Can't even snow right

It rained not too long ago. It sounded like wet, cold bad news, and it was. 

For the first time since the bus accident, I felt like knitting. I think because I looked down and saw my sock toe needed repair, sooner than later, I felt sock darning coming over me. I only do that in front of the TV, and I still won't pay forty dollars a month to watch HGTV and knit and darn socks.

I can't blame it on Google, it's more like the mind of Chrome. I truly do not understand how alternate programming works. I googled, of course, and got a chart comparing Netflix and Hulu and other unimportant things. Ever since, little nibbles for Hulu and Netflix have been floating by. When I had Netflix for Laura, it was ten dollars a month. Now it's eight ninety five. I bought it.

Then I was dead in the water for several days because I could not get down and plug in the power bar.

In the meantime, that rain turned into slush, and kept on and on until it turned into snow, and kept on and on, all day Saturday and half of Sunday.

In the meantime, my friend Linda, who's getting a new knee on Thursday, called me Sunday, after church. Some time ago she was given a list of equipment to purchase. I recommended she purchase nothing. It was the same list I followed when I broke my foot, leg and shoulder, one, two, three. She was welcome to come shopping in my shed for anything she wanted to borrow.

But my deck was in no shape for trodding, and I called Donny. No answer. No service. That man has a new phone weekly, but never gets around to telling customers the new number. So I went out, grabbed a snow shovel and attempted to move the layer of snow and ice. Nothing happened. Head down, shoulders hunched, I tried and tried and tried.

Then a young man I had not seen approaching said "Can I help you?"

He cleaned this frozen slush mess from the deck, the steps, the car. He pulled up both wipers. I went out with some bills rolled up and asked him to take them "No, no. I'm just paying it forward." And I put it in his jacket pocket and told him I was paying it forward too, to his truck down the road.

And all went off that day. Nancy borrowed my walker and other things, and her husband plugged in my power bar.

And come evening, I sat down to investigate Netflix. I couldn't get off the Roku screen, which is my streaming device. Don't ask me.
 I called Netflix, and after following some button pushing instructions, the technician said "Perhaps your Roku remote needs new batteries." A job for the next day, today.

I looked out this morning at four new inches of snow. I took a shower.

I ate breakfast. I put on clothes to go out and shovel snow, as I did not get Joseph's number.

I opened the door and a slip of paper blew in from the screen door.

And so, I spent my morning weaving, went to cards, lost happily, stopped at the hardware store and bought salt and triple A batteries for the Roku transmitter.

I started watching Grace and Frankie. I made myself quit! My knitting is in another room, and I need to figure out how Netflix works, and then I'll watch it. Thirty days for free. WooHoo.

What goes around does not always come around

Once, and for a long time, there was a public elementary school in Peninsula, across the street from the post office. For the most part, they rubbed along, amicably. How could they not, you ask? Well, parents of elementary students sometimes had as much self-control as their children, and thought nothing of commandeering the post office parking lot for important events in the lives of their children, like Christmas concerts, spring graduations, spring concerts, grandparent lunch days, and so forth and so on.

Posting notices to please not use the post office lot for overflow parking did not work; on the whole these parents seemed not to use the post office. So Sue, the Postmaster, took to posting signs outside. Eventually they had to include the threat of ticketing and towing, but grammar school parents learned to parallel park on the adjacent street, and taxpayers could again use the post office.

Then the school district completed its jillion dollar plan, and moved the elementary school to the educational campus on the old Quick Orchard. The building did not stay empty, no indeed. The elementary school building was sold to the Cuyahoga Valley Christian Academy, which opened the Heritage Classical Academy, preschool through sixth grade.

The Academy opened a year ago. A year ago I seldom used the post office, so the resurgence of rude behavior went unnoticed by me. Until a recent Monday. I played cards, from one to three. I did not go home; I continued on to the post office, with towels to mail. I turned from Riverview to Bronson, to a dead halt in a line of traffic to turn into the school, two blocks away.  Not to worry; they would not block the entrance to the post office, I decided, and proceeded cautiously up the hill.

Well, yes they would! I “double stopped” next to the car behind the post office drive. When the blockage car cleared, that car surely would notice my right turn blinker and let me in. Wrong. She pulled up to block the drive. I pulled beside her, rolled down my passenger window, to let out maximum noise, and blew the horn loudly. Eventually she cautiously glanced over. I extended my left index finger and stroked it a few times with the right. Surely any elementary school parent recognized the universal “Shame On You” notation. She looked away.

I made as much engine and brake noise as possible in half a block, turned right onto Emerson and right into the post office exit. I said to the nice young man, in the slew of turnover since Postmaster Sue, “Is your drive often blocked by parents at pick up time?”

“Oh, yes. They do it all the time.”

“You need a ‘Do Not Block Drive’ sign,” said I. “I’ll call the mayor.” And I came home.

I was barely in the door and my phone rang, with a call from a Restricted Number. I wonder how they do that?

The caller identified himself as The Mayor. “My god, that got through town awfully fast!” said I.

The Mayor said he actually wanted to talk business with me, but was mighty curious about what went through town so fast. I explained the rude young parent problem; he promised to bring up the sign to the Planning Commission, and now, he would like to ask me if I would be interested in the position of Fiscal Officer.

And I told him, had he asked me last June, when I was casting about for something meaningful to do again, I very likely would have told him “Yes.”

“But now, I have a job I like very much.”

Oh, the irony. I was the township fiscal officer for thirteen years, until the accident in DC.  What goes around does not always come around. Hopefully excepting curing elementary school parents of rudeness.

Michigan and necromancy

I have a friend who has a friend since childhood, who has let bad decisions mold her mind. She has drifted to waiting for the rapture. She begs her friend to join her, and not be left behind. Trump is prominent in the present and future of the childhood friend's thinking.

My friend truly fears for the sanity of her friend, for the future of her children. A few months ago, knowing my friend would see her friend shortly, I took a deep breath and asked my friend to ask her friend, directly, why she considers Trump a biblical character of intangible power.

And her friend's husband joined in and said Trump's power over their 401K says all. For four years it has risen, as promised.

This morning I listened to NPR's Morning Edition, interviewing Michigan residents, in conjunction with Trump signing the first phase of his trade deal with China. In the last presidential election, Trump took Michigan, a first for a Republican since H.W. in 88. 

There was a lot of talk of the hundreds of thousands who threw away their vote on a third party candidate rather than vote for a woman; that useless woulda, coulda, shoulda talk.  The main point was, Michigan is energized to elect a Democrat as president. 

Except Detroit. It seems Detroit remains a crap shoot. Its population is decimated, and those remaining seem apportioned between haves and have nots. The later still live in substandard housing, have substandard city services, have borderline jobs. And the former watch their 401K's climb.

Personally, I feel we all are treading black treacle every day. Hang on; we go to the polls in November.

Another day in the sixties, but descending to thirty some degrees for the rest of the week. Whenever I go past, I look closely at my pots for signs of bulbs popping up. In spite of the weather, nothing.

Well, one of two things. One, my bulbs have followed the calendar, not the weather, and are hibernating until spring. Two, my bulbs have become fertilizer.

Word to the wise: no jumping jacks

Busy day, busy day. Sitting here, twelve hours later, trying to remember why. I forget things that quickly now! I began the morning stripping my bed and starting the laundry. Then I cut towels and began hemming.

Hemming involves stabilizing each end on the serger before the rolled hem with the sewing machine. Three times a thread knot did not traverse the tension plates and broke the thread. Once a looper thread, which is a bottom needle and twice the inside upper needle. Grrrr. However, I rethreaded the machine myself. Peacock towels are up!

A month or so ago my oldest daughter was leading her team at work in a "Health Day" activity. A round of jumping jacks was an activity, and Beth, for the team, was jumping and clapping, and popping her knee. "Taking it easy" for several days did not improve the discomfort, disintegrating to outright pain. Some more time passed finding a specialist, arranging hospital time, blablabla.

Last week was surgery, and currently she's hanging out at Ruth's, on one floor, pending follow-up with the surgeon tomorrow. Her current advice: don't do jumping jacks, even for the team!

This brace has one more segment; you can see the buckle under her lovely turquoise trousers.

Ruth and I did amuse Beth, consulting our calendars and making dates for the Orchid Mania at the Cleveland Botanical Gardens and the annual quilt show at Lake Metropark. Discussing where we would meet and where we would lunch caused Beth some great amusement, and we didn't begrudge her.

Some time ago I gave Ruth a fleece I could not use, and was sure she could use. Today I thought to take a picture of it, in front of her fireplace.

The fleece is a Romney, from a Romney sheep. She calls it Mitt.

Before I move this to the Good Ideas page

I cannot remember how long ago I made this shirt. I made two of them, and gave one away to an incredibly thin twelve year old. So, I made another shirt, not much larger. This fits me, and would fit better if I opened the side seam more.

I wove the fabric for this after the TBI, back when casting about for what to do with myself. I thought I'd go back to weaving funky clothing for the gallery in town. That's when I learned my funky is gone, and I'm through looking for it. So, I'm offering the shirt for sale, along with more handwoven fabric.

Each length of fabric is composed of the same number of the same colored threads, arranged in a different order. The top piece is woven off in the light brown. The bottom piece is woven off in a light purple. 

The thread weights are 8/2 and 10/2, which are quite light weight. The "hand" of each fabric is wonderful, if I say so myself. So, now I will post this on Good Ideas, and get back to regular blogging business tomorrow.