A Project Peace meditative nugget asked readers to ponder the color of peace. My immediate thought was blue – like dusty hydrangeas in Gloucester, crisp winter skies after a snowfall on a below zero day, or skeins and skeins of yarn. On deeper reflection, I must admit that I do not ever recall assigning color to such inherent values as peace, respect, or trust. Rather, my mind recalled those places, deeply imbued with color, when I felt peace.
Standing on the edge of a granite precipice jutting into Lake Superior and watching the waves far below shift from glittering copper to root-beer frothy to deep steel gray while pewter gray rain moved across that inland sea.
Sitting under a vibrant green canopy of leaves while John Lac read a book and I attempted to write poetry, albeit bad haikus.
Both Richard and I survived decades – he nearly eight and me (halfway through six) – without a broken bone. Now, both our medical histories include right foot fractures although different bones, five years apart but with the same hobbling.
My break was totally my fault as I focused on taking that perfect picture of the centuries old monastery, tucked high in the Moldovan hillside and visible across the deep valley; totally inattentive to the surface change from pavement to gravel with a drop significant enough to turn an ankle and (as discovered later) fracture a bone. With the support of my travel companions, one of which was a Mayo orthopedic nurse, I preserved. After all, what else is there to do 5,200 miles and eight time zones from home with a “transverse nondisplaced fracture at the distal aspect of the lateral malleolus”?
Fast forward from October 2018 to last week and a facture of Richard’s fifth metatarsal. The loud thump had me running from our computer room at the back of the house to the front TV room. At first, we both thought everything was just bruised, his left shoulder, elbow and hip and his right foot. After three days, his left side soreness had noticeably diminished but his right foot was still quite swollen, and walking was painful. Time for a Sunday morning visit to Acute Care. He walked in wearing both shoes and, just like the Diddle, Diddle Dumpling nursery rhyme, he left the clinic with one shoe on and one shoe off, wearing instead a short ortho air-pump walking boot. The doctor ordered a follow-up X-ray in four weeks to check progress. We anticipate he will be booted and hobbling for six to eight weeks. This is one of those shared experiences I wish he could have missed.
I was already upstairs and Richard had nearly finished brushing his teeth when he caught a moving shadow in the corner of his eye. A bat was making sweeping figure-8s from one end of our galley kitchen to other. While Richard stood in the open archway between kitchen and dining room, waving his arms to deflect possible sonar waves, I dashed to the garage for a snow shovel (in hindsight a broom might have been the better tool, but I admit to reactionary thinking.) Whether or not the arm and snow shovel waving created the desired interior air current, we were successful in directing the unwelcome visitor into the night. Thus began our most recent construction job which has included: bat extraction from the attic, remedying a damp basement with a WaterGuard® Below-Floor Drain system, and hiring an electrician to bring power to the sump pump.
Prep work for the new drain system required handling everything in the basement to create an 8-foot open corridor around the perimeter, including five trips to the county waste-to-energy center. Once the work was completed, (jack hammering, old concrete removed, and new concrete troweled into place) everything was handled a second time to remove the thin layer of concrete dust that coated every surface. We spent September getting ready for the contractors and it feels like we will need all of October to recover.
Even though certain fashion leaders have decreed brown (specifically chocolate brown) to be the new black, I had a hard time finding brown toned photographs to fit this month’s Colour Challenge. While some may think brown is dull, the rich hues can vary from chestnut to pecan or whiskey to fashionista chocolate.
My Dad very proudly decreed brown his favorite color. I always suspected his choice directly correlated to his amazing carpentry skills. There was nothing about wood he did not love. There is a family story that when discharged from the WWII Navy he bought a brown suit with a brown tie to contrast against a white dress shirt, matching brown shoes and socks and that even his new (just having arrived in Wisconsin) winter overcoat and hat were brown. (Lost in the re-telling is the style of the hat whether fedora, homburg, or porkpie.)
Photo details in the colour brown, left to right:
Caradori hand thrown, wood fired pottery
Lace detail of the Orage Shawl designed by Solène Le Roux and knit in Hedgehog colorway
Two copper pots: A 1982 purchase in the famous Khan el-Khalili of Cairo. This public bazaar / souk has provided market space for artisans and vendors since the 14th century.
As Richard swung the sledgehammer and pried old rusty 16penny nails, I thought about all the hard work we did in the late 1980s preparing for our first major renovation project. Today, his task was to dismantle a shelving unit that was in the basement when we bought the house in 1985. We can only guess its age by observing that the shelves were made of 2×6 tongue and groove at a time when boards were still milled at a full six inches. As with much in this nearly 100-year-old house, there are the odds-and-ends of earlier construction projects. As we wondered what such wood would have been used for, we both responded, simultaneously. “That’s a question for Dad.” “That’s a question for Ed.” We laughed and I got a bit teary eyed. While the ache of missing him has diminished after 16 years, it has not gone away; especially on a morning when we have carpentry questions.
There are times when reading a cookbook is like having a new novel in hand; the excitement builds recipe-by-recipe as I imagine preparing each savory entrée and delectable dessert. But, lately, I admit to being in a mental food desert. My menu planning prior to grocery shopping has been boring and littered with old standbys which then translates into irritation brought on by missing ingredients all because I relied on memory when shopping.
Then a friend shared her positive experience with HelloFresh and we subscribed. Last night we tried our first meal kit – Miso Peach Pork Chops with Ginger-Lime Rice & Green Beans. The kit included all the ingredients, in pre-measured portions, even down to supplying just one garlic clove. Just as Goldilocks found the little bear’s chair and bed, everything was just right. Not only was there less food waste (I composted the chopped green bean tips and zested-squeezed lime rind), the packaging is also recyclable.
We did laugh when we realized another of our selected meals, Alfredo-Styled Spaghetti, included a zucchini when our refrigerator vegetable bin is full of this versatile vegetable. Oh well, those beauties can always be transformed into Chocolate Chip Zucchini Bread.
When I worked with the architects (nearly 25 years ago) to design the SELCO building, I blended all that I knew about library operations, office flow, and the ILS (integrated library system) connecting over 70 libraries with the practicality garnered through decades of home renovation projects. While some features, such as the Novabrik™ exterior, were unique to the project, the construction was conventional enough that I never hesitated. Five years into retirement and having agreed to co-lead the Building Our Future team at church, I am a bit more realistic about my learning curve.
I had anticipated the need to study solar reverse metering or options for EV plug-ins but I was surprised when the first term I needed to check in the dictionary was charette –a meeting in which stakeholders attempt to resolve conflicts and map solutions. Our church architects suggested this opinion gathering process as a way to define key proximity questions.
With proportionally sized, color-coded wooden blocks, church members placed the blocks on a site map. They shared their rationale for each placement or shift as they discussed the spatial relationships for such questions as: One story or two? Where is the gathering space in relation to the sanctuary? Are the classrooms near the kitchen? How to keep the little ones near but still give parents “adult” time during coffee hour? While each of these questions (and many more) still needs resolution, the architects came away with insights into the everyday practical use of church space and the participants have a greater understanding of the challenges inherent in designing a new church building.
An interesting historical tidbit – Charette is derived from the French word for “little cart” & a time when beaux arts professors in Paris collected student drawings.
I am not sure if the hobby of collecting fine porcelain cups and saucers was limited to Midwestern women of a certain age during the 1950s and 60s or a pastime enjoyed over a greater geographical area, but my mother collected a lovely assortment of 12 cups and matching saucers. She used them when serving dessert and coffee to her friends making up the three card tables for 500. To showcase the cups, she set her table with complimentary clear glass plates.
In 1986, while on a trip to Toronto for the United Brotherhood of Carpenters’ quadrennial convention, she purchased a delicate cup graced with yellow coneflowers for me. For a short time, I used it for my morning coffee at work, but it was a bit small when I needed caffeination for the day and I carefully packed it away. I never acquired any more.
Then came an event at church – an English high tea complete with cucumber sandwiches, scones, clotted cream, and a delicious assortment of sweet and savory delectable treats. In striving for the proper ambiance, a call went out for pretty cups and Momma’s dishes went into service. They never made a return trip to Eau Claire and my collection of one grew to 13. I have considered adding to my selection, if only as insurance against breakage, but there is something special knowing all 13 cups and saucers came from Momma.
During World War II, she worked in Washington, DC as part of the war efforts. In 1943, she made the bold purchase of a complete set of dishes, which were shipped to Eau Claire for Mother’s Day. Throughout my childhood, these dishes were on Grandma’s table for every special dinner until she died in August 1970. They moved to my childhood home when my grandfather came to live with us in January 1971.
As she nears her 100th birthday, Momma has begun giving away items she no longer uses. Before Grandma’s good china is donated to the thrift store, I commandeered a cup and saucer which rounds up my collection of cups and saucers to 14, all gifts from Momma.
My April felt like a sandwich. The first week and the last days of the month were sliced treats of delicious, hand crafted sourdough bread filled by almost three weeks of a slimy, slightly off-tasting, maybe even salmonella contaminated filling.
Week 1 – A Tennessee trip and time spent with family, flowering trees in full bloom, and a mountaintop wedding. For a flavor of that week, check my two April blog posts highlighting wedding presents and travel souvenirs.
The last days of April – A whirlwind of warp speed activities as the church building team performed due diligence exploring zoning and building codes, attaining soil boring reports, performing environmental testing and, peculiar to our southeastern corner of Minnesota, conducting Dakota Edge delineation. When we submitted our Letter of Intent to Purchase land for a new church, we proposed a 90-day timeline for all of this work. After back-and-forth negotiations, the seller accepted our financial offer but would allow only four weeks for study. Unbelievably, the myriad of required professionals were able to find time in busy schedules to accomplish the numerous inspections of the property including all the relevant tests. The stars aligned and not just “in a galaxy far, far away…”
The middle of my month is a sea of days lost to Covid. After three years of careful sequestration, masks, and practical activities (as well as not so practical actions like wiping groceries) Richard and I were both sick. Even after the specific symptoms– fever, congestion, cough, and tiredness – subsided, I felt my brain was Covid-addled to the point I worried I might adversely affect building team decisions. But, not to fear, my trusted colleagues persevered and double checked my work so that we close on this unique parcel of nearly 40 wooded acres on May 10.
When Richard began playing Mahjong in 2015 he invited me to join him but, as I was still two years from retirement, learning the game landed on a future to-do list. Even during Covid, when many were learning new skills, from baking sourdough bread to mixology, the game did not pique my interest.
I am clueless as to what inspired me during this year’s 12 Days of Christmas but the time was right. As a skilled player, Richard patiently introduced me to the unfamiliar imagery of the Chinese characters and symbols printed on the 144 tiles. Some people claim Mahjong is like Rummy or Solitaire only with tiles. I disagree. Unlike Rummy, where a winning hand is a winning hand whether today or five decades ago when, one semester, I played cards in the Blugold Room on the UW-EC campus until my GPA dropped, winning hands are determined by the National Mah Jong League and change annually.
After several weeks practicing at home and observing the Tuesday group play at church, I joined actual play, won a game and shouted – Mahjong!
Knit+ Librarian 