
With new straps on her front beam, and the brake adjusted, she looks like the workhorse she is.
But that's not the whole truth.
It started last Wednesday. I felt the beginnings of some viral illness coming on. But I was intent on putting a warp on this loom. I felt driven to get her up and running after she had sat neglected in a barn for several years. It seemed my responsibility.
But the back beam was round. My tension box didn't fit.
And, alas, my brain was not working so well, with little germs flitting about looking to take hold.
So instead of all the things I "could have" done, to make this work right, I did the one thing that was guaranteed to be a disaster.
I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say that it would have been bad enough had I put 50 yards of warp on her back beam. But NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, not me. I had to put 100 yards of warp on.
I should have quit 3 sections into it, but I persisted, and finished all 13 of them.
The sections are soft, they look awful, the threads break, and it is probably the worst warping job I have ever, ever done.
That is the truth, so help me God.
The rest of the evil truth is that while the weaving weekend was successful on many levels, I continued to get sick at an alarming rate. By Saturday night, I had lost my voice. I felt horrible that my two students might catch it from me, but honestly, they were pretty busy, and probably hopeful.
I hope they still feel that way.
And they didn't complain once about their whispering weaving instructor.
By Sunday afternoon at 4pm, I had all I could do to crawl home and take a position on the couch with my box of tissues, and hot tea.
Yesterday, I went to the studio and waited for the UPS truck to come.
It brought my Wolf Pup, and I had boxes to go. I opened the box with the loom, just to make sure it was all there, and crawled back home to my spot on the sofa.

The only thing that is left is to put the sectional beam on the loom, and that called for a 1/8th" drill bit. Looking for that seemed a gargantuan task that sent me right out the door, and back across the 8 miles or so to my waiting sofa.
Where I remain.
And that, my friends, is the sad truth. Today, I don't care if I weave or not, and that is proof that I am one sick cookie.
