Strong???

 The other day at work I heard a yell across the kitchen:  "Yeah, but Ann's strong!"

I laughed, but I also had to think about it.

Because I usually don't like being told that I'm strong.  Anyone who has been through a trauma - illness, injury, death of a loved one/pet, difficulty with children - will too often hear the well-meaning toxic positivity of "you'll be fine - you're strong."  And the appropriate answer is "thanks" when what you're thinking "as if I had a bloody choice in the matter."  A friend who is a cancer survivor said it sounded dismissive, as if telling someone they'll be fine and they're strong is a way of saying "I'm really not comfortable with the idea that you're struggling so we'll just say that it's OK."  But it would be considered inappropriate to answer that statement with "I just wish I didn't have to be."

But in this case, it didn't have to do with mental or emotional strength.  It was more straightforward.  There's a trash can in the deer habitat that's kept in the turkey coop during the day but moved out at night (to make more room for the turkeys).  I had been asked if it was getting heavy and might need to be emptied ahead of the weekly schedule, and I had answered that no, I didn't have any problem picking it up and moving it.

And that's when a volunteer about half my age yelled out about me being strong.  It was a comment on my physical strength.

I liked seeing that I'm viewed like that.  I am sometimes aware that I'm two to three times the age of the rest of the volunteers, so of course I wonder if I'm viewed as "that little old lady."   A bit of an anomaly that they're nice enough to let me come out there and try to help out.  Apparently that's not the perception.  That's nice.

There's been a weirdness recently with the blog.  I do write it as though it will be read - it gives me a different perspective and helps me organize/analyze my thoughts.   And I like going back and reading it - I think it's because there is no longer anyone else to keep my memories, so I store them here.  In general, I don't have an audience.  It gets read by my friend Diane (hi, Sis!), sometimes by my cousin Marty, and maybe by my online friend Charity.  So I'm used to seeing that a post has had 1-3 views.  But recently the numbers have gone up - the viewing numbers are 6-9, and some much higher, even 20-30.  And they're going back to 2018, when I started this blog.  I don't see how my tally of my daily life and introspective musings would be of interest to anyone but me.  As Alice said, "Curiousier and curiousier."

I'm taking advantage of the fall weather (because it may not last) and got more of a couple of fallen trees cut up and burned.  There is something just so deeply satisfying about putting in a couple of hours of labor, and then being rewarded by sitting by a fire with a cup of tea and a book.  (Side note - loving my new garden cart.  It even has a dump feature, so after I fill it with cut wood and take it to the fire, I just pull a handle and tip it out.)

Then I came in and did a repair job.  A couple of days ago I reached inside my shirt to scratch an itch, and accidentally snagged and broke the chain of my necklace.  I dug out my jewelry making pliers and got it put back together.  I wear a small pentacle - only about the size of a dime - and I missed having it on.  This is the one that came to me when I needed it.  I can't remember when I got it - probably in the late 90's when New age and crystal shops were a thing - and for years I had forgotten about it.

But in the months after Bob died, it seemed like I couldn't get a break.  That was at the beginning of Covid and it's weirdness.  A couple of friends died, a couple of cats died, my chickens and peacocks got killed, my air-conditioning unit failed and had to be replaced, my roof leaked and my bedroom ceiling fell it . . . it was like I couldn't get a chance to breathe.

Then one morning when I got up, I stepped on something, and it was this pentacle.  I have no idea how it came to be on the floor by my bed.  But its meaning was clear: no matter what happens, and how uncertain my life, there will always be Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit.  It was comfort and assurance.  It gives me courage  (I could even say strength if I wanted to be ironic).  It's good to have it on again.

"Winter", More New Stuff, Socializing

 Well, we've had a few more days of glorious cool weather (even cold in the mornings, by Florida Standards).  This has led to me bundling up in the house in my flannel jammies and fuzzy bathrobe because I'll be damned if I'm running the heat the same week I've run the air conditioning, and I don't care if it's 60 degrees inside.

You know that fun thing when you break out the winter jacket that you haven't worn for 9 months and find something in the pocket?  A $5 bill if you're lucky, a half eaten candy bar if you're not.  Well, I dug out a pair of slippers, and tucked inside one was . . . a pair of reading glasses.  My only thought was that the last time I wore them was when I took a trip with my brother a couple of years ago, and stuck a pair of backup glasses in them when I packed.

A lot has been packed into the last week, but I was still able to spare an afternoon for this.

My favorite reward for cleaning up the yard.

My last post I wrote of having to replace a switch on the well.  Two days later my microwave died.  At least that I didn't have to try to repair.  I just have a basic small one, and sourcing parts would probably cost more than buying a new one, even if I wanted to try the repair.  My new one is *very* similar to my old one, with one difference:  the "clear" button is where the "start" button was.  I don't know how many times now I've put something in, set the power, set the time . . . and then hit "clear."  I'll eventually retrain myself.

October is when stuff needs to be done.  Two of the cats have been to the vet for their annual checkup and shots, with two more going in next week.  I've had my annual shots - and I voted.  I've had my eyes examined, and made the appointment for my central/heat air to be check and cleaned.

I've socialized.  Sunday I again met with a couple of friends at the coffee shop for spinning or knitting/crocheting.  It was chilly enough that we even sat outside in the sun.  I'm really enjoying this - there's something so relaxing about getting together while working with your hands, and for me, four is the perfect number of people.

Then Tuesday I went to brunch with my friend Diane who just moved back to Tallahassee (having left 34 years ago) and a tour of her new house, which is lovely.  Thursday was my library book club.  Three things in one week (plus my two days working at the museum).  I think I'm going to enjoy having a people-free weekend.

Thursday was more DIY.  Now that it's cooler, it's time to clean up the yard.  Over the summer, if a tree or big branch came down in an inconvenient spot, I would at least cut it up and stack it.  But not haul it to one of my burn pits.  If I'm not having a fire, why pick up something at Point A and move it to Point B, where nothing happens?  Seems, well, pointless, especially when the temperatures are 110 degrees.  But now it's time to start dragging.  Also, wherever I need to work, there are a couple of trips to and from the barn for the clippers, loppers, handsaw, chainsaw, etc.  My wheelbarrow has a broken spot that needs to be welded - but wheelbarrows can be unwieldy over uneven ground.  I do have a large steel garden cart that we used to drag building materials around when we built the Haunted Trail at the museum.  Two adjectives there:  large, and steel.  That sucker is *heavy* even when empty.

So I bought myself a present.  A Gorilla garden cart.  I've used one at the museum and it's sturdy but lightweight, and even has a tip feature to empty it.

Of course it came in a box with the words "Easy Assembly."  Yeah, right.
Actually, in concept, it was.  The diagrams clearly showed where each part of the frame (with the tipping mechanism) were to go, and I *really* liked that instead of a bag of nuts and bolts, they came on a card, divided up to go with each part of the directions.  I wish more places would do that.

So the assembly would be easy - if one is an orangutan with long arms and very strong hands.  Each bolt had to be put through from the inside, using a screwdriver and pushing as hard as possible to brace it against the very tight nut being wrenched on on the outside.  And in many cases laying the bucket of the cart on its side, holding it in place with my feet, then bending over in a touch-your-toes position to put one hand inside the cart and the other reaching around outside, and about that time a mosquito tried to drill for oil on my left shoulder.

But it's together, and it's lightweight and maneuverable, and I look forward to making one trip to carry everything instead of several.

So today - I'm driving in to work, and it's chilly and my windshield is fogging up, so I turn on the heat/defroster - and it starts making a loud whirring sound.  Sigh.

In the words of Scarlett O'Hara:  I won't think about that today.  I'll think about that tomorrow.

Well Adventures and a Quiet Fire

 I had plans for the day after Dingo died: the ritual of passing, of acknowledging that something has left your life.  It's practical; I wanted to give his cage a thorough cleaning, and clean up his corner of the room where he had lived.

So I got up, breakfasted, did a few morning chores, including getting a load of laundry started, and went out to turn the hose on the cage.  The water pressure was a little low, but I assumed that was because the washing machine was also filling.  But then I heard strange sounds coming from the house - the washing machine was spitting air instead of water.  I quickly turned it off and went to check the well.

The pump wouldn't kick on.  I tried the usual fixes, which consisted of giving the switch box a good whack, and then going inside to the circuit breaker box for the good ol "turn it off and turn it back on" again.  Neither worked.  I had no running water.  This means I would have to call a well company, and wait however many days until someone could come out, meanwhile hauling water (at least I still hadn't emptied out my water stash from my storm prep) and taking sponge baths.  And, oh yeah - I had that load of wet laundry in the washing machine that needed to be rinsed.

Or  . . . I could try fixing it.  What usually goes out on a well is the pressure switch.  I drove to Home Depot and got a new one.  In theory, it's an easy procedure: Turn the power off.  Take the lid off of the old switch, undo four screws to remove the wires, pull them out of the box.  Unscrew the old box from the pipe.  Screw on the new box, feed the wires in, and screw them down.  Should take 20-30 minutes.

"Should."  Such a lovely term.  In reality, everything was corroded pretty solidly.  Screws did not want to come out.  Unscrewing the old box from the pipe ended up taking a plumber's wrench, a pair of channel locks, and a lot of swearing.  Screwing the wires back into place was again an easy concept: bend the end of the wire into a "J", hook it around the screw, and tighten it down.  The reality is that it's quite a heavy wire and uncooperative.  The screw is only about 1/4" long.  With one hand, using a pair of needle nose pliers, I could get the wire into place.  With the other hand, I could get a screw into position.  Had I been an octopus, I could have then picked up the screwdriver.  As it was, it ended up taking about 10 minutes for each of the screws.  At one point I was trying to remember how Bob would have done this.  And I know:  He would have said "hey - hold this in position while I screw it down."

At that point a few tears were shed among the swearing.  It didn't help that it was 90 degrees, the mosquitoes were biting, my back was seizing up (all of this was done bending over) and dammit - Dingo died and I'm sad.

Eventually I got it all put together, and then - seriously praying that the problem really had been the pressure switch - went inside and flipped the power back on.  I didn't hear any electrical explosions.  When I went out to check, the pump was running and the tank was filling.  I was able to take a shower and finish my laundry and flush my toilet.

I should have been dancing around and yelling "Booyah!"  But I was hot, sweaty, mosquito chewed and honestly this was a learning curve that I didn't want to have.  And part of me was wondering how the hell I became a person who could look at a well that wasn't working, decide what the problem was, and go buy the part and fix it?  Who am I?  The line from "Africa" keeps running through my head: "I seek to cure what's deep inside, frightened of this thing that I've become."

And it's at times like this that I deeply and desperately miss Bob.  I can cry into my pillow for little Dingo, but it doesn't put any arms around me.  We would have replaced the switch together, he knowing what to do and being strong enough to break corroded things loose, me being the gofer and holding things in place.

Today, in contrast, was beautiful.  The temperature decided to drop 20 degrees, the sky was clear, and there was wind in the trees.  I got Dingo's cage scrubbed and stored in the barn; in years to come it will likely hold foster opossums.  I did  hold it and cry for a bit; it was just so empty and lifeless.  His wooden castle went to the burn pit.

It was a perfect day to get a fire going and start dealing with all the yard waste.  I thought I should grab the chain saw and start dismantling one of those downed trees.  But I said the hell with it.  I already had a big stack of fallen branches that I've been dragging over during the regular yard picking up, plus a stack of cut-up wood from previous cleanups.  So I just lit the fire and sat beside it to read, and got that built-up pile taken care of.  

I want to do as much cleaning and burning as possible while I can.  Despite the storm last week, we're still well below our needed rainfall for the year and I suspect another burn ban will happen this winter.  But today, I rested.

Schrodinger Squirrel

 Sept. 10, 2014, I got a slightly panicked call from a friend of mine. "Ann - I found a baby squirrel.  What do I do?"
And, of course, my response was "meet me with it."

He said that it did have some fur, but the eyes were closed, which made it 2-3 weeks old.  I was expecting a squirrel about 2 1/2 inches long, maybe weighing an ounce.  What he gave me was more like an inch and a half long, and when I weighed him, he tipped the scale at 9 grams - about 1/3 ounce.  Tiny flying squirrel.

So small that I had to use an IV tip on a syringe to feed him.  And feed him I did - around the clock.  I got it down to a fine art:  I could get up at 2 a.m., warm his milk, feed him, get him settled back down, clean the syringe, and be back in bed by 2:12.

Nine days - 60+ feedings later - he was growing fast. Up to 1/2 ounce

And in three more weeks his eyes were open, and I could give up the 2:00 a.m. feedings.

It was about this time he got his name.  Normally, I don't name my fosters; it makes it easier to give them up when it's time for the release.  But one day I fed him, then put him back in his basket.  A moment later, I heard a little squeak - and was horrified to see that he had coughed up some of his milk and was choking on it.  He was starting to shake - which means death in about a minute.  I grabbed his syringe, stuck it down his throat, and pulled back on it.  A minute went by - then two and three.  He continued to tremble, but he was breathing.  Every time I went to check, I would pause for a moment, because until I actually looked, he could be either dead or alive.  Hence - Schrodinger's Squirrel.   That's a lot of name for such a small critter, so he became Dingo.

I bought him a castle.

I had not planned on keeping him; I was very good about releasing my fosters, no matter how attached I got.  But I wasn't able to get any more flying squirrels to raise with him, and the rehabbers I contacted didn't have any so that I could hand him over.  It was a late spring that year - by the time it was warm enough to release him, the rehabber I worked with said he was too imprinted and that I should keep him.

I learned to keep a binder clip on the cage door.  It was one of those where a bar fits into a notch to keep it closed - but he figured out how to grab it and lift it out and have his escape and spend the night exploring the room (I am a bit sentimental now about the chewed pages on some of my books.)

I read that flying squirrels fluoresce under black light - so I got my flashlight and - sure enough.

 Of course, there is a reason I'm making this little trip down memory lane.  He turned 12 a month ago, which is pretty old for something the size of a hamster.  He's been showing his age, tending to lose his balance when running around, and sometimes seeming a little confused.  But even last night he was being lively, and demanding his cashew (he was quite the little gourmet).  His fur was still sleek and smooth, his bright little eyes undimmed.

But this afternoon, he was gone.  He lived in the back room, away from the cats (but where my other fosters would live.  I think he liked it when I had new baby critters, because he never outgrew his liking for the special milk formula).  It's going to be quieter and lonelier back there now.  Even though he was nocturnal, every time I walked in the room, he would have his head out of his castle window, demanding his tribute of a peanut.  My tiny prince in his little castle.

I'll miss him.

Isaias and Other Oddments

 I feel doubly sorry for the people in Pensacola, Destin, and Ft. Walton.  Not only do they have to deal with the incredible damage of being hit by a hurricane, but also by one with an unpronounceable name:  Isaias.  Some commentators managed to get it - our governor said he wasn't even going to bother to try because it was too weird (considering that it's Spanish and a lot of his constituency is Hispanic, that was rather rude).  For the record, it's "ee-sah-EE-as."

So of course I've spent a lot of time this past week doing storm prep.  There was a low chance of a direct hit, but these things have been known to change direction.  This time we were on the east side, which gets the biggest load of rain sucked up from the Gulf (of Mexico!).  It was funny to notice my two highest priorities, the first being water.  I have a couple of cases of drinking water, and I filled up my recycled seltzer bottles that I keep for the occasion and have them in the fridge and freezer.  And then my collection of kitty litter buckets.  I know I live in the woods, but I've gotten civilized in my old age and I want flushing water.

My other high priority seem to be my phone.  I have my big battery (useful also for filling tires and jumping the car if needed), the two power packs that go to my electric spinning wheels, and my weather radio, all of which can charge my phone.  

All those got charged, along with my headlamp and camping lamps, and other flashlights got old-fashioned batteries in them.  Basically, I was preparing to be without power for a few days.  I have my camp stove, and food in the pantry.  I've got the big tarps where I can grab them (in case a tree falls on the house).  I brought the cat carriers up from the barn.

I updated my State Farm app on my phone.  My rule during power outages is to not open the freezer door - it can hold for 3-4 days if you don't open (especially when crammed with ice packs and frozen water bottles).  I keep my bread in the freezer, but I pulled out a few day's worth.  I also got a small cooler and dumped most of the ice out of my icemaker and turned it off so I wouldn't have to deal with a cinder block of thawed and refrozen ice cubes.

I did keep enough in there to give me information if I needed it.  If they melt enough to just stick together a bit, then the stuff in the freezer is safe.  If they've melted and refrozen into a solid block, some stuff will likely have to be tossed.

When I was rattling this off to my brother, he said "this ain't your first rodeo."  Nor, alas, will it be my last.

After all that,  pretty much nothing happened.  Some wind and a good amount of rain.  But what does one do while waiting?  If you're me, you finish knitting, then washing and blocking yet another shawl  (yes, I seem to be addicted to knitting shawls - they're so delightfully mindless)

But I'm having my post-storm restlessness.  I was ready to handle whatever got thrown my way - and nothing did.  So the last couple of days I've just sort of putzed around taking care of small stuff.  Among other things, today I installed the new smoke detector.  My old one died a couple of months ago, and I got as far as buying a new one and it's been sitting on the counter ever since.

In the Before Times,  it would have found its way onto the wall by now.  But there it sits.  So I finally got the small ladder, drill, screwdriver, etc. and got it put up.

Yes, there's a feeling of satisfaction to being able to (so far) handle everything that comes my way.  But also a bit of sadness, because if I don't do something, or at least arrange for it to be done (I can't quite put a new roof on the house), it won't happen.  It's all on me, every decision, every action.  I'm competent.  But sometimes I wish I didn't have to be, not quite so much.

Puppets, puppets, everywhere

 I've always enjoyed puppets - watching them, making them, using them.  Lately I've let myself really lean into them - and they seem to be leaning back.

Possibly some of it is the Baaer-Meinhoff phenomena (frequency illusion).  It's when you focus on something, and suddenly you see it everywhere.  Some of it is actual coincidence.

Like the tabletop puppet workshop I took a couple of weeks ago.  The instructor offers a workshop about once every two years - and it just popped up recently.
Another professional puppeteer who offers online classes also, just this week, gave a free hour-plus masterclass overview, which included showing the inner workings of some of his puppets, and puppeting techniques.  A good puppeteer doesn't need an elaborate puppet - they can convey a personality with a scarf, or a water bottle.  It's all about the body language.

At the baby shower a couple of weeks ago, I saw a guy I hadn't seen for a couple of years.  He's an artist, so we were talking our art and I showed him my puppet pictures.  He mentioned another mutual friend that I haven't seen in about four years, and mentioned that she was also making puppets.  I sent her a text - and she invited me to a group that was making puppets this past weekend.

So yeah - a lot of puppets coming at me.

I did go to the group thing.  Jennifer had mentioned that the host had been making puppets for 15 years.  I was looking forward to learning something - maybe how to do blinking eye mechs or flapping wings or other mechanics.  Or maybe learn some of those puppeting techniques.

Alas, no.  He makes puppets for things like rallies and protests.  Last year for No Kings they made large figures representing migrant children.

Which are cool, and remind me of the big street puppets I've seen in parades in Mexico, but there are no sophisticated mechanics.

This year they are making big eyeballs for No Kings (either representing "keeping an eye on you" or "I (eye) voted."

I even kept my mouth shut about these, because I had just met our hosts and didn't want to be one of *those* people.  But these are big - about 18" across, and made of paper mache, which is relatively heavy.  There is a hole in the bottom that will be lined with foam rubber, and they will be worn like big hats.  There is a sort of rule in theater that actors should never support the weight of a costume on their heads.  I fear that their actors are going to have some very sore necks, but it's not my circus.

I helped to paint a couple of eyes, but even there I was frustrated.  Jennifer made her living "by the brush" - painting scenic backgrounds for stage and screen.  I was struggling with the paints.  We were using paper plates for palettes, which made it tricky to thin the paints.  I was having trouble getting the right texture, and shading the colors.  My painting was coming out muddy - either too thick, or too watery and transparent.  (This is not impostor syndrome - I am very capable of being pleased when I do good work; this was not good).  I asked Jennifer for advice, but she just assured me that I didn't have to do what she did, and I was doing fine.  Well, I didn't want reassurance; I wanted assistance.  She wanted to focus on her own work, which I understand.

Fortunately the weather stepped in.  About the time I was feeling a bit frustrated, and also when a lot more people were supposed to show up (the area was a bit crowded with only the four of us) - it started to rain.  Thunderstorms were predicted, coming from the west.   I explained that I lived about 20 miles west, and needed to get home before the storms.

So - it was, well, nice.   I did not come home all excited and inspired, but I also didn't return with "there's four hours of my life that I'll never get back again."  I was, of course, invited to come be an eyeball at the rally, but I declined.   All in all, I'd rather be in my cottage.

Speaking of which - the Leszy now has legs and a torso.  Tomorrow I figure out arms (making them shouldn't be too complicated, but I have to figure out how to attach them to move freely).

Time for a Ramble

 Just a bunch of disconnected thoughts.

For a couple of weeks now I've been jonesing for a rotisserie chicken.  I don't know why - it's too much meat for me (yes, it can be pulled off and frozen, but to me, freezers are where things go to be forgotten).  If I want chicken, I can get a pack of thighs and do a tray bake.

But no - dammit, I wanted a rotisserie chicken, with that fatty overseasoned skin.  It's been 5-6 years since I last got one.  I keep thinking of something that I saw posted once of a woman who said "I want a man who can look over and see me in my car in the parking lot, eating a rotisserie chicken with my bare hands, and think 'yep, that's the woman for me.'"   So I got one today. I did not eat it in the car (it was too bloody hot today) but when I got home I did open the package and just reached in and pulled off pieces and ate it with my fingers and shared it with the cats, and it was glorious.  Tomorrow I'll shred it off the bones and yes, freeze some.  And shock the spirit of my mother because I am not then going to boil the carcass for broth.  Instead, I'll toss it to the chickens, although it's rather disturbing how enthusiastic those little cannibals can be.

Going feral - that's what it felt like.  I like the idea of being feral.  I just finished a book - Southern Gothic genre - in which a family lives in complete isolation in a crumbling mansion in a bog.  There was a part at the end that was supposed to be the horror part - a brother and sister wanted to be part of the bog, to lie down and just feel the tree roots and mushroom mycelium and the life of the soil, so they did - laid down, dug their toes and fingers into the soil, began to grow roots and finally turned into vegetation.

My reaction - that's my dream.  To go down to my woods, dig myself in, and just give up and be part of it all.

Fall is doing it's annual strip tease.  "Ooooo - here's a hint of cool and dry.  No - let's go back to hot and sticky,  Ooooo - a bit of edge to a breeze.  Nope, let's raise the humidity again."  Driving me a little bonkers.

I got to watch an alligator at the museum being caught and moved to a holding pen.  Up close - like a few feet away in case I needed to grab a tail or a leg (I didn't).   She's about an 8 footer, and very strong.  It's one thing to watch this on TV - another thing to see that death roll and fighting right in front of you.

I haven't worked on the Leczy for a couple of days.  He's hit that adolescent stage that most projects do, when you sort of lose the vision and wonder what the heck you were thinking.  I'll push past it.

I got myself in a social situation again, although I'm still feeling peopled out.   At the baby shower a couple of weeks ago I talked to a guy I hadn't seen for awhile, who mentioned that a mutual friend (Jennifer) was also making puppets.  I haven't seen Jennifer for 4-5 years, so I dropped her a note and said maybe we could get together.  I did get a response - and an invitation to join the group who are making puppets for a political rally of some sort.  Ugh. "Group" and "Political" - two things I could do without.  But it could still be fun, so I'm going.

I had a really nice dream the other night.  I think it was triggered from working in the cottage and, as usual, realizing how much I miss Bob.  I could be working, and he'd just pop in to see what I was doing, sit and chat, maybe have some tea if it was winter.  I really miss that - I haven't met anyone who would want to just hang out like that, someone to chat with while I work.  So in the dream, I did - but it was James Ortiz (the guy who puppeteered Rocky).  Usually, when one dreams of a celebrity, it's one of the "interesting" dreams.  In this case, no.  It was more like having a little brother visiting.  We talked, I teased him about his crazy hair, at some point he helped me with something.  It was just the feeling of being comfortable and relaxed, affectionate and teasing.    I was in a good happy mood for the entire next day,

It's like what I wrote about recently - I've realized that something doesn't have to be real to be positive.   I got another glimmer of that when I came home today and asked Alexa to "play music" and got "based on your preferences, here's a playlist for you."  And y'know - it's nice that something knows what music I like.

I'm recording a book.  It's time to read "A Night In The Lonesome October" - it's written in 31 chapters, one for each day of the month.  The discipline is to only read one chapter a day - and at the beginning, they're short.  This year I thought I'd try reading it out loud, and Ebaida asked me to record it for her.  We'll see how long that lasts  - I'm not good at doing voices.

I finished spinning and plying about 800 yards of fine yarn (using that new electric wheel that I got for plying).  It's quite pretty - merino wool, camel, and silk in greens and maroon.  I just washed it, so I'll try to get a picture later.  No, I don't know what I'll do with it.  Spinning is something I do because I enjoy it; the yarn is a byproduct.

So there's the rambling week.  Closeup of alligator wrangling (and yes, I was disappointed that they didn't need my help).  Feral chicken eating.  Book recording. Handspinning.  Bit of work on the Leczy (he does have a torso now but it needs another layer of paper).

And wondering what it would be like to go down to the woods, dig in my toes and fingers to grow roots and just disappear.