Tuesday, January 27, 2009
This is our very own Miss Puss, who just decided on the spur of the moment, that we should totally stop what we were doing, which was weaving a 6' wide gumball rug, and appreciate her beauty. So we did.........
Weaving a gumball rug this big is tedious. You can't wind the shuttle, you have to use it to send the weft through, but then you have to pull the weft through by hand. Very time consuming. And this rug was 16 ft long, so it was an incredible job. But it's done, and that feels really good.
Did I tell you that I LOVE this new camera??????
We are in for a big storm tomorrow, as much as 14" of snow. I know I can get to the studio, but have to be careful, since I have been known to get snowed in there. That was just last winter. My husband was not amused, but came to fetch me with the 4 wheel drive truck, and then white knuckled the entire drive home.
But hopefully, I'll just get a lot of weaving done, and the pellet stove will roar, and the snow will come down. With any luck.
My father was a junk man. Growing up with him was not just colorful, but even entered the realm of adventure. From a paneled bread truck, and later a pick up, I saw his world unfold, and listened to his often eccentric commentary.
Auctions were my favorite trips with Dad. While he scorned them because of their inflated prices, we went to some anyway, just to "check out the market". We usually never stayed past the noon meal, just long enough for my father to take a shrewd inventory, drop his card around to people he deemed important, smile more than usual, and talk in a voice I hardly recognized. He generally convinced a select handful of antique buffs that here was a friendly, helpful, if slightly simple, country bumpkin, who could probably get them just about anything they wanted for next to nothing, and surely had their best interests in mind. All untrue.
I particularly remember one auction, at a lakeside hotel, where we stayed til the end. The crowd was gathered around the long front porch, from where the auctioneer was offering up beds, dressers, chairs, silver, dishes, tablecloths, and other assorted items. I wasn't sure what was keeping my father there this long, but every time I approached him, he impatiently waved me away. I finally grew tired of it, and wandered off.
As it grew dark, the sounds of music lured me further around the bay, where all the locals were gathered for a square dance. I lurked outside the hall for a long time, watching through the open unscreened windows, as red-faced, red-necked farm boys whirled what seemed to me beautiful, fresh faced girls over the creaking wooden floor. Lantern lights flickered. Noone paid any attention to me.
The scene was purely magical; grown up people doing grown up things, a hot summer night, filled with music and laughter and flashing eyes. Mystery. Romance. I would see it in dreams long after.
Luckily, a sensible thought poked its way into my consciousness, and I made it back to the auction just as my father was starting to load up the truck. As long as I was there for the work end of it, he was happy. He never even asked me where I'd been.
We missed the ferry that night. And Dad kept laying on the horn, for what seemed like forever. He said he knew they were still over there, on the other side of the lake, and eventually he won out, because they came and got us; my dad with thoughts of all the profit he would make on his truckload of treasures, and me with thoughts of my own.