I'm off to California in the morning. Yes, I know. I was just there. Efficiency is not the guiding principle of my life these days--I'm relying more on flow. My little, non-airconditioned Honda Civic will be packed with Gingko, Shadow, Gingko's boyfriend, and my sister Tori. We're intent on having a good time, and when we get to Berkeley Lolly is going to help us tear off the ugly metal siding that someone decided was a good idea back in the 1970s. If we are lucky, the original shingles are in good shape underneath. Keep your fingers crossed.
Not everything about the 70s was bad, however. In 1979 or so I travelled to England by myself. One of the fine adventures I had involved getting into a conversation with a group of men in a pub in Salisbury--one of them said he wished his wife could meet me, we'd get on well. To shorten the story, a few days later I did head off into the countryside where I joined El and his family for dinner, and indeed did enjoy his wife's company very much. Their two young sons, Robbie and Graham, were perhaps 5 and 6 at that point. The next year I joined them for a week-long barge trip through central England. (Are you beginning to feel that I could perhaps have shortened this story as I promised?) OK, Saturday afternoon I got a phone call from the very same young lads, who were travelling around the US in an old Mustang convertible. We had a great evening of sightseeing and seafood.
The moral? It's OK to talk to strangers.
Today was the annual family potluck for my mother's side of the family. Beautiful weather for the drive up to Snee-Oosh, through farm lands and forests. Perhaps because of this recent period of living away from the Northwest I seem to be deeply conscious of my connection to the land here, the mountains, the colors, the water. And family: what it means, what is normal, what is safe. I've begun keeping a journal of the images that come to mind. It might be time to start sketching for the tapestry weaving I've wanted to begin.
One of the roads on the way to the beach:
Yup, that's its real name. A stubborn Swede named the point of land Pull and Be Damned because the strong tides made rowing difficult.
We pass through the Swinomish Indian Reservation, where this carved sign at the entrance to the church brings a smile:
In addition to developing images that beg to be woven, my mind has been going wild with new ideas for stranded knitting projects. This always happens when I have a heavy work load--I expect others stagnate like I do when they have all the time in the world and burst into creative frenzy when it's least convenient. Next week I'll show you my preliminary sketches--I seem to recall that someone, sometime, asked how I design a sweater. You might as well be in on the ground floor with these three designs. At the very same time, I'm pursuing a simple spinning project that should result in a plain, serviceable, honest sweater (I'm thinking Elizabeth Zimmermann's New Zealand Sweater). I clearly struggle with knitting schizophrenia.
As usual, if any of my California knitting buddies want to get together, please give me a call! I'll be there for two weeks.