Saffron Two Cats

I googled the name Saffron Two Cats because once we knew a girl with that name.  Surely neither her given name or her legal name.  Once I had her card, with a phone number.  She lived in Highland Square, a casual, relaxed, arty enclave of large old homes turned to multi unit dwellings. 

We met her because she wanted to purchase a simple loom.  We were dealers for two loom manufacturers, but had other looms in the studio from buy/sell/trade transactions.  Looms circulated regularly in the weaving community.

When Saffron Two Cats came to the studio we had among our looms an 8 harness, 10 shaft cherry Kyra, 45” wide.  A beauty, and when it came on the market we had to give it a try.  Jan wove a little on it, but it was not a practical loom for us.  When Saffron entered the studio she was drawn right to the loom.  She sat on the bench; she stroked the wood of the beater, the castle.

She had a friend with her who reminded Saffron she was there to find a practical little loom to ease herself back into the world of weaving.  Saffron only said “Is this loom for sale?”  Of course it was, and for the price we paid, $800.  1988 dollars; the same loom today probably would sell for $1200. The practical little looms we sold were in the $400 range.  We realized early on the friend would be purchasing the practical little loom for Saffron Two Cats.

“Can I buy it on time?  I have $50 with me to put down. If you sell it to me, can I come weave on it until it’s paid for?” We made the deal.  Saffron came several times, with another five, ten or twenty dollars, and wove a little more on the warp we left on the loom.

One day she came with her brother and his truck and seven remaining one hundred dollar bills.  We never saw her friend after Saffron’s first encounter with the loom, but I always felt the friend was the source of the last seven bills.

I googled Saffron’s name in curiosity.  Interesting answers came back.  There is a Two Cats book store selling the Firefly les Femmes poster Saffron. Under that google listed a blog about a cat named Saffron before trailing off into feebleness.  But, the advertising block had me riveted. 

I was looking for saffron, google gave me saffron.  Shoes.  Of course google knows I love shoes.  Google swept the world wide web and showed me two saffron shoes. In my preferred style, sneakers.

The political inferences are so ironic.  ‘Nuff said.

School’s out, school’s out - No more pencils, no more books

Gears are changing here, and I’m not talking downshifting.  Hamilton and Emily have landed exciting summer jobs; more about that when they’re in uniform and off for day one next week.

The girls have been signed up for some summer art classes at the academy.  Glass fusing, needle felting, fashion design.  Hamilton sniffed; I’m not offended.  There will always be yard work.

Here are some end of school year housecleaning notes that could make you smile.

For Jane and Chris.  I spread the joy.  Isn't it lovely.

For Lo.  It’s not a coronet, but maybe the next best thing.  For Excellence.  The director awarded four trophies to his band.  The little trumpet player managed it home on the bus, with her trumpet and year end paraphernalia.  It’s half as tall as she is.

And last, I think I have moles.  I meant to question shovel wielders when I saw one pile of dirt cast into the garden and forgot; today I see it is a tunnel and goes somewhere. No good deed goes unpunished.  Give 'em a garden, they take it. Suggestions.

Up, up in the sky

               

Heavy rains, today.  An inch or more forecast, and that is excellent. Yesterday the skies were the blue that artists paint and poets write of.

At work I went looking for the road guys, to get some paperwork signed.  Down the hall, through the road office, through the road garage, until I spotted them through the open bay doors, out in the yard, looking up, up into the sky.

You know I think the world of these two men.  Tim, the road super, who saved the sunflowerfrom the Memorial Day parade last year.  The sunflower that Doug, the road assistant, and I were charged with watering the week Tim was on vacation.  In one day we nearly baked the poor thing to death, but Doug set up anIV drip of chicken manure water and Sunny was revived.  (Click on the "Sunflower" label to read her story from last year.)

So, I found Tim and Doug looking way up, and I looked up too, but only saw three planes and their contrails. Cleveland Hopkins International Airport is about twenty miles northwest of the town hall, and air traffic is not an uncommon sight.  As I remarked.

“Do you ever wonder if they will crash in the sky; look how close those two are!”

No, I've never wondered that, as air traffic controllers are in charge. 

A little disappointed planes in the sky did not fascinate me, Tim added “We've seen the President’s plane go over.”

“NO WAY! How did you know?”

“Fighter jet escorts, one on each wing.”

With the Fiscal Officer suitably impressed, Tim added “Doug’s even seen numbers in the sky.  Tell her, Doug.”

An embarrassed Doug was prodded into his story.  Driving with a buddy, they both remarked on the striking cloud formations ahead of them, clearly, remarkably forming three different numbers.  No question about it, they both saw them and said them.  “We should play those,” Doug’s buddy said.  “Waste of a buck,” Doug said.

At the next gas stop Doug filled the tank and looked around for his friend, who came out of the station folding his lottery ticket.  He’d played the numbers pick three, boxed.  He advised Doug to go buy a ticket.  Doug called him an idiot and they got back on the road.

You know the end.  The buddy won $790.  Doug’s not seen numbers in the sky since.

Altocumulus from the ISS

Altocumulus formations usually comprise many individual cloudlets and take shape at heights of 6,500 to 23,000 feet. The whorls visible in this altocumulus layer, as seen from the International Space Station, are caused by two regions of ocean air moving at different speeds.

Photo: Cosmonaut Fyodor Yurchikhin and the Russian Space Agency Press Services

Running through airports

It occurred to me that the entire post 9/11 generation will never know the thrill of running through airports.  Nor their parents, any more.

I traveled on business in the seventies and eighties, and invariably had to meet my corporate boss, or go straight to a meeting on arrival.  I usually left home in a suit and heels.  I can still hear the click, click, click on the concrete of the concourse. 

Once I elected to travel in jeans and sneakers, because I could change at the hotel and get to the restaurant on time.  Sure enough, I encountered my boss’s boss at the connecting airport, who lectured me on the perils of lost luggage and the importance of appearance.  I think he also told me I should always show up ten minutes before my boss and leave after he left.  Does that still apply?

Coming home from corporate once my boss, who was the president of our subsidiary, our director of manufacturing and I lingered in the bar.  Somebody eventually checked a watch.  Not me, never wore one.  The plane was at the gate!  The three of us took off running.  The two of them were men with long legs, but I was holding my own, head down and clicking along.

Blam! Straight into two men coming down the concourse.  In American Airlines pilot uniforms!  They kept me upright and heard me explain the plane leaving NOW!  One of them turned and whistled down the president and the director of manufacturing.  That United flight had left the gate.  However, they would be happy to escort me and my travelling companions to the American counter where a flight to the identical destination was boarding.  The pilots got us on board, and Frank and John and I  got back to Cleveland on time.

There was no direct flight between Cleveland and our corporate headquarters.  Always a connection in Chicago, St. Louis, Atlanta. One time, a Thanksgiving or Christmas, there was a mass of college students crowding behind me at one of those airports, but I was next in line for luggage check.  As I idly glanced at the arrival/departure board on the back wall, my flight went to Cancelled.

I confirmed that at once with the agent, as a deafening din of outraged students behind me roared in protest.  A small young student at my shoulder burst into tears.  “I don’t know how to get home.”  The agent at the next counter called out “I have two seats to Cleveland leaving in twenty minutes.”

“Cleveland?” I asked the sobbing girl.  “Yes.”

I grabbed her hand and dragged her straight down the counter, steps ahead of the hoard that jumped the velvet rails.  The seats were ours. It all happened in ten seconds.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” as we hurried to the gate.  I wonder if she still tells the story of getting home for the holiday.

Vintage 1980's court shoes by 'Images'. Made in Italy. All the colours of the rainbow in psychedelic bubbles! 

All over but the growing

Last night we put back the dirt and raked it about.  The very royal "we" again.  Laura was at a fifth grade "on to middle school" party; Hamilton and Emily shoveled, dumped and raked.  Nice job.

Today Emily and Hamilton laid stepping stones to get us back out the the sidewalk in the new area while Laura planted the lily of the valley in the bed by the steps.

It took the dolly and three determined youngsters, but the rest of the rocks were planted along the foundation of the house.  I'll be interested to see if anyone builds a cairn.

We replaced all the yard art, re-raked the tromped on dirt and then considered our seed packets, the cause of all this work.

Earlier this year the Garden Club put together an array of bee and butterfly attracting seeds.  All this work to empty those little packages into the dirt.

Planting.

Planting money plants  Nina, who organized the seed fest, gave me a bag of money plant seeds, too.  Actually, her husband slipped them into my car trunk, along with the plants we put in the ground earlier.

I've heard them called silver dollars, too, for the translucent silvery flower.  I forgot them, but Hamilton didn't.  Or Laura, getting that last pesky one covered with dirt.

Are we done?

Waiting for it to grow.  Hamilton doesn't know it yet, but I have a sidewalk edger in my car.  His next project, next week, after finals and school is out.