No Rug Hooking Here

I can't seem to hook.  I just don't want to.  I've hooked one small piece since Christmas and it is still sitting on the frame, waiting to be steamed and bound.  I don't like it.  I've been sorting and skeining wool thread for needle punch and I've designed and punched a couple of pieces, but they aren't finished either.  I am a procrastinator, but this is bad even for me.  I am blaming the weather, which is mercifully much warmer today.  March is on its way and I won't have any excuses . . .

My goal for today is to design a runner for a customer who wants the pattern by the Fairfield Rug Show at the end of April.  Hhhmmmm . . .  two and a half months  . . . think I can do it?

A sad note:  Kim Nixon, well-known for her amazing hooked footstools, passed away this week.  My condolences to her family and friends. 

Happy Valentine's Day!

Hope your day is filled with love and chocolate!

Medici Thread

I have been concentrating on needle punch lately.  Several years ago I was lucky enough to purchase a large lot of of Medici thread, just before DMC stopped producing it, and just before the rest of the world found out about it.  It is a single-ply wool thread, wonderful for needle punch. You can use a single strand for details or multiple strands for background.

I sold the small skeins at shows, and they didn't last long.  I tried selling the larger hanks -- at a really great price, I might add -- but no one seemed to want to deal with them.  The hanks are rather unwieldy, and if you aren't careful you can end up with a snarly mess.  Because I bought an odd lot, the colors were rather limited.  So I over-dyed some of them and I'm making them into skeins.  Aren't they pretty?  They have yummy names like Bing Cherry, Vanilla Bean and Georgia Peach.  Look for them in my etsy shop soon.

Jury Duty

Even though my heart sinks whenever I receive a jury summons, I always tell myself I will do my civic duty and not complain.  But an hour into the first day, I want to scream.  I bring plenty to do -- magazines, a notebook for sketches and ideas, my iPad so I can play word games and retrieve my email.  It just doesn't matter.  I feel like a caged animal.

The room is gray and lifeless, with connected seats facing all one direction, like a bus station.  The fluorescent lights make everyone look tired and washed out and no one smiles.  No one wants to be there.  We watch a bad film from the 1980s about what an honor it is to sit in judgment of our peers.  And we wait.

When we are called to a courtroom, we are shepherded like cattle to a bank of elevators and through the hallways.  The courtroom is small and can barely hold us -- perhaps 40 prospective jurors.  The judge, the attorneys, the defendant and the bailiff watch us as we take our seats in the windowless room.  The only embellishment:  the words In God We Trust in 6 inch brass letters affixed to the wall above the judge's head.

The clerk swears us in and the the judge addresses us.   He reads the indictment: 3 counts of vehicular homicide.  Everyone in the jury pool moans and tries to think of a reason why he or she should not be picked for this trial.  We break for lunch.  When we return, the next three hours are spent dismissing people who have medical conditions, who can't speak English, who can't hear . . .  and  I know I am trapped.  There is not a single reason I can't serve on this jury.  A third of the pool has already been dismissed.  I have a sinking feeling I will be chosen.

Then the judge tells us the trial will probably run into the middle of March -- and does anyone have any planned trips within that time period.  Eureka!  Pete has just booked a March vacation for us and just like that, I am free.

I would like to be able to say that I feel guilty that I'll be on vacation while 12 of my peers suffer through six weeks of what will surely be disturbing and possibly gruesome testimony, but I don't.  I am relieved. 

So much for civic duty.

Out of the Habit

Seems like if I skip a few days of blogging, I don't get back to it very quickly.  I'm off to Riverhead for jury duty today.  Oh, joy.  Perhaps I'll write some really great blog posts while I'm waiting . . .

Enough Already!

 Brussels sprouts in the snow

Another ten inches of snow last night!  We went to bed listening to the sleet pinging off the bedroom windows like bbs.  The phone woke us at 5:15 -- the local school has an automated phone system for school closings and they keep calling us -- even though our daughter hasn't been a student there for ten years!  They called again at 6:00 and at 6:30 . . .   Needless to say, the school is getting a call from me tomorrow when they reopen.

Hallock's Bay, Narrow River Road in Orient

The sun broke through this morning, but only for a little while.  Pete shoveled -- my back is funny today (how convenient, huh?) -- so Cairo could go out and play.  Not.  He hightailed it right back in the house, the little ninny.

Picnic, anyone?

The one good thing happening right now -- my jasmine is flowering.  It fills the whole house with its scent.  Just lovely.  If I close my eyes, I feel like I'm someplace exotic.  Yeah, right.  I can't wait for spring.

Tulip Time Again

 I can never resist the colorful bunches of tulips at the grocery store this time of year.  I need to see a splash of color against the snow outside the window.  Yesterday was bitter -- only 5 degrees for most of the day -- but the sun was brilliant and I could feel its warmth on my face when Cairo and I took our morning walk.  Today is dull, and it is snowing again, and Cairo wanted to hurry home as much as I did.

Cathy of Orange Sink wanted to know if that was my snowman rug pictured in yesterday's post.  Her question made me realize I should be more vigilant about giving credit where it is due.  The snowman rug, seen again below, was hooked by my friend Barbara, the basket maker.  It was designed by Kelly of Kankerdoodle, whose whimsical designs often feature an elongated kitty.

The other rug in yesterday's photos is a Searsport pattern and is, I think, being hooked by June.  The table of wool belongs to Louise, who is a certified McGown teacher.  Even I, with more wool than a sheep farm, couldn't resist buying a few pieces from her on Saturday. 

I am off to get some work done . . .