Something to count on

They will do what they want, when they want to.

 And the sun will rise and set whether you see it, or not. 

Overnight sensations

 After a week of this, getting the pool back to blue took some doing, but it was worth it. It's bad that I can count the number of pool days I've had at home this summer.

But this one was glorious and today should deliver more of the same until late in the day, when the storm risks return.

I took a printout of the last few scenes with me to read and catch the flavor of the story. It's been a while since I've had a productive writing session. 

While I drifted in an out of the sun--bless that blue shade sail--a scene that has been stonewalling me took a hard left and showed me a new path to try.

After showering off the pool (this time, I could sense the chlorine) I put on the latest Used to be a Tablecloth Schmatta. This one was the linen Cuddledown sheet table mopper and has some intense areas of color. It was hard to decide which side of the cloth to use.

My workmanship with the sewing machine is a little rough. I settled for utility over appearance because it's a house dress. Unlike too many people, I don't go to the store in my pajamas or dressing gown. 

The pearl buttons keep the neckline in order, but the appliqued heart was purely fun.

I cooked good food, enjoyed some herb and slept as if I had spent a day at the beach. But before I fell asleep, my characters began chewing that scene over. Rather than promise myself I'd remember it all in the morning (as if!) I lit up my phone and dictated some notes.

    The girl was the kind of nervous that made bystanders edge away as if they could feel her heart hammering under her skin. Sick thin, she looked partied out except for her hands. 

    The nails were inch-long ovals, chalk white with the moons expertly arched in metalliic black. At at glance, her finger bones seemed to be escaping her flesh early.

***

This is a morning ritual. He stalks in to the studio after breakfast and commandeers my lap, no matter what is already there. I see him coming and clear the way. 

He pushed his face into my hand licking and nipping as it was a filthy kitten. Then closes his eyes and contemplates his day. After a minute, maybe two, he leaps up and leaves the room. 

"That's enough blessing for one day, woman. Back to your business."

We are owned. 

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.