Back to the Books

You folks must think I've stopped reading because I haven't posted about any books lately. But nothing could be further from the truth. It's just been busy around here as I get ready for my upcoming speech at the Parkinson's symposium.

As you may know, I am a big fan of the incredibly prolific Alexander McCall Smith. He has four series of books (that I know of, anyhow), including the Number One Ladies Detective Agency. I like those but my favorites are the 44 Scotland Street series and the books starring that ace philosopher, Isabel Dalhousie.

I finished The Careful Use of Compliments last night, this gentle mystery novel that kept me awake way past what was good for me. But then, reading is good for me too.

Anyhow, Smith uses Isabel to contemplate and give different perspectives on life as we know it. And that's the part I like the best. It's a lot like having an in-depth conversation with someone when you meander over all sorts of topics just because you're both interested.

I decided, as I was falling asleep after I turned off the reading light, that these books are a lot like lullabies, not the icky sweet kind but more like the sound of spring peepers in the distance on an early summer night or the honking of Canada geese as they leave for southern climes in the fall. A reassurance that the world still holds together somehow, in spite of the human propensity for messing things up.

A Plea from the Snow Drop Society

There's a nasty rumor going around that we're going to have 4 to 8 inches of snow up here on Friday.

That's April 1.

As in April of spring showers fame.

I protest. I sincerely, vehemently protest.

Not just for me, you understand, but for these snow drops that are growing up among the ice crystals in one of my gardens.

I mean, is it fair, is it right to expect these little ones to not only contend with lower-than-normal temps, still way-too-much snow on the ground and new snow too?

I knew you'd agree. Let the snow drops free!

The Beauty Report

Have I mentioned lately how wonderful the women of my quilt guild are? How talented? How generous?

Well, if I haven't, I've been remiss.

A few days after I made my first public announcement about my Quilts for Parkinson's project at a guild meeting, I received an email from one of our newest members, Annette Houston.

At the end of last year, when I helped put together an exhibition of quilts by guild members, Annette showed up with this wonderful mix of art quilts, all in colors that just sparkled off the walls.

So, she asked, she had some quilts for the Parkinson's project. Would I be interested?

You bet.

When I got to her apartment yesterday, she unfolded five quilts, two of which we agreed were a little too small for adults. But the three I brought home are perfect.

Come to find out, Annette and I are both scrappers, always looking for ways to use up the strips, squares and other odds and ends left over from other projects. In fact, I got more than a few ideas just from the short time spent in her living room.

This quilt and its whirling stars is, I think, my favorite of the three. It's hand quilted and when you pick it up, it just feels good in your hands.

I have pictures of all three of Annette's generous donations on www.SonjaHakala.com where you will find guidelines and donation details for the Quilts for Parkinson's project.

Thanks Annette.

The Ugly Report

Nope, that's not a concrete roof riding on the
downstream end of our island. That's a once-huge
ice chunk that snapped in half.

We have a friend who's an avid skier and is possessed of a curiosity with a somewhat scientific bent.

He tells this story about setting off one morning to spend the day at one of our corporate ski resorts after calling to check on skiing conditions.

"They're great," he was told.

But when he arrived, about 45 minutes later, it was pouring rain. He checked with some fellow skiers and discovered that it had been raining all morning.

So just to see what would happen, he stood at the far end of the lobby where he could see the employees tasked with answering the phones, and called the resort on his cell phone. "How are the skiing conditions?" he asked, watching the young woman who answered his call.

"They're great," she answered. It was still pouring rain.

Now I know you're shocked to discover that a corporation would instruct its employees to lie to prospective customers. Yeah, me neither.

Which brings me to today's ugly report, and pictures the Vermont Chamber of Commerce (or Vermont Life magazine, for that matter) will never let you see.

We are deep into ugly here, folks. The time of year when all of winter's grime and grit becomes way too apparent. Thirty days from now—or so, these things are relative—we will bask in a mixed-hue plethora of green blessings.

But for now, well let's just say that the green to come will be savored all the more because of the Season of Ugly. More pictures—not too many—below.

Three weeks ago, when the ice on the river let loose, this
wall of mixed cubes and chunks was an amazing pale blue.

Somehow, this looks like the face of Old Man Winter in retreat,
complete with icicle beard.

But Ugly Season is soon followed by stick season as Goldie gets ready.

Evaporation

While not reaching the low, low levels of cold that we experienced earlier in the winter, the air is still very chill, below freezing, in fact.

But the spring light is doing its duty, shrinking the piles of snow in our yard every day.

I tried to take a picture that would be clear enough to illustrate what this process looks like but to no avail. There are just some things you can't capture in a digital photograph. But let me describe this to you.

It's too cold to melt so we're not getting mud or waves of water crisscrossing our roads. But the snow, like the Wicked Witch of the West at the end of the Wizard of Oz, is going away—through evaporation.

You see, the sun merges the snowflakes into ice crystals. These crystals then line up like so many soldiers so the striations point at the sun's principal direction while simultaneously retreating from it. If you held your hands up in the classic "I'm afraid of the monster" pose you see in melodramas, you'd get the idea here.

The closer you get to the ground, the closer these ice crystals pack together until you get a sheet of ice.

And the sun is steadily wicking the snows of January, February and early March away, one ice crystal at a time.

I suppose, as much as I wish it would warm up, that this type of melt is the better way to get through this part of spring. It's not adding a lot of water to the rivers and streams so flooding is much less of an issue. The dirt roads around here—which vary from horrendous to don't-go-there-until-June—are a bit more stable than they would be otherwise.

And the sugar makers are loving this. We've had tough maple seasons the past two years so, hopefully, this will make up for some of that.

But I want to go outside and play!!

OK, So Maybe the Chill Isn't Gone—Yet

OK, I admit it. I was premature, optimistic, yearning to be free of boots, heavy coats, mittens and shoveling. But this winter has fought back like a wounded tiger.

Oh, maybe I should make that an irritated red squirrel since I've never been in the neighborhood of a wounded tiger.

Anyway, I assumed (oh, that deadly word) we were headed to more moderate temps so I let the woodstove go out at night. You have to understand that while this is not the only source of heat in my office and quilt studio, it is definitely the principle source of heat.

And that's just fine and dandy if the outdoors isn't dropping below 40 degrees or so. It will be cool in the morning but not cold.

But 15 degrees. Cold. Close to zero. Colder.

So now I take a daily trudge (actually, it's great being outdoors, I just wish it was for a different reason) to the woodpile we have down on our land to get wood to last the night and during the day. This is the first time we've made it to the end of the heating season with so small a pile of burnable stuff in the house.

I hear reports all over the Upper Valley from folks whose woodpiles melted in front of their eyes during January, a fate experienced by us.

On the other hand, I'm grateful I have a woodpile to dive into AND that there's been enough melting for me to get to it.

But I sure wish someone—anyone—would tell this winter the jig is up. Time to get outta town!

A Book Here, A Book There Adds Up to Real Tonnage

This time last year, I spent more than a few hours sorting books and working on a story about the annual Five Colleges Book Sale that we have up here every April.

It was one of the very first events I ever attended in the Upper Valley when we moved here. Then after a few years inhaling books at the sale, I moved on to volunteer to help out.

Even though I'm not doing it this year (my Parkinson's quilt project is now center stage in my volunteer life), I will be at the sale, you betcha.

And the magazine story? Well, it's in Upper Valley Life magazine this month. My husband took the pictures and together, we made quite a splash.

On the unfortunate side, the magazine only posts two of the stories from any current issue and 5CBS didn't get chosen this time around.

But here's the LINK to the 5 Colleges website, and the sale is Easter weekend. That's the last full weekend of April.

On average, the sale recycles 35-40,000 volumes from old readers to new. No matter your tastes, you will find something there to slurp up.

Birdhouse Vandalized—Pictures at Eleven!

Actually, no one needs to wait until eleven for pictures from the news any more, do they? We just click on our fave news site on the web and you are there!

All kidding aside, this view disconcerted me a little bit when seen through the blur of my before-the-first-cup-of-tea fog this morning.

You see, about this time of year, we start to hear and read warnings about NOT filling our bird feeders, right when the little feathereds return from Capistrano or wherever they pitched their tents to escape the snowiest winter in everyone under-60's memory. But it's not birds we're worried about.

It's bears.

Yeah, they wake up this time of year—cranky and hungry—and there's a whole lot of woods around here so it's easy for one to hibernate in your neighborhood and you not know it. In fact, many towns in Vermont have pretty strict rules about taking down your birdfeeders by April 1.

So my foggy head caused an intake of breath when I first gazed out the window this morning. Then I put on my glasses.

Squirrels. The height of the snow piled next to this feeding station gave them the perfect launching pad to bypass our baffle system, and they tore into the last seed I'm putting out this year.

Actually, I like squirrels, especially the small red ones. They have a vocabulary you just wouldn't believe. When they scold you, you know it!

But really, they could have been nicer about this.

OUT OF HERE!

I know, I know, I've used the same art for my posts three days in a row. But this is giving birth, folks.

Today, my papery child went off with my favorite midwife and editor, Ruth, for a good once-over by her eagle eyes. YOUR BOOK, YOUR WAY will come back better for the experience.

Folks who don't write for a living must figure that when an author gets done with a book, there are moments of Eureka! And Euphoria!

Not so, my friends. All I want is to not see it for a while, to do something—anything!—else that does not involve my book.

The Euphoria will come later, when I hold it in my hands as a finished book.

Of course, those feelings will be followed closely by the "Oh My Gawd, What Do I Do Now?" feelings.

But that's next week.

For now, it's done and Ruth will make it better.

As the saying goes—Amen!

Finish Line in Sight

Years ago, my family used to attend this great weekend party during the Quechee Balloon Festival in June. One year, we passed around a hat and collected enough to pay for an ad hoc rock band to show up and play. The lead singer was a woman who looked like she would be giving birth any second.

At one point, she wrapped her hands under her belly and said "I can't wait for this kid to get out of here." The child, a boy, was born the next day and now he's in his late teens. (How does that happen overnight?)

Anyway, whenever I get to the end of a book project, I remember that singer because that is exactly how I feel.

I've been living and breathing and teaching the stuff in this book for years now. Parts of it were written under different circumstances for different reasons. Things have changed—a lot. Life has happened.

You know the routine.

But now I'm down to the acknowledgments, the dedication, the copyright page, and the index. And I'm done.

I can't wait for this kid to get out of here!

Almost There

Remember in the climactic scene of the original Star Wars III (Return of the Jedi) when Luke and the other rebel pilots are zeroing in on the Death Star? There's one pilot, a rather round-faced individual, who's very focused on his target and he keeps saying "Almost there. Almost there."

That's how I feel today. I am doing a very short post today because I am literally writing the last paragraphs of Your Book, Your Way.

Yes, I can't wait until I am done.

Plus it's snowing (March) but there was a flock of redwing blackbirds on the ground around our feeder this morning.

Write more tomorrow. Promise!

The Chill Is Gone

In these, the last hours of winter 2011, our latest news comes from the garden right in the front of our house. Yesterday, as we were exclaiming over how fast last week's piles of white concrete are now slushy piles of ice crystals (that make horrible snowballs), Jay suddenly pointed to the ground, nearly incoherent.

"Look! Look!" And there, racing to be the first growers to come back in the spring were the beautiful, exquisite pointy tops of daffodils.

Yes, it was a long, cold winter. Why do you keep on asking that question?

Which brings up a wonderful point. Yesterday morning, I had a conversation with one of my authors, Vivian Moore. Vivian wrote the book about the ruffed grouse that stayed for three years on the farm she shares with her husband. (See the book's cover below.)

"I've lived in New England nearly every minute of my life, 25 years here in the Upper Valley," I said to her as we shared signs of spring. "And I never fail to be amazed at how fast spring comes when it finally arrives."

Vivian, who's a nature watcher from way back, answered that she thought it was because those of us who would rather be outside than in become more observant over time. We see more, appreciate more.

And continue to be amazed.

This is the cover of Vivian's wonderful book,
PADDY: A RUFFED GROUSE CHOOSES OUR FARM.
It is available on Amazon.com

Ransom Paid—Mailbox Freed

First off, a big hello to our friends in Bulgaria. Last week when I posted about other uses for Bulgarian Grocery Bags, my sister-in-law, who gave me the bag, sent the link to her friends in that country. They came to visit and we're glad to have them join us as spring comes to Vermont.

Finally.

Four days ago, see picture below, you could barely see the top of our mailbox. But give us a couple of days with a warm breeze and the sun just beaming at us and look what happens.

And as an extra-added bonus, we were joined on this last full day of winter 2011 by a chorus of redwing blackbirds, right on schedule.

Yep, no turning back now. Oh we may get some more snow but the jig is up. We know it's all going to melt.

Ha! Take that winter!

This was the snow situation just four days ago. Supposedly, ten inches of
snow equal an inch of rain.
By my calculations, that means we still have 2 to 3 inches of rain left in this snowbank.

The Tribe Has Landed

This August, it will be 17 years since we moved to our house on the river. When we first moved here, the waterfowl were sparse on the water.

But over the years, we've seen an increase in geese, ducks, kingfishers, merganzers and all of the feathered critters who like riverside property as much as we do.

Today marked a first, however. It seems we've become a stopover for at least one flock of Canada geese. They showed up this morning, about three dozen at least, and they've hung out all day.

I know that golf course keepers despair when these geese show up. Goose grease—their intensely green droppings—are no myth.

But I don't care about golf so welcome honkers!

Bonkers About Honkers

Well ladies and gentlemen, the waterfowl parade is now in full swing.

We have been entertained by pairs of hooded merganzers. Magnificent birds.

And common merganzers, which are anything but uncommon. I love watching the babies walk on water when Mom and Dad first take them out for a swim.

And this morning, a whole clutch of Canada geese settled in for a swim and some obvious mating rituals (No, you get away! She's mine!) near our island where I managed to get a picture of about half of the flock.

Should be hearing the "Scree!" of redwing blackbirds any time now.

We are in the final astronomical hours of winter!

And a Happy St. Pat's to everyone. Crank up your Gaelic Storm! (My favorite Celtic music group.)

A Sensible Act of Beauty

 Last week, Jay worked for hours to finish the tiling for the mosaic wall he is creating on one side of my office. It has been quite a process, one I think he never believed he would finish.

But this past weekend, he laid the last tiny piece of tile in place. We'll be grouting it at some point this spring (a season that seems to be filling up with chores as I write this) when we can also do two other—MUCH smaller—jobs at the same time.

In addition to the facts that this is beautiful and Jay made it, you know what else I love about this mosaic? All of the tile (and this is just a small segment of the wall) in this project was rescued from our local landfill.

Jay has worked for an upscale development company for several years and is regularly appalled by the waste they generate. Not of garbage but of perfectly good building supplies that are cheaper to dump than to recycle.

You see, recycling takes time—sorting, finding a place that will take donations, paying someone to do the hauling. If you dump it, all you have to do is put it in the back of a truck, drive to the local landfill, offload and that's it.

Cheaper in terms of time if not in terms of cash spent.

I have to tell you that the tile in this wall is very high quality, expensive stuff. And now it's been rescued in a sensible act of beauty.

Cool.

Land Goes Squish

This morning, I walked outside to get the newspaper from the box at the end of the driveway and there were birds singing. There's at least one pair of pilated woodpeckers thrumming away in the trees close to the house. (For such huge birds—think Woody Woodpecker—they are amazingly difficult to see.)

When I walked down the path we keep open through the snow to the compost pile, I had to wear my rubber boots, not my winter boots. And there was this lovely "squish, squish" sound as I moved along. It kind of boggles the mind that the flattened brown material that lines that path will soon be green and in dire need of mowing.

This is also the season of slick mud. You see, the ground below the surface is still frozen while the two or three inches that are exposed to the air and the sun are not.

Later in the afternoon, when the water in these footprints is liquid again, stepping in this mud will feel a lot like walking on Vaseline. Seriously, it can be as slippery as ice with a thin coat of water which is about as efficient as you can get when it comes to taking your feet out from under you unexpectedly.

Not complaining, you understand. Just noting that spring is moving upon the land and we're gonna make it one more time.

First Donation

Last Wednesday, one of the women in my quilt guild donated the first quilt for my Parkinson's project.

I was so thrilled and so touched, I could barely speak.

I am sending it off today where it will become part of the last days of a Parkinson's sufferer in Londonderry, New Hampshire.

Remembering how my Mom used the log cabin quilt I made for her in the last two months of her life, I know how much this will mean to the recipient.

Sometimes, an idea is in the right place at the right time and this seems like one of those times.

Bling Bag for Books

I've been busy this weekend. I had promised my sister to send her a few things to add to a fundraising auction for the Cape Cod Children's Museum. I pulled out two wine bags that were already made plus a card holder that hangs on a wall.

I also pulled out two small tops from my scrap/bits & pieces drawer and turned them into table runners.

Then I came across this unfinished bag that lingered over from my Teach Yourself Visually Quilting book. I wanted to make a bling-bag style cover for one of my American Patchwork books and after folding and musing for a while, realized that if I took this unfinished piece and divided it in two, it would be perfect for size.

So I did. And I added that rounded flap, gave it a pale purple interior and a decorative pink button and you have a bag like no other.

Now I'm back to creating quilts for the Parkinson's project and just took pictures of the first donation, which I will share tomorrow.

Plus, as an extra-added bonus, the river is free of ice, at the moment there is no need to shovel water, and mud grabbed my boots when I was outside earlier today.

Oh, oh—and we have been enjoying the pleasure of watching a pair of hooded merganzers fishing near the river bank close to the house all day. I think (dare I say it) that spring may come again.

Puzzly Puzzle

I am stumped. I am planning to do a series of quilt books with my designs, all dedicated to my Mom. The designs, such as the one at right, are simple but dynamic. Eventually, they will cover a variety of techniques. They will reflect my appreciation of using traditional techniques in different design equations.

But what do you call a series of books like this?

I started calling them Comfort Quilts because at this size, 3 feet by 5 feet max, that is what they are.

But the name doesn't quite zing for me.

Quilts for Marcia is too narrow (sorry Mom) but I do plan to have every book carry the tag line to that effect.

I have been puzzling over this for a while and nothing is stirring me.

I polled a number of friends and my husband and son and so far, no one's thrown out a suggestion that is so perfect, you know it's right.

Puzzly puzzle.

Shoveling Water

There is a time for everything, and I believe the time for spring is long past.

As we hear more of the news from Japan where so many have lost their lives in an unimaginable wall of water, I hesitate to complain about the minor flooding problems we have going on here.

You see, all the snow and ice that's been building up since January are now melting—in the rain.

And the ground is frozen, coated with a slick sheen of ice that threatens to bring you to your knees, literally.

For the first time since we've lived here, the low spot in front of the door into our converted garage is filling with water that's spilling over the threshold into the living space beyond. I was, no exaggeration, scooping up water with a snow shovel this morning.

Wearying stuff. And with piles of unmelted white stuff still as high as I am tall, we're not done yet.

And to think that I used to believe that winter was a time of drawing inside to create. This winter, it's been hours of wearying work.

Gotta go shovel...water.

Dress Rehearsal

Last night was my quilt guild's March meeting. And it was the first time I talked publicly about my Parkinson's quilt project.

I was ssssooooooo nervous, far more nervous than I think I've ever been in front of a crowd. Whenever I try to talk about Mom, I seem to stop breathing. My voice was shaking and my hands trembled like the proverbial leaf. Aspen leaves came to mind.

I brought the two tops I've made so far, this picture being part of top number two. I appreciated the oohs of approval when they were unfolded.

Two women in my guild came up to offer to make quilts. They each know someone with Parkinson's.

Once I was done, I experienced that spent, almost floating feeling that you get after a sizable expenditure of emotional energy. I knew this was my dress rehearsal for the speech I'm making in mid-April.

I did it. The feedback I've received is really good. I just hope that in April, I can reach my usual place of calm quickly because I don't think I could hold that level of emotion for more than a few minutes.

Whew.

Ice Goes Whoosh

You see this picture of a chunk of ice to the right? Looks small, right? Until you consider the fact that the horizontal structure you see above the ice are guardrails along Route 14. And that in summer, the drop from those guardrails to the water is about 12 feet.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, that piece of ice you're looking at is about ten feet high and at least 15 inches thick. And it's one of the smaller ones left behind by the most kick-butt ice out we've ever had here.

Usually, we have warnings that the ice is going to flush out of here. Sometimes we see large chunks floating downstream. Most often, the ice floes that have been in place for many weeks break up. You can hear the bigger pieces rumble against one another while the small pieces of ice—we refer to them as the slushies around here—hiss as they thread their way among their bigger companions in cold.

But this year, as with so much else this winter, was different.

It was warm and rainy on both Saturday and Sunday but the ice formations looked just the same as they did on Friday. Jay and I figured we'd start to see some breaking up on Monday, maybe Tuesday.

Then about 5:15, I was in my office on the river side of the house when I heard this roaring. I thought the wind had come up.

But then Jay started hollering and ran down the stairs. "The ice is out," he said and I joined him at the windows to watch.

We had just enough light left to see the water come up very, very fast and high. The substantial gravel bank we call Atlantis disappeared as we watched, in less than 30 seconds.

And then the last of the sun faded and all we had was darkness.

Of course, as soon as Monday morning came, we were back at the windows. The ice chunks are stacked up on both banks of the river at least eight feet high. Large sheets of ice flowed up onto the rocks across from the house. And this one particular piece pictured here, which I can see from my office window, was upended.

This stuff isn't going to be melted until some time late in April.

What a winter.

More Uses for Bulgarian Grocery Bags

My sister-in-law Sandi is the manager of a wonderful inn on Martha's Vineyard. Since it's closed during the winter months, this leaves her with some time to travel.

There's a young couple who's worked for her for several years who are from Bulgaria, and they had asked her to come visit them for Christmas for several years. Last year, Sandi accepted and had this incredible trip.

One of the souvenirs she brought home for family and friends were these shopping bags from one of the grocery stores she visited while there. She knows we're all recyclers and having a bag to add to our collections was perfect.

I love using this one whenever I go to the Coop because it always gets a comment. So yeah, it does get used a lot.

But covering the bird feeder so it doesn't fill up with snow while we clear the driveway was a new use.

Just had to share.

Answering Dr. Krugman

I read Paul Krugman's column in the New York Times frequently. I've long been an admirer of his, ever since he openly disputed George Bush's rationale for our ill-fated incursion into Iraq.

Today, he had a column about the growing worthlessness of a college education. He's right though I didn't think his analysis went far enough. So I sent my first letter to the editor of the Times today. It' a long shot that they'll print it so I thought I would give it space here.

To the editor:

Years ago at a social gathering, I got into a convesation with a Boston-based psychiatrist. We were talking about the subject of addiction treatment when I was startled to hear him say: "You know, we can't afford to win the war on drugs."

When I questioned his assumption, he replied: "Think about all the people who would lose their jobs if we won the war on drugs: rehab center staff, addiction treatment specialists, prison guards, the police, large swaths of the legal system. It just goes on and on."

I think about that conversation whenever I hear or read some politician or opinionator decry the demise of some large societal system or another. Which brings me to Paul Krugman's column in the NYTimes on Monday.

While I agree with Dr. Krugman's analysis, I don't think he went far enough. At this point, our country has more colleges and other institutions of higher learning than any other time in our history. And every one of those institutions has a vested interest in maintaining "the pathway to wealth is based on a good education" mythology.

Think of all the people with a vested interest in keeping education just as it is: teachers and professors, the fundraisers, the endowment babysitters, the alumni magazine staffs, college administrators, and the loan shark industry that preys on young people and their families with the hollow promise of what a good education brings.

Think I'm wrong? The burden of debt now carried by most recent college graduates ensures they will be debt slaves for decades after they graduate from the institutions of higher learning that promised them jobs in exchange for loans they couldn't afford to pay back. To me, the point of most higher educational institutions has become the maintenance of their own existence at the cost of the financial misery of their students.

Reform education? Not a chance, not while there are too many people invested in maintaining the now false promise of the rewards of a good education. 

Getting Back to the Greening of the Earth

These diminutive coral bells flutter high above their leaves.

This cranesbill was a new addition to my garden last year, a gift from a gardening friend.

These crocuses are among the first flowers to come up in my garden.
I always wish they lasted longer.

My yard has become so shady, I'm contemplating not growing veggies this year, for the first time.
But I would miss my lemon cucumbers.

From my perspective, you can never have too many narcissus.

These daisies pop up in the most unlikely places. This little one
grew between rocks down by the river.

A Case of the Slights

We are deep into the transition from winter to spring, the time of year I call "the womb of the world." The overarching theme here is wet. The crust on top of the snow is soft and crystallized. If you step on bare ground, the action is accompanied by a squishy sound. After a half dozen snowballs thrown for Goldie, you could wring water out of my gloves.

Yep, wet.

I hear whispers of spring from my cousin in Virginia who reports greenery stretching up from the earth. My sister on Cape Cod espied the tops of a few bulbs popping up in the garden closest to her house.

Me? I can't see my mailbox from the house because the snowbank on the corner of the driveway is still taller than I am.

All of this change puts the virus world on high alert. There are flus and colds that need to be freed to plague the human world. Which is why I think I have a case of the slights—a slight sore throat, slight achiness, slight headache, and fatigue that saps my enthusiasm for much.

I am hoping the flu shot I got back in the fall gave me some sort of blanket protection. I'm not good at being sick. So I'm down in the quilt studio playing with fabric with at least three—no, make that four—design ideas dancing in my head. Not sure which one will win but I am so not giving into a case of the slights. I may go to bed early but I am not giving in.

Do you hear that virus?!? Ha, another cup of ginger tea and an orange in your face!

Walking Heads

I think I may have mentioned in this space that I spent a great deal of time crocheting this winter. I craved short-term projects that needed some design so the thought process was minimally engaged.

But most of all, I needed to feel yarn in my hands.

There are eight hats here, all of my own creation. They all have their initial impetus in one of the worst crochet patterns I think I've ever found. It's from a booklet I've had tucked away among my crafty stuff for years. It's for a simple hat made of half-double crochet stitches.

I made a prototype from scrap. It was a bomb. But it sparked the idea for these hats. Another book inspired the topknots that decorate these creations.

So I experimented—different-sized needles, different yarns, different combinations of yarns, ways to handle the topknot—and I was off.

The first half dozen of these went to the clothing shelves of our local homeless shelter, the Upper Valley Haven. Ever since, I've called these hats Haven Hats.

I've been waiting all winter for the right combination of snow texture (meaning it would hang together in snowballs) and lighting so I could plop these babies on top of a team of snow people. Yesterday, Jay took the initiative to fashion these heads. It was his idea to add the scarves, and he took the initial pictures of my creations for the cover of a pattern book I'm planning for these simple, versatile head toppers.

I thought his idea really worked, and I'll be outdoors doing more photos this morning because we're getting rain sometime later today which means my walking heads will start to disappear.

But aren't they fun?

A closeup of one of the original Haven hats so you can see the topknot better.

This is the prototype made from scrap yarn following the pattern that eventually inspired
my Haven Hats. Looks like something the Cat in the Hat would make, doesn't it?

Mosaic Report—An Update

Jay has been spending a lot of time in my office lately. Yeah, he does like my company but I'm not the main attraction here. He's making a wall-long mosaic out of tiles he rescued from a building developer.

Like many people, neither Jay nor I can throw away "good stuff." Of course, everyone's definition of good stuff is different. For me, it's paper and fabric and yarn and boxes and baskets and cool jars. For Jay, it's moldings and different woods and windows and tools and really wonderful tile that would have been thrown in the landfill if he hadn't rescued it.

We've used some of his tile to do the wall in our shower and the floor in our bathroom and many of the surfaces in our kitchen. In every case, Jay's creativity has conquered the "little bit of this and little bit of that" state of his inventory.

By the time he got to the issue of what to do with this long wall in my office—which is concrete block and really ugly—there wasn't a whole lot of any one tile. But as I've learned in quilting again and again, the smaller you cut stuff up, the more you can mix a lot of different stuff together.

We talked about this project for quite a while before he began. At first, Jay was inclined to break everything into small pieces and do the whole wall that way. But my work with scrap fabric has taught me that that is truly the long way around. Better to mix in some large pieces so you aren't completely insane by the time you reach the end.

So he chose five sets of large tiles, 2 sets of midsized tiles, and two sets of small tiles to keep whole. Those went up in a pattern first. Since then, he's been working with broken tiles to fill in the rest.

It has been long, at times quite tedious. But the result, as it emerges, is quite exquisite. This is where a portion of the wall was yesterday. I put a photo of part of this same wall—taken at the first of the year—at the bottom of this post for comparison.

Progress!

Oh Dat Pepé Le Pew

Last night, we ushered over in White River Junction for Northern Stage's production of THE REAL THING by Tom Stoppard. I love Tom Stoppard's work (Shakespeare in Love is one of my favorite movies of all time) and as you would expect, this play was extraordinarily well-written.

The production was well acted but to be honest, the play's plot is somewhat inscrutable.

So why do I have an image of a Loony Tunes skunk here?

Because one of the very first signs of spring up here is driving through a patch of skunky miasma on a late winter evening. They are waking up, these black-and-white critters, and they perfume the air when they do.

This happened to us twice last night, in the space of seven miles.

Ooooh Pepé, welcome back to the Upper Valley!

Countdown to "Screes!" in the Trees

Late this summer, my family and I will have lived on this spot for 17 years, which is half of how long Jay and I have been together. So it's safe to say that we pretty much know the seasonal habits around here. Like where to look for the first yellowing trees in August, where the first wild leeks pop up down by the river, where the yellow violets grow and the trout lilies and the wild ginger.

And at this time of year, when the first redwing blackbirds cluster in those trees you can see along the road to the left. The earliest we've ever heard their "Screes!" in the trees is March 19. The latest is March 22. A narrow window, indeed, and a reassuring one.

Over the next three weeks, the landscape pictured here will change dramatically and I've always wanted to capture that in daily photographs. This is the year.

So we're waiting for the flocks to arrive. Their welcome noise is unmistakeable as they sit on the branches gossiping about their flight north and why don't they wait until April because Vermont's weather in March is always awful.

And those of us with ears to hear will exult.