Two busy days

I do like well choreographed days! Today I dropped Laura for another kid-wrangling morning at the library and went on to an appointment of my own. I stopped for her on my way back, and saw she still had a line waiting to be face painted stretched out behind, so I quietly circled the library's cul-de-sac and headed for my next appointment.

Leaving there an hour later, with only fifteen minutes until cards with the Methodists began, I called her. She had just wrapped unicorns and rainbows, and was perfectly happy to walk down to the church. We all met at the appointed time, and played away. Laura and I had our usual card afternoon lunch of chips and dip, and then salad for supper. 

Laura's trip down the hill netted three beautiful pictures across the bridge. These garden club ladies take great care of their flower boxes across the river.

While I waited for a decent amount of time to pass between my large lunch of chips and supper, I worked some more on the last batch of towels. Sadly, the current warp is gone.

There were forty four towels from the first round of warp. Before I have my shoulder repaired, I'll ask Laura to help me put on a new warp. With someone to help with the tedium of winding bobbins, I can cheerfully wind many more yards of warp.

Tonight I prepped the last batch of towels for hemming. Made a very nice pile to work on. Cut apart, and then edges serged.

A couple of smiles

When my sister and I started a business together, we didn’t know if we would end up in cotton or wool, so we called our business The Ewe Tree. This was a time everything natural was so engulfing retail that we received offers not only to purchase the name, but to do business as, and use on the internet. When we retired weaving, Jan kept the name for her quilting business. It was twenty plus years old, known and respected, had great credit and accounts; why start over.

Now she has a lovely web site that features her work, and that would be the end of it. Oh, for years there were anguished emails begging for one more shirt, one more jacket. The occasional phone call did end when she relinquished the thirty year old phone number several years ago.

Recently she forwarded a lovely email:

Hello, Janice

I was in a thrift store outside Philadelphia today, shopping for interesting clothing, and came across this excellent sweater – I’m always drawn to clothing I can tell is unique or handmade. I’d just gotten rid of a number of sweaters and thought I had room in the closet for another, and noted the odd label – “The Ewe Tree, handwoven” it said. So I looked it up and found this site.

Just wanted to drop you a friendly line and tell you it’s strangely in the 50’s and raining tonight here in Philly and I’m really enjoying your sweater. It’s going to have a good second (or third or fourth or however-many) life with me! I’ve attached a pic if you want to see if you remember making this one.

Hope all is well, Joe

Awwwww. We made that style shirt from the mid-nineties until I retired in 2002. I remember putting on that tomato soup warp. We only wove it one time, and I have no recollection of when. I do recall two or three shows in Philly, but it could have come from anywhere. I’ll never forget the woman who found me in Virginia and called her husband in Boston: “I just found the weaver who made the shirts that your brothers took!” and bought half a dozen of that very shirt for her husband and his brothers.

Friday I saw the shoulder surgeon. After discussion, he recommended a “reverse” replacement. After cleanup of all the damaged goods, a new ball is placed in the shoulder blade, and a pad on a shaft in the upper arm bone is the new socket. Reverse of the old. I will have as much motion as now, more if I work at it, and no more pain.

Next week I’ll schedule out all the protocol to be able to meet the surgeon in the operating room.  It’s an overnight stay, and I was offered local anesthesia. I think I’ll do that. But first, we’re spending a week in Wisconsin.

Allergic, I’m telling you

Way back in the nineties, I sat in my booth at a show and watched a young woman openly coughed and sneezed her way through.  I intercepted her and asked her to leave. Her companion came in and cheerily said, “Oh, she’s just catching a cold!”

 It was October. We all know what you catch in October. I made an appointment for my first ever flu vaccination. For the next ten or twelve years, the minute flu season was announced, I went for the jab. The last time I had the flu was 1988, the year we all moved into the house together and began the business. I was so sick that year, I slept through the entire four day Thanksgiving holiday, and the following week.

About ten years in, I realized I’d begun sleeping away the subsequent three days after the shot. I paid attention that year, and it was true. Three days zonked. A few more days climbing from a well of foggy brain. I quit being vaccinated against flu virus. It was an annual argument with my PC, and too bad. I was through.

When the shingles vaccination was available a few years ago, my PC persuaded me to have it. I remembered my grandmother and my friend having shingles, and it was, as we said, a no-brainer. But in the drug store nurse’s office, the nurse and I discussed it, and we talked me out of it.

Last fall my persistent PC started in again, flu, pneumonia, shingles. The pneumonia was two shots, spaced some time apart. I elected to undertake the pneumonia and shingles a year apart. The pneumonia shot went off perfectly. Of course, it’s not grown in eggs.

I added shingles to the second pneumonia shot. Splat, out flat for three days. Not sick, merely unconscious.  The second shingles is six months later, or yesterday. I thought this time I’d try overpowering it. Sheer will, kick it to the curb.

First thing yesterday morning we were at the drug store. There were errands to run on the way home. Fortunately, Laura was riding shotgun. I would not let her drive; she had no breakfast and her judgment is extraordinarily bad without breakfast. Some targets were circled a few times. We never found the way into the gas station, though we passed it. At home, I fell into bed.

This morning we had a breakfast date with our friend, Linn. I ate my bowl of oatmeal; Laura and Linn talked. We came straight home; I went to bed. I’m sure Laura went to her library job; the day’s mail was on my desk when I got up for supper. The inside of my brain still has the shades pulled down. One more afternoon in bed, I think.

In other news, it has rained for three days. Here are three days of unemptied rain gauge:

Laura replanted the bulb that floated to the surface.

The rain makes everything happy.

Pig most of all.

Small town, small news

Does anyone read Tom Degan? Take a look, put him on your list. He lives in Orange County, upstate. Some days he just goes and sits with FDR for the day. I'll probably go sit with the Methodists and play cards this afternoon. The inclusive Methodists.

We had places to go, things to do this morning, and passed our heron friend again. He gave us little more than his back, and crossed the pond. In the spring I saw him head to the rookery with a fish, and assumed he was feeding a family. But here he is again, alone. I must read up on the habits of herons!

I left Laura at the library for her Tuesday/Thursday stint with children and book club. She has a trumpet gig today.

And I stopped at the post office to mail dish towels. And tea towels. Tomato, tomatoe.

How small is my town, you wonder. This is Linnette, the boss of the stamps. She says they are charged with selling stamps, and she's made herself first in charge. She used a metered sticker for the difference between postage due and a sheet of national park stamps. Then she put national park stamps all over the envelope, And put on the National Park information from the center of the sheet AND cut out and put on the National Park name of the sheet. We have mailed the first envelope of tea towels.

Here's what I'm up to, and the rules. I copied my blog list to a spread sheet. I hope to send a couple of towels to every name on it. That will take a while. My blog list is as old as my blog. We know some blog names are now empty shells. I'll go by sadly, unless I've become acquainted with a child. Some are old, old friends we still check up on. Put up your hand if you remember Graham, One Stoned Crow.

If I don't have it, I'll ask for your address when I'm there on the list. If you don't want to divulge it, I am not offended, and will go quietly by.

Finally, from the lesson last time. Nothing is to come back. Pass it on, if you have a burning desire to reciprocate. I live an uncluttered life in under a thousand square feet. So, if you are happy, pass it on.

What if I owned The Red Hen

I’m sure by now we all know of the owner of this restaurant near the nation’s capital, who asked the president’s press secretary to leave the restaurant. The owner was morally opposed to serving the press secretary and her party. The owner described it as an uncomfortable decision and action to uphold her own morals.

What an awkward situation to face, unrehearsed.

Back in the day I owned a business, I had half a dozen occasions to send children and adults from my booth. Unescorted children generally were told publicly; they often needed additional instruction on where to find the exit and how far to go.

Invariably there would be a return call, a parent with a blubbering, wailing child, demanding to know what I had done to their child. I seldom addressed the parent, only the child. We went outside, and I said “Tell your mother what you did.” I would count off a few more loud wails, then say to the parent, “I think you should leave. When your child has calmed down and thought through the behavior, I’m sure they will tell you.”

Only once was there retribution. I did not know the mother of the child who thought she could stand on my spinning wheel was on the board of the Indianapolis Museum of Art. I was never invited back to their art show. I’ve always felt the value of the story outweighed any personal loss on my part.

My technique was good, old fashioned shaming. It’s among the ways we teach children to understand the morals of the adults in their world. For better or for worse, it seems.

I believe I would have told my staff to continue service, though they could skip the small “I hope you’re having a good evening!” chat. On arriving, I would have invited Ms. Sanders into the hall and explained the staff was waiting on them as a courtesy, at her request. 

All of them find Ms. Sanders morally offensive. She and the staff consider Ms. Sanders contemptable for condoning the president’s behavior to immigrants and children.

Therefore, Ms. Sanders could consider tonight’s service and meal as their cake at a very gay wedding. They could have it, and eat it too, if they wished. And I would have led her back to the table and been gone.

In truth, the owner barely misstepped. She certainly was within the law of the land. I know from experience, you need practice dealing with these situations, and you must know how to turn the ball of anxiety churning in the pit of your stomach into a hardball.

When I returned to the booth after such an episode, invariably the other customers were discussing the incident loudly enough for the retreating parent to hear. I think the barrage of tweets and remarks on her return would have sent Ms. Sanders, etal, from The Red Hen.