Tonight, the boy who once was the final baby spends his last night as a child in this house.
The nest is broken open, and all the fledglings flown.
The last child. The last night.
Tomorrow everything becomes new. And old.
How odd life is. And how strange the nature of blessing.
These are TERRIBLE pictures. Some of them. The little camera – the tiny lens – I ask too much of it, which is NOT what a good photographer does. But I’m not worried – the mouseness comes through anyhow.
Here is what I love – even the smallest detail is an opportunity for imagineering. This is the popcorn machine in Tomorrowland. Which is kind of an anachronism – intergalactic faster than light travel and a popcorn machine. But oh well. The guy you see in these shots is turning the popcorn popping chamber. I guess the fact that the word “chamber” is involved here brings popcorn into the realm of tech, eh?
Out of order, but not out of mind: our Denny’s waiter, Pedro, who made us feel like Significant Folk the first morning and remembered our “usual” every day after.
When I was a kid, I yearned to ride Autopia. It didn’t get any better than Autopia. Now, the ride is MUCH more space age and sophisticated, and you even go off road – and Scooter actually drove his own car – for about the first forty seconds, until he demonstrated a deep and gleeful death wish and almost jerked Cam’s head off his shoulders. After that, it was a family affair.
At the end. G had to ride by himself, because Lorri and I were stationed on this bridge thing, waiting for this shot, which was not supposed to be blurry.
California Adventure. Now, Donna and Jen – I’m not sure either of you guys has been to the park since they made California Adventure. Here they have a carousel of a different stripe: no horses, only sea creatures. And the color? AHHH, the color!
Chaz in her New Orleans beads, riding – I’m not sure what. A dolphin, I think.
Murphy is SO DANG CHEESY. But how could I not put this up here – look at that little girl behind him. I LOVE these little girls who end up behind him. Did you see that one in the last post? With her head thrown back and her hair flying and her eyes closed?
Two seals, singing.
The sea horses are my favorite.
But the otters are so joyful. This saddle is silly, though – if you saddled an otter, you’d put the sitting part on his back – and then he’d slide down the mud, plowing happily into the water with you up there riding high. THEN he’d turn on his back, and you’d be riding along upside down under water gulping down water plants and small fresh water creatures.
This is how G is most happy riding carousels – see him way back there in the yellow shirt? He’s walking Andy while the rest of us go in circles.
The King of the Sea seems pleased with the pin-trading Chaz.
Eating ice cream on the hoof, headed for the wharf.
Perfect strangers were willing to stand on the bridge and take pictures of us stuck in this mass of fish.
This one is for you, Donna. Are you laughing yet? Another lunch with texting.
On one corner in the Hollywood section of the park, all of the lower outside walls of the shop there are covered in this marvelous mosaic of broken bits of pots and tile and silverware and dishes and bowls and old toys – yards and yards of it. I want to do this in my house, too.
Here are the awfullest pictures of all. M and I, having ridden the screamer, caught up with the NON-screamer part of the fam in the Bug’s World section of the park. If you haven’t seen this place, I’ll tell you, it’s really something. They’ve done this whole section so that you, yourself, are suddenly bug-scale, and everything around you is huge – and interesting. The bugs who live there are clever, and the lights and the decorations, and the very rides themselves are made out of found materials – straws and popcorn boxes and matches – all gigantic building materials.
This is the bumper bug ride – where I had my cross moments on this trip. The line took FOREVER to move, and the light for shooting was awful (teeny lens time). And when Chaz was trying to maneuver their bug over so I could take their picture, people kept ramming into them and then stalling out. Short ride. Lots of blockage. As you see:
Well, you get the point, right?
Scooter and bug. At the end of this part of the story. Only one part to go – in which Scooter meets his idol and becomes a famous street musician and the sky explodes. Stay tuned!
First thing to remember: I am using the POINT AND SHOOT. These first shots are blurry, not because of the camera, but because I was actually trying to dance and shoot at the same time. Second thing to remember: I shoot constantly.
There is this wonderful Dixieland band that wanders Disney (look at these guys – when they started doing this gig, they were in diapers – so they know their business). We caught up to them at New Orleans Square, and they were just firing up to do “Paper Moon.”
Let me explain that I am always the kibitzer in situations like this: I give the band a hard time – but they return the favor in spaces. So we always have a good time with them. Now, as I said, they started up this number, which is one Chaz and I know (yeah – we know all the old songs). Only SHE actually remembers all the words to everything. So we’re both singing, but she’s actually making sense.
This prompts the band to toss Marde Gras beads to her – which in this context is a demonstration of artistic admiration (while at actual marde Gras – if Monk can be trusted – the bestowing of beads is rather an indication of the expunging of a girl’s character). So she’s wearing green beads, and they throw me gold ones (I WAS sort of singing), and then they pull her up on the “stage” to sing with them.
Tons ‘o fun. And the band is having a good time.
Go, songbird, GO!!
But when her job is over, they keep playing, and it’s dance time.
Murphy may not know what he’s doing, but he does it with panache.
I am shooting like a wild woman – and here come Lorri and Scooter to join the party. Let me point out here that nobody else was dancing. There was a whole crowd of people gathered around the band, but there was NO movement among them. Americans are THE MOST BORING PEOPLE IN THE WORLD.
No, wait. The English may be in competition here. And the French. Brooms up the back in public, what?
I was going to say, little white Americans are the boring ones – but I’d probably be more accurate saying, Americans of European descent. But then, there were plenty of not-exactly or even close to white faces in that stodgy crowd. Maybe I need to say, NORMAL GROWN UPS are the most boring. Anyway. We have no claim to normal. We sing. And we dance. No dignity at ALL.
Joy instead.
Then somebody else came bouncing out of the crowd and they actually KNEW something about dancing. Not the front two. The ones in the back. But then the song was over. So we went to find lunch.
We have always felt that the best deal in the park is at the Zocolo over by Thunder Mountain, so here we are.
As you can see from Murphy’s after-eating face, the food was pretty good. I have NO idea what Chaz is seeing on her phone – (actually, last time we were there, that’s when she got the call that made her a science teacher – which was a GOOD thing).
After lunch, we had some walking lessons.
In the end, good time had by all.
Isn’t this a cool plant? They just have these cool plants all over that place.
to be continued again –
Today, in the 97 degree weather, after a hard day’s tractor work, I came home drooping. I wanted lime sherbet. In anticipation of such a moment, I had gone to the store and bought some with my own money. Thus, when I wanted it – I HAD it. Which is the very essence of being a grown up. I put it in a large glass and drowned it in peach Fresca, one again inventing the Fresca float. This is the kind of success I intend to continue as I limp toward ancient.
To pick up the Story of Our Lives:
Once home from Santa Fe, we began to feel wanderlust. Like one week gone from home wasn’t enough to disorient me for months.
So we went to see the Mouse. I took the tiny camera— because Mouseland is not an easy place to pack a decent lens. This is our first morning. Light: blown out. Chaz’ hair: teal.
Notice Chaz’ shirt. You’d have to be a TOTAL Disney/SF nerd to get that one. Anybody get it?
Our first stop: Peter Pan in Fantasyland. You have to hit it early because the line can back up and cost you almost two hours of waiting – some of that in the hot sun. This is the only inside ride in Fantasyland that I recommend for tiny guys – the rest are really too scary. But this one is magical. My favorite since I was tiny.
Scoots’ first time with Walt. We started very easy – who knows what a tiny child will find disturbing? Especially one as fine-boned in every way as this one.
THIS is what I love about Disney. The detail. The marvelous depth of environment. Love. It’s love.
Andy on her first horseback ride. This is a gorgeous carousel.
Oh, imagineering. How I love it. I wish I could do it, but I know I haven’t got the chops.
This kid doesn’t know what’s about to happen. All he knows is that he’s sitting on a giant fake horse.
They don’t know what’s about to happen either, but I mean that in a much more metaphysical way. For them, at this place in time, the moment is everything.
WHOA! The horse moves!! Smoothest trot EVER. But look at the little girl behind Scoots.
Even G, who needs Dramamine if you spin him around too fast, took a ride.
Arthur. Scooter. Whoever – the sword does NOT come out. Not till Walt says it does.
Look at this – you have medieval Germany and Norse influences and – and – EVERYTHING charming.
Outside of It’s A Small World there are BIG topiary.
I SO want this for my yard.
Or this. No – AND this.
The big horse gets two shots.
Okay – so this is our third ride. We’re upping the ante a little each time, hoping the movement and environments will be agreeable to our young buddy. So far, so good.
Could this be a Kudu?
Could this be an aunt with a small squirrel?
And for Sharon, two shots of one giraffe.
On to TOON Town.
One of the only places a kid can drive a jalopy without going anywhere at all.
Wiat! WE’VE BEEN BOARDED!!
Aw, it’s just some Southern Californian dude – it’s chill.
Gas pumps. With fish. One of my very favorite parts of the entire place.
Look at this: hot, crowded, no naps – and still smiling.
I’m not really shooting these weird people. I was actually after the skyline.
we are always happy in this place
(to be continued)
I am sitting in front of this screen, blank-minded. After the last many weeks (would they like these napkins, or should I get those—did I forget to put the TIME on those invites—yes, yes I did—how could I forget to put in the time—and how many chairs are we gonna need, and where are we gonna get them—but I won’t know till I hear from G’s up north family—and I hope I can get away with wearing the yellow shirt or is it not mango enough?????????) of running around to pick up one tiny detail here, and another five miles away and another up valley, I’m not sure I can write a sentence without inserting a note-to-self in it.
I’m going to get to the movie reviews. I promise. But first: this morning when I went out to the horses, I counted the manure piles in the arena. I know this isn’t a civilized topic of conversation, but it’s my life and I believe in truth in reporting. There were about thirty six. That’s 36. Divided by four – and considering the arena was clean yesterday till I brought them in at about four in the afternoon, that’s nine poopings from EACH horse during a seventeen hour timespan. (translates to: 500 pounds. I’m certain of it.) I no longer name my barn Rosewood Farms. From now on, it’s Pooparama. Truth in reporting and in NAMING things.
I made the mistake of watching horse training shows while I ran the treadmill this morning. It’s a mistake because when I watch them, I see in no uncertain terms how (I’m not going to say poopy, here) lousy a job I’ve been doing with my guys over this summer.
Reading Better Homes and Gardens gives me the same perspective on my kitchen and yard, but a kitchen doesn’t kick you in the head when it gets sassy, nor do you have to chase it around in ninety degree weather to make a point.
So when I went down there this morning, it was with purpose and repentance in my heart. Not that my horses are rude or aggressive. I move among them easily, lovingly. I just need to make them understand that I am scarier than anything else in the world when I get riled, and no matter what terrifying sounds they hear next door, the safest path to run is NOT where I am standing.
So I put them through their paces, and (just as I expected) found rust flaking off the moves. Which meant we had to do groundwork. Then liberty work – which resulted in a lot of me swinging a rope’s end and driving them and running across the arena to turn them, yelling: “Give me TWO EYES, dang it all!!!” I did this with one horse after another till they began to get that “oh yeah, I remember this” look on their faces.
I shoulda done this at six in the morning, before we’d hit ninety degrees. And I don’t have pictures of any of this (really, I should have Cam shoot video: yep – that’s me, the little old blond lady, doubled up, trying to suck in oxygen) because at that level of sweat, I’d either drop the slippery camera, or short it out—or throw it at a horse.
So that was my morning. Now – the reviews: both of these movies are available from Netflix:
Get Low
In this unexpected, character driven drama, Robert Duvall plays the kind of man he does so well—understated, short spoken, a man with a past, unsure of ever having a present. We, along with the townsfolk, wonder what kind of hideous crimes the old man in that spooky, tumbledown shack of his might have done in his time. The story, which is intriguing, is supported by a solid cast – including Bill Murry, who does a turn as a funeral home director, quirky as ever, but much more understated than you’d expect. The story is well balanced, moments of real humor juxtaposed with moments of true tragedy. I am a lover of redemption stories, but I want them to be real, honest – and this little film delivers on all levels. We really loved it – the entire bunch of us.
Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi
I have to admit, I really enjoyed Bend it Like Beckham. Mostly, the music. That Bollywood music. Not that Beckham was Bollywood, but it got me interested. Later, when I saw Bride and Prejudice, I decided that I wanted to find out what real Bollywood was about. So I ordered something subtitled from Netflix and settled back with delicious anticipation.
Oh, my gosh – the movie I got was horrible. Primitive, badly written, cartoon characters (one of them a sort of super-good-guy who was determined to find answers for the murder of his father). It was just really, really stupid, and the music was a huge disappointment.
Then, one day when I was facing a huge pile of business and domestic papers (I dump them all in the living room for a sort), I went again to Netflix and streamed a movie randomly, giving the Indian film industry one more chance. The film was Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi—and though it has its problems – unevenness and silliness – it is one of the sweetest (and longest) films I’ve ever seen.
I will admit here that I don’t choose my cinema experiences one the basis of social realism or “art” or edginess. I don’t love CG or any kind of self-important tone. And sex bores the snarf out of me. Explosions? Nope. Earth being invaded? Yawn. Robots fighting? Car chases? Busses running amok? Please. Brainless comedies, poor writing, characters that wobble around – no thanks.
I watch films to be delighted, surprised – either by the intelligence in the writing, or by the satisfying ring of truth in the story. And I like my characters to have some depth.
Like I say, this movie was hardly consistent, but it had two of the most admirable characters I think I’ve ever seen fueling it. Sweet, honorable, dear. And the music was really fun. There was one motorcycle scene that had me rolling my eyes – perhaps the most out-of-synch moment in the film in terms of character – but Chaz informs me that a film cannot be considered truly Bollywood unless there is a car/motorcycle chase or at least one explosion. At the end, we are TOTALLY satisfied (if a little exhausted). But best of all, we find our belief renewed: there can be wonderful people out there who are able to put their own needs on hold in order to serve others.
We watched it with Murphy and L and Chaz and Chelsea and we all loved it – even though it had Laura yelling at the screen from time to time. There was just a quality in this not-slick-Hollywood production that reminded me of Frank Capra. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a film with that kind of heart.
————–=0=————-
And there you have it. All words. No pictures. Did you make it through to the end?
Once upon a time, I learned that writing and living don’t go easily together. And so it has been the since the first week of July. I have answered no comments – which grieves me – and hardly been able to read the journaling of people I genuinely love. Instead, I have dedicated myself to soaking in the increasingly rare proximity of my youngest child. That, and to running the million errands that preparing even for a small, intimate wedding demands.Oh, and spreading manure and putting up fly strips and driving tractors and (cue soundtrack of grinding teeth) irrigating. And losing some weight.
Wait – and managing the loss of several major appliances and car parts. And rebuilding my blog array, including trying to make my visual editor work after the Big Update – which means messing big time with code (a pleasure in the presence of the code king and problem solver, M).
And being with my Other Beloved Children, including the effort it takes to recognize Chaz every time her hair color changes. And making luncheon favors. And planning Events. There are stories in some of that. I intend to tell them, hoping that after the first of September, the parade of stories will sort of dry up for a while. Then I can write instead of live. Which – at least for the time being – will be refreshing.
I am now going to try to pick up where I left off. At least I have pictures of some of this stuff – like breadcrumbs backward through the months. Which is good, because I just realized I’d almost totally forgotten about the Disneyland trip.
And so: coming home from Santa Fe, land of burning skies.
Why were there more trees on the way home?
These odd knobs, emerging from the forest. This one looked like a sphinx. Actually, a whole lot of them ended up liking like sphinxes. sphinxi?
Another one.
More trees and big skies. Headed up now, into the mountains.
Then comes my favorite part: The Three Horses. In Santa Fe, you see a lot of Native American art. A traditional staple in the design is the Resting Horse. I have horses, and I’ve seen them rest, but never quite in the iconic manner. However, here we were, tulin’ on down the highway, when THREE traditional resting horses were suddenly right there in front of me. Or to the left of me. Here they are from far away:
I actually had to back up to recreate my first sight of them. I did it quickly. I cut a U-turn, went back up the road about half a mile, did another u-turn and started over. I did this very quickly. And with gusto. Then everybody started yelling at me. I don’t understand why. An urgent situation like this is exactly why I make them wear seatbelts in the first place.
There are a couple of reasons why I had start over.
This is the main reason. On the first pass, by the time I was close enough to pull over and take a real shot of that line of three, they woke up and looked at me with interest. Evidently, they don’t get a lot of gawking tourist traffic, and by pulling over to observe, I completely skewed the natural setting.
I thought maybe, if I retreated, they’d go back to sleep and forget about me. Which they did. Then I crept up on them on the very, very slender shoulder of the road, using my long lens judiciously. Not really judiciously, but – you know, the word gives you a sort of gravitas.
see – I got closer, that first pass.
Oh – whoops! This is where it all began to fall apart. One head my way. Then all three.
This is all three. But you can’t really see it because I was NOT using my lens (and auto exposure) judiciously. I mean, the fact that I can actually USE this word should still give me – oh, never mind.
So we’re all nicely backed up, here. Dang motorcycle.
And finally, my own collection of Resting Horses.
And that’s it. The whole coming home story. We were going to stop at Chaco canyon, but it was inside the burn area and we didn’t even try. And then we were going to go to Mesa Verde.
There is a story to this. I’d almost forgotten. We were planning to go there, even though it was getting kind of late. And why was it getting late? We really didn’t stop anywhere else. Except Rainbow gifts. And we had lunch at that great place in Pagosa – so maybe we did stop.
Anyway, as we’re driving through Durango on our way to Cortez – or was it out of Cortez? I see this horse trailer pull out onto the highway ahead of us, and it has two really pretty horses in it. We end up pretty much trapped behind it on the two lane highway, which is fine. Trapped behind horses is actually not a bad thing. Then suddenly, there are these little brown lumps bouncing all over the highway ahead (behind the trailer) and hitting us.
I’m thinkin’ – whoa. I guess we can’t get away from manure wherever we go. But in the time it took me to frame that idea, I realized that it was rubber hitting us, and in the nano-second it took to think that, I knew that the right tire of that trailer was disintegrating, right in front of us.
My stomach clenched. Two horses. Sixty five miles an hour. I couldn’t tell how many tires that trailer had, and I was terrified that I was going to see one of my worst nightmares played out in front of me. I yelled at Murphy, and he yelled, and the tire up there simply blew up. But the rig kept right on moving.
No dead horses. Yet.
We sped up, following as closely as we dared, honking like mad and flashing our lights and yelling. But the rig just kept rolling. We followed like that for miles before we hit a passing lane. I floored it, trying to get up there so we could stop them, and we finally caught up (that truck was moving FAST). Murphy was leaning out of the passenger side window and I was honking like a crazy person – the woman driving the truck looked at us like we were out of our minds. Which we were.
But she pulled over. I had to back up about five hundred feet to get back to her.
That tire – when Murphy finally got it off her trailer for her, it looked like some nightmare, really terrible Christmas craft idea – a metal wreath with tufts of shredded rubber hanging from it like ragged ribbons. It took us maybe forty minutes to get her on the road again – Murphy was the hero. He figured out how to jack up the trailer and did the lug nuts – while the lady was on the phone with her husband. Up close, the horses were even more beautiful: two young Morgans. She’d just taken them swimming at the lake. The fact that they were still alive made the whole thing a celebration.
By the time we got to Mesa Verde, we were close on evening and still far from home. But we pulled in to the ranger station, thinking maybe we could see something not too far in before we drove on. But it turned out we had to pay about thirty five bucks just to drive past the station, and the visitor’s center was fifteen miles up a winding mountain road. So we had to give it up.
We were still in pretty great spirits when we got home. Tired. But pretty happy. And that’s the end of Road Trip Number One.
Thanks for comin’ with –
Faces and Fires and Sunsets
Being swaddled. An odd shot. Whose toes do you suppose those are?
Sandy at breakfast.
You will, perhaps, remember the great fires in Arizona and New Mexico this summer. One of them was just northwest of Santa Fe. We didn’t see it on the way down, but we saw sign of it later. The one astonishingly beautiful thing that results of fires like these: the sky is full of ash and dust and silt and smoke, and the sun descending lights them all to fire in the sky. I had noticed smoke on the mountain early that evening. But my first hint of what was to come was this golden light that came streaming through the west window, catching Chaz in its glory.
Enter: the sunset. From the same road as the last series. Much changed.
The flip side of the sky. No hint of the color to the northwest.
meanwhile –
Again, to the southeast.
Here again you see the gradual infiltration of dark lilac –
Sun is gone. Smoke still rising. Clouds like anger, rising into the dome of heaven.
Back toward the houses across the wash.
Light breaks through and burns.
Front gate in the evening.
Murphy, caught in silhouette against the sunset on the other side of the house, streaming in one window, through the house and out here.
Almost finished.
Again, the glow of the buff stucco against the blue of evening.
We take Sully out for a jog under this sky, heading away from the sun. Hoping we don’t find a coyote or snake or – anything else.
And then we notice the shadows. And decide we, ourselves, will become petroglyphs:
Then, it’s time to go back in. Amazing how a camera can show you what your eyes can hardly make out in the coming dark.
And this is the end of our being there record.
Okay. Cue up “The Circle of Life,” or maybe “Sunrise, Sunset,” and hand me a box Puffs.
I first met Jedda one very cold January day. Geneva had taken me to see the little sorrel mare, freshly back at the breeder after the university had closed down their equitation program. It was the beginning of a nine year friendship. Our Jedda was always the quiet one, perfectly trained, responsive, obedient, strong, brave and agile. Murphy rode her first – and she gave him courage and confidence. Then Cam came home from England and he rode her splendidly.
She was the first horse G even rode in the mountains. And when Zion stopped dead in the middle of a trail, snorting and frightened by a tree that looked a little bit like a bear, we said, “Bring Jedda up.” And up she came, totally untroubled, passed the bear without a cocked ear. Zion followed her, keeping safely on her off side. When nobody else would cross the water, Jedda was glad to go first. Everyone followed after her, suddenly brave.
Geneva called me a couple of months ago. Someone in her family was looking for a horse she could trust with her grandchildren. And Jedda was now twenty five years old, still healthy and bright, but much mellowed. I wasn’t entirely convinced. But this started me thinking:
My own children were grown and flown. Some were allergic to horses. My own grandchildren wouldn’t be ready to ride for years. And where there had been four of us riding regularly, grooming and keeping up the training, now there was only me. Me and five horses, including a six year old colt who hasn’t been saddled once this year.
When I bought my horses, I swore I would never sell them – unless they had broken my trust. I was in for life. I treasure them. And horses can live thirty years. These were the horses of my life, the answers to my child dream. I had no intention of selling her. But when, soon after, Jedda’s breeders, who are getting on in years, asked if maybe I would let them have her for grandchildren, I knew she would be safe and loved there. They know horses – and they knew her. They’d know how to keep the weight on her, which I was having a tough time doing. They’d know how to care for her as she got older. So I felt sad but the truth is, I was also relieved.
In the end, they couldn’t take on another horse, either. Which was fine. Because my heart really wasn’t that into losing her. Then last week, I got a call from Wendy, who had ridden Jedda at the university and loved her. Who had wanted to buy her when the horses were sold, nearly a decade ago. She and her best friend, and Suzannah, another of the university riders, who had loved Jedda and who ached to have a quiet, fine horse so she could teach her own children to ride—they’d heard that I was thinking about parting with her. They were delighted. They promised to love her and pamper her and keep her till the end of her life. To treasure their old friend. And Jedda, as Geneva told me when I first met her, had always needed to be somebody’s one beloved horse.
So today, we washed her and loved her, and when the girls came to get her, kissed her nose and sent her with them. It’s not far she’s gone. Just on the other side of the river. Still, it’s a door closed. A friend gone. And it feels very strange.
The second part of this:
I just dropped Murphy off at his incipient in-laws’ so they can all drive up to the airport to pick up Laura and the rest of the fam, finally home from their month in London.
After a lovely month of constant companionship, he is moving forward. A milestone. Approached, touched for a moment, and passed –
He will be home tonight. And every night for the next three weeks. But his days will be spent in wedding planning and loving and being very, very happy. Then he will be married. He will always be the baby of the family. Everybody’s best buddy. One of my best buddies. Now Laura’s very best one.
I guess this means that I’m all grown up now, huh? All the kids grown and professional and some having children of their own. My baby getting married. Then why, I wonder, don’t I feel grown up?
More Santa Fe after this break in our program: more handmade stuff.
So I get this visitor, showing up at my front gate, grinning from ear to ear. She’s got her hands behind her back and a very pregnant twinkle in her eye. She’s telling me about her annual sisters’ retreat and how each sister is going to make something – for some reason my visitor is not even sure of. Then she says, “Wanna see what I made?” Like I’m not dying already to see.
“Do you love these thighs?” she cackles, thinking how right fat thighs are for the occasion.
And really, isn’t this an amazing cuteness? It’s an Alan Dart pattern, one he sells on his web site – clever and charming as usual and full of wonderful detail. The problem is, now this biddy is made, my visitor is feeling just a mite reluctant to hand her over –
As much as Rachel loves her sisters –
And here is my petroglyph quilt, made for Gin’s graduation. The borders and quilted rattlesnakes.
Max shows me a monster he made in his class. Probably appropriate that it should look just a little like a tooth. He designed this and cut out the pieces and sewed it up himself. He will not tell you that he’s proud of it, but he is.
This is Mama Fish. There is a story to go with her, but I will not tell it now. Let it simply be known that my own daughter, who crochets rather than knits, set out to knit a cousin to this favored of all fish. I may have posted about this before, but my pride bears repetition.
Max was very clear about showing all sides of this really astonishing bit of yarn improvisation.
Side view.
And finally –
the tail.
Because fish were such a big dang deal in his life, I made him a quilt. This was just before I stopped quilting forever. It was inspired by a bag Rachel bought in Belize. I was intrigued by the crazy fish that had been screen printed on it. So I got wild and made my own crazy fish.
The fish were mostly made in three sections. First the outside shape of the fish was cut out of fusible webbing. I always cut the center out of pieces I’m going to fuse onto backing so that I’m only fusing with an outside rim of web. With the inside parts, I made smaller fish. One big fish yielded two smaller fish – it was kind of nifty, the way it worked out.
On the original, plain fish piece, I fused the colorful sections that made head, body and tail, blanket stitching them all on machine. Then I placed all the fish and blanket stitched them to the quilt top. The sky is full of squid.
A blurry view of the batik backing, which was perfect. And the lone back fish.
I am sneaking in these two needle punch dudes. I meant to include them with another collection, but forgot ’em. I don’t do this much, but there’s great charm in hooking miniature rugs like this – I think it’s three inches by two.
This one is about one and a half inches square.
Last, but not least: from the soap template above (old, gritty soap can achieve some wonderful shapes), I did this little thing:
For a lovely, gentle young woman I know who had just lost her beloved chicken. The fact that chickens can, indeed, be beloved was something this very young woman had taught me. It was a great pleasure to be able to make something to give back to her.
First, one more downtown shot.
Remember the giant fetish turtle? Well, this is evidently a giant fetish blue whale, shot while M was driving the camera. Notice how, by his magic, he was able to reduce the behemoth back down to normal fetish size? Nice, huh?
We start the tour with a shot of the back deck. No, you cannot land a 727 on it. Maybe a Piper Cub. Note the landscape beyond the fence? Not green. Mostly sand.
Here we are, hunting lizards. Note how odd the light is here. You’d need an MCP action to get this kind of image anywhere else. Kinda pink and a little dusty and mat.
And finding them in the oddest places.
No home in New Mexico is complete without a watch lizard. You know that phrase, “Like a fly on the wall?” Yeah, well, it has to be adjusted for cultural bias. Who knows what lizards see and hear? And who they tell about it.
Front door. Pretend you don’t see the RoundUp or the Christmas lights. Or the snakes and mice running into the house because said door is left open.
There are very large skies here, which is why you don’t need a weather guy. You can see the rain coming – miles away. You could probably plan your entire week just by looking out the window.
Home in the gloaming.
Inside the old homestead, uncle and karate nephew prepare to square off.
Holy Belts, Batman! They’re going at it. Large room, this. Big enough to feed three small families or an entire middle European county (ending in -stein). Every chair, recliner, couch, day bed, trampoline Gin has fits into this room.
Love these New Mexico ceilings. Hey – I just had a thought. However old I am when I finally kick the bucket, I want people to be saying, “Wow, she died young.” Apropos of nothing, really. Except I was thinking about how silly these captions are.
See what I mean? Big freaking room.
Back to the action: as the karate guys battle, mother and child look on with concern—who will end up tipped into the fireplace? Who will be thrown backward into a recliner?
Actually, nothing happens to either of them, as hard as Max tries. Here is the back of the house, and a hint of the coming sunset – which will have me running outside with my shoes un-velcroed in another five minutes.
More house. How I love these colors, and the way you can see through to the other spaces.
Deck again. It fascinates me.
M, at his leisure. The back yard. Also sand. Cats must love this place.
Beeeea-utiful evening. NO MOSQUITOS.
My room. At least, it was for a week.
Note the brick floors. Only the giant room has carpet. This is a great house for skating and trike riding and remote controlled vehicles.
The kitchen glows at the end of this hall.
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And the great and grand Sully awaits his dinner.
This house, as is traditional, is built around a courtyard. It’s great – an outside/inside room. The kids can play out here, safe from the outside world (not safe from skinned knees) and can be seen from every room in the house. Parties can happen out here. And light gets stained pink.
My quilt. This is so ironic, that I’d make her this quilt for her graduation, and then a million years later, it ends up in her very desert real home.
Don’t you just dream of living in a place that out-shelves your books? Ah, the possibilities!
And back to that sunset –
I saw a hint of it through the window and then ran out here to see if I could find it. In the rental, you could see the sunset directly from the double glass doors in the middle of the house. Here, it’s harder to find. And there’s a screen on the one window that faces it.
This is what evening light does to these houses – it lights them into a sort of golden-mango mellowness, and paints blue shadows all over them. These are the southwestern colors, the orange and blue. So seeing this, we headed outside for a long walk under the setting sun.
We saw these. And see that hole?
We also saw this.
The house, so nestled into the landscape, you can’t even be sure it’s there.
We got out onto the road, just in time to see the sun disappear into that bank of blue gray.
Sunsets seem to happen quickly here. But it’s not true. They are long and languid. They seem quick because they change dramatically from moment to moment.
This one killed me. Soon enough – very soon – we home girls will be left behind on walks like this. He has another girl now, you know. This best friend of ours will have his own life. So it will be Chaz and me walking into the sunset, and who will take that picture? Maybe G.
This is the flip side of the sky. She’s walking toward the sunset. Looking at the sky behind her, you’d have no clue there was a party going on in heaven.
So this –
turned into this, which
turned into this. You see the deep lilac that is coming in to kiss that orange?
to this – all of this happening in the same sky over a period of maybe twenty five minutes.
And just when it seems to have paled out, the night-tide rising over the land –
this happens. This blazing rim, this last thrown-up glory.
Not the end of the story. Only nearly. Again, I hope you won’t mind getting more. I think there are two more parts to it. I promise, we’ll have fun –
. . .
