Watering, Watering, Watering

Victoria goes in spurts.  Cleaning spurts, that is.  She cleans with vigor for a month or two – and Larry and I lose all sorts of paraphernalia and important belongings, because she ‘puts them away’ — who knows where.  Then she puts on her other persona, and leaves a trail everywhere she goes.  I then return the favor, and put her things away.  (Only difference is, I do know where I put them.  Most of the time.) 

Victoria is using Caleb’s old room as her craft room.  His bed is still in there; Lydia wants it for Jacob, as soon as their addition is done – really, their addition will be so big, it’s more like a new house, with the original one being the ‘addition’.  They’ll be starting on it soon.

I like big old farmhouses.  There was one a short distance from us that had a huge, ornate turret – sort of like this:  

Every time we went by it, I pointed and announced, “There’s my sewing room!”

My sewing room is in the basement.  But... it’s bright and pretty, and I like it.  More pictures of it here:  My Sewing Studio.  {I’d like the turret more, though.} 

A friend wrote to console me, “The turret sewing room would probably be very hot in summer and very cold in winter and impossible to heat and cool.  Better stick to your basement, lol.”

I responded, “Yeah, well...  but there would be those exquisite spring and fall days where it would be absolutely poifect!!  All two of them.  :-D”

I wish the area around my quilting frame was finished.  It’s a walkout basement, so I have a big window and a double French patio door.  Quite nice, really, even if walls and ceiling are unfinished.  I can open the window and doors and let nature in.

The sewing room is totally finished.  Larry put knotty pine on the ceiling and below the chair rail.  We bought the knotty pine slats in finished condition, and then only needed to fit the grooves together and nail them to the studs.  White-painted Sheetrock is above the chair rail.  But out in the area where my marble table is, and where the quilting frame and HQ16 are, only part of the wall is finished.  The ceilings there are still bare rafters, with all the ductwork and electrical cords in stark relief.  We’ll call it... ‘rustic’.

Speaking of letting nature in... that happens periodically, literally.  Usually on account of the cats.  This spring Tabby and Teensy have brought in at least four baby bunnies.  We managed to rescue three.  Another time, a blue jay flew in the partially-open patio door – I’d opened it so the cats could go in and out.  It was early enough in the year the mosquitoes and flies hadn’t come to life yet, so I thought all would be well.  I didn’t count on a blue jay barging right into my inner sanctum! 

I raced around shutting doors to the upstairs... bathroom door... sewing room door... turning off lights so it looked bright and inviting outside... opened the patio door as wide as possible... and the bird, after screaming, “Jay!  Jay!” at me a few times, finally gathered his wits about him and exited. 

A swallow once came down the chimney.  I heard it fluttering in the wood-burning stove (fortunately, it was cold, hadn’t been burning)... and let it out, after doing all of the above.  He had a harder time finding the door than the jay, because he kept swooping up to perch high – instinct tells them, when there’s danger, go high!  Go high!  He finally, finally swooped under the door jamb, and on outside.

As long as we’re daydreaming about turrets, why not wish for the Neuschwanstein castle?  I could call myself the Bavarian Duchess of Neuschwanstein (sounds like something you’d eat).

I’ve never seen an actual castle, except in pictures; but I always imagine them dark and dank inside.  I don’t think it would have been at all nice living in one, especially two or three hundred years ago.  Depressing places, they were!  No wonder the inhabitants of such abodes often committed mayhem on the rest of the populace!  The cottage-dwelling farmers were a more normal lot, I do believe.  Reckon it was because they breathed better air? 

Last Monday evening, I got the following note from Hannah: 

I’m cooking supper (broccoli cornbread) with the boys. Nathanael’s egg was rotten, so all the ingredients we’d put in were ruined. As I cleaned out the bowl, Levi asked with a frown, “Why’d the chicken DO that?!!” (At least we still have more of the things we’d put in.)

Fortunately, she had more of the ingredients that got wasted.  She hadn’t yet put in the broccoli or cornmeal mix, so only butter, cottage cheese, salt, and two eggs were lost.  Nathanael went to wash his stinky hands, and never showed his face again in the kitchen until the meal was ready.  Levi, by contrast, is the type of kid to just brush it off and get back to business.

Once upon a time, when the world was very young, I threw a rotten egg at Berkley Banwell (name changed to protect the hapless).  I didn’t know the egg was rotten.  I would’ve thrown it with more glee, had I known.  He ducked, it hit the barn wall behind him, and splattered all over the top and back of his head.  (Don’t worry, he absolutely deserved it.)

He proceeded to change from the loud-mouthed bully he was being into a blubbering baby, and run tell his Mommy (he was, oh, 10 or 11 years old) – and she washed his hair for him!  I was amazed.

I was amazed at the smell, too.  The whole barn stunk to high heaven.

Tuesday morning I doused myself with bug spray, and then worked on one of the backyard flower gardens.  All the hostas and Autumn Joy sedum that I divided and transplanted last year are doing great.  The blueberry bush Teddy and Amy gave me has handfuls of blueberries on it, and Victoria’s vegetable garden is looking good.

She brought home four very large pots of all sorts of colorful flowers.  They were past their prime, so Earl May Gardening Center let her have them for $5 each – the original price was 40 bucks each! 

Plus, she has her discount card, because she works there.  She got a big blue reflective garden ball that sits on a short wrought iron stand – free, because the flat-bottomed ball had a dent in the top, evidently a firing error.  The tag on that thing was $65.  With Victoria working at Earl May’s, our yard is more colorful and interesting than it’s ever been before. 

I created a gigantic stack of weeds that needed to be hauled down to the south side of the property – but the wheelbarrow got left upright, and we had quite a bit of rain a couple of days earlier, and the thing was clear full of water.  I tried tipping it over to dump it, but it’s a big, sturdy thing, and all I succeeded in doing was sloshing my new white shoes (why’d I get white?!) and making my back complain.  So I went off and piled the weeds under a big tree on a bunch of pine needles where they won’t kill the grass, doing a good impersonation of Yosemite Sam as I went:  “Grum grum grum grum grum!”

I sent Larry a text asking him to dump the wheelbarrow after work, so I wouldn’t forget about it by the time he got home. He, as usual, was very helpful: “I always turn the wheelbarrow over so it doesn’t get water in it and make things difficult for me.” (Just for the record, it wasn’t me who left it upright.) (Wasn’t him, either, for that matter.)

Next text:  “You should have shot a hole in it.  Or drilled the hole.”

And finally:  “You could have bailed the water out.”

Now, there’s a good use of my time:  bailing water out of a large economy-sized wheelbarrow.

I threw another load of clothes into the washer... got the dry ones off the line... and went back to work on the tabs for the edge of the Mosaic Lighthouse quilt.

I miss Kitty; she was the one who most loved to be carried about, held in our laps, and petted and cuddled.  But while I was working on the gardens, Teensy and Tabby followed me everywhere I went, staying right beside me as I weeded.  One cat can’t replace another, but they are a comfort! 

Some time after noon, my stomach growled, and it occurred to me I had forgotten to eat breakfast.  I went back upstairs, rummaged around, and decided on the Jalapeño/cheddar focaccia bread.  Toasted.  With butter slathered all over it.  Mmmm, good.  (But I do wish the baker had’ve been a bit more freehanded with the jalapeños.)

By evening, all the tabs were sewn together, right sides to right sides.  I clipped all the corners and started turning them right side out.

Someone on an online quilting forum asked, regarding a big old quilt, “When is a quilt too far gone to repair?”

My criteria for fixing old quilts consist of two (maybe three) questions: 

1.  Do I want to?
2.  Is it pretty?  ... and maybe ...
3.  Is it worth it?

If the answer to the first two is 'no' or 'not really' then the answer to the third question is definitely 'not really'. If somebody rants and raves that I need to fix something, and I don't want to, then... I have the perfect solution: I give it to them! I'm generous like that.

Wednesday morning, I pulled a few weeds... cut down a few volunteer trees (i.e. big weeds)... and set up sprinklers all over the yard, using hundreds of feet of hose and some good sprinklers my brother loaned me.  All I need to do is trot outside now and then and flip a couple of switches to stop the flow to one sprinkler and start the flow to another, and every now and then move a sprinkler a little ways.

I found a pretty little warbler having a nap on the lawn.  Warblers don’t nap on lawns when humans are moving sprinklers beside them.  I think Teensy must’ve put him into a permanent sleep, the horrid beast.  He brought one into the house last week.  Those cats have brought in small lizards a time or two – I hadn’t even known there were such critters around!  Once I leaned down to pick up a leaf off the rug – and it wiggled.  Right in my fingers, it wiggled.  AAAAaaaaa!!!!!!  I, who never jump, jumped.  And yelled.  Directly into the phone, I yelled.  (I was talking to Larry at the time.)  You wanna know what it was???  It was the tail of a lizard! 

Here, you can read all about this phenomenon:  Why Do Lizards Lose Their Tails?

(Larry enjoyed that little demonstration, by the way.)

Victoria brought in a bowl of cherry tomatoes and one bright red strawberry from her garden.  Mmmmm, they’re so sweet and good.

I got myself all squeaky clean again... practiced the piano... put a few curls in my hair... ate something... got the last load of clothes off the line... and then headed to the sewing room.

We didn’t have our usual church service that night, on account of something to do with the construction of the new Fellowship Hall and school.

I kept the water going all day long, moving sprinklers hither and yon... and I actually think I got most all the property watered, except for the far west side.  Loren brought me some extra hoses; in a little while I’ll go out and unroll them, put on a few sprinklers here and there, and water that area for the rest of the evening.

While the water flowed outside, I turned tabs right side out inside.  (That makes sense.  Really!  It does.)  What a job I’ve made for myself!  It takes a long time to turn 288 tabs right side out.  (You’ll perhaps recall that I said I cut about twice that many, and wonder what became of the rest?  I was counting both sides in my ‘cut’ tally.  So now they are sewn together.  And for one reason or another, there are about half a dozen less than I thought.)

On one of my watering jaunts, I discovered that there are mulberries all over the mulberry tree.  I gobbled up a couple of handfuls – and the mosquitoes gobbled up me.  I like to have them for breakfast on cereal – my favorite is Honey Bunches.  Uh, that is, I like mulberries on my cereal, not mosquitoes.  I need to make some muffins or cobbler with them.  Mulberries.  Not mosquitoes.  (Though Mosquito Cobbler can be quite tasty, if you remember to marinate the mosquitoes first.)

We have mulberry trees that have dark purple berries, and one that produces white berries.  The first year the white one bore fruit, they weren’t very good – a little bit bitter, and not very juicy.  I thought it was just the type of fruit, but it turns out they were bitter because it was too dry that year.  If I keep the tree well-watered, the white mulberries are fat and juicy and sweet.  They’re more mellow than the purple ones, not quite as tart.  I mixed them with some tart little apricots and made some pies a couple of years ago, and mmmm, mmm, were they ever good.  I generally like the purple mulberries best, though. 

We also have a cherry tree – but the birds eat all of the cherries.  Last year, I plucked one – just one – not-quite-ripe cherry, popped it in my mouth, and yelled, “So there!” to a scolding robin.  They think I planted them a big bird feeder, the scalawags!

A lot of people dislike mulberry trees because after birds scarf down mulberries, they proceed to splatter the house, the driveway, the cars, the sidewalks... etc.

Of course, the obvious solution to this problem is to paint your house purple, buy a purple car, and put down purple gravel and cement.  Problem solved!

Here are a couple of interesting articles about the different types of mulberries:  Mulberries, and Dave’s Garden.  And this tells the health benefits of mulberries:  Nutrition and Mulberries

Lydia, when she was 9 or 10, used to love climbing the mulberry tree in our back yard in town.  She did so once upon a time – whilst wearing a brand-spankin’ new white blouse with delicate embroidery all around the bottom and up the front.

The tree was full of mulberries – and they were not the white variety.

I reckon you know the rest of the story.

She came into the house... tried wiping the splotches off... and realized, Uh, oh.  Mulberry juice stains.  She thought her new blouse was ruined.  I got out the peroxide, put it onto the purple spots – and then we had a few moments of despair when the stuff, after removing the stains, turned the blouse dark yellow in big spots here and there.  But I put the blouse into a sink with a heavy concentration of Oxy-Clean, and little by little it got whiter and whiter.  After one more wash and rinse, using a little bit of color-safe bleach in the last wash, I do believe that blouse was whiter than it had been when it was new.  The pastel embroidery was even more brilliant than before.  Lydia was very relieved when she saw that the new blouse had been saved.    

That night I found a can of corned beef in my cupboard that I hadn’t remembered I had.  I think Loren must’ve given it to me in one of his cleaning-out-the-cupboard benders, when he gave me everything he thought he didn’t know how to prepare, or that he was afraid would expire before he could use it, or that he thought was too much for just one person, or that he just plain didn’t like.  I still had a partial loaf of Jalapeño/cheddar focaccia bread, so I sliced it... toasted it... buttered it... put hot corned beef on it... and poured a hot white sauce over it.  We also had chicken/broccoli rice, cold vegetable salad with sunflower seeds and dried cranberries and an orange dressing, and a fruit medley (peaches, pineapple, mango, and strawberries) for dessert, with apple juice or cranberry juice to wash it all down.  It’s always fun to find a yummy surprise in freezer or cupboard or refrigerator. 

Have you ever had an online friend describe you, and know that they had not yet seen the ‘whole you’?  A lady who has been a friend on a quilting group for several years recently described me as ‘genteel and proper’ and in possession of a ‘deep belief system’.  I have friends who would laugh heartily at the first part of her description.  It is true that I’m conservative, absolutely sure of what I believe... and, like it says in one of my favorite verses in Romans, “I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ...”  I remember listening to a dear old pastor, J. Harold Smith, on the radio when I was a little girl, starting off his half hour with that verse every day.  He’d quote it with conviction, and I would think, Neither am I!!! 

“But,” I told my friend, “you might be surprised.  I have a scar on my knuckle from Drake Loughlan’s tooth, you know!  :-D”  (name changed to protect the guilty)

She immediately wanted to know the story.  So I told it:

It happened when I was in the eighth grade.  Drake Loughlan kept calling me bad names (really bad names) every time he passed me in the hallway, and I, as usual, ignored him totally, which normally worked great.  However, he was causing other boys in his nasty little gang to follow suit, and one day I decided, That’s enough of that, I will not let him say that again. 

Wouldn’t you know, I met him in the hallway, all alone, in the middle of the very next class session.  I was coming back from the library; he was probably skipping class.  We approached each other.  I was just pondering, How do you keep someone from saying something you don’t want to hear? when he made the error of smirking and opening his mouth to say something.

We will not know what that ‘something’ was, for all in one split second, I thought, No, you’re not going to say that, launched myself straight at him, and socked him ker-smash! square in the chops with my left fist (I’m right-handed, but he was on my left, and my books were in my right). I wasn’t very big, but I was strong. And fast.

His head flew back, his neck popped, his eyes rolled back, he staggered backwards, slammed into the lockers behind him with a crash, and nearly fell to his knees, while I stood and stared in mute horror, thinking, I killed him!!! 

But then he regathered himself, pulled himself back upright using a locker handle, and then, hand to mouth, he muttered, “Blankety-blank.”  Only this time, it wasn’t an obscene name for me.  His nose and lips were bleeding and starting to swell, and his chin was bruised.  By the next day, he would have vague hints of black eyes.

We stood there and stared at each other for a few minutes, both of us looking equally shocked, I’m sure.  Deciding that he was going to live, I proceeded on to my class, more shaken than anyone would ever have guessed.  He staggered on down the hallway.

A tiny nick on my knuckle bled a drop or two, and would turn into a small scar.

By the time I went home, I had recovered from the fright and was feeling a bit proud of myself for my courageous deed.  Thinking my father (from whom I’d inherited my fast Irish temper) would feel the same, I told him the story.

He did not feel the same.

He looked at me soberly, and then he picked up his Bible and said, “This is what I’m afraid will happen to you –” and he read, “He that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword,” and “whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”

My parents were very, very concerned that I had gotten myself into more trouble than I would know how to cope with – and I was too naïve to understand what could happen if those boys should find me alone on one of my many bike rides.

However, much to their relief, this event had a better ending than expected:  from that day on, that boy was my friend – in fact, he still is, if I ever happen to bump into him in town.  Being the ring leader of his group of bad boys, he caused all of them to treat me with respect, if not downright friendliness. 

In fact, I wound up having the opposite problem:  He decided he liked me!  He was quite pleased with himself, the next year, when he fixed my pencil case for me.  Aaarrrggghhh.  I tried to discourage him, while not snubbing him.  There’s a fine line there, you know!  I did not want to be associated with that low-class group; but I was glad that they treated me so well.  Until the last day of 12th grade, no one dared say a bad word to me, if Drake Loughlan and his ilk were nearby.  In high school, I once overheard him telling a new boy (a bad egg, just like him), “Yeah, she looks like a sweet little chick” (stabbing a pointing thumb back in my direction), “but boy, oh, boy, can she ever pack a wallop!”  He rubbed his jaw in recollection.

So then, to my dismay, the new boy (a first-class bum) immediately went out of his way to be extra friendly.

Ah, teenage troubles and angst! – especially for a Christian girl in a big ol’ school full of very few other Christians.  I am so very thankful that my children and grandchildren have a wonderful Christian school to go to.  And I am thankful for parents who taught me well how to treat others and respond to difficulties.  And to have some spunk, too.  My temper can get to the top of my head and send the smoke right out my ears really, really fast.  I’m short, you see, so the smoke, once it starts at my toes, doesn’t have far to go.  I will say that I’ve learned to control it and put it to better use than I once did (the temper, not the smoke).  But mind you, it’s still there, alive and well.

It rained Thursday morning.  That meant... I didn’t have to work out in the yard!  And I wouldn’t have to water the next day, either, as we received an inch and a half of rain.  I really do prefer to sew and quilt (though I do love my yard to look nice, with flowers blooming all over the place).  My dryer is still not working, so I can’t wash clothes if it’s raining, either.  Good thing I got them done Wednesday, and good thing Victoria decided to wash her bedding the day befo---------------oh, good grief.  I looked out the back window to see what kind of a bird was singing away on the deck – and there was one of Victoria’s pretty blue dresses hanging on the line.  It had been raining for several hours.  (rolling eyes)  Well, I reckoned a little rainwater wouldn’t hurt it, and the sun was supposed to come out later that day.

Late that afternoon, Larry came rumbling down the lane with Walkers’ big truck and flatbed – hauling the gutters he’d removed from the school and Fellowship Hall that they gave us for our house.  I helped him carry them into the back yard and lay them beside the big garage.

Now for a Trashy Story and a Remark for the Day:

You know you live in the country when...  you think it cause for great rejoicing when you find a trash pick-up service that will actually drive down your lane and pick up your trash from the end of your driveway.

We used to burn our trash – but the neighbors complained, even though we tried hard to never burn it if the wind was coming from the wrong way.  But Nebraska winds can change abruptly, or switch around all over the place.  Not wanting to annoy the neighbors in such a manner, we enlisted a trash pick-up service two or three years ago.  They, however, refused to come down the lane, so we had to cart our garbage cans all the way over to the old highway, a couple of blocks away.  They’re too big for me to manage, so Larry had to do it before he left for work before sunup, and bring the empty cans back when he got home, after sundown.  Now and then the wind blew them over... once or twice a dog got into them and either Victoria or I had to gather it up again...  Ugh.  The neighbors were unimpressed with that, and I certainly can’t blame them.  I was unimpressed, too!

The neighbors put their garbage cans on the old highway, too – but their property is right next to the highway, so they don’t have to tote, drag, or haul it more than a few yards.  In any case, I’ll be very glad to only have to put the can/bags at the end of our drive.

We have just half a dozen or so neighbors out here.  Five are nice.  One is crabby.  The wife is crabbier than the husband.  And she’s crabbier with the husband than she is with us.  The husband told Larry just a couple of weeks ago that he couldn’t do this or that, “because ‘she’ will yell at me” – where upon she promptly proved he was telling the truth.

Larry came in the house shortly thereafter... smiled at Victoria and me... and remarked, “It sure is nice and quiet in here.”

Maybe her feet hurt.  (Most certainly, her husband’s ears hurt.)

Finally, we found a company from a small city an hour’s drive away that has enough customers around this location that they are willing to add another – and they’re a dollar cheaper per month, too.  A whole dollar.  Why, in a hundred years, we will have saved $1,200! 

Before heading to the sewing room, I had to wash the dishes.  It looked pretty much like the Russian Army ate a twelve-course meal here, and they must’ve used a separate dish and eating utensil for each and every entrée.

A heat advisory was issued a couple days in advance; the weathermen were saying Saturday would be very hot.  I looked online to see what ‘very hot’ was.

Hmmm... looked like the temperature would be in the high 80s or low 90s, with humidity at about 70% or so.  So it seems Mr. Weather Wimp himself must’ve issued the Extreme Heat Advisory.  Or perhaps the heat advisory was issued only to ranchers and cattlemen.  They do have to take precautions with their cattle when it gets that hot.

Victoria brought us food from El Matador that evening:  Super sanchos, super enchiladas, and taco bowls.  (She likely used our very own debit card to buy it... but, still, she brought it!  She did call and ask if we’d like Mexican food.  She’s a dependable little dear; she won’t run off with the family fortune.)

That night I finished turning the edging tabs right side out and pressing them.  Here they are, all 288 of them – 72 different fabrics, four tabs of each:

Birds can build in the oddest places, seemingly at all sorts of danger to themselves.  Robins have built in the form cradles that hold the aluminum forms Walkers use to frame the cement walls they pour.  Larry has found them when he went to load cradles onto his big truck.  If he must use those cradles, he careful removes the nest and transfers it to a nearby cradle of forms they won’t be using for a while.  The transfer is almost always successful – the robin parents fuss for a while, and then settle in to their new location. 

Last week he found a nest with two baby robins in it – built right into the bucket arms of one of their big loaders!  Furthermore, he had just hauled it on the flatbed truck all the way from a job some miles away into the shop, where he was washing it with the power washer.  And then he found the nest.  The little birds were almost ready to fledge.  When he spotted the nest and peered in, they both jumped out and fluttered away.  He picked them up... put them back into the nest... covered it with his glove... and went and put the nest among a rack of forms at the back of the lot where he knew there were many robin families.  Hopefully one of the robins will adopt the babies... or they’ll be able to fend for themselves with the many bugs and berries nearby. 

Friday morning, a friend sent a picture of a tulle skirt she’s planning to make for her daughter’s wedding gown.  Brought back memories...  I’ve put a lot of tulle into underskirts, can-cans, puffed sleeves, and even pew bows for a wedding, though nothing as important as a wedding gown itself. 

Years ago, the only places I had to cut fabric were the kitchen table and my bed.  I had a folding cardboard cutting mat to lay on the bed.  So there I was, a gigantic heap of tulle on the bed, carefully measuring out lengths for underskirts of several little girls’ very full dresses...

And then I heard it:  Black Kitty and her young son Tad, our MWKW (Most Wonderful Kitten in the World), thundering down the hallway.

“Shut the door!” I cried to one of the children who happened to be standing nearer the door.

Too late. 

Cat and kitten both dashed through the doorway, took a flying leap, landed smack in the middle of the tulle, grabbed it with all forty claws, ------ and rolled. 

And kept rolling. 

They rolled until they were both totally wrapped – and stuck.

I laughed ’til I cried.

Fortunately, both cat and kitten were sweet and cuddly, and allowed me to unroll them without protest, though it did take a good deal of effort and sweet-talk, to get them to quit trying to play, and let me get them loose.

The tulle was remarkable unscathed for all that.  I managed to avoid the few small rips they’d made.  It took quite a while to refold it, though.  I did not again leave the bedroom door open whilst measuring and cutting tulle or netting of any kind.

Those were the days of sewing yards upon yards (maybe more like miles upon miles) of ruffles for little girls’ fancy dresses – silk, cotton, batiste, taffeta, satin, velour, single knits, and even corduroy and velvet.  Five little girls (and their dolls) required lots of ruffles. 

Did you know that 100% silk should be gathered on the lengthwise grain of the fabric rather than the crosswise grain?  I just learned that. 

I do know that now and then I was using an odd remnant of fabric that had to be gathered the wrong direction, just because that was the only way I could do it – and it certainly didn’t want to gather nicely.  Sometimes, when that happened, I used my handy-dandy little pleating foot, and then pressed the tiny pleats down.  Where there’s a will, there’s a way!

Or, Motto #2:  If it doesn’t want to play nice and lay right, just heat up ze ol’ iron and smooooosh it to death.  :-D

Friday was a sunny day, so I took the opportunity to wash sheets and pillowcases in addition to clothes.  I managed to get everything washed in just two loads.  That’s a sight different from those years where there was laundry for eleven people!  The kids helped, but there was still a lot to do.  I think washer and dryer ran all day (and part of the night), every day, six days a week.

Nathanael turned nine that day. Hannah told me he likes to draw and sketch, and the last time I was in Hobby Lobby, I found several aisles full of all sorts of intriguing and nifty drawing things. I’m so happy we now have a Hobby Lobby in our town.

So I returned and got him an artist’s spiral notebook, a big book on graphite/charcoal drawing, a set of various sizes of graphite and charcoal pencils, and other things such as a kneaded eraser, sharpeners for the different pencils, a blender, etc.

As I drove away from their house after taking the things to him, he had already chosen a tutorial in the book, and was starting to sketch.  He looked up and waved, called, “Thank you, Grandma!” and grinned so that the dimples in his cheeks twinkled. 

That day I started connecting tabs and cording for the quilt edging.  I spent six hours sticking skinny cords into little holes in the sides of the tabs, pinning, then topstitching the tabs to hold the cords in place.  Someone asked, “If you hang the quilt, will the tabs flop or stay standing at attention?”

“I used two layers of interfacing in each tab,” I answered.  “They’re stiff enough to stand at attention through a torrential downpour.” 

It was a bit of a job to keep the stitching perfectly straight; the foot wanted to slip off the edge, on account of the thickness.  I’m a-gonna win the skirmish, though!  Or at least go down screamin’ and kickin’ if I don’t. 

When Victoria got off work, she went to Pawnee Park with some of her Jackson cousins, and then to Wal-Mart with her cousin Amanda.

Saturday morning, I started the water on the yard, actually remembered to eat some breakfast, and then headed down to my nice, cool sewing room.

4:30 p.m. – and I was cutting binding!  I was really, truly, cutting the binding for the Mosaic Lighthouse quilt.  I’d measured top, bottom, sides, and middles, averaged it out (it’s remarkably rectangular, for all that seam allowance trouble I had with the right third section)... and I was cutting.  The binding consists of four 75” x 1 ½” strips, four 90 ½” x 1 ½” strips, and identical strips of interfacing.  It will be mitered at the corners, and there will be separate top and bottom binding pieces, since the tab-and-cording edging must be sewn into the edge of the binding.  I may have to make more cording.

Periodically I went outside and changed the sprinklers.  I have a four-way connector on one spigot, and a two-way on the other, with a volley of more two-way connectors from Loren, so that I can split hoses some distance from the spigots, and have a farther reach.  The birds are enjoying the water.  The worms think they are, until they get too close to the surface and a robin spots them.

Here’s our front-yard cottontail that is altogether too tame for his own good.  More photos are here:  Cats, Bunnies, and Chipping Sparrows.

For supper, I cooked cheesy wild game hot dogs and little 12-grain loaves, along with rice. 

Later that night, I sewed the first few inches of edging for the Mosaic Lighthouse quilt, passing 550 hours. Quite a bit short of the 936 hours I spent on the Graceful Garden quilt, but it’s anybody’s guess how much longer it will be before I’m done! When the binding with its edging is done, I have embroidery and hotfix crystals to put on the quilt. I do hope it winds up with a resemblance to what I imagine!

Now, if I’d have just thought to change pressure on my presser foot during the topstitching on the first dozen tabs.  Stitches look best when everything is set correctly, how ’bout that?

Loren has poison ivy on his face, head, and leg.  He thinks he got it while weed-eating under our deck.  I’ve never seen any around here, though we do have Boston ivy.  It was bad enough when he woke up Sunday morning that he stayed home from church – first service he’s missed since Janice passed away last year.  We took him an over-the-counter tube of Ivarest after church, one of the most effective non-prescription medications we’ve found for poison ivy.

We then took Lawrence his Father's Day gift.  It’s an old train light, and clocks have been put into both sides of it where once there were red or green lenses.

For lunch, we had eggs on the Thomas’ cinnamon/raisin English muffins Teddy gave us. Victoria brought in a few shiny red strawberries from her garden, and shared them.

Hannah had surgery today.  We are hoping this will help with her ongoing problem of abdominal pain.  Bobby sent a message at noon saying the surgery was finished, and everything had gone well.  It’s always a relief to hear it’s over, and all is well.

As usual, I’m watering the yard today. 

Something is wrong with Teensy.  I thought he didn’t seem quite right Saturday and Sunday... and today he has a definite limp and gimpiness in his haunches.  I thought it was the left hip where the trouble is.  He’s a tall, gangly cat, more prone to hip troubles and arthritis than small, compact cats are.  Poor thing!  He ‘talks’ to me – “Mrrow mowww mrrr meow-ow-ow mrrrrow pbbbpbpmm!” 

Victoria came home from work a little while ago, and told me that early this morning Teensy was going along on three legs, holding a front paw completely off the ground, not putting any weight on it at all.  By the time I saw him, however, he was putting weight on it, but walking a bit ungainly, so that I mistakenly thought it was a rear leg/hip problem instead of a front paw.

What happened to him?  Probably a cat fight, and his paw or leg got bitten.  I watched him walk, and, sure enough, it’s his front leg causing the trouble, not his rear leg or hip.  He was doing pretty well until he jumped hopped off my lap and hurt it again.

Later this evening, I lopped a bunch of big branches off the lilac tree – it was all lopsided, and the main middle section was dying.  It was nearly slaughtered by having branches lopped off willy-nilly when our gutters got cleaned out one cold, cold winter’s day.  The poor tree was still bushy on the front, but had lost the entire back half nearest the house.  Mind you, I’d rather have a dead lilac tree than have someone tumble off the ladder because of branches in the way!  Anyway, with a great deal of effort, I got it cut way, way down, so that when it comes back again (and it’s already starting to come back from the lower trunks), it will be nicely symmetrical again.  Once, I leaned against one of the lopper handles in order to reposition my hands—and wound up pushing it too hard against a rib, and now it’s sore, sore, sore.

Okay, back to the Teensy story:  when I finished cutting the branches, I was dragging them down the hill to the south end of our property – and Teensy was racing madly to and fro in the yard, running up trees a few feet, then leaping down, hiding behind tree trunks and popping out at me, begging me to pet him, trotting after me everywhere I went.  So I do believe he’s going to be all right. 

Here’s a shot of a vociferous chipping sparrow, singing his heart out.

Feline Patrol, hard at work

For supper tonight, we had chicken fajitas with strips of peppers and onions on whole wheat tortillas, topped with freshly shredded cheddar, picanté sauce, and sour cream, and garnished with cherry tomatoes from Victoria’s garden.  Soon, more handfuls will be ripe.  We haven’t had much trouble with rabbits in the garden, because of our FP (Feline Patrol).

If you like quilt shows, here is a fun website to look through, with quilt shows listed by state (or province) and date:

Quilter’s Travel Companion

Back to the Lighthouse quilt!  I have 558.5 hours in it now, 86.5 of which have been spent on cording, piping, and tabs for the edging.  Am I nuts, or what?

***Don’t answer that.***

,,,>^..^<,,,     Sarah Lynn     ,,,>^..^<,,,