Summertime!

Y'know, I've lived in Florida since 1981.  You'd think that I would figure it out by now that summer is *hot*.   Perhaps it's to keep me happy in the land of denial instead of just cowering under my bed.  It's the sort of heat that just hits you in the chest when you step outside and has you looking for the fire, or at least an open oven door.  Specifically, the heat index has been hitting 103 or 104 every day for a couple of weeks.  And much as love working at the museum, it's an outdoor job.  And while there are a couple of places that I can duck into the air conditioning for a few minutes, I find that it's best not to--because you then get that "hit in the chest" effect when you go back out.  It's best to literally sweat it out.

There are a few compensations--we're eating a lot from the garden these days.

 

We live a lot on a version of ratatouille.  Just cut up whatever we have, douse it with some olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and shove it in the oven for awhile.  When done, eat it with quinoa or pasta.  Leftovers make a great cold salad.  Otherwise, we live with the irony that just when this great stuff is coming in--we don't particularly feel like cooking, or even eating.  Sometimes we say the heck with it and have a root beer float instead.  But then the eggplants sort of sulk on the counter and guilt us into cooking them.

 

And living in the sub-tropics, Bob manages to grow pineapples--I think he has six or seven of them now.  It started off several years ago when a friend was cutting up a pineapple and getting ready to throw the top away.  Bob grabbed it and gave it a home in a flower pot and in a couple of years he had a wee pineapple.  "Wee" seems to be the norm--they normally get to be about 3 inches tall and have just a few bites of fruit it them.  But they make up in flavor what they lack in size.

 

 

And of course summer brings the baby animals that need a little help.  I've acquired two more little armadillos (the siblings of one of my previous ones).  I try not to name my fosters; it makes releasing them a lot easier.  But these have turned into Big Bug, Little Bug, Scar Bug (injury healed but left a scar) and Other Bug.  This is Little Bug getting his tummy scratched.

 

 

And (as I mentioned previously) it's been rather hot here, so we put a large pan of water into their pen--and they immediately dove in.

 

There's a lot of rolling on the back and kicking and splashing and it's all rather adorable.  We watch and laugh for awhile, then slap at the biting flies and mosquitoes and wipe the sweat off our faces and head back inside to the air conditioning and the second or third shower of the day.  The joys of summer!

 

The Great Escape

Spring has sprung, summer moved in close behind (we've already hit 100 degrees) and once again I find myself fostering wild babies.

The little armadillo in the last post went on to an animal rehabber--I sort of had to do the adult thing.  There were scratch marks on him--probably from a cat--and a friend of mine who works with that particular rehabber let me know that he did indeed get an infection.  He's recovered but it's good that I gave him up.

However . . . a few weeks later my other rehabber friend got in some babies in good health and I got two of them.  They are just so strangely adorable (here they're checking my fingers to see if I brought them a worm)

Such cute little guys.  Of course, they needed an armadillo-proof pen.  We were pretty much there; when we fostered the little foxes last year we had dug out the release pen and lined it with wire so they couldn't dig out.  Several inches of dirt on top of that, and mulch over all of that.  The only additional thing we had to do was line the bottom walls with some plastic sheeting.  Surprisingly, armadillos can climb, and it's possible for them to climb, fall, and hurt themselves.

So in they go--and within a day they disappeared.  The little buggers had found about a 2" gap between the bottom wire and the wall and dug out.  They didn't escape, because the outside of the pen is also wire-lined, with paving stones over that.  But . . . I never saw them.  I knew at least one of them was still around, because the food got eaten.  I kept sneaking out there at all hours, hoping to catch them out in the cage so I could block the burrow.  Alas--no luck in that.  Finally on the fourth day, I had to be certain that they were both all right, so long-suffering Bob and I got to work with trowels, pruners, and other implements of destruction.  Despite the 95 degree temps we both put on long pants, long-sleeved shirts, and gloves because of biting flies and mosquitoes--oh the joys of Florida living.

So we pulled up paving blocks, peeled up wire, and started digging.  I found a soft spot right away, and triumphantly stated "oh--this won't take long at all".  That was a bit premature.  We couldn't just plunge in with a shovel because we might have hit them.  Besides, the top 6 inches was mostly tree roots that had to be cut away.  So, using trowels, we gently dug a trench.  And dug.  And continued to dig.  Cut roots and dug.  Cut more roots and dug.  Finally we saw masses of leaves being kicked out of the hole we were following into our trench and we knew we had come to the nesting chamber.  One of the little guys backed out and we grabbed him.  Success was in the air.  Then we saw sand flying as the other one started digging like a little auger.  We were frantically trying to get ahead of him, when at last he also backed out to clear some dirt and we snagged him as well.  My "not long at all" took about 2 hours of digging on that hot sweaty buggy day to yield a trench about 4 feet long and two feet deep--which of course had to be filled back in and the wire and pavers replaced.

Knock wood--so far they haven't found another weak spot.

They're not my only foster, of course.  I've already released my first batch of squirrels, and one opossum, and I still have seven little opossums.  While at first glance they seem to be cute . . .

personality-wise, they're more like this.

It's not going to break my heart when it's time to let these guys go.

Strange Looking Little Friend

I got an extra bonus at work today (and so did two groups of schoolkids).  I was giving a tour of the farm at the museum, and had just gotten to the farmhouse where I would trade my group for another one.  I saw . . . something . . . walking between the farmhouse and the fence.  Suddenly I realized it was a young armadillo--and just as I called the kids' attention to it and told them to stand back, I realized it was a *very* young armadillo.  A baby way too young to be away from his mama.  So both tours got interrupted while I scooped the little guy up, the other tour guide found a box, and we called the animal department to come rescue him.

After the tour I went to visit him--after all, finder's keeper's, right???  So he came home with me.  Truth to say, it's only for tonight.  There's a proper animal rehabber who has a litter and much as I would love to raise him he'd be better off with little buddies.

He's quite cute, in a strange reptilian sort of way.  Glad I got him, if only for a little while.

 

 

Shakespeare and Sheepdogs

I do like it when my life and interests tend to swing around.  At one time I might be coaxing a recalcitrant hawk onto my glove, and that evening be knitting delicate lace.  People ask if I'm a biologist and no, I'm a professor of historic fashion.  I decided years ago that I'm a generalist, not a specialist.   I like having a wide variety of interests (even if it means a wide variety of detritus scattered around the house)

So this month we went on two outings (no, we usually don't get out much.  We have too much fun at home).

The first was the annual Chain of Arts in the Park--several blocks of art displays.  For which I forgot to take my camera but still enjoyed looking at everything.  Alas--this year nothing called my name enough to come home with me.   Then we wandered over to the outdoor amphitheater for the annual Shakespeare in the Park.  This year it was "Comedy of Errors," one of the Bard's fluffier works.  It takes quite a bit of that "willing suspension of disbelief" to believe that two sets of twins would be separated as infants but for each pair one would be the servant to the other, they would both have the same names, and when they end up in the same town they happened to be dressed alike.  What made this one particularly fun was that it was set as a 50's carnival, complete         with jugglers and acrobats.  

 

Yesterday we drove to Ocala (about 3 hours) for a sheep and wool festival.  That's a bit of a drive for a rather small gathering, but I don't get to go to many (they're not that common around here).  Bob gets excited when there's a gun show coming to town--which happens 4-5 times a year.  I get to a wool festival maybe once every 4-5 years.  At first we thought we'd never get there--we were unaware that there was a convoy of heavy equipment on the interstate, so our first 90 miles were done at 40 miles per hour.

 

Then when we did arrive, a quick glance showed us that this was a pretty small gathering.  If we trotted quickly, we could have seen everything in 20 minutes.  But then we had that glorious feeling of slowing down--we didn't *have* to see everything in 20 minutes.  We could take our own sweet time.  And being people who are more interesting in process than product we enjoyed seeing some behind-the-scenes demo.  For instance, I've often watched sheep shearing, where the expert shearer can strip of a fleece in only a few minutes.  Like this.

But when I've tried doing that, it's ended up being a epic battle with a struggling sheep, the anguish when you realize that the wool isn't supposed to be red, and finally a sheep that looks like it was shorn with a dull grapefruit spoon.  Yesterday we got to watch someone being taught how to shear--where to place the feet, where to brace the knees, how to maneuver the animal and keep the skin taut so you *don't* nick it. 

And there were the sheep dog herding demos.  Which I've seen before and always love--the dogs are so focused and intent on their jobs, and there is such communication between the dogs and their handlers.  But all the ones I've seen before have been with well-trained dogs and sheep who are used to them and know what they're supposed to do anyway.  This time they showed dogs with different levels of training (from pretty new to doing pretty well to the expert) with a flock of sheep that wasn't used to dogs.  It may not have been as smooth and perfect, but it was more real life.  We especially liked a final showdown between the expert dog and a particularly stubborn ewe.  The dog eventually won (even though he got butted a few times) by backing her into her marked area, one step at a time.

And of course, there were vendors.  Well, a vendor.  And I *had* to buy something.  Buying online is OK and what I usually have to do, but you can't see/feel/fondle/play with something before you buy it online.  And although I have a pretty good collection of hand spindles, and enough fiber to last the rest of my natural life, I did come home with some camel down and a new little Turkish spindle.

I should have put a quarter in there for comparison.  It's 4 inches long and weighs 8 grams (that's a little over a third of an ounce for those who don't speak metric), which is actually not my smallest spindle.  Wee spindles are good for spinning wee fine yarn, which is what I usually like to do with fine soft fibers.

And as a bonus for Bob, there was a pretty good scale model hobby store just a few miles (well, 12 miles) away from the festival, so he got some booty as well.  Come to think of it, he spent more than I did . . . . .

 

Spring has Sprung

After a few annoyingly hot days (almost 90!) that made us think that summer had moved in, the weather decided to give us a reprieve and another couple of weeks of spring.  Beautiful clear skies (mostly--it's raining right now), warmish weather with nice breezes.  We're trying to soak it all in before the summer really hits and drives us into hiding in the air conditioning.

So the usual spring stuff such as getting the summer garden in. Eat up the greens before they bolt, put in the peppers, tomatoes, and eggplants--and cotton.  I always plant a couple of beds of colored cotton, mainly because I think it's cool that it grows in colors other than white.  And I've actually started doing something with it--but that's another post.

We took at long walk out at St. Marks--and as is required by some sort of Florida law, took a picture of an alligator.

 

 

After all of my swearing at the loom while wrestling on the warp, the weaving itself went rather smoothly and I now have a fresh set of dishtowels.  (Although I'm keeping my first ones--I made them at least 15 years ago and while a bit stained, they're still holding together.)

 

Oh, the times I don't think to bring my camera--or even my phone.  The local Red Cross had a fundraiser called "Cocktails and Camo" and asked a few people to bring out their old military vehicles--including Bob's jeep and me as Rosie the Riveter.  Usually these things aren't really that interesting--we just hang around and babysit the jeep.  But at one point I was inside polishing off dessert (they fed us as a thank-you--I always appreciate being fed) and realized that Bob had been outside for awhile.  So I stepped out--and he had a collection of the Tallahassee Roller Girls (local roller derby) in the jeep!  That sly old fox . . . .   But, alas, no pictures (and they were really cute--1940's glam outfits with serious knee pads and skates).  And facebook has failed me in my search for photos.

And, of course, there's my version of spring.  For most people, spring looks like this:

For me, it's this:

 

I've been fostering baby squirrels for a few decades now, and you'd think I'd be over thinking how stinkin' cute they are.  But no . . . I always look forward to having a few around (I've got 5 at the moment).  But the spring gods were smiling upon me--they were actually fairly well along, with fur and open eyes, so I could (for now) forgo the joys of the 2 a.m. feedings.   That will undoubtedly come later.

 

 



The Old Black and Gold Singer

Today I pulled out an antique sewing machine, cleaned and oiled it, and tested it on some scrap cloth.  It's an old black-and-gold Singer, solid metal construction, and she sews smoothly.  Just a straight stitch, unless I pull out some attachments and experiment with them.  Maybe later.  90% of my sewing is straight stitch.  I often get annoyed with modern machines with 98 different stitches that I'll never use.

Like many makers, I like using antique tools.  It's a direct connection to the past, to someone else who used this same tool.  A woodworker once said that when he grasped a well-worn handle and his fingers fitted into polished grooves that he felt he was shaking hands with an earlier carpenter.

 

This machine is 65 years old.  I picture a new mother with curling blond hair and blue eyes, sewing baby clothes for her infant son.  My brother.  The machine was a gift to celebrate his birth.  Later she would sew little dresses for her new daughter.  Me.

 

I remember this machine so well.  My brother and me designing our Halloween costumes (no store-bought stuff for us!).   My purple velvet pants.  I got it into my head when I was about 10 that what I wanted most was purple velvet pants--which were nowhere to be bought.  She wanted them to be a surprise, so she sewed while I was at school and then carefully cleaned up all the purple velvet scraps before I came home.

 

The big challenge came was when a friend built his own airplane, and she sewed the fuselage cover on this small Singer.

 

I remember an ever-so-sophisticated dress for my 8th grade graduation, a cream colored sheath with a floaty sheer overdress.  A lavender crepe dress to be worn at my brother's wedding, carefully fitted and all the alterations noted so she could use the same pattern for my own wedding dress a few months later.

 

It's taken me several years to bring myself to open this box and get out the machine.  I can't remember the last thing she sewed--but I know now that it used lavender thread.  But the part that hit me, that had the tears rolling down my cheeks, was seeing this area where the paint and finish had been worn off.

 



That's where she would rest her wrist while sewing.  Many hours of stitching love for her home, her family, her friends.  I rest my own wrist there.

Maybe I'll sew myself something pretty.  Purple velvet pants?

Winter, Spring, Summer

I don't know about the rest of the country, but here you can have winter, spring, and then summer all in about a two-week period.  It leaves me disoriented (and changing the clocks tonight won't help any) and rather restless, resulting in a bad case of Startitus (the condition where one feels compelled to begin many projects and work on them all simultaneously).  Maybe it's the temps going from highs in the 50's to highs in the mid-80's, so one does winter stuff and summer stuff at the same time.

The mad knitting spree has slowed down (there's a scarf and vest that just need to be washed and blocked).  There will, of course, always be knitting on hand because I'm not capable of riding in a car, watching TV, or doing anything that requires waiting around unless I have some knitting.  But the projects at the moment are down to a scarf and a pair of socks.

Some things have been useful.  We have a new owl in the education department at work, which meant that he would need his own transport box.  I wrote about making one of these a year or so ago, for the hawk.  You can buy transport boxes, but they tend to a) start at about $250 dollars, and b) weigh about 20 pounds.  Or you can make one for about $30 that weighs 5 pounds by using coroplastic (the sort of stuff that political signs are made

from).  Do some cutting and scoring, a bit of plastic origami, and pretty it up with paint, and voila--carry box.

 

I also saw a cool owl "display box" at the Ren faire last month.  We have a table perch that can go with us when we take the birds to events, but it's large and very heavy.  It also leaves the bird out in the open.  This box is enclosed and makes them feel more secure.  And it's just heavy enough not to tip over.

 

 

(OK, so he doesn't look very happy.  This one turned out to be a bit small, so I've since made a larger one.  And yes, it started out life as a couple of plastic flower pots).

I've been compulsively dyeing fiber for spinning (and spinning it).  I found a "break the rules" technique which is just too much fun.  Normally when you dye you're supposed to do everything you can to make the color come out evenly.  I'm doing the opposite--encouraging the dyes to separate out.  It spins up to the most beautiful heathered yarns (and yes, I've been spinning them--I'll figure out what to do with the yarn later).

 

 

 

I also dyed some yarn in this most amazing tangle--but there be method in my madness.  After untangling, it's knitting into striped socks (that are striping all by themselves with no help from me.

I was asked to teach a felt-making class for an upcoming textiles and fiber festival next month.  This caused a bit of angst on my part--I often complain that Tallahassee never has that sort of thing, and therefore if someone is putting one on I feel compelled to help.  But the woman organizing it is someone who makes me crazy (and hopefully doesn't read this).  Noblesse oblige won out, and I agreed.   I wanted to make sure I had some wool that would make decent felt (not all of it does) and then I got involved in making all manners of samples and spent two days massaging wool into felt.  Then I got an email from Crazy Lady saying that someone else would do the class (I get the impression that I was Plan B in case the other person didn't come through).  Oh well--I had fun and now I have a bunch of samples to do something with.

I've also done my more-or-less annual attempt at setting up the loom and weaving.  This led Bob to coin the phrase "project induced Tourette's."  I really love the idea of weaving--I've just never gotten the hang of actually doing it (maybe if I tried more than once a year . . .).  For a simple set of dishtowels you measure 480 pieces of cotton yarn all the same length.  You tie those onto the back roller of the loom and roll it up--with all the thread of equal and even tension.  Then you take each one and thread it through a wire loop called a heddle in a specific order to create a specific pattern.  Then you thread each one through a thing called a reed to keep everything spaced out.  This all has to be in a straight line, otherwise they tangle together.  Then you check it out, and rethread it through the reed again because you found mistakes that will cause a long skinny gap to show up in your fabric.  Finally you tie it to the roller in the front, make sure every thread still has the same tension, and weave an inch or two to discover the mistakes you make in threading the pattern, untie those yarns and rethread and re-tension them, try it again, correct it again, and then you're ready to weave.  Who came up with this?  Or, more accurately, what Bob heard reverberating from the room was more like "WHAT SICK MASOCHISTIC SON OF A ****** INVENTED THIS????"

Fortunately I got through all of this before Bob found an injured cardinal that is now recuperating in the room (because that's the only no-cat room in the house).  Mr. Chips gets upset easily so I have to be quiet in the room.  But I'm now down to the weaving, which is actually quite peaceful and going well. (no picture of Mr. Chips--he freaks out if I take the cover off the cage, or even peek under it.  I change out his food at night.)

 

It hasn't all been run-around crazy, though.  I saw this lounge  on sale and didn't even try to resist.  The weather has been glorious (when it hasn't been Too Cold or Too Hot) and I and a good book (or two) have been spending some quality time together.

 

 

Maybe I should take more lessons from Apache.

 

 

(and forgot to mention that we were also in the annual Camp Gordon Johnston parade--it is definitely ADD time for me.)