Here’s the quilt I bought at the Rotary Auction, no provenance known.
It’s impossible for me to get a picture of it without the light in the way, now that we’ve hung it high on a wall. That was the evening’s adventure. Here’s how crazy resourceful B. is:
That’s me.
This morning our whole family marched in the Seattle Pride Parade with the Group Health contingent. Equality is something both B. and I feel strongly about, and it was a very positive experience for everyone in the family.
The kids carried balloons along with the other kids marching in our group, and S. wore a visor from K’s old softball team, Sisters. As we walked, a parade observer called out to my girls, “Thank you, little sisters!”
Thanks to Group Health for sponsoring the parade and for being a progressive and humane force for good.
My potato patch:
I should have grabbed A. to be my scale reference–these vigorous monsters are up to his shoulders. I’m thinking they like the bunny-dropping fertilizer I treat them to.
I dug some of the new potatoes, both reds and golds, and made potatoes and peas in chive cream sauce for dinner. Was there ever a happier gardener? I don’t think so.
Our morning’s loot from the Rotary rummage sale and auction:
1 old silk quilt (it’s beautiful, naturlich, and reminded me of my other one. Two makes me a collector of old silk quilts, I guess). I came in with the top bid of $65. I’ll post a picture once I have it hanging.
1 one-person kayak, bright yellow. The live auction ended with our bid at $185 and some jubliance among the kids.
1 Razor scooter, $10, to be shared amongst the kids. How well this will work: to be seen.
1 $12 bag o’books, containing some gems like O Pioneers, 4 Madeleine L’Engles, Wind in the Willows.
Some electronic equipment that is completely B’s department, and a whole passel of lacrosse sticks.
Good haul, huh? My garage-sailing cousin A. should visit me for next year’s auction–this is a gargantuan garage sale complete with speed boats, beds, and bombastic announcers. It’s great.
A’s sorting out rational thought these days, and yet his mind seems dominated by the absurd and the imaginative a lot of the time. It’s something precious that wanes with late childhood. Some conversational tidbits:
I let the girls walk to the library from the orthodontist by themselves a couple of days ago, a distance of a block, and traversing a pedestrian crosswalk. After they left, A. said, “If S. dies, someone will have to get her bedroom.” I said, “S’s not going to die!” “Says who?” he said, breezily.
Walking back home hours later, I guided A. off the road when a car turned onto the road towards us. “Why’d you do that?” “Because I don’t want you to get hurt.” “I can die if I want to.” “No, I love you too much. That would break my heart, A.” “Yeah, you’d have sleepless nights,” he said, giggling a little.
[eta: I think this might come off as a touch psychopathic, but he’s approaching it as he would anything else that is far removed from reality, e.g. If he turned purple I’d be upset. If he grew three heads I’d be upset. If he died I’d be upset. The last is no more real than the first to him.]
Yesterday morning, cuddling in bed, he grasped both of my hands. “Hah. I’ve got both your cousins.” “Hmm? Are my hands cousins?” “Yep. They look alike.”
Last week while we were having dancing night, A. said to me, “I’m going to grow up just like Papa. Know why?” “No, tell me.” “Because I’m his kind of animal.”
I took the first day of a two-day scooter training course today; it was a little nerve-wracking and a lot of fun. Males outnumbered the females four to one in the class, and the oldest person taking the course is 84. 84!!! I hope I’m still learning new tricks when I’m in my 80’s.
The course is held in Seattle and Kent through the Evergreen Safety Council–I’ll soon have a motorcycle endorsement on my driver’s license. No telling how soon I’ll have a scooter, but I’m keen on the Fly Il Bello.
In an 11-year-old who thrives on both order and free time, imagination manifests as fairy houses in the backyard:
The photographer at the beach, being pulled away by her small son (there are such interesting things to see, and they both see so much):
If you listen when the tide is coming in at Fay Bainbridge Beach, you’ll hear the sound of a thousand rain sticks. The water tumbles the smooth rocks over each other and the sound of them growing smoother yet is a beautiful thing.
Cracking pecans with my five-year-old (who’s a whiz nut cracker like no other) is a 5-sense immersion.
And on a rainy day in June, reading in warm wooly socks next to an open window makes me feel like I’m living in a tree house.
Walk down these steps, and you’ll find A’s pea trellis:
Elsewhere, the strawberries and osoberries are ripening. The latter taste like…hmm, bitter lettuce? Something vaguely familiar, but something we don’t commonly taste. Kind of horrid and kind of tantalizing.
They look just like perfect miniature plums, don’t they? I adore them.
My neighbor gave me a ton of plants today, so I got to putter in the yard for a few hours. I love sedges and grasses and I don’t love lawn grass, so that worked out well. We ripped out a few square feet of lawn and extended the planting area.
Flag day. My 33rd birthday. I’m reading and watching what’s happening in Iran today, thinking about freedom and justice, information and technology. I ♥ the internet.
Listening to KUOW’s Weekday this morning, I was captivated by Steve Scher’s guest and what he had to say about manual labor. Matthew Crawford has a PhD in philosophy, runs a motorcycle repair shop, and has some intriguing and very relevant ideas about education, class, livelihood, work, craftsmanship, and the trades.
Crawford remarked on the “differences in disposition” that we (parents, educators, society) need to recognize in students–not everyone will be happy in an academic track, not everyone is cut out for college, and there are many people whose intelligence is better expressed through the trades. More than that, he makes the case that most everyone would benefit from knowing a trade and experiencing the immediacy of catastrophe or success and feeling utter responsibility for that outcome.
I’m lucky enough to know several people who are autodidacts or are otherwise non-traditionally brilliant–and I’m convinced that knowing how to work with one’s hands is an essential part of human expression and satisfaction. The philosophy of my friend M.O. in Okanogan comes to mind: part of rearing her children is training them in a trade–she grows and processes lavender; her husband tunes pianos. Whatever else the children study and go on to do, they will know something practical and useful.
On that note, look what I know how to use now:
I used it to cut cedar planks, then finished them with tung oil:
Basement stairway ceiling commenced:
Island Ashley 