I have been using this site to post random bits of information about my life and to experiment with WordPress so I can help others learn to use it.
We are a diverse lot. The Glenna Harris Weavers Guild meets once a month to exchange ideas, find inspiration, and just plain gab. Some of us weave a lot, some very little. Some of us have large complex floor looms, some of us do not. So when it comes to having a program at each meeting, there are challenges.
This spring one of our members challenged everyone to weave something for Christmas or the holidays. To this end we are starting simply. For the last two months the challenge has been to weave something on an inkle loom. Many of us have these simple looms that weave versatile narrow bands that can be used as hat bands, belts, bookmarks (who can have too many?), guitar or bag straps, plus much else. Here are my bookmarks. Maybe I can add the work of others to this slide show in the future.
Next month we take on card (tablet) weaving, an ancient technique that dates back to at least the Vikings.
They swirled around in a noisy, buzzing cloud right outside the window where I am writing this. A queen and her court were swarming, looking for a new home to settle down in. I was sure our neighbor could help. She is a beekeeper–a real estate agent for bees who gets paid in honey . I have never known exactly how she gets the bees to live in boxes, but now I do.
Where were you? A news broadcast reminded me that tomorrow is the 45th anniversary of man first landing on the moon. I know exactly where I was. Knitting a baby blanket in my apartment on Will Rogers Drive in San Jose, I sat rapt in the moment. It occurred to me that I could not let this event go without sharing it with my friend’s unborn child who, by way of the blanket, could also be wrapped in it. So I made my first on-purpose “mistake”. I knit two “wrong” stitches in a conspicuous spot.
This was the first of several on-purpose mistakes I have made since. It has to be a big deal in order for me to think of doing this. And my “mistakes” are not only in knitting. I have put them in my weaving and even on the exterior of my newly build studio in the garden in 2000 when I was painting it. The board and batten siding was the perfect place to celebrate the life of a friend who had died unexpectedly and another who had married exuberantly. I had a little of the paint tinted ever so slightly. A batten on the back where few see it, and which points skyward, was for my departed friend. A broad batten prominently placed where anyone walking to the studio can see it celebrates a marriage that was meant to be. Now when I sit in the studio I feel surrounded by friends.
I am not the first person to connect my physical world to my spiritual world. Navajo weavers added a “spirit trail” or” weaver’s pathway”–a line running off the edge of the piece that allowed the spirit of the weaver to escape so that she could go on to another. Many cultures and individuals have hooks to events far beyond our everyday lives.
For me right now, I am happy to once again be connected to the moon—and a death, and a marriage. This new way of walkin’ on the moon has helped illuminate my life.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I enjoyed this book. The author’s life and the lives of the chimpanzees are bittersweet. She withholds none of this from us and shows us how to follow our hearts. I savored this book one chapter a night and always looked forward to what would come next. As a bonus I learned a little about Cameroon, a part of the world about which I knew very little. I hope there will be a sequel–a Speede return.
From the desk where I am writing this I often see coyotes coming out of the chaparral in the morning and going down the driveway and coming up the driveway in the evening to disappear into the chaparral. Sometimes they leave their calling card, a pile of scat in the drive or on the patio.
In the morning when I take a thermos of water down the driveway to leave for the mountain bikers, I often see banana slugs foraging in the area around the pond.They eat the litter around the pond that has dropped from the trees and bushes.
But this morning was different. A large slug had venture out of its “safe” zone around the pond. It was feasting on the scat a coyote had left on the patio.
By evening the scat was not gone, but greatly diminished. How little we humans know about how the world works!
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
I liked this book. For a few minutes every night I shared the lives of Jon and Maria and Frieda–trying, like all of us, to work out who we are and what we want to do with our lives. I loved the honesty and willingness to share they all exhibit. No second guessing here. They are real to me. I would welcome them as neighbors.
The Great Race starts in Saratoga and ends four miles later in Los Gatos. It happened today, and I did it again this year. But this year was different. I came home with almost five dozen eggs.
About three years ago someone started building a a shed and a chicken coup on a little piece of land that juts out from our mountain. It is just before the end of the road that leads to our house. This is not property that a house could occupy. But a water tank was installed. I understood from neighborhood chatter that the water was obtained through a deal with a neighbor who lives on the uphill side of the road. The mini-farmyard was the brainchild of a flat-lander who lived at the bottom of the hill in Saratoga. He wanted to have his children experience rural life–and chickens. On weekends the family could be seen there scampering up and down the hill as the place took shape. Soon the chicken coop with its fenced outdoor yard was inhabited by a cock and a number of Rhode Island Red hens.
Through a conversation with another neighbor in the locker room of the place where I work out, I learned where the owner of the “farm” lived–a location at the bottom of the mountain that I passed nearly every day. It was right across the street from the elementary school.
Today when I went down to Saratoga for the Great Race, I parked my car in the parking lot at the elementary school. As I got out, I saw a man come out the front door of the house where the “chicken people” lived. I went over and asked him if he was the chicken guy. He was. He was. We talked a bit and then he said, “Just a minute!” He left and entered the house and soon came out with two flats of eggs. “These should last you a few weeks,” he said. “Where is your car?”
And so I did the Race with a pretty good time for me and came home with a prize of 53 very local eggs from chickens I wave to every day.
We had omelets for brunch.
Our four decades old apricot tree has suffered from my inept and uneducated pruning for years. My friend Anne, who once taught high school with me, comes up every summer. She is from a couple of generations of local orchardists and has been dismayed at the state of our tree. Last year she sent her husband Earl up to help the poor old tree. He has it on a 3-year plan. After an initial pruning last year, which caused it to provide more fruit than usual, he came up again this year and gave it a second year’s rejuvenation. Not only that, he is giving me lessons along the way.
When we arrived home today, Earl was here. He is not only a knowledgeable fruit grower and outdoorsman, but also a beekeeper, and a former police officer. He has lived in the Santa Clara Valley all his life and seen more of it than most of us. I think our tree knows that it has been adopted by someone who cares. I am dusting off all my apricot recipes. Grateful to my friends. Thanks. Ear!l