The Fart in a Mitten

 Early this morning Helene finally dragged her damp skirts over us.

I know there were tragic outcomes for some, but by the time the storm got here...the post title was my late Dad talking. 

I was up all night worrying mostly about falling trees, here in Danielsville and sixty miles southwest at home. Who's to say if worrying works? Being prepared is less wear and tear, but little of that is on me. 

By this afternoon, it was delightful out. You could still smell the ocean. 

Thanks everyone for the concern. All's well.

Waiting

 So far, it looks like we will be in the direct path of the hurricane. I've learned that there's no telling how much juice the storm will still have after it makes landfall and scrapes its way up the length of the state. 340 miles, give or take. Georgia is big. 

For my New York family, that's the same distance from the tip of Manhattan all the way up to the backside of Plattsburg. Spitting distance to Canada. 

All of this is an appeal to the 'verse that Helene blows herself out well before she gets to my neck of the woods. Gutter guards are in place, mostly. Hatches battened. 

Update: 

An early band of thunderstorms started right after lunch. This cat takes a perverse delight in going out, getting wet, then jumping into my bed to snuggle. 

 Madison County schools are closing early tomorrow and will not open on Friday. I'll be saddling up early tomorrow.

Subterfuge

Have you figured out yet that I am a most unreliable narrator? Shifty. Whim prone.

Ahead of the storm coming, I brought the dye shakers in for run through the dishwasher and just ordered a shitpot of yellow from ProChem. 

It could happen.

All these men in my life.  'Nuff said. 

Yesterday I had the rare privilege of bearing witness to talent. Can't help that it's Charlie. 

We were free-forming with a pile of Lego pieces drawn from the giant box with half a cubic yard of Lego in it, some of them were Colin and Jakes. 

I spoke to the computer and asked for some music. It gave up Paul Simon. Charlie was immediately attentive because he likes story songs and Paul Simon articulates his poetry. 

The kid started singing along to a song I'm pretty sure he's never heard. I'm just listening. We get to the verse:

“Sail on, silvergirl, sail on by, your time has come to shine, all your dreams are on their way”

And I get goosebumps because he's taken to the lower register of the harmony and was faking the words precisely in tune for the whole song. 

He's become involved in the chorus at school, so I said, "You know, the chorus teacher might ask you to sing alone in front of the class one day." If you've had the experience, you know how impactful it is. 

"So?" He shrugged and continued working on a croc-ship. The soul of blase. 

Next time I'll ask Alexa to play some Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Nate King Cole. Maybe he'll be ready by the time Michael Buble retires. 

I specialize in party boats and parade floats.

In the wind

 

~truth~

 This bundle arrived late yesterday. Thank you A!

I waited until first light to open it. Each piece is a treasure. There's even a huck towel. Those are always problematic because I love them so much that I have trouble using them once the colors come alive.

But this one and only shot made me face the fact that there won't be another dyefest this year. I ran out of summer. The itch has gone into hibernation. 

There were lots of wild boasts and good intentions. I even bought a new tub of soda ash the other day. There's a two thousand-yard cone of white DMC cotton safe in its plastic shroud. I know there's a shortfall in the dye inventory. I'm just not moved to dig in and make a list. The biggest, most important lack is the will to do it. 

My comfort cushion is that I have all the raw materials I need to make a thing, should that spirit move me. 

And there's plenty to go around.