Away with everything

 

I decided to clear out the little stitching tote to bring a project to the country.

It's been overflowing with hopeful scraps. No room for the threadbox or hoops, so most of this went into the River basket which also needs weeding. 

This is why I haven't bothered taking any stitching with me. But, three days a week, I drive Charlie to math tutoring and have a quiet hour to myself. In the car if I can nab a shady spot or in the comfy waiting area. 

The waiting area invariably draws spectators with questions.

His mom came home with some back to school supplies today. Nothing like a summer buzzkill.

being missed

 

There were gifts waiting when I returned. Thank you, M!

This is indigo dyed perle cotten. I understand that this is something her coven does every year. This blue, so true, is so hard to come by with MX dyes. 

Imagine someone with eyes this color. 

There was also a small pile of tatters still hanging on the shower rod where I left them. Small pieces of vintage damask and a bit of a linen blouse, dyed and discharged. 

 I keep turning the pile over and over looking for the story it wants to tell. At the moment, I'm still too jangled to hear it, so I'll let them rest in the River basket.

Charlie and I spend a lot of time talking. We both suffer a bit from social isolation. I work hard to not speak about the kinds of things that no eleven year old should worry about, but he's a master of context and pays attention to everything even when you think he's adrift in a game on some device. 

Yesterday he asked me to list every job I ever had, something I've never done for myself. I got the timelines wrong enough to make me uncomfortable.

We read about the special quarters issued on the 4th of July being deliberately scarce and valuable and immediately drove to the only bank in town and turned two twenties into four rolls of quarters. Unfortunately, it was clear by the clumsy wrappers that someone had already picked through them. 

Afterward, there was discussion about how filthy currency is as we scrubbed our paws like surgeons.

When I first get home, I'm sniffed over and rebuked for a while. Then, as the sun sets, one by one, they let me know I was missed.

Sophie, who does no like to be picked up or cuddled, likes to backstop me, often with a leg thrown over my ankle, murder mittens at the ready. She's a dear odd little thing.

Sixty miles away, this little tiger still throws himself into my arms and begs to be picked up while I'm trying to do kitchen stuff. I no longer bother to bring any kind of stitching with me.

It was easiest to let Milo wake Charlie before lunch came and went. He wakes me every morning at dawn, fitting his front feet into my eye sockets and licking my forehead raw if I don't rise up. 

Before I left, I went to a shop and got a haircut. When I can't reach the ends to braid it anymore, that's the signal that it's time to lighten the load. 

Since I wear it up or braided half the year, you might ask, "Why not just cut it short?" Because without the weight of length, my hair stands up and riots. Looked great on Tina Turner. On me it was just plain scary. My own mother told me I looked like an aborigine. Then she gave me a kitchen table perm to complete the damage. 

When everyone else was sporting either sleek and lanky mod styles or fifties teased bouffants, I  suffered through the entire eighth grade with a head of  crinkled, dirty blond wool that fell flat on top but stuck out everywhere else as if I'd stuck a fork in the toaster.

The lady in the shop had longish hair and not much English but it didn't take much to let her know what I wanted. She brushed and combed it a long time, lifting up chunks here and there. "You do this color?" 

"Yes. To keep from getting bored and cutting it." 

She laughed and snapped her scissors like alligator jaws. 

In no time, there was a drift of purple on the floor and I felt ten pounds lighter. I snatched what was left up into a clip and fluttered away. Thanks, Natalie. See you in two years. Maybe.

Whispers and fireworks

it's just me and the cloth today, quietly

 While our country contorts itself into a position where history is all roses, many of us are finding little to celebrate beyond significant progressive wins in states that were formerly deep red. I will not turn on the TV today. Social media is bad enough.

Talk of the Bicentennial, now fifty years ago, gave me something else to think about.  The country was deliriously wrapping every damn thing in red, white, and blue. Everyone I knew was ride sharing, coupon clipping, check kiting poor. There was a recession going on. 

But on the 4th of July, 1976, Jimmy and I went public. That is, we gave up sneaking around behind everyone's backs.

I couldn't tell you if it was hot, I was stupid in love. The skies were blue and clear and towards dusk we parked my VW and hiked up to the back lawn of Phelps Memorial Hospital in Tarrytown. From there you could see miles down the Hudson River towards New York City. 

It was too far away to see any of the Tall Ships but, as darkness fell, each little town and village on both sides of the river put up their fireworks shows. It was magical, but what I remember most was him taking my hand in his and that he hummed along with the canned music and didn't care if I heard him.

There's always a third wheel in a good love story, isn't there? Jim's cousin was with us. When the main fireworks show was over, and people were packing up their picnics and kids, Jim walked the mile or so to bring the car up the hill. Cousin Steve stayed with me and after some small talk told me, "He will pull the stars down out of the sky for you."  

Jim pulled up  to the now empty parking lot and the convertible top was down. The entire back seat of the car was filled with little potted white azaleas that he'd plucked from the landscaping on the way up the hill. 

I remember how they looked like stars. 

recovery day

 

Wish 4

  You can count on me to overdo everything. 

  Toast and roasts will always be burnt. Books too   long, even    though stories have minds of their own. 

 Colors overheated in most places. 

 And yesterday, too long in the pool. Not so much in   the sun, but I was well poached by the time I got   out. 

 Then I spent entirely too much time stitching and by   the time I went to bed my hands were killing me.

 Enough bitching.  

 There are plenty of things to do that don't involve   being out in the heat. 

 I know much of the country is   suffering under a   heatwave so I should shut up about   it. What we are   having here is a pretty typical July   day. I just have    to be smarter about it.

So I spent the morning replenishing the Dirty Threads and noticing that there will likely be some overdyeing in the future. That has turned into fun stuff.

And this tablemopper is ready to go back into real service. I washed and dried it in the machines so no more dye sessions. It has plenty of color. A little quick and dirty measurement found that there is enough cloth to make two knee length house dresses. The cloth is sturdy enough to support a little decorative foolery. The first one I made was a more delicate cloth and is getting thin from use. 

Later, I'll wake up the Janome. 

Celebrate Sun

1980

2026

Happy birthday, son.

With a mixture of awe and angst, I don't know what I'd do without him. It wouldn't be here, in this house, that's for sure, and I am deeply grateful.

A huge turnaround is in store for the Crabs this year. I had planned for a Gemini, but he had to be evicted ten days late. Willful and self-confident as ever.

I've settled into this UFO as a clutch piece. Often things that I fiddle with long enough pass a mark where they are either dismembered or gain a soul. 

This one languished a long time. The startling blue ground was a slap to the eyes. I may still move or trim some of the characters on the stage, make them more organic, but the stitching has become lines of dialogue. Tales of woe, incantations of vengeance and protection.

This one will keep my hands out of the fire for some time.

 

The strawberry moon

 In anticipation of cloud cover, I worked a strawberry moon into a soggy ufo. 

I should have taken a picture. Around sunset, Colin was out on the freshly cut lawn looking up. Over his head in the Big Tree, a red tailed hawk was counting squirrels. Behind the houses across the street, thunderheads piled up like pink and gold whipped cream, a Maxfield Parrish extravaganza that would block the moonrise. Heat lighting in the clouds, lighting bugs cruising the yards. 

I didn't take a picture because I left my phone upstairs. Earlier, I left it at the pharmacy in Publix. I think it wants a divorce.

Saturday, I left it in the car after shopping. When I finally forced myself out into the heat  to retrieve it, I stopped on the walkway to straighten a tipsy solar light.A little too much momentum and the post snapped and I fell, leading with my chin, and assorted other body parts by the bruises that are now surfacing. 

Grateful that I missed the concrete walk, but baked Georgia clay with a little grass is nearly as hard. 

I have lived in terror of falling since I topped out at a sturdy 5'8". Gravity is cruel and it's a long way down. 

Five seconds, ten. Picture a grumpy camel rising from the sand.  I got my elbows and knees in position to get...myself...up, because I was alone. Eiffel would be proud. Jaw worked, teeth okay. Knees, shoulders...keep moving. They shoot racehorses.

I got the phone from the car, then up steps and stairs to my bed. The monkey mind would not shut up. 

I fell. I fell. The old woman had a fall. I fell.

Shut UP, already. You lived. 

A few scraps of weary damask fancied up with a little discharging. Now I have find some AquaSafe to put a stop to that bleach.

Into the mystic

 

Two worlds

 

I came into a clutch of this strange and wonderful cloth. It's a rare day when I run across a fabric for the first time but, this is contemporary cloth and most of my time is spent with rags from the olden days.

It has an interesting hand. Almost a tiny waffle.

I love that expression. The hand of the cloth. That something as inanimate as a piece of cloth could communicate so much by how it feels slipping through our fingers, sight unseen.

By the way it takes the dye, it's all natural, but it acts like it has a touch of Lycra. There a nice give on the diagonal that would make it great for garments. 

I just remembered I have a magnifying app on my phone that lets me save the images. 

Does anyone know what it's name is?

As soon as Baily clears off my work space, I'll flip over the crocheted throw to the non-cat-hair side, take some pictures and post them to the new cloth page.

Content scrapers have returned, but I hardly care. In a way, they've given me a gift. 

My stat counter tells me where casual and returning readers are world wide. It's quite sobering to see searches for "that stitch" from countries that are both bombing and being bombed. Someone in a war zone looking for an embroidery tutorial.

The data miners are scattered all over the world in places I wouldn't take an all-expense paid vacation to. They are probably bots, but if not, I hope they earn enough to feed a family maybe. 

Their search strings also bring me to old posts that I haven't thought of in years. That's me the day I picked up Jumpin'Jack Flash from the dealer who was annoyed that I didn't finance with them. Pirates. 

I'm still rolling back and forth 61 niles each way to spend the middles of the week with Charlie. Suffer the doldrums of summer like I was still 12, but with a drivers licence and some spare change. I have given up getting any of my stuff done while I'm there and that's fine. 

Keep the Change

Father's day and the Solstice all at once? The weekend was wrapped in a strong sense of melancholy. To push that back I busied myself with the side hustles.  

I'm a bit smug for NOT ordering cardboard bobbins from "Zon. There's a habit I'm working hard to break. "Time to  Reorder" is very seductive, but I have to do the real math and find local options. I needed chlorine pills for the pool and there is only one place locally and Michaels is on the way. My takeaway from the oil crisis of the 70's was never drive for just one thing. Make the trip count.

I marched in, went straight to the embroidery stuff, found the bobbins and a single skein of black and went straight to checkout. No wandering around consumerizing. That's where things got weird. 

There was a crowd of youngish people milling around the self-checkout. I made eye contact with a young woman at the front desk and said, "I'll save your job, thanks." and put my stuff on the counter. She beckoned me around to the other side and asked if I was paying in cash or using a card. 

I happened to have enough cash and slapped a fiver and a dime on the counter. She keyed the drawer open and asked if I needed a receipt and I shrugged. The purchase was 5.03 total. And me standing there looking simpleminded, expecting change. "Oh, we don't have any pennies."  I nodded and stuffed the goods in my bag.

The crowd of teens(?) around the self-checkout was getting noisy. I made a small face that she didn't seem to register. There was an older woman employee with her behind the counter who seemed preoccupied. I had the distinct feeling that I had walked into something hinky going on and that the parking lot was the place to be. I didn't ask about their supply of nickels.

I watched the front door from the far side of the parking lot and no one came out after I did for the ten minutes I dithered around out there. No police cars or helicopters descended and I decided that I had a case of Writer's Willies. Imagining shit happening when nothing is going on. 

I got the pool pills and headed back. There was a Braves game on the radio so I stopped at the park and found a patch of shade.

The Braves were sucking and the announcers knew it, so I switched over to music from my phone and opened up the file with the last scene I worked on, not expecting much.

Out of over 1400 audio files, the first thing from the speakers was Jim's message. "This is Jim. Please leave a message."  Charlies has heard it once or twice and told me he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

I broke into a grin, "Gotcha Babe," and proceeded to find that the bones of the scene were strong. It needed a little descriptive hair, some quality fattening and a solid trajectory. 

Later that afternoon, the long-dead refrigerator light decided to start working. 

He died here and here he remains.

The Solstice

 

I snagged a little piece of campfire linen for myself, and while I was putting together thread sets for the store, I got greedy. 

This dyefest turned out to be a marathon. 

Nothing like a well-stocked palette to spark a project or two even if I am out of cardboard bobbins.

There's a new tab just for the cloth that a few folks asked for. There will be more but, today, I'm catching a break.