Sunday, October 02, 2016

You Spin Me Right Round

A few years ago, I bought a Shetland fleece, from Windrush Farm in West Marin County here in Northern California. Having washed it, and brushed it, I'm now doing the final prep work of combing and what's delightfully called "dizzing."

All the wool was sorted by relative lightness or darkness, and I'm spinning it with the goal of producing two distinct yarns -- an off-white, and a pale grey. 

Until I know how much yarn this produces, I won't decide what I'm going to knit. 

I've been going through a very hard time, over the past few years, and I'm now attempting to climb out of a multi-year black period. There's something remarkably soothing about the process of working with this wool. 

The repetitive nature of the work keeps me from gnawing on unpleasant, unhelpful thoughts.  

One thing I have been musing on: given the massive amount of work involved in every step of the process of creating cloth, I have undying respect for our pre-industrial ancestors. The act of making clothes without large scale mechanization is unbelievably daunting. It's no wonder the development of large scale textile machinery was called an Industrial Revolution. 

(And speaking of Revolutions, I'll write about our BORP Revolution ride as soon as possible. Robb and I are deeply grateful to everyone who supported our fundraising efforts.)

Thursday, September 08, 2016

It Can't Happen Here

 Lisa has been busy at work lately.  Here's a glimpse of what she and her team are up to:

This little film by Joel Dockendorf is a fantastic window into the work that goes into making a scenic backdrop. 

Of course the days and weeks of planning and painting that go into it are compressed here into a minute or so but the hard work and skill of Lisa, Lassen, Yoshi and Anna McGahey (not pictured) really shines through.

Friday, September 02, 2016


Shortly after my accident, (it feels like a lifetime ago) during my weeks in the rehab hospital, I remember a therapist said something that stuck with me.  It was a simple yet audacious suggestion and I clung to it like a lifeline.  He asked me to imagine a time in the future when "you are stronger than you've ever been."

At the time I took "strong" to mean resilient or mental toughness. What else could it be? In that moment I could not take a step, could not stand, could not even sit upright for very long.  But I held on to that phrase.  It was an outcome to focus on.

Some time later, I thought back to that moment when I met some of the athletes with disabilities at BORP.  These people were the definition of strength.  Many of them had seen a lifetime of struggle–– emotional, physical, psychological, social, financial, you name it.  They don't seek to be inspirational. They're not trying to set a good example–– they're just living their lives, taking what life throws at them.  They're trying and failing and trying and succeeding just like everyone else. But they inspire me.

So, from time to time when I need a little mantra to push me forward, I say to myself "stronger than I've ever been" and I think of them.  If they can do it so can I.

Reason #47 we think BORP is amazing. We're supporting them again this year with our tenth annual Revolution ride. We hope you can join us by making a contribution.

Sunday, August 07, 2016

A Thrilling Game of "What the Heck is This?"

At some point in our lives together, Robb and I realized that we shared the decorating sensibilities of ninety-year-old retired college professors. As a way of indulging our eccentric tastes, we go to a lot of estate sales.  It's fascinating to be given access to strangers' homes, and to get a glimpse of the objects they accumulated over their lives. 

Sometimes this is inspiring. Sometimes it's a bit sad. And occasionally, it's rather puzzling. 

This weekend, we brought home this mysterious object.  It seems to be made of an early form of plastic

Inside the body of this object, there's a metal mechanism. If the end of the mechanism is unscrewed, it can function as a plunger, depressing the "needle" within the barrel of the "pen."  The end of the "needle" never protrudes from the end of the "pen," but there is an aperture at the pointy end of the "pen."

The entire object is rather smaller and thicker than a typical early 20th Century fountain pen. 

Can you identify this item?  Do you know what the heck it is?

Saturday, August 06, 2016

There's a New Butterfly in the World

Just moments ago, this butterfly emerged from its chrysalis. 

It will spend the next few hours inflating its wings with fluids. 

When it looks strong enough to fly, Robb and I will release it into our garden.  

This is ALWAYS miraculous.  

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Preserving the Harvest


This year, our adolescent pluot tree hit puberty.  The tree is still gangly and has a long way to grow, but for the first time it produced more than a plate-full of fruit. 

With the bounty, Robb made pies.  I made jam. We sat in the back yard and gorged ourselves on fruit, fresh from the tree.  We invited friends over to pick fruit. 

And eventually it all started to get away from us. Anyone sitting under the tree risked being clobbered with over-ripe fruit.  The lawn furniture was covered in sticky dried fruit pulp. The ground was littered with mushy fruit, which we threw at the hens. 

The bees were drunk on fruit nectar. Clearly, we needed to get serious about not letting the harvest go to to waste. 

A few weeks back, Robb ordered a dehydrator. We've been experimenting, trying to find the best method.  We've already realized that simply cutting the fruit in half isn't ideal. Our pluots are so juicy that large chunks of fruit take an eternity to dry. 

I fired up the history podcasts, and set to work chopping up fruit.  Cut fruit piled up in a bowl, along with the juice of one lemon and two sparse teaspoons of sugar. 

It seemed like I was chopping for hours.  

We set the dehydrator to run overnight. 

And in the morning, we had a pound of dried fruit. 

Once you've made your own, it's easy to understand why dried fruit was once such a luxury.  It takes a massive amount of fruit and time to produce the end product. 

And just in case anyone thinks that Robb and I live in a twee Instagram paradise, I will add the following detail to the story:  while I was picking fruit, trying to avoid accidentally grabbing honeybees, something skittered inside my ear canal. After the briefest moment of Raw Panic and Cellular-Level Revulsion, I enlisted Robb's help in extricating whatever was squirming inside my head. After a few false starts, we managed to flush the ear with medicated drops and Robb removed a live spider from my ear canal. 




Friday, July 15, 2016

The Season's First Butterfly Hatches


The entire life cycle of a butterfly is miraculous, but it's the final emergence that makes me want to cry happy tears.  Every. Single. Time. 

Robb and I had been out cycling, and came back to discover that the first of our brood of butterflies had hatched. Her wings were fully unfurled by the time we found her. 

I coaxed her onto my hand, and carried her over to flowers we knew Anise Swallowtail Butterflies fed on. 

She was entirely uninterested in the verbena. 

When I moved her over to the fennel (her host plant), she hopped right off my hand.  

After a few minutes, she flew away.  Watching butterflies that we've nurtured fly off into the world is always a beautiful, magical experience.  

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go rinse my eyes, and find a handkerchief. 


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