Snake Surly

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Sorry for the delay, we now return to our regularly scheduled program.

So, here’s Abbie’s quilt in progress.

This is 100 blocks, all hand-pieced. I figure I have between 40 and 60 or so to go, depending on how wide I decide to make the sashing. In hopes of actually finishing by next Christmas, I’m going to machine-sew the sashing, and I’ll probably quilt it on the machine as well. I’m super proud of Zoe’s all hand-done quilt, but that was twin-sized. I don’t think I have the moral fortitude/willpower/insanity to do a king-sized quilt by hand. OR DO I?

Oops, I forgot to blog again. I’m behind on movie reviews and I’ve failed to tell you about our wonderful trip to Yosemite AND our crazy jaunt through the redwoods.

Summaries is all I’ve got in me.

1974: The Godfather Part II - like Yosemite, it totally lives up to its hype. iI will no longer roll my eyes at people who claim it’s the best movie ever. I shouldn’t have Neuharthed this. I was a fool.

1975: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest - Nathan was dreading this because he heard it was depressing. “Triumph of the human spirit, you mean,” I kept saying. He agreed and made me a cocktail after he finished his box of Kleenex. I’ve seen this a million times, and it just keeps getting better.

1976: Rocky - I was dreading this because I can’t stand Stallone and I hate to watch people getting punched in the face. “Triumph of the human spirit, dude,” Nathan kept saying. Okay, it wasn’t too bad. I wouldn’t go straight to “great,” though.

1977: Annie Hall - I was dreading this because I fucking hate Woody Allen. Except for Play it Again, Sam, which is a special favorite. Also, it beat what is clearly the best movie ever made. Stupid Force-hating Academy. AAAAAAnyway, it took us half an hour to watch the first ten minutes because I kept having to rewind due to extreme ROTFLing. God, I loved this. I’ll make out with anybody who buys me a copy.

Next up, The Deer Hunter. I am dreading this because Nathan saw it in the theatre when it was new and it’s traumatized him ever since. He is also dreading it, but not as much as he’s dreading the fucking English Patient.

When we first got the idea to start collecting historical markers, we thought it’d be as simple as going to the Internets and finding a nice coherent list. Surely the government would have such a thing.

Yeah, well, the state government does have a Website, but my tax dollars aren’t being spent to make it as useful as it could be. For example, it fails to note that, say, both the marker and the base of the marker were stolen, or that the house you’re looking for is a private dwelling and is utterly un-marked, or that the cross you’re looking for is on top of an incredibly steep, windblown hill with a trail that is so vague and treacherous that one false step will result in your certain death (especially when you’re wearing clogs like an idiot.)

I’m a big fan of The Historical Marker Database, but it only lists the sites that have been submitted by users. It has good information about the location of the actual marker. Donald Laird’s site is also useful, but it seems like it hasn’t been updated recently. Also helpful is Discover Historic California by George and Jan Roberts. We’ve found two markers already that weren’t where this book said they were. My spreadsheet isn’t very helpful yet, but it’s getting there.

My advice is to either figure out where you’re going before you go and cross-check the information from several sources, or just go and be prepared to explore. I think it’s more fun to explore.

All the brouhaha this winter sort of put a screeching halt to, well, sort of everything. This Sunday, though, we needed to kill a couple hours so some bread dough could rise, so I suggested that we go to Benicia and collect some more markers.

BOY, howdy! We wound up getting ALL of the rest of the markers in Benicia. Most of them are in a fairly small cluster, so it was easy. There was only one stolen plaque in this bunch, and the thieves left the base of the plaque (okay, it was a boulder) which clinches the notion that Benicia is nicer than Vallejo.

(Gol durn it, I’m out in the trailer, and the Internets are too slow to let me upload the bunch of pictures I took. Just picture me posing in corny ways in front of a bunch of historical markers.)

Yesterday on our way up to Orland, we stopped at the Rockville Stone Chapel, the Peña Adobe in Cowtown, and the Wolfskill Grant in Winters, just as the sun was going down. That finishes off Solano county. (Insert pictures here.)

Tomorrow, one of the two markers in Glenn county, then with luck, at least a couple markers on the way to Eureka.

(Surely there will be Internets in Eureka.)

Oh, yeah. So I mentioned back there that I’ve been quilting, but I have failed to be a good blogger and show off my stuff.

First I made this triangle quilt for Betsy for Christmas. I don’t seem to have a picture of the finished object. (Remind me to take one next week.) It’s pretty awesome. I quilted it by hand and everything. I also made Abbie a table runner for Christmas, and I failed ENTIRELY to photograph it. Sigh.

While I was keeping my mom company in the hospital, I worked a lot on this hexagon quilt. It kept me relatively sane. Whipstitching all those little hexes together is incredibly soothing, but it’s slooooow. If I finish it, it will be a miracle.

Now I’m working on the Pink Quilt of Doom for Zoe. It’s almost twin-sized, and was entirely pieced by hand. That was pretty quick, actually, it’s the hand-quilting that’s horribly slow going. I’m over halfway done. Progress is slowed by Boris, who insists on sitting on the part I’m trying to work on. This is a terrible picture, and there’s been a fabulous border added to the quilt since I took this, but this is the general idea:

Clearly what I really need are some pointers on how to take better photographs of quilts.

When I was taking the compost out a couple days ago, it occurred to me that I was pretty sure we once had a chair and tables on the deck. (And a deck, for that matter.) As I trudged through the ankle-deep snowdrifts, I realized that the small mountain under the sweet gum trees WASN’T a mountain at all, but the table and chairs. And it wasn’t a snowdrift, It was FIVE MONTHS’ worth of sweet gum leaves.

Yes, it’s true. I had not raked the leaves since before Thanksgiving. Worst. Homeowner. Ever. Several hours and a trip to the nursery later, I had this pleasant scene before me:

It’s not much, but it’s tidy. Our new neighbor gave me the foul and horrible bars that used to protect his living room window. I think they’re going to make a wonderful trellis for the tomatillos. Should I paint them, or is that too up-cycling hipster urban homesteader wannabe chic?

Yeah, February sucked. We were still reeling from the shock of my mom’s death, when dear darling Stefanie died. Cancer again.

When you tell people that your mom died, they mostly understand what that means. When you say that your friend died, that could mean anything. It’s hard to explain to strangers that when you sign each other’s wedding licenses, you’re probably pretty close. Some people grok that being in a band is like being in a family, but it’s impossible to describe those blissful afternoons getting drunk at Port Costa or heckling the golfers at Double Super Secret.

When your mom dies at 62, people agree that she was too young, but then try to tell you that she had a good full life and that her cherished grandchildren will remember her. At least when I tell Stef’s story, I don’t have to enumerate why it’s so fucking tragic that this beautiful, vibrant, hilarious, generous, healthy young woman with perfect breasts died at age 40.

Here’s to both of you. I hope you’re both having a glass of wine together wherever you are.

Flashback time! The last time I saw this movie, we lived out on the ranch in Newville. We’d gotten this cool new thing called a VCR, which was super useful to us since we only got three channels on TV. The few movies we had on tape, we watched over and over and over and over again. I have most of those movies memorized, scene for scene. (One can only imagine what I might have achieved if my brain wasn’t tied up with every word of “Blazing Saddles.”)

Somehow, I managed not to memorize “The Sting.” When Nathan and I started watching this the other night, I remembered the cool drawings between the acts, I remembered the very last scene, and, oh, I remembered the music. (My mom could play a little bit of “The Entertainer” on the piano, and the couple of things she played well, she played over and over and over and over.) But I didn’t really remember much else.

So it was a delightful treat to re-discover this charming, beautifully decorated period piece. Newman and Redford were sly and super hot, the supporting cast was sparkling, and the music transported me into a time that I’d almost forgotten. I gotta get me a copy of this movie so I can watch it over and over and over again. Also, I need to get me a piano.

Here I am in the trailer again. The condensed version of the story is that my pop has some mysterious pain in his side which has required me to be here all week so I can take him to various appointments to have various tests. I feel pretty confident that it’s more gravy than grave, but going back into that fucking hospital is incredibly unsettling. (Also, I long to see my husband and my horde of cats.)

On the other hand, Ethan’s favorite eighth birthday present was a Lego version of the Guggenheim, which he put together in less time than it takes to make some dino chicken, and Zoe is clearly on the fast track to becoming a Tony Award winner. I wouldn’t miss all that for the world.