How about Don, Jr.

Today's wake up headline was Don, Jr. exposing the whistle blower. How low can they go? Eventually I worked my way to the studio to work on towels, and saw this cartoon on my Christmas present calendar last year, from Ann.

I didn't like beards fifty odd years ago, when they were the insignia of the dad in New Yorker's cartoon.  I think the current sprouting of dark facial hair is now, as then, indicative of a lazy turn of mind and disinclination to find a neater way to avoid shaving.

And if junior Trump is listening, your facial hair turns my stomach. So did your face.

The suppression of the revelation by two of the major news sources notwithstanding, I got down to work. I would have set to work in any event, and actually was very pleased that ABC and NBC flipped off a Trump.

Delivery of my towels is scheduled for Sunday. I have the loom wound on again, and the second batch of towels set to come off tomorrow. Today I hemmed a lovely pile of melon colored towels. Warm, summer cantelope. The towels to be off tomorrow are lilac.

I've spent part of the week playing. After thirty plus years in this town, I went to my Methodists' election day dinner. I invited Lynn and Jim, who were seated across from a couple who also attend E.J. Thomas musicals, but who they had not met. I sat across from Sig, who worked for the road department when I started. How much I learned about roads from Sig and Tim, the road super. It was a great meal on all accounts.

It was a very good election, too. For the third consecutive year, Trump failed to produce the votes he promised.  Enough of that for now, back to towels tomorrow.

A trip of inspiration

The only thing I do as quickly as anyone else is drive! That came to me the other day: how fortunate I've refused to lose my edge, on that score, at least.

I took a tiny trip mid week, to meet another weaver and share what we know. I could have left an hour earlier, for even though we live in the same time zone, Hilary lives almost on the eastern edge and I live almost on the western edge. The sun sets an hour earlier over her studio!

Hilary has a blog, Crazy as a Loom, and is commencing a web site by the same name. In truth, she's had the web site since forever, and has made the giant leap of faith to upgrade, and learn how to use it best. She is a weaver beyond my ken; I am in absolute awe of her sixteen harness work. Her blog goes to the web site; click on through the throws, capes and drapes, mobieus work, reversibles!

My biggest impression, if I had to name one, is her wild and crazy. She has not lost that edge, in spite of her damaged brain. I wanted so much to meet her and see her studio, but was so hesitant about the steps and her dogs. "We'll have a good time; come on," she said, one banged up brain to another. She was absolutely right; we did.

There are no pictures, for I left my phone charger on the chair at home. But Hilary sent me away with a little wall hanging that expresses her controlled crazy to me.

Mr. YouKnowWho spent the time at the spa, and didn't have a haircut. He may need to go back for that. He's leaving blobs of hair everywhere. However, this year I am totally capable of bending over to pick them up. Toby seems happy. I see no reason to go soon.

So, back to my studio and those utilitarian towels I'm decent at. The next studio open house is the 16/17th and 23/24th of this month, with delivery of goods the 10th. That's a week from tomorrow.

A revelation

For my last birthday, way back in March, my sister stopped by with a gift, a quilt she made. Now I own three quilts! One is a light cotton, my summer quilt, one is flannel, my winter quilt, and the new quilt is cotton, but the batt, the lining in the middle, is wool. She has steered her customers to this new wool batt of late. It is light and it is warm, she says.

When she came, way back in March or April, I put the quilt on the shelf for the next season, spring being around the corner. And Laura was packing to move and I was packing to move and it just wasn't the time.

Yesterday I finished my changeover to winter, including changing out bedding. I threw my pillow back on the new quilt.

The pine green that looked nice with my old quilts is a jarring NoNo. I rummaged back on the shelves and found the second case of a pair I used twenty or more years ago.

Now, that is perfect! Jan knows I like green. Purple is her color, though in my dotage I find I'm owning more and more of it. And for the quilters out there, the new quilt is strips of flying geese.

So, last night I slipped under a quilt with a wool batt. It is feather weight, like it's barely there at all. Then the warm turned on. Hard to explain. Years ago a friend picked up a handspun wool sweater I'd made for her husband. He was ill and on the sofa when she went home. She laid it over him and he told her several times how warm it was.

Wool is a different kind of warm. I can explain the reason, but not the feeling. My sister calls the quilts with wool, the ultimate snuggle. 

Lacking motivation

I have a lovely shopping bag of towels for the artist open house. There are 42, a bit less than twice as many as last time, if my math is working properly. I also turned a new warp on last week, and it looked to be the nicest to date. Then I began tying it on, and devised story after story for the extra two threads I seemed to have picked up.

There is no short explanation here, except I should have investigated the problem before I had the entire warp tied on.  All is well on the business end, the other side, as long as my Rube Goldberg repair holds up, and the cat doesn't sit on it.

The artist open studio draws nearer and nearer. I know the little tag on each towel for the last open studio was a little fold over paper I printed myself, but six months later, I cannot reconstruct how I did it. The real solution is to apply myself tomorrow and put together the art work for a new card! And then, call it in to the card company.

In the meantime, I have an apple mandolin! All my previous encounters with mandolins have not been good. My craftsman brother made a mandolin for my sister that he eventually made a guard for, to end accidental bloodshed, even stored safely out of a drawer. That mandolin sliced potatoes paper thin, and they became potato chips!

I keep an eye out for good recipes, and I saw one for an apple custard cake. They got me at apple and custard, though I was not comfortable with the instructions for slicing the apple. Basically, cut off the four sides, pitch the core and fine slice the apple. My fine motor skills are gone, and most of my gross, too. But way at the bottom, in the credits you never read, it said or use an Apple Mandolin. I found it on Amazon, of course.

There you have it. A cored apple, in twenty four slices, for lunch!

The custard cake was more cake than custard, and I made two changes for the next time. I changed a third cup sugar to a couple of tablespoons, and two teaspoons of vanilla to one. As to the dessert that did not impress me, I cut my eight inch pan into four pieces. I ate two for lunch and two for supper. So much for inviting a friend over, that time.

The book I'm reading there is The Invention of Wings, by Sue Monk Kidd. I have no idea why I bought it; but it was there on my book shelf. Shortly in I recall seeing a TV movie, or perhaps a theater movie on TV. I can't remember the movie, only that I've seen it. The book is compelling in the way the recitation of this vile part of our history is.

Another week off to a decent start

I saw yesterday how close we are to the next election. When I went to play cards,  the election day dinner already is advertised. November 3rd is hard upon us.

Last week I placed first and this week I placed last. Such is cards.

Today I went with my neighbor to see Downton Abbey. We were quite early and our theater was very empty. Toward the end of the trailers, two other women came in, and sat down next to me. Four people in an empty theater. Strange. Didn't stop Cathy, or me, from laughing out loud and blowing our noses.

A mystery is solved. Some time ago I found a flyer on my door.

I asked at the office and they had no knowledge. Neither did the maintenance fellows, until one mentioned to Cathy recently, "That painted dresser is in the school bus shelter. No books left in it, though!"

Now that I know, I have an armload to take up tomorrow.