Dear Toad

I ran an errand yesterday, and on the way home there was enough snow gone to reveal the sad condition of Mr. Toad. I cannot fix it and won't replace it. In fact, I'll celebrate its wasting away, like all of us.

Enlarge the picture and you can see how toads of this sort are made. It seems to be a core; its good looks made and applied subsequently. Rather like people.  Toad has pleased me all these years, and what is left will continue to please me.

And were I a better "keeper", I would have sealed it when it came into my life thirty years ago. But thirty years ago I did not know how to care for little outdoor creatures made of cement. And now I could find out, but it is too late to begin for Toad, and I have no intention of having another Toad that I cannot outlive.

Heavy philosophy, there. And I set out to write about something silly, that makes me happy every time I look at it.

Every time I have a new towel picture to post, I get to pass the picture of this towel in Belize. Its drape is as casual as its shirt neighbor. The sheet tries the same look, celebrating the day, the sky, the breeze. When I pass, I smile.

I wondered if I could replicate the look. I have the new lime towels on the shelf, I'm pretty resourceful. I clipped the towel to a blind, attempted to arrange it artistically, and took a picture. Actually, I took several.

And now I smile for a whole nother reason. Can't make it happen without blue sky, breeze, sunshine, a lovely summer day.

So, I'll go weave some more and listen to a storm blowing up.

Go big or go home, or at least keep trying

 I can't face an empty day. I need to have some activity, even if it's "wasting time". I count wasting time as setting out to read the news, for instance, and being dragged down rabbit holes for all those little clickable sites that take you on for seeming hours to look at "rare historic photos", ad infinitum. Pretty soon it's lunch time.

Yesterday I finished another batch of towels, and this color is a keeper. It's lime, and lime popsicle is the apt description. It looks and feels that cool.

 

The color wheel is simply too bland now, so the next color will be blue:

The snow has stopped, replaced by bitterly cold air. Typing that made me smile. The next couple of weeks will be in the teens. That is cold, for sure. But I remember a finals week, back in the nineteen sixties. The temps were below zero for a very long time, and we walked from building to building, warming up in each one, then going on.

I wonder if millenials do that. Or just stay home.

The only other big occupation in my life is knitting socks. I sent the inauguration socks to my friend Ann. She and Drea are big fans of wool socks, working on cement floors at the kennel. Ann showed them off and Drea said they actually are exciting news.

This pair is for Drea. The foot is within a couple rows of decreasing for the toe, but I just texted to confirm Drea's foot is ten inches long. I still have towels to hem while I wait.

Learning over to knit socks has been fascinating. It used to be something I did. I love wool socks, and have lots of winter to wear them in. I even knit summer socks occasionally, from embroidery floss. 

Socks are a mindless activity, once learned. Knitting is mindless, even great repetitive patterns like Aran or lace sweaters. The mind knows the feel of each stitch on the needle and when it's time to change the stitch because the feel has changed.

But, I had to relearn, and having sustained a right brain injury this time, my attitude was Oh Well. Too Bad. Tough Beans. I was four years even picking up an almost completed sock found in the knitting bag. Showing my fingers and brain the movements required, and this time on my own. My mother and grandmother long gone. Oh well. I plowed on through.

Staying up

 The news is not good. Politics sucks. No visiting. No breakfasts with friends. The pandemic continues mutating. The virus owns us. Masks forever.

My accountant sends a packet every year. It's my clue to shove together my paperwork and head down to her office in the village. The packet is on my kitchen counter. I never open it; I know what to do.

I looked out at several inches of snow this morning. I considered shoveling, so I opened the door to take measure of the white stuff.  Today's snow flakes are snow shards, little shafts of ice coming straight down. I looked at the clock; it's too early to call Donnie. Or even text him, I think, from his complaint at the Christmas snow dump, "You know I'm not up that early!"

It was only 9:30 in the morning. I have no idea of the expanse of "too early", so I'll wait till noon to rouse Donnie. The forecast looks decent for the end of the week, so I texted Pam, I'll be along when the weather breaks. Pam has been my friend since 1990 and my accountant shortly thereafter.

I was typing away at some paragraph when another text came in: "Remember I'm not doing indoor appts this year, so you won't even have to get out of the car!"

That was a literal gob smacker! 

Of course she probably isn't. I bet the packet even says so.

It's merely February. Three entire months until I can hang mandevilla and button jackets around them when there is a freeze warning.

Looking for amusement, here are some pictures that came from Laura, the young lady who graduated high school and cannot attend in person beauty school training until October. She probably could start her Kent State courses now, but not in person, and she is an in person sort of student.

So, she got a job at Chipolte, up to 39 hours a week, prepping and grilling. She was rooming with a friend (adult), and being nicely molded for the future, I thought, when hey, presto, she found an "apartment". It literally is the sun room addition to a post war home. It is the length of the double garage, so I'll guess it's as much as forty feet by thirty. It has an entire wall of windows, a closet sized bathroom and a kitchen sink, stove and refrigerator.

Laura moved into the Enormous Room at Thanksgiving. She took her bed, her dresser, her desk, her wardrobe. The latter is enormous, and she cannot bear to part with a thread. She'll figure it out.

The wardrobe lived in stacks on the floor. I thumbed through the internet, in search of an inexpensive solution. Laura helped me, and I had to explain why so many of her choices wouldn't work. The one we picked is brilliant:

I advocated for this because it's advertised to hold 2,000 pounds, and will come apart again to move. Better yet, she wound up with two units. The first was missing one of those structural poles. I emailed them with the part description and part number. They sent an entire unit. I got no answer to my inquiry to return. So, it's under her bed, and Uncle Tom can fabricate the missing pole.

When I set out to put some "stuff" into this room, Laura struggled with choosing between a closet solution or a kitchen solution. I eventually figured that out and set out to solve her kitchen problem, too. This is what the "grown ups" do, for crying out loud. Now she has a proper prep area too; no more chopping onions on thin air.

And that probably is all I can squeeze into the enormous room.

Yesterday and today

This is the story of my first vaccine shot yesterday, at the Summit County Department of Health. My vaccine was Moderna, my next shot is scheduled for March 2nd.

It was not a jam packed event! I followed the signs around the building, until I was stopped. The signs said to have ID ready. I handed my driver's license out the passenger window to a fellow who took it into a kiosk. When I'd drifted forward to the kiosk, a young man compared me to my ID, asked my name and returned my license.

I drifted forward again to another check point, where I gave my name and me and my appointment were located on a tablet. I was told to follow the signs around the building, which I did, and came to a stop at the end of the line, three cars deep. I used the opportunity to get my arm bared down to a short sleeved tee.

The next stop was the business stop. The nurse who gave the shot sank the fairly long needle to the hilt in my arm. I felt nothing. I was told to continue around the building and park in the designated lot for fifteen minutes. If I required no additional care, I was free to leave.

As I drove the twenty minutes home, I became more and more sleepy. I expected this to happen; it's my reaction to foreign substances. By the time I was home, I ached everywhere. My shoulders, my arms, my legs. I attributed that to all the snow I'd shoveled, never mind it had only just begun.

I went to bed and got up this morning. I still ache all over. I wove for an hour, ate lunch, watched TV, made a salad for supper. I intend to feel better tomorrow.

Am I grateful the immunization sequence is started? Yes, of course. But I am more deeply saddened there is no stockpile of vaccine, as the former administration announced, there is no decent distribution system, there is no methodical program in place to inoculate all of us, and we all know when and where we will be inoculated.

I am not amused I happened to be at my computer when my email arrived, made sure I began registering for a shot one second after the registration opened, that I actually secured a spot and every shot was signed for in two minutes.

I took the route home past Stan Hywet hall. This stacked stone fence runs the equivalent of two city blocks. At one point the fence continues down the hill and an identical stack stone retaining wall parallels its route. Several years ago this wall was a crumbling mess. Funds were raised and the wall rebuilt.

Getting out of the woods (the story of today and it's only three)(a lot of illustrations)

 I woke to several inches of snow. Being a worry wart with an appointment tomorrow for my first vaccination, plus it's trash day, first thing after breakfast I gathered my trash and went after my snow.

I cleared all the way to the street, clear shot for Larry with the trash cans. Of course, that was ten this morning. I've cleared one more time, and it will stop snowing by ten tonight, so I believe I can do it all over again tomorrow and be in line for a shot at two in the afternoon.

Back in the house, I straightened up my table to take a picture for Debbie. The table came from my weaver friend Linda. It has another leaf, opposite side, that is not extended. The other side also has a drawer. The legs are chrome, the top is enamel.

I've asked Linda to write a little of its history; all I know is the table went with her to the U of Rochester for her nursing degree. People have admired the table and even made offers for it. But, when I'm through, it goes back to Linda or her daughter Cara.

The amaryllis is beginning to suffer from leaning, the stalks are so tall. I've turned it every day; it follows the sun, exaggerating its lean. Today I could not stabilize the plant, so I wedged it into the pot Laura and I bought yesterday, and went looking for a stake and a tie.

When I returned, disaster. A sad end to a lovely story. But, it did have a good month. I cleared off the table, to have lots of room to effect the move to the new pot.

The bulb was enormous, to my novice eye. It filled the entire pot; there was almost no dirt. The only soil I have on hand is either the ant infested bag in the shed, or the stuff for orchids, which isn't exactly "dirt". I put it in the bottom, to elevate the bulb to its original height, then filled in around the bulb with the miniscule amount of dirt in the old pot, plus orchid wood chips.

So far so good, I guess. Now to clean the rest of the mess. I sorted all my stones into a bowl and cleaned the table top and the ironstone platter.

Laura put the stones back last time, one at a time. She knew exactly what to do to make a rock garden. I haven't a clue. I anchored the front corners with Russia and England, but the rest is hit and miss.

The next time Laura comes to visit, her first job will be setting the stones to rights. For my part, I've read I should continue with water and fertilizer as long as the leaves grow. I probably also should turn the pot often to attempt to keep the leaves straight.

When the leaves fall over I should cut them off and allow the plant to go dormant, which means putting it on the back of a shelf in a dark closet. When tiny green sprouts poke up, the whole blooming game begins again.