(My apologies to the young man, yesterday, who stopped to watch me with my camera pointed at car wheels who stated "You're taking pictures of tires' with a "what the heck are you doing?" tone and, prompted by that horrid need for correctness, I replied, "Hubcaps" and he then said/asked "There must be a lot of kinds of hubcaps." and I answered, "I'm going to write about these" and he looked absolutely flummoxed when he realized it was my car as I got in and drove away. I felt he would have been even more bewildered had I tried to explain the "conversations" aspect.)
Many months ago when I had already had my lovely Yaris for a few years I parked her in the Village, got out, and noticed a man staring at the car. At the hubcaps.
"I see you also have 'conversations with the curb', he said. The "also" got me standing and staring with him.
"I've not had this problem before, " I told him. "I think it's because the car seems to be wedge-shaped and I misjudge angles when parking."
Well, turned out he had a Yaris, too, and had come up with the same conclusions!
Yesterday, when I caught sight of the increased evidence of 'conversations' I thought of that man and how a problem can become rather endearing when viewed differently.
Chronicled Knitting: Polish Deli; early morning; cast on 14 sts, #1 green
needles. Back and forth knitting:
stockingette happens because I haven't yet figured out how to do garter this way. There is something satisfying about not changing needles from one hand to the other, just knitting one way, knitting back and sort of scooping off rather than sliding off the stitches on the return trip. I am knitting into the backs of the stitches going both ways because it is simplest and easiest.
A hawk swoops silently from out of nowhere; somehow sparrows disappear instantly into hedge; hawk misses a breakfast. The part of me that realizes a hawk needs to eat too is less than the part of me that is very glad the sparrows all escaped because I am the reason the sparrows were scattered around the open ground eating seeds I had thrown down for them. They stay silent and invisible in the hedge and only gradually emerge to continue eating. I find my knitting has speeded up during this disturbance. Sun slices
Two men walking across the street call to a man walking on this
side in the opposite direction and ask him if he has a match. For some reason he risks the rush hour
traffic (well, rush hour for Victoria) on Cook Street and crosses over to light
whatever they are smoking and then crosses back.
Pot scrubber is progressing. The hemp is pleasant to work with; it has a stance to it but not a disagreeable stiffness and the black yarn looks nice in contrast to the green of the needles.
I greet the regular passersby. The regulars greet me. Some stop for a chat. I can knit and talk and the conversations work themselves into the knitting.
A little boy, being pulled along by his mother as she walks him and his sister and brother to school, is staring so hard at the knitting that he almost walks into the telephone post but his mother yanks him out of the way just in time. She laughs and then he laughs and I have to stop and pick up a stitch because I guess I was expecting him to be scolded.
I pour a
last cup of tea from the big silver tea pot; it is cool enough now to drink down, not
I walk home and knit with hemp ball in pocket, four
rows to a block. Three crows hop along the telephone wires keeping pace with
me......waiting. When I finish a row I
dig in carry bag for some dry cat food and scatter on ground for them. The pot scrubber is held up for their inspection - and to compare it with their blackness - but they are intent on the cat food and they do scold. Not me. Each other.
more rows of knitting and pot scrubber is finished.
I am now home. Sit on deck and
cast off. Sew up the two ends and
gather the edges and secure. Toss it in the air a time or two and catch it and feel good at the weight and the form and the creation of a thing from two sticks and some yarn.
hands and think of the person, as yet anonymous (because it is in an art show and for sale), to whom this is going.
(This is one aspect of the adventure of Knitting Intuitively, knitting with the awareness that we are energy and can expand into that with our focus, gifting ourselves and the recipient of our action. It compounds. It gives the experience of living in the now. It is a heck of a lot of fun.)
I've had several French butter dishes over the years but I never knew how, exactly, to use them. So I would buy one because it was pretty and after awhile donate it somewhere and then come across another one, buy it, admire it .... and so on.
In the summer I came across one at a garage sale and googled sufficiently to understand how to use it.
Well, I quite liked the fact of soft butter kept fresh on the table without need of refrigeration.
It wasn't a pretty dish and the memory of the ones I had had that were of a nicer shape and colour got me watching for them on my usual route of garage sales and church thrift shops.
This one appeared at the same time that the plain white with a blue stripe one kept having the butter slip out of the cup part and into the water.
Upon close investigation I realized that this attractive butter dish had a slight recess in the cup part (on the left) which gave a bit of a foothold, so to speak, for the butter. I did not come across mention of this feature on any of the google sites but its presence makes me think the problem was not just that I had slippery butter. !
What you do is pack butter into the cup part and fill the part on the right with water (the line is likely meant for that level: the cup lip is to be in the water to provide an oxygen-tight seal; also for unsalted butter you add a 1/2 tsp or so of salt to the water although I don't really see the sense of this).
At Friday's church sale, in with a box of tools, I found the item on the left which looked exactly like the top of a French butter dish - recess included!
Much searching ar0und the tools etc. did not uncover what looked like a match to the top. A glass flower pot, glasses, pottery bottoms etc.were considered.
This vase - I think it is meant for violets - got chosen.
I am pleased.
The water is clear; the camera or the light or both have given crystal lines.
Many months ago I put out a piece of food on the deck that I knew was of a size to attract BIG birds but was just too lazy unthinking to break it up into smaller pieces for the frequent (smaller) visitors to the feeders.
This guy showed up. (If it is a gal, I beg her pardon.) He squawked and ate and squawked and ate whatever it was (seems to me it was a stale bagel) and so, of course, all his buddies showed up as well. I am a five minute drive from the ocean on all three sides as the crow seagull flies (being on the bottom tip of Vancouver Island) but I swear, when the "wow! wow! food! bagel!!!" squawk goes out, seagulls who have been leisurely on the beach in Oak Bay or Fairfield or the Inner Harbour downtown hear it and zoom over to Fernwood.
Zillions Many seagulls on and around and over (I need NOT explain the perils of this, I am sure) my deck is an event that greatly startles me, the neighbours, the neighbourhood cats, the neighbourhood chickens. When I am thinking properly I avoid it.
The rest of the crowd that showed up for that bagel so long ago have given up coming back: some did persist for a time, arriving daily or whenever I was on the deck trying to eat something. A mother learns the skill of hiding a treat in her hand should a child suddenly appear and say, "Hey, are you eating something? Then how come you're chewing? Oh, okay." Seagulls can see through hands!
This guy continues to return on a regular basis. Today he was right outside the glass door and I had a fright when I walked into the kitchen and saw him peering in.* He flew onto the railing and tried his 'poor me' pecking at the tiny seeds on the railing. I finally opened the door and shoo'ed him away because the sparrows and finches will not come near another bird to whom they are knee-high. Can't say I blame them.
He may or may not have done an immediate return; I left the kitchen. The sight of him picking at the rope that ties one of the bamboo feeder holders to the railing gets me thinking he - likely she! - is nesting and needs some binding material and I have a so much natural fibre in my stash.......but I am sure putting out strings will result in more squawking and more buddies.......
* There is always the fear, when living on one's own, that should one suddenly drop dead from being startled by, oh, say a gull at the door, or stepping on something squishy in the night in one's bare feet and thinking it is a huge spider (instead of the grape one dropped at supper and could not find), or having a skein of wool suddenly and inexplicably slither down from the basket where it was nestling, there is always the fear of not being able to explain the interesting reason for the sudden demise.
Fishing line, four rolled paper beads, four ivory beads ....... earrings that appear to float below the ear.
Made like this: the two pieces; about six inches long, fishing line tied to ivory beads at both ends.
One piece folded in half and poked through hole in ear; the other piece is threaded through the loop made by A. Then A is pulled back so that both loops meet behind ear. They can be adjusted to hang equally or at different levels.
Take care while wearing as with any loop in the ear.
I've seen interesting items used as book marks : pressed flowers, money, photographs, napkins, leaves, a handkerchief. In library books the corner of a page turnd down seems a favourite ploy; it can be unfolded and only a 'scar' line remains. But look at this: I don't think I know anyone who would actually rip the corner from a page. But if I did - I would certainly ask, "Why?"