has centered around winter, and what I might do to get through it. A couple of doctors recently have offered me annual visits, not semi-annual. I accepted without second thought--it doesn't snow in August!

According to The Farmer's Almanac, northeastern Ohio is in for it. Unreasonably cold and snowy. I live about where the last "a" is located in that statement on the map. Last winter also was unreasonably cold and snowy. We had 20" of snow accumulated in the drive outside the garage; any car left in there would have been snowbound.

On the other hand, that same 20" was moved in increments from the hundred foot sidewalk to the top parking area, and then piled higher and higher around the two or three cars parking there. I didn't want to deal with one flake of it this winter, and by the time I thought of it, neither did any of the snow removal outfits that worked in the township. No plow company would take on the job.

Another problem is my solitude. I like it too much. I need someone to say "Let's go for a walk!" "Let's go to the gym!" And in my usual in for a dime, in for a dollar, I decided it's time to go all the way.

I've spent a deal of time these last couple of weeks interviewing independent living facilities. I had to know if they could accommodate my business, my car, my deliveries, and then all my wants, like a card game, a gym, a studio apartment.

The most common strike-out was a waiting list. Next was lack of the size/price point I wanted. Several offered the next size up at reduced rent, but I have become so leery of rental agents, no thanks. These places are all owned by people interested in profit. Then there was the right size, on the second floor, without an elevator.

I kept my eye on a community that looked perfect on paper (actually, the internet). I exchanged texts with the Community Coordinator; she would return my call the next day, the next day, the next day; she was swamped with tours. An assistant did call to offer apologies and we set up an appointment for yesterday, the last tour of the day, though there were two on the schedule for today, Saturday.

Jan came with me; two old ladies on canes. The Coordinator was personable and knowledgeable. I patiently sat through the sales pitch, and all I wanted to do was see the room I knew was still available. The boxes I needed ticked were. 

When we came to car and snow, the concierge will clean your car and drive it around to the main entrance for you. "We keep snow cleared; safety is first!" It actually says that on their front page: 'A senior living community specializing in "quality of life with safety in mind."' I almost signed on the dotted line right there. But I still needed to see the room.

Bigger than my current digs. The Coordinator was pointing out where the previous tenant had positioned his bed, his sofa, his blablabla. And I said to Jan, "The bed goes into this walk in closet, plus my clothes.

There is a storage area across from my door to store all the wheel chairs and walking aids and other miscellaneous I have accumulated. The community laundry room is one more door down.

Three enormous windows are positioned along the wall behind the "bed". The first two windows are set into an alcove; the third has a very deep window seat in the alcove in front of it. Something mechanical is enclosed by that window seat, and I asked the Coordinator to learn what. 

I asked my sister, "What would love to occupy that window?", and she said "You tell me; I'm not putting any ideas into your head!"

"A cat!"

"You can't have Toby; Bek loves that cat!"

"I know, and he's all hers!" I asked the Coordinator, "Pets allowed?"

She answered "Small dogs and cats."

"Sounds like a calico to me," I said to Jan.

Deal done. Sometime in September I will be in the last efficiency in The Atrium of Aurora. Ohio, that is.

 

Another medical comedy (of errors)

I may have mentioned I have another bone density test scheduled, and I'm looking forward to it. My oldest daughter has been diagnosed with the same brittle bones I have, and like me has hesitated to take any of the several drugs on the market said to strengthen bones. She is anxious to know my results since the Reclast infusion early this year.

Actually, I have had three bone density tests scheduled, to date. I was leaving the house for the first test and was called to reschedule because they didn't have an operator to make the test. I was called to reschedule the second because the machine was broken.

The third was scheduled for last week. At the lab desk I said I was there for my bone density. She couldn't find it. Flipping through my calendar, I saw it, same date, one month in advance. My mistake. Worse yet, I had another appointment that day, so I made a new appointment, even further out.

And so I told the scheduler, as long as I was there, send me for my blood draw for my thyroid appointment next week. And you know that outcome--no standing order. So I was assigned an extra dexamethasone test, which required a blood draw by nine this morning. The purpose of this test is to find if my adrenals are making hormones they should not be making. I did this test about ten years ago.

I got a move on this morning and actually showed up at the lab by 8:30 a.m. The young, new scheduler pulled me up on the screen. Then he consulted a piece of paper, then he consulted his supervisor, in another room. Then he came back and said "We don't do that test here. They only do it downtown. He didn't know why it wasn't done here anymore; maybe because it had to be frozen.

So, I waited my turn for the lab, went in, was stuck and was walking out when I noticed that of the three racks the technician was sorting little tubes of newly collected blood into, one said "frozen". I turned and asked my tech about the rack of "frozen" vs. the blood test I couldn't have. 

She kindly looked it up, and said "The test ordered for you has to be flash frozen. They actually carry it to the next room at once and flash freeze it. They only do that test down town."

I couldn't even go to one of the several other Cleveland Clinic labs to have this done; I'd have to go downtown, to the main hospital. That involves scheduling an appointment, getting a ride, getting a wheel chair, reversing the transportation after the bloodwork to get home.

As I emailed the doctor, what you get is what you get. I do not go downtown.

A short night tonight

This will be a ramble rant; probably more of the former than the latter. Many years ago I was subjected to floor to ceiling scanning and a node on an adrenal gland was noticed. I have discovered in my encounters with emergency centers, if they have opportunity to scan you top to bottom, they do. The first time was in conjunction with my stroke.

So anyway, I have an endocrinologist, who is in charge of keeping my thyroid in line, and I see him every six months. I need to have blood work done before I go, and so I went to the clinic to do that last week for an appointment to see him this week.

My standing order had run out! I fired off an unhappy email to him and he answered he'd put in a new order, and an order for adrenal labs. I responded Why? It keeps turning up the same size, scan after scan. Well, he said, it could be making hormones we can't find in a scan. He would prescribe a pill to take at night and have the blood draw no later than nine the next morning.

Well hold the phone. I'm barely eating breakfast at nine. What are my alternatives? And so help me, not twenty four hours later, just maybe 4 minutes later her replied The 24 Hour Urine Test.

Not the Pee Test! Now I recall ten years ago when faced with the 9 a.m. blood draw, opting cheerfully for the Pee Test. If you have ever done it, you know. If you have not done it, you really don't want to.  I know, and don't want to do it again. 

My problem with it is, schlepping that gallon jug of pee to the lab and sitting until your turn in the waiting room, surrounded by blood draw folks, with a gallon of pee between your feet. And there is no question that bottle holds anything but pee.

I have decided, since there were no suspects in 24 hours of pee ten years ago and it's been the same little node in many scans since, there probably will be no suspects in this 9 a.m. pill pee test. I'm 79; in ten years I'll be 89 and the next time this subject comes up, I'll just refuse. With any luck my endo doc will be retired by then.

OK, that's the story. Thanks for listening. I'm about to search my albums for an illustration. What can I find?

Who is the social head of your family?

This weekend I attended a very nice family celebration, so reminiscent of my entire childhood. Back then my mom presided over the family activities; she was the glue that held us all together. All that was missing this weekend, beside all those old familiar relatives, was a lively card game around the picnic table.

Here is a picture Shelly's best friend took for me. From left to right, my daughter, Shelly; my sister, Janice; myself, the long time writer of this blog; and my daughter, Beth.

We were at Shelly's house to celebrate Shelly's graduation from Ursuline College with an MSN degree; she is a nurse practitioner. The state boards, her last requirement, are set for a month from now.

Shelly is the mother of four of my grandchildren, one of whom lives here in this house where I rent a room. Kay, the house owner, has become the ad hoc guardian of that grandchild, too old to legally need a guardian, but her attention is appreciated. Many long time readers will remember I had custody of those three youngest children until each became 18 years of age.

Beth is the mother of my other two grandchildren, Francis and Caroline. France begins his second year of college in a few more days and Caroline starts her first year in a few days. Some of you followed France on his hiking and biking adventures. He wrote a blog, Summit, on a difficult to access platform, covering his trips on trails in this country (the Great Divide Mountain bike trail, Canada to Mexico) and the Ho Chi Min trail in Vietnam, all before he turned 18. That one made his mother crazy. 

Caroline begins college at Macalester, in St. Paul, Minnesota this year. She's the one for whom I took up sweater knitting again, though France in Colorado College in Colorado Springs, Colorado, probably qualifies for cold, too. I have no current pictures of these two, or of any grandchildren, these days. I perused Facebook for some old pictures. 

Here are Francis, Beth, my dear friend Ruth, who is the mother of my son-in-law, Bill, to Ruth's left. They met France somewhere in the Appalachians, at the end of a Francis bike trip, to drive him home. Or perhaps they met him for lunch and he pedaled his way home.

I thought I had a current picture of Caroline, a camera avoider, but I cannot seem to find it. Here she is a few years ago, on one of her father's backpacking trips. She lost no time finding other places to go, like to Grandma Ruth's house.

Her mother is taking the picture. Caroline is the epitome of enthusiasm here. She has grown to a sterling young woman who would have a place in that very first picture. I named that picture The Lytle Women, as each of us is unquestionably a descendent of my parents. Beth named her daughter Caroline Lenore, in honor of that grandparent, and Caroline is my mother's great granddaughter, for sure.

When Ruth, Caroline and I go to lunch this Tuesday, I'll do my best to get a picture of the three of us. I bet Caroline can do selfies.

A blunder of errors

I was not looking forward to yesterday. In the afternoon I would have the second two of four cavities, spread across four teeth, remediated. How does one come up with four cavities, you inquire. My best guess involves six or seven weeks on my back, access to a toothbrush few and far between. None weight bearing broken femur...

Not my mistake. I saw an aid at best two days out of three.

Anyway, as unfortunate as I counted the day of dental remediation, the fickle finger of fate interposed herself to unscrew some dumb errors to my granddaughter's medical calendar. It began with a phone call from upstairs, where my granddaughter has an adequate den across the front of the house.

"Grandma, I know you have a dental appointment this afternoon, but I wonder..." I love that sort of phone call. I find my sister and my daughters willing to grant favors, but it often does not extend to grandchildren.

After a bit of schedule checking on both parts, it was very apparent my granddaughter had lucked into a ride to and from her very own dental appointment in another city, though not for an afternoon appointment for another doctor appointment. "It's OK, Gramma; I can Uber that one."

Unbeknownst to Ms. Lucky Ducky, I intended to send her on two errands as we drove home from her appointment; nip into Dollar Tree and buy a new bottle of Tylenol for me, and into Kreigers for four apples. Turnabout is fair play.

I parked across from a reconstituted building: Belltower Brewing Company, the First Congregational Church one hundred fifty years ago, now a brew-pub. The cast bell, forged in 1867, rings the hour, every hour. I took a picture. My phone rang.

"Grandma, they forgot to put me on the schedule, but can work me in in about an hour. I guess I could Uber home."

Since my appointment was 2:30 in the afternoon, I said I would wait. She was so happy. When she arrived, I told her about the Tylenol and apples. "We could get the Tylenol right at the gas station there!" and I pulled in. I dug in my purse, found four singles, and off she went. In no time she was back with a little box of six Tylenol and less than a dollar in change. I invited her to keep the 'silver' for herself.

When I was over myself we headed for her other appointment in Hudson, and had fun working into Hudson via the back roads from Kent. I realized I could cut through the shopping plaza, get four apples from Acme and get her to her next appointment with an hour to spare.

Things were looking up. I sent her with a card this time, and four nice apples set me back $3.46. I had one for lunch today. Juicy and crunchy. Very good. We'll see if the Tylenol work. I was too beat up from my appointment to take any yesterday.

Catching up with myself

Saturday was the next to last show at Heritage Farm. Although satisfactory, sales have not met expectations, and after four shows, I believe I can blame it on the economy.

Beth has been a wonderful sidekick, but she does not want to do this next year, which leaves me pondering. I was up and down from my chair so much, waiting on customers, I felt like I was doing the therapy exercise, Stand Up, Sit Down (don't plop); Stand Up, Sit Down (don't plop). 

By the end of the day I had far exceeded a week's worth, and Sunday I was so limber I threw myself into some much needed housework. A commitment to next year is not needed until year's end, so I'll keep weaving and thinking.

I've been able to take some lovely end of summer pictures this week. Here are a couple:

Silly that I like them a lot, but the allium frames are still standing, though denuded of their giant flower heads.

This picture has focus issues. I believe the white flower must be allium, but not giant.

I am trying to make a new type of page for my blog; a page with pictures in rows, not just one column. It seems to be a matter of switching to HTML and making a grid similar to an Excel grid. I'm not great in Excel, but think I can manage.

And last, I finally sorted down to the denim thread, and they are in process.

The Workshop - Sewing Girl" - Carl Larsson

 

Carl Larsson was a Swedish painter, primarily representing the Arts and Crafts movement. He is principally known for his watercolors of idyllic family life. He had a childhood of poverty and indignity; the family was often evicted from the current revolting housing. His father, a casual laborer, cursed the day Larsson was born, and Larsson harbored a lifetime hatred of the man. His mother worked as a laundress to keep the family fed.

Carl Larsson's life took a better turn when a teacher at the school for the poor encouraged him to apply to Royal Swedish Academy of Arts. It took him some time to feel settled in and accepted there, but he gained confidence and was promoted through the school.

He worked as an illustrator and graphic artist and his wages even helped support his parents. He settled into the Scandinavian Artist colony outside Paris, where he met his wife, Karin Bergoo. The couple had eight children, and the family were Larsson's favorite models. Many of the interiors he painted were the work of Karin Larsson, an interior designer.

Through his paintings and books, their Little House interiors became world famous and a major line in Swedish design. The house is now in the family and open to tourists May through October. The room in this painting is The Workshop. It was the main gathering room, and when the family outgrew it, Larsson built a new Workshop. Karin at once took over the old Workshop as her own, and it remained a gathering place.

It is surmised this watercolor is of Karin, hemming towels for a daughter's wedding.

The first time I used this piece, we moved around the room naming all we saw. The room reminded me of our first studio, with looms and sewing machines, plants, and tables. I did not see the gun on the back wall until it was pointed out to me. 

Knowing more of Carl Larsson's life and family, it makes sense now. Larson lived from 1853 to 1919. This was a family room in a rural setting in Sundborn. The gun was a practical implement to save the family garden from animal marauders and stock the stewpot. 

If you call up Carl Larsson on the internet, you will find pages of his images and this room in many, including a spinning wheel and a weaver at the loom. There is a watercolor of Karin at the sewing machine. 

My thanks to Cathy at StillWaters, who first sent me a link to the picture.

The Rube Goldberg fix

I hope many of us remember Rube Goldberg, the sculptor, engineer, author, inventor, and most of all (for me) the cartoonist. At my grandparent's home on Sundays, the comics of the Cleveland papers far exceeded those of my hometown Akron papers. One of the best always was Rube Goldberg and his elaborate methods to achieve a common end.

You may recall that oversight on the part of both participants in the last warping of my loom left the weaver (me) with a problem to resolve when encountered, namely two threads missing in the warp.

There are two threads, exiting the coffee can, crossing the breast beam and the heavy cotton apron. Then they go...

through the tension box that otherwise is used on the back beam to guide thread into the bouts. Ignore the prescription bottles, they are solving a different problem.

And the two threads come up and join the threads of the bout being woven into very decent towels on this convoluted warp.

There they are, just two more threads in the warp, only special by how they arrived.

This time I've weaving khaki, the color of my father's army uniforms. They may be finished for the show on Saturday. Or not.

I used the tension box solely to put tension on those two threads. It turns out the coffee can and the trip over the breast beam and especially the cotton apron provide enough tension; I could have eliminated the tension box all together. Or not. 

Q&A

There were so many little questions buried in last night's comments that I decided to tackle them in a post.

Can genetics be the key to never getting the coronavirus? I didn't ask the question that coherently; I didn't even ask the question. But I know I have been exposed many times to the virus, and avoided it. I wondered if a thing about my make up that I noticed years ago might be at play.

I say I am immune to smallpox because that's what my father said. Both of us suffered several vaccination, never had the well known scab and didn't have the characteristic little scar. The last time I was "vaccinated" was to go to college, whereupon they gave up on me as immune.

Another thing my dad and I had in common was O- blood. My youngest brother also had O- blood. Neither of us suffered seriously from mosquito bites, and we jokingly attributed it to our O- blood. Sadly, he's no longer around to continue the investigation into covid. I don't know if he couldn't produce a vaccination scar, either. And attributing O- blood and other genetic characteristics to covid avoidance has not basis in reality; it's just family joke kind of talk.

Liz at Field and Fen said she'd begun an article about genetics and covid, but it was basically not interesting, and she could no longer remember its source. I looked at the article's first paragraph some time ago, but The Atlantic's paywall shut me down. The article is linked if you care to look at it. I don't know if the paywall will apply.

Taking one for the team (not really) I splashed my $55 tonight to read it. It was a lot of techno speak about studies that helped break HIV and other not relevant information. Science and technology are listed dead last of the topics it covers. Politics is first. I will cancel while my "subscription" is free.

There was once more question thrown out. Kathy G wondered if there was much lint thrown out when I washed and dried my toweling fabric. It depends on how the dryer deals with lint. With outdoor vented dryers, the process produces a small pile of pure cotton lint, beloved by amateur paper makers. With indoor vented dryers, the lint residue is compacted and rolls up in a ball smaller than a ping pong ball. I wish I could think of a common ball smaller.

And finally, the Larsson print. I find him fascinating. I ran that print one time before and we had a lovely time with it. I'll do some research on him and the print will be the subject of my next post.

No covid, hurrah, hurrah

I wonder if emerging Covid free from essentially two sources of exposure has anything to do with being O-, mosquitos don't bite me, I'm naturally immune to smallpox, not to mention Lysol wipes, mask and, oh, yes, quarantining.

That was written late last night, after our text messages were flitting from phone to phone. The other person felled by covid was cleared! I dashed off that paragraph, intending to write an entire posting today, while the length of toweling went through the washer and dryer.

Then, one of us tested positive this morning, at the end of many days of negative, and was given five more days of quarantine. I flipped over to the news feed, to find something happy to write of. The good news is, it's 72 degrees, going on 80, thunderstorms predicted. I guess that's why I was looking around for my jacket.

I literally found nothing else. I started listing the bad news, and just deleted that paragraph. There was a snippet about Instacart retaining its share in the fairly new delivery market. Currently it adheres to a thirty minute program, and is considering adding a fifteen minute service.

This sort of competition is stupid, but that is only my opinion in relation to my very unique lifestyle. Still, haste makes waste!

I haven't described my lifestyle lately, related to delivery services.  I'm not driving for Instacart, but I have subscribed in a big way. I've settled into a routine of weekly ordering. It's not from my preferred store, Kreigers. That is an independent store and does not use Instacart. I've settled on the Heinen's in  Hudson.

On the whole, it's an excellent service. I keep a running list, and when I'm down to nothing for supper, I call in the order. On the whole the shoppers have been good to excellent. The fails with inexperienced shoppers have been sad. I asked one to substitute Land of Lakes unsalted butter for my brand she could not locate. I got a plastic tub of Land of Lakes butter/canola oil spread. Sad.

However, one of my first substitutions introduced me to Asian cuisine. That shopper knew his way around the frozen entrées. I need to look into the shopper protocol and see how I can select a tried and true. There may be no solution to peanut butter for some time. A shopper substituted Skippy natural peanut butter for my order, and I was a long time stirring up and eating it.

The good news I do know is that the toweling has cleared the washer and dryer and is ready to cut and hem. Here is a happy picture. Remember this? Many of us missed the gun on the back wall. Any ideas on what it is?

A hesitant post

I am double vaccinated and double boosted. I've had a shingles shot, a pneumonia shot, but no flu shot yet this year. I've read all of those shots, including a flu shot, add to protection against covid. In unison they rev up the old immune system, tuning it up for the job. Oh, yes, and the mask. Don't forget the mask.

A week ago, I learned that one of the four of us in the house has covid. The ground rules for limiting exposure were laid out and time went on. On Tuesday I went to the dentist for the first two of four very expensive fillings. The older one grows, the more ancient and obsolete one's dentistry becomes. Like all antiques, its repair and restoration can become a budget line item.

My head still not entirely clear when I came through the front door, I took a phone call from upstairs. I could be completely wrong on the timing, but no matter. Now two of the four occupants have covid. I was strongly encouraged to move out of the house for a time.

I'd stopped at the house to use the toilet; it was before the drug store on my way home and I had scripts to pick up. So, I turned over evacuation on my way, waiting in line and on the way home.  I decided to stay put. I have nowhere to go; I live here, for crying out loud. I was working on a new web page, and don't have a portable computer. I desperately need to weave, after straightening out my warp.

The threads are skipping everywhere to get to a heddle. If you're not a disciplined fiber person, you may never see it. Here's the secret: it's not how they begin, it's how they end up.

And this is where the thread ends up, in the front of the loom, to be woven. Weaved? Fastened down with horizontal threads. By the time 440 heddles and 220 reed dents have their way, it's a nice warp, ready to weave.

Back to sitting in line at the drug store, I decided I will not leave; there is no place to reasonably go. So I added a large cannister of Lysol wipes to the drug order. I was pleased to read not only its claim of killing 99.9% of viruses and bacteria, it is proven also to kill covid-19 virus.

My plan became to wear a mask when required and be armed with a wipe when in any common area of the house, like the kitchen or living room. Most everyone who had my explanation of my plan agreed.

So there you have my exciting week, condensed into a short column. I read that Bannon drank his own Kool-Aide. I like that, though I suspect it will be years before he serves his day in prison. I only know what I know about the Jan6 hearings what I hear from you. I have not been able to watch one minute.

But, here is what the new warp is looking like! It's denim blue.

I am so pisscited

Here's a story from the time I was an exhibiting weaver. We exhibitors would arrive at our venue, generally the evening prior, load in our display and our stock, set up an attractive booth. The next morning we arrived early, ran our vacuum, dusted down the display,  stashed our personal belongings out of sight, and waited for the doors to open.

It also was a good idea to engage with the spirit of the show. Customers come to have a good time and it's the job of every exhibitor to help them have a good time. When I was ready to open but it wasn't yet time to open the doors, I often walked the show, exchanging greetings, encouraging new vendors. 

New vendors would ask, "Is this a good show?", and I became so known for saying "This is a GREAT show! I LOVE this show," that groups of exhibitors saw me coming and started the chant "I LOVE this show" when I was still ten booths away.

So, long story short (haha), at a show in Virginia, I had to scoot to be back at my booth on time. though I was safe because I was at the left end of the show. When the doors open and the crowd surges in past the ticket booth, they turn right. I know a lot of things about how people behave!

It was a regular school day, a Friday, and a little girl dragging an older woman broke from the crowd and turned left. She definitely was in charge of her little train, and all the way I could hear her saying "I am so pisscited! I am so pisscited!" They stopped in my booth and I learned she was six and in the first grade, but her aunt had her mother call her off school that day to come to the show, and she was so pisscited.

That's still a good way to be, most mornings.

Shara, the woman who redid my web page, within the parameters of the program, is done. I am so pisscited. I had no idea an old weaver could look so good. Send me more pictures. You all feature large in the new format. The whole site is good. I am so pisscited.

Click on the circle of towels at the top of the column on the right and you go straight there, any time. Or click on the link, Everything Old is New Again.Shop, and there you go, this time.

A couple more shoes to drop!

Jan came in at ten this morning, to change out spools while I wound on the missing bout. This was yesterday's eleven bouts:

This is today's eleven bouts:

And why do the threads look messy? Because they are! At one time they were so neatly tied on to all those threads hanging from the heddles. But then new bouts cannot be wound on. Sadly, off tension, thread loses much of its snappy, polite persona, and just goes limp. This warp will be the ugliest of my life. I'll treat you to a picture, when it's tied on.

I had just reached turn 101 of 125 when my sister said, "Wait, there's a thread not moving. As she searched the thread run for its position, I searched the reeds, the little metal uprights that hold the thread. When I could not locate the missing slot, I counted. Thirty eight threads, not forty. Two missing. For 100 turns. Well, 101. I put the two through an end slot, taped them to the bout, and finished. 

Not my first time at this rodeo, either, but I gave up the tools to solve the problem around 2002, when Jan and I retired. I believe I can make the tension box work. I will make something work!

My web page is being massaged by a professional. Everything Old is New Again. That is very good news. The first page is about done, a couple of references to fix. There will be another page about cotton and towels and words to be SEO'd, Search Engine Optimization. Is there anything you'd like to see? Let me know and we'll see if it can happen.

The centipede's other feet

Picking up where I left off, I had a loom to tie on. I even posted a picture of eleven bouts, ready to tie on.

Today I began. Why today? It's Thursday, for crying out loud. What kept you busy Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday?

I was sick. Sick. S.I.C.K. I remember saying to someone, "I'm not getting anything done! And I didn't! I slept. I sat in the recliner, totally upright. I slept. And so on.

Finally today I began tying new threads to old. Somewhere past the half way mark I wondered why there were more knots of thread through heddles than bouts of thread on the loom. I counted. There were eleven sets of thread on the loom, the bouts from the last warp, and ten sets of thread on the back of the loom.

There is only one way to solve this problem, and that is to wind on the last section. I called Jan. Now we understand why so few tubes of thread ran out. She did remind me that she was not in charge of counting.

I promised that when she arrives on Saturday, the entire set up will be returned to its Saturday state, like we just took a break! I probably will spend much of tomorrow getting that job done.

There was ample company this week. First, way outside my window, a wabbit. I sat on the bed for a long time, watching it enjoy breakfast. I've seen it before, sans a companion or baby rabbits. It seems quite alone.

And in my window, on the screen, a long-legs. He needs to pay attention, the robins often land on the screen.

And on the threshold, this moth. I do not recognize it at all.

So, back to it. I've a lot of thread to cut and tape down. The beam  cannot be turned in its current state.

What have I done with myself, you ask

One thing I have not done is clean my room. My feet are arguing with an overflowing wastebasket I am too tired to empty. Tomorrow.

That last show was only a week ago. I spent this week finishing the warp with the intent of turning on a new warp this weekend. That happened; my sister came this morning and watched for spools to run dry while I turned and turned and turned. The older I get, the heavier the beam becomes.

Jan's eagle eye on the spools of thread. Though we both thought at least eight spools would run out, only three came up dry.

Here's a funny picture. Both of us use canes. Hers is the tall one.

And there are 125 turns of thread, ready to be tied on to the old warp. I've met several weavers at the three shows, and none had any notion of sectional beaming. They still do what they were taught, measuring off a dozen yards of warp and threading front to back, and essentially spending as much time putting on the warp as weaving it off. That is completely reasonable if you want half a dozen towels, but not if you intend to make a living weaving.

The other time grabber this week, and next week, has been talking to the web designer I hope can help me improve the web site. I told her I wanted to come up pretty often in a web search, and she asked if I was prepared to compete with Walmart. There are other ways, and we'll get into them next week.

And finally, we aren't going to hell in a handbasket. It's worse than that. We seem to have lost all respect each other. For the right of every other person in this country to have a life and enjoy it. Why the hell does anyone think he/she (basically he's) has the right to whip out a gun and indiscriminately fire. Or discriminately, in the case of the young man in Illinois.

My home town is no more immune than yours. Over the holiday weekend, a "celebratory" shot fired across the Portage Lakes killed a young woman sitting in her living room.

Before that, we had what has become the usual police stop for a tail light violation and the unarmed young Black driver went down forever under sixty or seventy bullets. This week at a street party, guns came out and were fired and an old man and a four year old girl died.

The only way I see to stop the insanity of guns is to advocate. Each of us can contribute. Vote. Vote for any candidate who pledges to stop the insanity that is universal gun ownership. You can advocate for sanity by encouraging voter registration, especially young voters. 

Come November, which is not that far away, volunteer to drive voters to the polls. Ask the League of Women Voters what you can do in your county. Advocate in any way you can, and as if your life depended on it.

Barn swallows and wrens and other news

I looked up from my knitting the other day and through the window saw a tiny house wren on the rail, looking at me. Fascinated, I held its gaze for many long seconds. I blinked and it was gone. Here's a picture I borrowed from the web:

I picked this picture because it looks like my railing and my wren. Why do I like them so? That perky little tail; the stance, ready to take on the world. The little fledglings, as jaunty as their parents. And, I've missed them. After a steady diet of sparrows and the occasional chickadee, it's good to come back to a variety of birds. Sadly, there are not so many varieties without the feeders up. But apparently there still is a male wren, supervising half a dozen nests.

This past weekend was the third Peninsula Flea. The weather was perfect. Low eighties, good traffic, decent sales, good company with Beth, my daughter and wing man. 

At the show last weekend I saw a barn swallow enter a nest on a beam. There was a long twig hanging down, but I could not direct Beth's eyes to it.

Yesterday the swallow flew into the barn, circled a couple of times, weaving through the rafters like a stunt plane. This time Beth saw it and where it entered its nest. Later in the day I saw the swallow fly from the nest, but only clear a couple of rafters before it settled on a rope and stayed. Fortunately it was between exhibitors, because as it settled and surveyed us, there were the inevitable droppings.

I've never seen swallows except at Ann's. Those were dark, front and back, so that was a swallow, as I understood them. Suddenly the barn swallow turned around to face us, and I was dumbfounded by its pristine waistcoat. Here's another picture borrowed from the web:

I'm doing five shows this summer. Three are done, two left, one in August, one in September. I agreed last January to do all five because I expected to be in much better physical shape by summer. Though I've been able to keep up my inventory, I have not defeated the arthritis in my right hip. I will overcome, the question is when.

With that in mind, I've made several decisions on going forward. First I will not do shows next summer unless I am as pain free as last year, when I did the final couple of shows alone. Beth does not want to do this next year, and I don't blame her. She has sacrificed five good Saturday's to help her mother, and I appreciate it more than I can say.

Next, I will improve my web site. It has begun well enough, with Blake's help, but he's busy with his life, and has been stumped by a couple of my requests. To that end, I have an interview Tuesday with a recommended web designer. We'll see what happens.

And finally, I will not increase my prices this year. I probably will not increase prices until Covid is controlled and all fifty states have women's rights on their books and/or in their constitutions. That includes my state, Ohio.

Have a safe and happy July 4th celebration. Get back to redressing the past and improving the future on July 5th. 

The tax man commeth

There are benefits to a small town and friendly people. I had a slip of paper in the mail box, addressed to me at the trailer, but delivered to my new street address. Bless their hearts. It was a notification of a certified letter at the post office. I thought about it all day yesterday, and the only folks I thought still might not know my new address were the owners of the trailer park itself, off in New Jersey. So, today I went to the post office and signed my name.

It was a letter from the Ohio Department of Taxation, informing me Everything Old is New Again had not filed for the last half of last year, and consequently owed six hundred odd dollars.  I remember little of what I did when I returned from rehab, but I was pretty sure I'd paid sales taxes collected last year. 

I signed on to the Department's new and improved (?) web site, and noodled until I found "History". There it was, the top entry. I'd paid the ninety odd dollars collected--on January 7th of this year. Seven days after I'd collected any money and eight days before it was due, and fresh off a broken femur (though they wouldn't care about that).

So, I wrote a letter, which I'll mail when I next go out. I probably could resolve it somewhere on the web site, but I'm still an analog mind in a digital world. I don't care how long it stretches out; I paid the money due.

I planted the mandevilla, as ever. The white, pink and salmon have been blooming profusely, but the red took its good time. It finally opened a flower yesterday, so on the way to the post office I took pictures. The red is the last picture. 

The red mandevilla. It looks more pink. Look to the far left of the white mandevilla and see the milkweed in bloom. We planted that from seed, and found a tiny praying mantis over the weekend. You can't have one without the other.