I stopped at River Light Gallery Friday,

to deliver lime green shirts,

and realized how much it makes me smile.

I see an underlying steam punkiness.

I think Diane, the owner, was trending to industrial, without punk.

It's her gallery, and makes no difference,

as long as there are customers.

The great sandstone wall!

There is so much light it's not easy to take pictures.

But good light makes a good gallery.

I have a new warp going on my loom this weekend.

I probably won't be back before I have more shirts done.

Smaller than a teacup

I saw this in the paper birch tree at the town hall.

It probably is a hummingbird nest. 

My camera extends from 4 to 180 mm.

125mm

49 mm

21 mm

Without extending the lens, the nest seems like some debris caught in the branches.

Hummingbirds generally do not reuse nests, but recycle them.

(Thank you, Google.)

The windows behind are in a room that is locked unless rented for an event,

but I'll try and keep an eye on the nest from the lower level, where I am. Until it disappears into the leaves.

Growing pains

Beth and I made plans to get together today and let the cousins visit. That was cancelled this morning, when Laura’s cough (from yelling so much at the dance, Grandma) turned into a barking cough. The last barking cough was a sinus infection, but this one seems to be bouncing from lung to lung, so we’ll see. I do know if I felt like she sounded I’d be in bed, not reading a book.

Last night, when the bark was an occasional throat clearing, my plan for today was a stop at the drug store for some cough syrup for Laura and a beautiful razor for Caroline, on my way to visit. But Laura went with Jan and Emily, to the bank and the drug store, and after an earful of that cough, I could only call Beth and cancel.

Emily needed the trip to the bank to open her first checking account.  This was on the “to do” list for fall, but her current job preempted the requirement by refusing to deposit her paychecks into her savings account. The reason given; the bank’s handwritten savings account and routing numbers could be entered incorrectly by the payroll department. Emily is working for the school, after school, maintaining computers. And, that’s enough about that bit of illogical thinking.

Why does Caroline need a razor? Beth mentioned a trip to the drug store might be in her plans today, too, if she needed something for Caroline’s rash. “What rash,” asked Grandma. “From shaving with her father’s razor,” snapped my daughter.

I laughed.

“Why haven’t you bought her a razor,” I got out between lingering chuckles.

“Why hasn’t she told me she wants one,” came the irritable answer.

“Do daughters do that? I don’t recall you asking me; my razors just disappeared!”

Well, she supposed so.” Then, “Did you give Emily and Laura razors?”

“Long ago. It seems I should get one for Caroline, too.”

Perhaps next week.

Buyer’s remorse

We went to the phone store last Sunday. All of us, en masse.  My phone was really acting up, but on a reconnaissance mission earlier I’d learned it might be curable by being sucked dry and reloaded. It seemed like an opportunity to procure a phone for Emily (mine), and outfit myself with a new phone.

Reconnaissance left me with buyer’s regret for not purchasing the new phone last summer, hang the form of the rebate. Verizon no longer sells phones with a two year contract.  They sell phones on time, no interest, no contract, and a plan a la carte. But, I was open to a new phone and to passing the old to the college bound senior.

My sister, keeper of the phone contract, listened to the dollars and cents of saving money by dropping the old contract and buying a new plan. The young phone nerd explained to me that I would prefer a Samsung analog phone to a Motorola, for reasons I cannot recall. As my only reason for another Motorola was because it is an American company (never mind it went offshore long ago), I was easily convinced by technical talk.

The phone fellow went over the highlights of my phone, and my sister, looking on, said “I think I want one of those. I really wish I had GPS.” So, two phones went on the counter, and two eager granddaughters looking over shoulders gleefully recognized now there would be one for each of them to explain to the old ladies. Uncle Tom sat in the chair by the window and watched the trains go by.

There was a stack of tablets near my left elbow, on sale for fifty dollars while quantities last. Now, with Emily’s phone, and a tablet added to the deal, plus cases all around, we were no longer saving money. But we agreed on a divvying up of the extra charges, signed many forms, packed two handle bags with the swag and came on home.

Emily and Laura were in electronic heaven all afternoon, changing ring tones, adding apps, connecting wi-fi, adding email, turning on this, turning off that. Emails from Verizon began rolling in. “You have used 75% of pro-rated data. 80% of pro-rated data. 85%...” We decided not to worry; it was what was left of the old contract, rolled over to the new plan.

By the time I came home from work Monday, I knew I hated Samsung. The phone book, which I use the most, was maddening. Jan was unhappy, too. A flip phoner for fifteen years, her thumb refused to swipe properly and she was missing calls from friends and customers. Only Emily seemed happy; Laura, whose phone still flips, said it must be nice to not have a dwerb phone anymore.

Then the killer email: “You have used all your data. All additional data used will cost megabucks per kilowatt.” Or something like that.

The next day all the goodies went back into the bags and we were off to the phone store. The solution was too simple. Jan returned her phone and after the restorative business happily tucked the old flip phone back in her purse. Bonus—she no longer needed a bigger purse.

My remorse was not so easily solved. The tablet was returned; the phone could not be. Although I thought I’d gathered all the associated chargers, I missed the one that came with the phone. Back to Plan A.1; Emily could have a smart phone. So, the adept young man transferred my new phone back to my old phone, and Emily’s old flip to my new old phone. It took us time to sort through that boggling transaction, and I had to stop and reconstruct it, in order to type it.

And then the painful remorse—the 30% restocking charge means we will be months recouping our “savings.”

Nine o'clock appointment for purple hair

These three women, Lindsey, Mel and Beth, and several others, 

once worked for a hair salon that I used.

One day I recognized no one.

In a dispute with management, they upped sticks and opened their own salon.

They get my business and my support.

I'm here today with two young women interested in purple hair.

Laura started out in Mel's chair,

but ended in Lindsey's.

First all the old colors, and especially Laura's own Sharpie pen tints, had to be removed.

Over by Emily, Mel used two different color removers on Emily, and the teal would not come out.

Plan B: Purple on the new blond and teal on the ends.

Now it was noon and I had things to do.

I quit knitting and left them. 

When I came back, Emily had hair on the floor, purple and blue on top.

Laura had a lot of purple, soaking in.

Mel and Emily are pleased with their compromise.

Over at Lindsey's station, Laura is drying out.

"You'd really like it curled," Lindsey told Laura.

And, everyone did.

Emily is very happy and I think Laura is over the moon.

Back home in the real world, six hours from start,

making egg rolls for supper.