Let Me Count the Ways

 Oh dear, oh dear. In spite of all my intentions to do better, here we are again with more than a month between posts. I refuse to succumb to Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, TikTok et al. How noble of me, right? Ha! The OC would opine it's because brevity is not in my toolbox. He's constantly waiting for the point, and I usually have one, just need to provide backstory for clarity. It's not as though we have a tight schedule. We're in the sunset of life, so relax, I tell him, enjoy the dulcet tinkling of my voice before it's silenced forever.

So how have I been staying so busy that I can't write some regular lines here? Let me count the ways!

Burnt porridge for breakfast this morning. How, you might ask, does one burn porridge? Teacher, teacher! I know! Just walk out of the kitchen. Which is what I did. To sort laundry. To presoak filthy gardening socks. To remove an old ironing board cover and replace it with a new one. And while I'm in the sewing room why not quickly stitch that small part of the quilt I'm working on that I'd pinned last evening? While the porridge slowly simmered. On LOW, to my credit. But my thrifty soul got side-tracked some more. Not content with removing the old cover, I decided the strong elastic cord and the perfectly fine velcro fasteners on it were worth saving. It only took a few minutes to snip all around the edges but then I became aware of an ominous odor drifting in from the kitchen. Agh! The porridge!

It was what you might charitably call well done. Stirring it produced black flecks but at least it wasn't stuck to the bottom of the pot. Not wanting to start over, I threw in some raisins and nuts and ate it anyway - for my sins. Which reminds me of the book I'm reading. A Tibetan monk has taken a three year retreat from his prestigious position as teacher and abbot of a monastery. He starts with a little money but after a week it runs out and he has to finally become what he set out to become - a mendicant yogi. No money and he's really hungry. Embarrassed and humiliated, he goes to a restaurant and asks for food. They tell him to come back at closing and they'll give him some. He deals all day with his hunger pangs and returns in the evening to the kitchen door of the restaurant. They've scraped all the food that was left on customers' plates into a large pot and stirred it all together. From this they serve him a large scoop. "The rest would be served to the dogs. I ate standing at the door - a more delicious meal than any I had eaten at five-star hotels." Reading that made me grateful that I have the means to cook my own food, even if I do occasionally burn it!

I've never been good at multi-tasking. I've always known that focusing on one task at a time is a better way for me. Nobody's even had to pay me large sums of money to do this research. Life taught me. Not that knowing stops me, see above. 

Since the Arctic conditions of my last post long ago faded into beautiful gardening weather, we've been outside a lot. The OC became obsessed with removing a large clump of mistletoe from way up high in one of our oak trees. Best to remove it before the tree leafed out completely. Nothing would deter him from dragging out one ladder after another 'til finally the 20 foot extension ladder seemed like it would allow him to ascend high enough into the heavens to remove the offending growth. No mistletoe is going to be allowed to suck the life out of his beloved tree! 

Necessary backstory: No spring chickens living here. Much as I loved climbing trees as a child, I'm comfortable now on terra firma. Neither am I adept at catching people falling out of trees. Especially people who weigh forty pounds more than me. But the OC is nothing if not determined. Just the thought of doing it put a gleam in his eye. Ladder stretched to it's limits he ascended. 

"Don't let the ladder fall backwards!"

 Like I could stop it if it had a mind to! Nevertheless I hung on tight, craning my neck, watching in trepidation. He reached out from his precarious perch and started sawing. I had visions of possible outcomes: if the ladder toppled could he make like a monkey and swing himself to safety on another branch? Would he flatten me along with himself if he came crashing down? How long would it take an ambulance to get here, and, if we were both flattened, who would call them?

Meanwhile our neighbor passed by in his car and stopped to shout up to the OC "I'll be back in thirty minutes J. Wait and I'll help you!"

"Oh I'll be done by then." replied the OC airily.

 "Or in the hospital," I thought to myself.

But he did it! Mission accomplished, he climbed safely back down to earth, happy as an astronaut returning from a mission to mars.

And then there was my Kitchenaid adventure. I was making a new recipe, Jalapeno-cheddar bread. The dough hook was doing the donkey work so I left the room, for just a moment, and didn't realize how foolish a move that was 'til I heard the crash. You guessed it. My beloved mixer danced its way to the counter's edge and jumped! I don't think it was a suicide attempt. More a reminder that you never put a baby in the bath and then leave the room. Amazingly the mixer survived with only a bent screw and a small scratch. After I picked some shaved bits of steel out of the dough I continued baking the bread. It was delicious, though by now you've probably decided to decline if invited to eat with us.

The elephant in the room of course is Russia's invasion of Ukraine. I did start a draft named "Thinking in Blue and Yellow" but then thought better of it. What could I say that would stop Putin's madness? The OC has done what he can to help his relatives who still live there. 

And these are just a few of the ways I stay too otherwise-occupied to blog. What mostly stops me from clicking 'post' on the several drafts I've started is thinking "Well, this is so nothing, so ordinary, who'd be interested!" But this past week was an exception. Just enough excitement to keep us on our toes.

In the Still of the Night

We learned a lot by rote back in my childhood (the old days?) 

The nuns saw it as discipline. We saw it as torture. But, like it or not, we'd read and reread the passage or poem until we could recite it without recourse to the book. And how many times have I felt, finally, grateful to those cruel nuns for forcing that bit of culture on our unwilling psyches? Polonius' advice to Laertes? So many pithy pieces of advice in there....

 "Give thy thoughts no tongue," and "...every man thine ear but few thy voice" or, as my Dad more prosaically put it "A closed mouth catches no flies!"

 Good to remind myself of these, even after the damage is done. I'll know better next time. I knew, even back then, as I struggled to memorize them, they were worth listening to and internalizing. 

Snatches of Kubla Khan resound in my head from time to time just for the rollicking rhythm of it ,and Portia's speech on the quality of mercy - "It falleth as the gentle rain from heaven." A lot of rain hath fallen here of late, both the literal and the figurative.

I couldn't sleep last night. My hip hurt. Got up, stumbled to the bathroom in the dark, rubbed some medicinal cream on the offending part, went back to bed. The ache eased a bit, but I was still wide awake. Serves me right I thought. I prefer regular black tea but, in the evenings, usually drink herbal as it's less likely to keep me awake. But last night I yearned for real, hot, black tea, with milk and sugar of course - I am Irish after all. And between the comforting tea and various happenings of the day, my brain was going at a hundred miles an hour. 

I tried breathing slowly - in for five counts, hold for five, out for five. This should bring some oxygen to the brain, I thought, but, apparently, not enough.

 "Be still, sad heart and cease repining; 

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, 

Into each life some rain must fall," 

There we go with the rain again! But, Mr. Wadsworh, does it have to be a downpour? 

Still wide awake. Ease, quiet as a mouse, out of bed, reach in dark for glasses, search with toes for slippers, reach overhead for book, The Handmaid's Tale, of all things - not the most cheering read - and tiptoe to the kitchen.

It's 1:45 a.m.

Through the window an eerie moon glows; inside silence, familiar shapes - chairs, table, lamps; stillness; the hum of the fridge.

 Turn on light over stove; cocoa and pan from pantry; milk from fridge. The OC thinks instant should work. In the microwave. But it's the ritual I need. Every step calms.

 I need The Hot Chocolate Ceremony. 

Remember "Wax on, Wax off," from The Karate Kid? Focusing on the simple steps of a simple task gets other things out of my head, at least temporarily.

Measure milk into cup. Pour it into pan. Heat. One spoon cocoa, two spoons sugar, a sprinkle each of cardamom, cinnamon, tumeric into cup. Stir. Shlurp in some warm milk. Stir again. Pour in hot milk. Stir some more. Pull stool up to stove. Open book. Sip cocoa. Read book. Listen to quiet hum of refrigerator. Nerves calm, eyes grow heavy. Clock says 2:45 a.m. Close book. Creep back to bed. Insinuate self under blankets. Yawn hugely. Close eyes.

Goodnight trouble. 

Goodnight nuns.

Goodnight Shakespeare. 

Goodnight Portia.

Goodnight Mr. Wadsworth.

Goodnight rain.

Goodnight moon.

Goodnight kitchen.

Hello sleep!

zzzzzz!

The Arctic is Vacationing in Florida

" Nothing since August 14th. ~ ~ ~ time for an update to the chronicles. "

This was the terse text from Marilyn early in January. 

In block capitals.

Wow, I thought. I have surely blogged since then, in my head at least? 

Turns out blogging in your head doesn't quite make it to the page. Kind of like having a gym membership, does not, in and of itself, bestow a fit and slender physique. You have to actually visit the gym and maybe sweat a little. As it is now the very last day of January, I thought it might behoove me to provide an update, for Marilyn, and for anyone else who wanders over here and wonders - What has happened? Is she sick? Or, God forbid, dead?

 I'm happy to report that the grim reaper has not come for me yet, though, if our oft taken for granted warm weather does not return soon, I may yet freeze to death. I know, I know. Our recent lows would be welcomed as a heatwave in many parts of the world but it's all relative. The blood thins. The bones shiver. One promises not to complain about the heat when it, inevitably, returns. And meantime one has dug deep in the closet for the winter clothing that, mercifully, was still buried there and not off finding new life in some thrift shop. The OC, being less of a weather wimp than I, has remarked in recent days, on seeing my outfit - You look like an Eskimo! Well, welcome to my igloo. One offers thanks for pack rat tendencies. They do have their uses, Q.E.D.

~ ~ ~

So, what's to report? Since August 14th?

My major accomplishment for 2021 was starting and finishing, a king-sized quilt for California Girl. 

The house was in disarray for months as I moved furniture aside to make floor spaces large enough to lay it out for a bird's eye view so I could piece it together correctly. It wasn't until September when I picked it up from the longarm quilter, who, by the way, did a beautiful job, that I spotted a big mistake. 

But I'm not telling.

 CA Girl went on a big adventure to Europe where she fell headlong in love with Italy and threatened to never come back. Reality, however, finally kicked in and she returned in October, stopping in here to pick up her quilt. And she loves it, I'm happy to say. *

October and November saw us visiting Oregon. The OC got to play farmer and logger and general dogbody as he and YS got lots of work done. December saw holiday visits from two sons, brief but lovely, and before I had fully registered that it was Christmas already, even before I'd stowed away the decorations and vacuumed up the pine needles, here's Marilyn, calling me to order, demanding, in her inimitable way, and pronto if you please, that I get to blogging. 

So that's my update. More to come. And if by chance I should fall off the wagon again, I'm sure Marilyn will rise to the occasion with another terse text. 

*Blogger, the universe, my computer or maybe a conspiracy of all three is/are refusing to allow me to add photos which is good news and bad news. Good because it means you cannot see my big mistake but bad because you cannot see the stellar job the longarm quilter did. I'll keep trying.

Gallivanting for Fabric

Good morning Noreen! Are you dressed? Face on? Had your coffee? Feel like going for a spin? 

Well, no. And no. Not yet....how soon?...where to? Puzzlement leaked through the phone. What was I up to?

It sometimes takes coaxing to get her out of her house. I know it's good for her to get out and, after she's been persuaded, she does too.

I need more border fabric, I told her. Nine yards -  no kidding,  nine yards - of backing. This quilt will cover a football field. Sale today at Nana's. How soon can you be ready?

She was still arguing with herself when I got there. Did she feel well enough to go gallivanting? Though still vacillating, she was dressed, spiffed and caffeinated. I took that as a yes and off we went.

Noreen is almost a decade older than me (and I'm getting up there!) She had a stroke a few years ago that put an end to her dancing days but she still has all her marbles, stays up with the latest in politics, world news and health care. Me? I'd rather hide under a bush, or in a quilt shop (as we were about to do) and hope that the politicians all sink into the oceans they don't seem to give a rat's hind quarters about and choke on all the plastic accumulating there.

Nana's was humming. Their sale was a fiftheenth anniversary celebration of their opening. It's a small, cozy quilt shop and I settled in to do some vacillating of my own. One of the biggest challenges in quilting, for me, is choosing the fabric. Especially when there is so much to choose from. But, miraculously, I found what I wanted in less than ten minutes. The quilt in question is in Kaffe Fassett fabrics which break all the rules I learned when first I started to quilt. 

Light, medium and dark for starters. KF designs blithely ignore that one. Small, overall designs (think calico) was another. KF specialises in big, splashy florals. Suffice to say I'd been intimidated even contemplating such a quilt. But now I was one furlong from the finish line. No more vacillating. Nine yards please.

That's it, behind pieces of the KF.
It should calm things down

Spotted in the restroom
Can you read the sign?

Oh, I don't know if there's that much here, said the assistant, eyeing the bolt doubtfully. But I had counted folds and felt confident. Turns out there was eight and three quarters. I'll make it work!

Onwards to Quilted Twins for the yard and a half I needed for my last two borders. They were opening at one o'clock. We got there at twelve thirty and thought we'd have to kill half an hour - until we saw a light inside and "Open" on the door. The quilt gods were smiling on us. We had the store to ourselves - a bonus for Noreen - not having to navigate around crowds of intent fabric shoppers and risk falling. 

Because they weren't busy yet we even chatted with Rachael, the woman who started the store with her twin sister,        

She told us how the shop got started. Her sister was in Poland with her missionary husband. While the husband preached the gospel Becky saw the need for warm blankets in the freezing winters there and decided to make quilts. She asked Rachel, her twin, to send her fabric. Rachael's children were grown, she had the time, so she started hunting. And found that, though not a quilter herself, she loved selecting fabrics. Soon she had more fabric than even her sister could use so she started selling it on line. Some of her customers begged to be allowed to come and select fabrics in person. The rest is history. Quilted Twins is only open a few days a week. The other days Rachel and her staff are kept busy filling orders on line. And with Covid, anyone with half an inclination to quilt has moved into hundred percent mode so they stay busy.

I was elated. Not only had I found backing fabric that would work to calm my KF quilt, I'd got the last piece on the bolt of my border fabric. Noreen used to make beautiful quilts when first I knew her. She doesn't have the energy for it much anymore. But she did get fabric to make a baby quilt for her soon-to-be-born first great-grandchild. We were both happy as larks, but exhausted from spending all that money. 

And hungry.

Off to The Green Door for a delicious lunch. Then home again, home again, jiggedy jig. 

I called Noreen again this morning. She's still kicking. She took a nap when I dropped her off and is feeling no ill effects. It's good to have friends to go gallivanting with.

One of Nature's Gentlemen

 I run to answer the telephone which hangs on the wall between the kitchen and dining room. The desert sunshine streams through the open windows while the yellow curtains billow gently in the breeze. 

Life is good. We're young, our beautiful baby girl is down for her nap. Our first child - a black Labrador named Suzy, is curled up on the grass outside, chasing rabbits through doggy dreams. We're on the OC's first AF assignment in the middle of the Mojave dessert. When first we arrived here I thought we'd come to the ends of the earth, but now it's the birthplace of our firstborn, we live in a house on a tree -lined street with a fenced-in garden, our neighbors are all friendly, young like us, starting out. This is how life is supposed to go, right? 

But I was only playing at being a grownup. When my mum's voice came crackling down the line from the other side of the planet, my world crumbled. The sun still streamed in through the window, the curtains still billowed in the breeze, Suzy yawned and stretched in the grass outside, stood up, circled a few times for a more comfortable dreaming position, then settled back down. Mere seconds had passed but my life, in those few seconds, was changed forever. My dad, my beloved dad whom I adored, was in the hospital, about to have surgery for a tumor on his brain. The outlook was bleak. Life was a tragedy and I was a four year old.

Marilyn, a woman who lived across the street from us, stepped into the breach. Our husbands worked together, she had a daughter the same age as ours and two other children, but I hardly knew her. Nevertheless she took command of the situation. Our little girl, barely eighteen months old, had no passport. No worries, said Marilyn. No arguments, said Marilyn. Go see your dad, said Marilyn. I'll take E every morning while J goes to work. He can have her back in the evenings. Everything will be fine here. Go see your dad. 

And so I went and sat with my dad. I was glad to be with him but wondered how things were going back in the desert. The OC had grown up with European immigrant parents. Men did not cook; men did not change diapers; men certainly didn't wash those diapers or any other clothing for that matter. That was women's work. Would my daughter be scarred for life without even the benefit of ever meeting her grandad? 

The OC meanwhile, applied for a passport for her. My father-in-law (referred to in older posts as The Carpathian Prince) pulled all the strings he could find, both to expedite the passport and get me back to California without going bankrupt. Everything fell into place. My dad was stable for now so I flew home. Miraculously E had survived. In fact she didn't like me anymore! When I tried to give her a bath my first night back, she howled for her daddy. Turns out he'd risen to the challenge with help from Marilyn. He was chuffed that E was now "Daddy's girl."

In a few days she forgave me and we flew back to Ireland. Now two of us sat with my dad. As a child, I used to tell anyone who'd listen that "my Daddy will be charmed with me." Now he was charmed with his granddaughter. But he was getting weaker every day. The operation had removed some of the tumor but couldn't reach it all. It was growing again. And fast. 

I was with him when he died. He was smiling and pointing at the ceiling, but I couldn't understand why. Then I remembered how he had told me that his mother, my grandmother, had done something similar. Our Lady was coming for her, she said. And now she was coming for him.

My heart broke that day and it never completely healed. I know that death is part of life, something we all have to face sooner or later. I wish he could have faced it later. He was fifty six. My children never had the pleasure of meeting and knowing him. He was, as so many people said to us at his funeral, one of Nature's gentlemen.

There was never any love lost between The Carpathian Prince and me. At best, we tolerated each other, but I will always be grateful that he moved heaven and earth to get me home that time.

That was forty seven years ago. Marilyn and I are still in touch on a weekly basis. Nobody could ask for a better friend.

We no longer live in California,

and Suzy long ago went to doggy heaven.

E survived, is all grown up, married with two teenage boys of her own. She replaced her toddlerhood best friend, Suzy, with Marty. She and Marty communicate in Schnauzer-speak, a language unique in that each speaker speaks with a pronounced lisp. Everyone needs a doggy friend!

Our phones are in our pockets now but when they ring, I still, sometimes, get a little tremor of dread, remembering that day in California and the breeze through the yellow-curtained windows.

Plodding Ever Onward

 Sitting on the front porch Sunday morning, it was a treat to see blue skies again after a few grey, rain-sodden weeks. In spite of dire warnings from the weathermen, there was no hurricane, no awful flooding such as Europe has seen. And now China. Is there anyone left who still thinks climate change is not at least a partial cause of all this? We were relieved to hear that our German friends, H&D, were not affected by the flooding but it is heartbreaking to hear of all the people who were, who have lost their loved ones, their homes, everything. Here in the U.S. temperatures are heating up again out west and we're hoping like mad that we won't have a repeat of last year's fires. 

But for now, on the porch, all was peaceful. 

This tiny orchid bloomed last week. It's been with us for at least five years and has never bloomed before which goes to show you should never give up on an orchid, no matter how dead, lifeless or gone it looks. There's likely to still be life lurking deep within, just waiting to reward those with patience to wait...and wait...and wait!

A movement catches my eye. I have visitors.

(This seems to be either mama or papa. I had pics of all three but can only seem to load this one. Such is the life of the technologically challenged.)

 Three sand hill cranes, busy foraging for breakfast in the grass out front. Beyond the birds, I see our neighbor, D, standing in his driveway, watching his son, T, glumly plodding along behind a lawn mower. D recently came to the conclusion that it was foolish to be paying a landscape company to mow his lawn when he had an able-bodied, if a mite too chubby, teenager on the premises. I chuckled to see that the "Make a Man out of T" program had begun. An all round win-win situation - D gets his grass cut, T sweats a little, loses a few pounds, takes a few grudging steps towards manhood. Except I don't think T sees it quite in that light. At least not yet. Maybe in a few years.

Meanwhile, back to the birds. I watch with interest as they continue their bug search. The two adults are going at it with gusto, vigorously wresting bugs from the soil with their long beaks, unfazed by the proximity of a mere human. The third, a scrawny teenager (no red feathers on his head yet), is just standing around, looking dejected, making no effort to find food. I wonder if he is sick? Or maybe sulking because mama and papa are not feeding him but acting like he's a big boy now and should find his own breakfast? Trying to make a man out of him?

Speaking of manhood, a condition that seems to have fallen on hard times, we have a couple of grandsons on the brink of it this month, born within a few days of each other seventeen years ago. Both, unfortunately, living in other states, but we had dinner with one last week when he was here on a visit.....

..and spoke to the other by phone on his birthday. 

Sweet boys. Maybe in their lifetimes manhood will become popular again.

Where does the time go? I ask myself this so often I bore myself. And up from some recess in my head comes a quote - "For life moves not backward, nor tarries with yesterday."

And so we plod ever onward, hoping that those just on the cusp of adulthood will be equal to the job of

cleaning up the mess we seem to be leaving them.

At least those handsome boys are smiling. If we all make a concerted effort to do our bit for the environment maybe they'll have reason to continue to do so.

Dream a Little Dream

Earlier this morning:

 We were going on a trip. The kids were all packed and ready, the OC too. I was not. I said I'd follow along after them so they left for the airport and I continued packing. I was having trouble getting everything into my suitcase. The problem was made more challenging by my efforts to carefully squeeze a large pizza box in between my clothes. A pizza box, you might well ask? Yes, a pizza box containing, of all things, a fresh, still hot pizza. The challenge seemed to be to get it in there without squeezing any tomato sauce out onto the clothes I'd packed around it. 

You're probably holding your breath, on the edge of your seat, wondering if I got to the airport on time and if so, if I got to our destination on time, and if so, was the pizza still edible?

I have to disappoint you. I woke up before I even got to the airport.

Last week:

We (not sure who "we" are) were in some kind of vehicle with wheels, riding along at speed on a hard, sandy beach. The wind in our hair, the salty spray stinging our eyes, it felt exhilarating. We came around a headland and suddenly the beach was a lot more watery. The hard sand was now behind us, but still our vehicle continued skimming over the water which had a look of mottled glass, the kind people use where they need light but also privacy. There were opaque circles and blobby shapes on it surrounded by foamy bits and areas of clear water. We were still going in our original direction, parallel, more or less, with the shore. We could see an area closer to shore that had hard packed sand like we'd been on earlier. We decided we should swing around and head back towards it. Easier said than done. The current carrying us along was too swift to drastically change direction. But then we came to an area where the beach swung out towards us and we were able to guide our vehicle there and yeah! Succeeded in getting onto hard sand again. There was a street off to our left so we turned onto it and found ourselves in a picturesque Belgian village. How did I know that? The street signs were in Flemish. I have a shaky, nodding acquaintance with Flemish from the few years we lived in Belgium, though I would certainly flounder if required to speak it. I would have liked to have stayed and explored a bit but that was the point at which I woke up.

This is the only life I have, the only one I expect to have, but these crazy, irrational dreams make me feel like a stranger in my own head. If anyone has a right to know what's going on in there shouldn't it be me? But as soon as I twitch an eyelid, or move a minor muscle, the Killer of Dreams snatches them away and I'm left trying to make sense of the shattered fragments. 

Maybe it's another fallout from the pandemic. Maybe sleeping life is compensating for the ordinariness of waking life - jazzing things up a bit.

It does add a tantalizing element of anticipation to falling asleep - I never know what kind of wild and crazy adventures await as soon as I turn out the light and close my eyes. 

Of course, another possibility is that I'm just nuts

The Pusillanimity of it All

A recent post by Colette had me nodding my head. I knew what she was talking about. Nothing going on here, nothing to see, nothing to write about - but hey - wait a minute! Do I still have a pulse? Is my head constantly teeming with thoughts and words? And how does that translate into such inertia that I've "nothing to say"? That was the gist of one comment on her post. Roderick Robinson's arrow hit the mark. It pierced my inertia too. It turns out I have a lot to say but am timid about saying it. Will people fall out of their chairs with the boredom of it all? Will they fall asleep? Will my blog be cancelled? Just kidding. We're not on youtube, nobody cares. There is so much angst in the world right now, so much division, so much an attitude of "if you're not with me you're against me" in matters of huge import to humanity, it's tempting to decide that the simple routines of my days and my ordinary thoughts will just bring on the yawns.

But. 

I am, once again, reading Julia Cameron's efforts to beat those of us with writerly ambitions but lazy attitudes into the discipline of what she calls "morning pages." I've been at it a week or too, hit or miss.  I didn't exactly 'fall out of bed directly onto the page' this morning but I did hie me to the park behind us as soon as I was dressed, even remembering, in my uncaffeinated state, to take the key that would open the gate, my fence scaling days being far behind me.

And what a morning. The park so peaceful, especially as "peace comes dropping slow" these days. Nature is tending to business, unbothered by the latest political and covid outrages from the media. Already warm, the air oozing moisture, the sun wrestling its way through the haze, the lazy overhead drone of an airplane, the nearby drone of dragonflies. There's a large bird in the reeds out a ways from the dock where I'm sitting - heron? Wood stork? 

And then a smaller one shows up - a blue heron ? I wait, hoping Blue will come closer for a better shot but soon realize how impatient I am. If it happens, it'll be in his time, not mine. Half an hour later the larger bird is still standing in the reeds. Maybe this is his morning meditation time? Wisely he lets his breakfast come to him while young Blue flaps about, chasing his. 

The lake looks so calm but don't be fooled. Under the surface and that carpet of waterlilies it seethes with life: tiny fishes, bigger fishes, frogs - I hear them singing, turtles - I hear the occasional splash.

  And snakes. Like this fellow.

There have even been sightings of alligators, reason enough not to go wading out in search of a waterlily close-up! In the interests of keeping my limbs I content myself with this one, nestled up against the dock. 

And yet I know, as idyllic as the scene before me appears, tooth and claw are the order of the day. Should I weep for the fishes gobbled by those herons? Or respect the fact that here, pusillanimity has no place? 

At last, his meditation and breakfast done, the stork departs on wide, lazy wings. I could sit here all day absorbing tranquility through my pores, but my bladder, as usual, has other ideas. I unfold my bones and head for home, emboldened to mine that teeming, incoherent stream of thoughts and words that whirl dervishly through my brain and write something, anything, with more courage.

Thank you Colette, and thank you Mr. Robinson for the kick in the pants.

"Neither Snow nor Rain nor Heat nor Gloom of Night...."

 

Miracles happen. 

Proof? I finished this quilt, for this beautiful boy,

and this doll quilt for his big (4 yr. old) sister

 in record time. 

Started in March, finished last week. My usual modus operandi, on hearing of an imminent addition to the family tree, is somewhat more drawn out. There are many steps involved. There's the thinking, the planning, the fabric selection, the head scratching, the chin stroking, the self doubt and, always, mid-plot plan changes. And, of course, procrastination. 

All of this takes time, often running into years. The child will usually have advanced to the crawling stage, if not the wobbly walking stage, if not the enrollment in kindergarten stage (but so far not to the college application stage) before they receive their quilt. I love every stitch of it, not least for the serenity the making of it induces. But, in my hands at least, it is not a speedy process.

What prompted the speed, you might wonder, the departure from the usual MO, this time around?

It may be the deafening "Tick-Tock, Tick Tock" that gets louder each year in spite of frequent offers in the mail to "come on down" for the best hearing aid deals in town. And the pandemic, of course, has made us all painfully aware, if we were ignoring the fact previously, that - newsflash - we're all gonna die! And what will happen to all this fabric if my number's up too soon? My shade will wander, disconsolate, in the underworld, finding no rest, 'cause I didn't sew faster when I could have.

Yes. I finished the quilt. And have been in danger ever since of hurting myself, so heartily have I been slapping myself on the back. I took it to the post office a few days ago.

But aye, there's the rub. Will it ever get to London?

***

In early March I flew to Oregon. The OC dropped me off at the airport. I checked in and made my way to the gate. An uneasy feeling came over me as I waited to board. I couldn't pinpoint what was causing it until, like a missile landing in my brain, it hit me - I'd forgotten my charger. Not only that. A frantic search of my backpack confirmed I'd also forgotten my phone. Both of them safely plugged in at home so they'd be fully charged.... in time for me to swan off to the airport without them. 

Not so long ago (well, at least in my lifetime) phones were implements attached by cords to walls in our homes for the purpose of communicating with other humans. I have travelled, phoneless, many times in my life. The world would not end because of this. It would just be inconvenient.

The OC express mailed phone and charger to Oregon the next day, Saturday, with assurances from P.O. personnel that, no worries, it would reach me by Monday.

Monday came, no phone.

Tuesday came, no phone.

A week passed, no phone

Two weeks passed, no phone.

The OC was irritated. He spoke to the Post Office. They were as bewildered as we were. Assured the OC it should be there. It must be there. Except that it wasn't. And continued not to be, not to show up on any tracking for three weeks.

I was learning to live without it. After all, I had in the past. But the OC kept saying I should go buy a new one. My old phone had been just fine. I had reached a level of comfort in using it that I was sure I would not have with a new fangled device. Who knew? It might still show up, though that  possibility was fading with each passing week.

I bought a phone. At ridiculous expense, and the very next day my wandering phone showed up -

in GUAM.

 Get your head around that.

A few days later it had progressed to Hawaii. I wouldn't have minded if I'd been along for the trip. Who'd object to finding themselves suddenly in Hawaii?

 Not me. But my phone had gone on a Hawaiian vacation without me. Very inconsiderate.

Eventually, none the worse for wear, it arrived at my son's home, where it had been sent in the first place.

***

So yes, my faith in the P. O. is at a low ebb. 

Checked tracking today. It arrived in Miami. That's a good start, in the right direction. At least it won't go to Guam. But, any bets on Istanbul? 

Only time will tell.

Death by Soda Bread

 What made so many of us turn to baking when the earth wobbled on its axis last year? Were we afraid that the only way we'd be 'given our daily bread' was if we learned to make it ourselves? Whatever the reason, it's kind of cliched by now. If you can bear it, herewith - one more tale of baking struggles.

When I was growing up, Francis the Breadman arrived o n our street, every evening, in the bakery van. My mother would send me out with money and instructions for which kind of loaf she wanted. I can still see friendly Francis in his green bakery coat, his curly head disappearing into the back of the van and reappearing as he pulled out a tray of fresh loaves. Most of all, I can still smell the heady aroma of those loaves. My favorite was the cottage loaf. I'm salivating just remembering it.

But, we didn't get bread from Francis every evening. My mother would often bake her own but never with yeast. She'd grown up on my grandmother's soda bread out on the farm, so that was her go-to recipe. Breakfast for us, on school days, was often a big bowl of porridge followed by thick slices of soda bread slathered with butter, washed down with mugs of hot, sweet, milky tea. After that, no matter what challenges the day ahead brought, we were prepared to do battle as we pedaled off to school. Sounds like a recipe for fattening children but we were lean as greyhounds.

I have had, like the rest of the world, my sourdough adventures in recent months, a steep learning curve with some good results, some not so good; a lot of good flour under the bridge to keep it fed. Still working on it. 

But, this past week I was craving soda bread. No starter, no yeast required. I have a few favorite recipes, but any recipe with the main ingredients will usually turn out fine. I found one on Google (I sometimes wonder why I keep all my cookbooks, and folders of clipped recipes, as I so often turn to Google instead!)

Flour? check. Salt? check. Sugar? check. Baking powder. check. Buttermilk? Hmm. Fingers crossed as I go to the fridge. check! There it is, lurking in the back. The sell by date is a few weeks past but the eyes and the nose detect nothing funky. Onward. Toss in a cup of juicy raisins, stir it all together, pop it in the oven, set the timer....

And wait, in confident anticipation.

But....

It was a disaster!

 Instead of rising, and doubling in size, it looked the same size as when I'd popped it in. 

"Here's a job for you, Sherlock," I thought (after I'd finished groaning.)

Sherlock ascertained that we were still well within the 'best if used by' date on the baking powder. Though it was the very dregs, as the can was almost empty. 

I let it cool. Who knew? Magic could still happen.  Wishful thinking -  another of my talents.

Sad to report, no magic happened.

What a surprise.

By and by the OC arrived home. Even though it smelled of baking, I warned him not to get his hopes up. That, even though it might seem I had made soda bread, what I had, in fact, made was a block of cement. 

"Not to worry," I said, "it won't be a total waste. I'll feed it to the birds."

But I wasn't quick enough. The birds never got it. 

Maybe the OC is an optimist. Or a
masochist? Either way, he has been chipping away at that block of cement, grimacing all the while, in spite of me protesting 

 "You don't have to eat that! It's gonna to kill you!" 

"It reminds me of hardtack in the military," he said, with a faraway look in his eyes (and a grimace.) 

Those must be good memories, though, somehow, I doubt it.

Possibly it's a test. If it doesn't kill him, will it make him stronger? 

There are only two slices left. (Maybe I'll sneak them out to the birds... but, will the bird mamas then swoop down and peck me to death for trying to kill their babies?)

 His mother, who learned the hard way in the last world war to never waste a crumb, must be looking down smiling.

  But not at me. 

This would be proof that she was right. That the chances were good that her boy would die, with me in his kitchen. Which makes me love the friends who think I can actually cook and bake, bless their innocence.  Never mind that they only see or taste my successes. The OC suffers through all my disasters. Apparently willingly, or perhaps as penance for his sins.

After fifty years though, he's still alive and kicking.

  One way or the other, I had to redeem myself so I made soda bread again today - with fresh ingredients.

(That's it at the top - I had to start with something tempting. If I'd put those cement slices first you'd never have lasted to here.) 

And this time it is delicious. 

My tiara is on straight again.

This One's for You Noreen!

 "Why are you no longer writing on your blog?"

My friend's voice had a hint of whine in it, as though I had done her wrong.

 We were working on fixing a large hole in the middle of a quilt she had made several years ago for her grandson. The quilt was faded and worn, obviously well loved and much used by her grandson, and possibly even by his dog. Maybe the dog liked how it tasted - all fabric-y and smelling of his master? I didn't ask. The repair job was not a thing of beauty but it rendered the quilt once more usable.

"But I am writing on my blog," I replied, ruefully adding, "once in the blue moon."

And why? Because it seems pointless. Who needs to read yet another tale of mask wearing, social distancing, vaccine or no vaccine, zooming - that pathetic substitute for face-to-face, eyeball-to-eyeball connection with other human beings. And because, not going out and mingling with other people for so long, inspiration is at a low ebb. Maybe I don't want to be boring. Better to be silent.

But still, the carnival in my head carries on regardless.

"But I love reading your blog," she protested.

And I'm as susceptible to flattery as the next person. Butter me up and I'll follow you anywhere. 

So, in the style of beating a dead horse, here are some of the thoughts and things that are saving my sanity while the world as we knew it crumbles around us.

Quilting is like therapy. Granted, I cannot quilt from a prone position on a couch, but the results are as beneficial as if I could. It calms the mind, quiets the internal chatter, promotes a feeling of virtue (I'm getting stuff done, moving one more project to the finish line -yeah!)

I even took a project to the Northwest when I went to visit youngest son in March. And even though the airline would eject you without a mask, every seat was taken on the flight there, so social distancing? Impossible. And yet we all survived. The project was a quilt for my sister's newest grandson, born just before Christmas. The pattern is simple squares from whatever children's fabrics I had on hand, brought together with sashing and borders of a green I've had around for years. So, win win. A quilt for a new baby and a reduction in my fabric stash. Now all I want to know is when is sis coming to pick it up!

I have been stitching in the ditch to quilt it. Should finish that today, then onwards to the binding, then done!

The OC walked by as I was pinning the layers. He despairs of my scattershot methods - how many projects do I have at any given time, in various states of done-ness?

Who's this one for, he asked. I told him. So how is R's quilt coming along? Smirk. Not to worry. I'll be getting to it as soon as this one's on its way. He seemed unconvinced, as is R also. She's been promised a quilt for years. I think she thought I'd be mailing it from the far side. But no. I actually have most of the fabric - Kaffe Fassett, no less, the luminous colors of which draw juice from my teeth. Had I made her a quilt sooner she'd not have gotten one so perfectly suited to her Bohemian, riotously colorful personality. Fear not, you will see it when it's done.

There are other things of course. I have spent time already this year herding cats, babysitting ducklings, reading voraciously and continuing my efforts to master sourdough - along with the rest of the world, but, for today, this, I think, is enough.

So, no more whining Noreen!

The Uninvited Guest

 There's a lizard living in the closet of my sewing room. 

I'm not happy about it, much as I like lizards - in their place (outside). I don't think he's too happy about it either. He probably found a door open recently due to our beautiful Spring weather and decided to explore the human habitat, not thinking, silly fellow, that the door would soon close and he'd be trapped. 

I'm not a screamer but I did give a yelp and leapt backwards with surprising agility the first time I saw him. Thankfully, I  saw at once that my visitor was not a snake. I can tolerate snakes in the garden, just not slithering around indoors, disappearing into inaccessible corners with no knowing when they might re-emerge and give me a heart attack. I opened the door from my sewing room to the great outdoors to entreat him to depart, keeping a wary eye lest any of his compadres decided to join him, but he was having none of it. 

The standard lizard diet of insects, larvae, worms and the occasional small, hapless frog is not on offer in these premises. I would'nt like him to die in my sewing room. It's a creative place where new quilts are born and grow, albeit slowly, to quilt adulthood. I would'nt want it to be a portal to the lizard underworld. It was a mistake for him to let his curiosity lead him astray. We all know what curiosity did to the cat. We have found the occasional shrivelled, crispy tree frog or lizard inside before. It's not a big deal. No odor, no mess, but no life either, and it's so warm and sunny outside. 

He really ought to avail himself of that open door. But he's not convinced. He prefers the closet where I can only hope he's not dining on fabric and patterns. For one thing, I would seriously doubt their nutritional content.  I now approach my sewing machine warily as his preferred time to be out and about, visible on the light colored carpet, is when I'm not there. Soon as I approach, he scurries back to his hideout. 

Meanwhile, I've absconded to the Northwest for a visit, leaving the OC and our uninvited guest to duke it out in the hallway outside the sewing room, should Mr. Lizard tire of fabric and patterns and go in search of more appealing fare. Otherwise there'll likely be a shrivelled, crispy lizard cadaver waiting for me under the sewing table when I return.

Treasure in the Garden

 Sunday was another beautiful day - this time of year is when Florida and paradise are synonomous. I was wandering lazily around and eventually found myself in the shade garden. That's fancy for a section of our garden that used to be wild and jungley but we trimmed and clipped and tamed it a bit, and carved a winding path through it, and now it's my favourite corner. So there I am, in the shade garden, picking up twigs and fallen branches. I see something that looks like a dried leaf that drifted down from the canopy and got caught on some palmetto palms. But, as I go to pluck it off, I see that it is no leaf but a beautiful moth, and no midget either! 

"Don't move!" I told him. "Stay right there while I run inside for my phone..."

He was very good. He waited. Posed obligingly for a couple of shots, then fluttered away, but just to the leaf litter underfoot where he spread his wings to show the full extent of his handsomeness, and his scary 'face' too, perhaps to discourage any unworthy intentions I might have been harboring. I had none. 

I was elated to have found him. 

It reminded me that we don't need to travel to the ends of creation to find beauty and wonder. It's right there, under our noses, in a leaf, a flower, a bug, a pine cone, a spider web. 

Every day. 

In spite of Covid 19.

 

This Perfect Moment

 A beautiful morning. I'm sitting on the front patio. A small plane drones lazily above; a lawn mower, a few gardens over, keeps the drone going as the plane fades; the pineapple sage next to my chair is bright with small red flowers; the mint spills over the edge of its pot; a car hums by and then a motorbike, way too fast, then gone; muffled voices drift from across the street; Bill, next door, rests from whacking weeds to stand in the sun with the OC, both of them, arms akimbo, undoubtedly planning how to fix a world gone nuts or, failing that, at least the best way to prune the trees. The sun beams down, the lizards sit, motionless, soaking it up. Makes me smile 'cause my back feels it too. 

Must plant those geraniums and candytuft, maybe in the pot vacated by the poinsettia that froze in our cold spell? And I really must yank out that annoying and prolific spidery plant that always tries to take over the world! Maybe plant something pretty, less obnoxious, in that pot? I wonder what's up with the orchid that has a dozen new flower buds but nary a leaf? A sudden flutter behind me and I turn to say hello to a beautiful bird, stretching his wings in the bushes, barely an arm's length away.

There's bread to bake, a book to finish, borders to sew on a baby quilt, more blocks to make for another quilt, squares to cut for a long promised quilt for CA Girl and, of course, ever present housework. I don't know what challenges tomorrow will bring but yesterday's have'nt killed us yet. We're still kickin' and glad of it. 

Right now, in this moment at least - perfection.

Buried Treasure and Other Random Ramblings

 Digging through the freezer a while back in search of something else, I came upon a bulky, foil-wrapped package. Hmm, I thought, what's this? Aha! Zucchini bread! What a lucky squirrel I am. After all, how many squirrels ever find, or even remember, where they buried their treasures? It sat on the counter, defrosting, overnight. We had it with coffee next morning, luscious, moist, dense with nuts, plump with raisins. That's what I call comfort. And who's not looking for a little comfort in these recent crazy days? My note to self said I'd made it the day before I'd flown out west in early October. Slowly it came back to me. Wanting to leave nothing that could rot in the fridge in my absence (the OC would eat rocks before it would occur to him to cook a vegetable) I'd found a couple zucchini in the vegetable drawer. I could have tossed them on the compost pile (the squirrels would have been delighted!) But, they were still good so, being a frugal soul, I made zucchini bread. And stashed it in the freezer. And flew west the next day. And forgot all about it, in the manner of squirrels everywhere. I know who plants the seeds of all those little oak saplings that keep popping up around here.

It's not only a hunger for comfort food we're feeling this year, but a hunger for things the corona virus has snatched from us. Being human, we never seem to appreciate what we've got 'til it's gone. (Sounds familiar -  sixties song? So many mindless lyrics permanently etched on my brain.) Youth, for instance. I look at pictures from decades ago and think - I was gorgeous! I didn't think so at the time, and was told that, though not beautiful, I had 'a nice' face. Yeah. Thanks for that. Damn with faint praise. And by gorgeous I don't mean Vanessa Redgrave or Ingrid Bergman gorgeous. But - the shiny hair, the smooth skin, the muscle tone, no baggy eyes, no nasty lines, no crowsfeet, no furrowed brow, boundless energy - so yes, gorgeous! At the time I thought the hips too big, the eyes too small, the eyebrows too scant, the freckles too plentiful. A little peek into the future and I'd have been slobbering in gratitude! With age comes, if not beauty, at least a small measure of wisdom. Nowadays I'll take 'nice' over 'beautiful.' Physical beauty has a shelf life, nice doesn't.

 How shallow I was, rejecting any poor sot who didn't meet my height, IQ or handsomeness requirements. As it happened, I got lucky, found someone who, though just about qualifying on the height requirement, met all the others with knobs on and, best of all, could always make me laugh. Intelligence, I believe, is a prerequisite for humor. It makes it easier to spot the absurdities of life, one of which we're living in at present. 

I know it's a serious problem. But every time we turn around the experts are telling us something different, usually contradicting the last piece of 'expert' advice. I wear a mask out in public though I think I need a defogging device to keep my glasses from clouding up and making me bump into somebody, thereby breaking the social distancing rule and incurring the wrath of fellow grocery shoppers. Alternately, here's an idea for some enterprising inventor - windshield wipers for glasses. Off you go. Let me know when they're available.

Since we first crawled out from our caves, humans have been dying. Nobody's exempt. Not even the rich and powerful. Every last one of us has an expiration date. Along with taxes, it's one of life's guarantees. We'll all die of something. With people losing their jobs, and businesses closing left and right, the possibility of starvation being what does one in is becoming very real. Not to mention the isolation, loneliness, mental illness and depression some are suffering as a result of (pardon my language) this wildly politicised pandemic sh_tshow.)

We talk regularly with friends and family, those who want to talk, and do our best to keep spirits from nosediving into the doldrums. We're blessed with a garden large enough to get lost in, if we so desire; surrounded by beautiful pine trees, home to all kinds of birds (most recently, to our delight, great horned owls) and the ever present gift of sunshine. It reminds me of a favourite quote "You are nearest to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth."

And when it rains, as it frequently does, we read, sew, practice yoga and, like the rest of the world, bake sourdough bread. And when we wake up next morning we do it all again, And again, and again. It could be so much worse, and is, for many people, so I am certainly not complaining. I think we (the human race) were in dire need of a siesta, a chance to slow down, room to breathe and reflect on what really matters.  And so the universe provided. It remains to be seen what we learn from it.

I have no more zucchini, but I do have cranberries, walnuts and raisins. I think, while the world is waiting for what comes next, I'll go make me some cranberry bread.

No Mud.....

 In  Ireland in the fifties and sixties, when the Catholic church had a firm grip on our throats, prayer was stitched into our lives like breathing. The church had something to say about every detail of our lives; what we could and could not do; what we should and should not do; the things that would guarantee heaven and the things that would guarantee hell. And if you were in doubt you could always get down on your knees and pray. And if you sinned, well you could go to confession and all would be forgiven, as long as you promised to mend your ways. 

It's different here. No religious body has the kind of control over everyday lives in the U.S. that the Catholic church had there, and then. But life is fraught with difficulties and problems no matter where you are in the world and, though I'm no longer in Ireland, when life goes haywire, as it regularly does, I find myself back on my knees, begging for help, for courage, for acceptance, for peace. 

Take the last few weeks.

Two of our children live out west, one in California, one in Oregon, states which, in case you haven't heard, have been on fire for some time. Oregon seems to be over the worst of it, but California's still burning. I had previously thought I felt sympathy and compassion whenever I heard of disasters in far flung places, but when the disaster touched people I know and love, people I gave birth to, I realized how shallow my compassion for those other unfortunates really was. I felt the panic of a mother bear separated from her cubs, unable to save them. I've been praying a lot, storming heaven. Your Man up there is probably tired of listening to me at this stage. CA girl had to evacuate once already, along with horses, cat and boss's dog. Now that she's back, they can still see the fire in the distance, a few ridges over, and, depending on the heat and the wind, the danger is still real. Oregon boy does not live where the fires were worst so he did not have to evacuate. But work was put on hold, the air quality being for a while, the unhealthiest in the world, right along with California's. Eventually, though many would say not soon enough, the rains came to Oregon, but California is still waiting. And when it isn't raining Oregonians can see the sun once more, as it normally looks, rather than a dull red smudge in the sky glowing darkly through a haze of choking smoke. 

And, now that they are safe, I'm still storming heaven, in gratitude to God, Allah, the Buddha, the Ultimate Reality, Mother Nature - aren't they all the same at the end of the day? Especially Mother Nature as she's the one calling the shots, determining how hot it will be, or not be, and in what direction the winds will blow today. I can't help thinking this entity (I'm pretty sure it's not an old gentleman with a white beard, sitting on a cloud) must be saddened by all the hate and lack of civility humans are displaying in the cities wracked by riots and anarchy, not to mention the colossal mess we're making of this fragile, beautiful planet. 

Maybe we're supposed to learn from 2020 - to love more; to judge less; to give each other the benefit of the doubt; to be kinder to each other, and ourselves; to breathe

 Maybe even to pray. 

"No mud, no lotus," says Thich Nhat Hanh. 

We've had a lot of mud this year. I'm hoping for a bumper crop of lotuses.

A Little Bit of Fun is Good for the Soul

 

Note: Warning - this is about addiction. Continue at your own risk

When not on the porch hanging out with the lizards I can usually be found at the other end of the house, sewing. The thought has crossed my mind that this whole pandemic is a plot to make me focus and finish the myriad half-done projects that lie therein.

 Because I am the center of the universe. 

A joke, I hasten to add, albeit a feeble one. I am well aware of the gravity of the corona virus situation and the tragedy it has meant for many people. That said, no matter what horror stories you may have heard about Florida, they are very likely exaggerated. That seems to be how the media operates these days. Let's tell them the sky is falling and they should cower and tremble and be very afraid. 

The news is depressing, the pandemic is depressing, the riots and protests are depressing, not being able to visit with your friends is depressing, not being able to have proper funerals is depressing, people eyeing their fellows with suspicion is depressing. I don't want to be depressed and so I go back to the comfortable chaos of my sewing room, confident that , no matter how long the current situation lasts, I have fabric and thread and ideas to keep me happy and busy indefinitely.

 

In just the past month have finished (love that word!) several small quilting projects that were lingering, ignored, for more than a decade. Done, dusted, happy dance time!

My sewing machine grudgingly shares space with my computer and last week I was clicking idly from one interesting thing to another when something stopped me in my tracks, my heart skipped a beat. You've undoubtedly heard of the evils of the internet? I had stumbled onto a blog - http://www.knottedcotton.com/2012/08/slow-blog.html and there was a tutorial for a very cute little bag. A Komebukuro bag that is used in Japan to carry rice to the temple. I very much doubt that I will ever, in what remains of my life, have a need for a bag to do that. But before I had finished reading Catherine's description (she's the blogger on K.C.) I was casting my eyes about the room and having a think about which fabrics I would use. Never mind that I still have plenty of UFOs to work on instead of something new. 

I needed a small break, I told myself. I deserved it, I told myself. Look at all the UFOs I'd finished since the beginning of the year!  My fingers in my ears stifled the sound of the responsible angel that sits on my right shoulder, so I could hear, loud and clear, the devil on my left.

And so I made it. Sat there, stitching and grinning while the OC held his tongue and rolled his eyes. 

I'm thinking I'll take it to Ohio Daughter whom we'll be visiting in the next few days. Surely she needs a pretty little bag to take rice to the temple? No? Well maybe she could use it for her knitting? The only problem I can foresee would be if she feels a need for a kimono to go with it. 

Then I'd be in trouble.