GRAY ANATOMY

Since I began weaving in earnest, I’ve been rewatching television online, shows I’ve already seen, or tried to see, when they first aired. Monk. Psych.

Just now, it’s Grey’s Anatomy.

How this tree had grown. Sometimes a log drifts onshore and is just too incredible to ignore.

But I’m not really all that interested in these shows or even in telling about the weaving I am getting done, though that will surely be part of my post today. I’m interested to see what else…

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TOWARD JUSTICE

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards  justice.”

—Dr. Martin Luther King.

It’s raining. I made chili for our lunch. We ate chocolate chip cookies from the freezer. I got the April warp through the reed while watching the ninth season of Grey’s Anatomy, which means I haven’t seen any of these episodes. The mist over the ocean has turned the world evenly pale.

YEAR THREE

I think of March 9th as the start of the pandemic because 9 March 2020 was the day I stopped seeing people, the day I began taking precautions. Gary or the news might tell me we started on another day, in my head it was the 9th. I had shopped in Portland, played Scrabble with a friend, entered stores unmasked. And I stopped doing those things. I stopped hugging. We did not see our family for almost a year.

Two shawls from the same warp.

I know people who considered the pandemic restrictions mere inconvenience. They continued to hold family parties, go on cruises, fly for work and vacations. My husband and I didn’t do most of those things. We invited our sons and their families to visit once we were all vaccinated and boosted and tested. At other times we wore our masks indoors except at home unless we could keep yards away from anyone. We have eaten at an indoor restaurant four times in two years, and while I can’t say I regret taking that risk, and am very, very grateful to be healthy. I won’t be doing it again.

I am retired. I have more choices than most.

This winter I began putting monthly warps on my loom. Above is February. March is below. At twenty skeins each, I hope weaving monthly warps will work through my stash. (But you know I still order yarn, so… )

It is useful work and also avoidance, because I do not want to think too much about avoiding disease or missing people.

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SMALL

I was often the smallest person in any group, often the youngest too. That age difference changed decades ago, but I am still surprised to discover I am the oldest in a group. I am still often the smallest (my friend Madora is smaller than me, but she’s the only one).

I have fantasized about living in a smaller space at least since our sons became teenagers. Our home requires work and money to remain healthy. Retirement and not having pets has allowed us the time and money to do that upkeep, but it requires more attention than I will be able to spare. I could copy and paste the list of all the upkeep expenses coming for our beach house, but I’m pretty sure that’s a bad idea. Suffice to say that as I watched my father die of cancer and my mother age, I considered how best to handle my own aging.

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LOSS

Blue skies and pouring rain have alternated all day today so we did not get our walk. We were too busy yesterday and needed a break that not involve wind-driven rain. It was meant to be a peaceful day. Driving rain and sunshine pouring past my window at the same time. And then… the news.

Dr. Paul Farmer, the subject of Pulitzer-Prize winning author Tracy Kidder’s most famous book Mountains Beyond Mountains, has died. I taught that book for years, linking it to the Pacifica Projects that all students at my high school were required to complete for graduation. Service and research were significant aspects of that project.

Dr. Paul Farmer grew up in poverty with a huge family and bullying father. Nevertheless, he attended and graduated from top universities, slept on a cot until he married, became a world renowned disease specialist, and devoted his life to serving the “least of these.” He was a good man.
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ASCOB

Hardly anyone will recognize the letters I used to title my thoughts today. “Any Solid Color Other than Black” is a class in AKC shows for American Cocker Spaniels (ASCOB is pronounced ass’ cob). For the record, I have never owned or shown American Cocker Spaniels of any color, though I do have a scar on my upper lip from being bitten by one when I was a small child.

This is not a post about bites or even dogs. There are no assignments or exercises. A few crows. Trees. Our condo news.

We like crows. Above is a tree with over a hundred crows, but there might have been a thousand nearby when I took this photo. (HINT: this was not the only tree, and most of the birds were flying.) There are “local” birds, but they gather as a massive flock (“murder” seems unkind), usually in late afternoon but on their own schedule.
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GREEN BANANA

Florida beach condominiums need serious work. One condominium building collapsed and suddenly people [insurance companies] are paying attention to a problem that has been “building” for decades. The Florida building boom really took off after WW2, and for a long time there has been inadequate oversight of building on land that is itself artificial. That’s because “a lot of inspection practices in the boom years were ‘a fiasco, a joke’ and not ‘worth a damn.” And owners have been reluctant to address structural issues because of the costs involved.

Ours are the five windows in the middle top, shown on the east side at right here. The main entrance is on the south. There is almost no brick or fancy concrete detailing on the west, north or courtyard facades.

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[no] EVACUATION

On Wednesdays, the local coastal alarm system broadcasts a cow mooing. This is followed by a man explaining it’s only a test. It’s impossible to ignore, sounding loud even inside the house. The system exists to warn about potential danger, especially tsunamis. During a genuine emergency, we would first hear a siren and then receive specific instructions. Oh, boy. If only.

This sunrise that swung all the way around from east to west, north and south, is from a couple of days ago. The camera is pointed SW.
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IN & OUT of line

Yesterday, which was meant to be our day of rest before the drive to Portland, the Christmas tree leaked.

Here is the tree hung from the ceiling on fishing line, inside a plastic bucket with water, which is inside the huge Chinese jardiniere that came from my Aunt Marcie. We have put up our tree this way for years.

Unbeknownst to us the bucket developed a 1″ crack. Water leaked into the huge clay pot, which would have held it, but someone in a previous generation drilled holes in the bottom to use it as a planter. I had plugged the holes and for a decade it was home to a goldfish, eventually killed by toxic Chinese fish food. Gary had removed the plugs. Hence: water all over the floor while we were out walking. Thank goodness we had not gotten around to decorating the tree.
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