A two day birthday extravaganza

In truth, two regular days, with the addition of people celebrating my birthday. I went to breakfast yesterday with my BFF Carol, who I met in 1972.

Carol and I go to breakfast about once a month, to a little hole in the wall near me. We take up a corner booth for the better part of a morning, between the breakfast and lunch crowds. 

Between the mountains of Pennsylvania, and the ravines of northeast Ohio, Carol has always lived in a snow belt. A year ago February she put her house on the market, sights set on Charleston, South Carolina.

To her dismay, though not mine, the house didn’t sell. Then, yesterday, “The house goes under contract tomorrow!”  They probably won’t be gone before July. The good news—another place to visit. So, bacon and eggs and home fries and cake and which of two houses Carol will buy. She’s pretty excited.

When I picked up Laura from art class, I found Mrs. P and Laura giggling. They had not been caught shopping for a present for grandma, instead of painting a still life. A lovely bar of lemon soap.

At home, a beautiful stir fry for supper, then cards and cake. Such a cake. White almond (think marzipan!) with raspberry filling, whipped cream frosting and shaved white chocolate. I had two pieces.

And today, a birthday lunch with Beth and Bill, Ruth, Caroline and Francis, the last two still on spring break. Caroline to the left of me, Francis to the right. I wanted to hear about France’s bike trip.

France is my fourteen year old grandson; two weeks younger than Laura and far taller than either of us. His parents have raised extremely free range children. France has bikes stashed at the homes of friends, the easier to get around to after school jobs and activities. A year ago he and a friend were riding from school to Little Italy, to get a latte and a haircut. An old Italian grandma stopped sweeping her sidewalk to brandish the broom and tell them to ride in the street. “My mom won’t let me,” France had to confess.

Here’s an even better Francis story. Last December he turned fourteen, got his work permit and went on the official payroll of a restaurant near school. He came through the door waiving his first paycheck, indignantly, overhead. “They’re nickel and dimeing me to death!” he protested.

France and a classmate wanted to spend part of spring break bicycling from Columbus, Ohio to their home in Cleveland, using back roads and parts of the Buckeye and Towpath Trails. Bill and the two boys drove the route first, and arranged suitable overnight accommodations. 

The actual trip took them four days; the weather was beautiful and they didn’t see much more than cows out in the farmlands of rural Ohio. For those of you who know where they were, they picked up the Towpath Trail in Canton, where industrial civilization begins, and rode on home.

Francis had the house burger, which comes skewered with that knife.

In case you can't make it all out, there is a beef burger, bacon, cheese, lettuce, a fried egg, and possible more.

Salmon for Caroline.

Getting it done...right

A problem nagging and nagging for the last several weeks seems to have imploded, no thanks to me. 

Quite unbeknownst to me, Emily and Laura sought out and consulted two family friends for advice on screwing up the courage to tell their mother, when the opportunity came, to stop telling them she was taking them back, as they would not be going. The opportunity came in just a couple of days, and they said what they had to say. Just think what cool hands they may be at breaking up with boyfriends.

We may not be out of the woods yet, but we will be.

Meanwhile, back in the studio, I took another try at a yoga/beach skirt. It required the disassembly of two entire serged seams, but, by golly, I think I got it. I see I didn't re-press the waistband seam, but the skirt's still on Helyn, and it will be done before a customer notices. I don't know about the length; it easily can be shorter, but will need customer feedback on that. The prototype probably is a few inches above the knee.

I do believe normal service is on the horizon.

Getting the rug stuff

That's how early in the morning it was.

I said "rug stuff." For shame.

By the dawn's early light we are off to buy weft for Linda to weave more rugs.

She weaves rugs from many different fibers: wool and cotton fabrics, heavy yarns,

and something called "shag."

"Shag" comes from upholstery mills.

It is the selvage edge of upholstery fabric.

In the modern high tech mills the warp no longer travels across the weaving surface on a shuttle.

The warp is laid in one row at a time by a stream of air.

Each row is held stable by a woven band of dummy warp or loom waste that is cut off at the end of the weaving process.

The black and white strip is a good illustration of the stabilizing strip with the shaggy ends of the single lines of warp hanging from each side.

Here are bags and bags of shag,

Waiting to be selected.

I realize I do not have one picture of Linda at a rug loom.

Here is a picture from the '90's, when I stopped by her studio in upstate New York to see her new 100" loom being assembled.

In the left corner one of her rug looms with the beam full of rugs, and the weaving surface used as a table for tools to assemble the big loom.

(Do note how very 5'6" tall I used to be!)

I went to Linda's web site and picked one rug.

You can go there and see a page full of rugs for sale.

It's a Linda

It seldom happens this way

At six this morning the most awful clangor. In time I recognized my other alarm, the one with the extraordinary noise that will get through to me at the wrong time. Six a.m. is the wrong time.

I am off with Linda to buy rug stuff. We’re leaving at seven. Her ETD’s frequently are imaginary, so I called her at seven, and left a message.

She called back at 7:10 to announce, to her great joy, she really had a phone in the bottom of the twenty pound weight she calls a purse. 

To my great joy, she’s just coming through the toll booth.

It will be a good day.

She kept the packing list, of course

School is out in ten weeks, and this summer may be the most complex yet. Emily has a job unpacking and setting up at the middle school, twelve hundred notebooks. Don’t ask. Laura has art classes, and works for Mrs. P several days a week. Emily has college orientation. Laura wants one week at camp. We all want to visit Ann.

Getting my grip was essential. I emailed the band director and said I was resigned to being chained to the band from August until the football team lost its last game; just let me know when in August it all began. The reply: the first mandatory band practice is July 20^th; band camp begins July 24^th; blablablablabla.

Laura, on the other hand, is so excited about learning to march!

Tonight the annual Facts about Marching Band arrived. I pushed “print” for fifteen pages, and I sent Laura to the studio to take the packet from Aunt Jan’s printer. It fluttered over her head, coming back. “The stapler, the stapler, before I lose any.” I sent her off to read it, but still had most of it read into my ear, feigning surprise at each new page.

“Oh, no, gramma, it says ‘do not staple the medical forms!’” I handed over the staple remover and Laura disappeared. She reappeared with the packet rippling in the breeze, again, and returned it, announcing “I kept the packing list.”

She may be packing right now!