Tuesday, November 26, 2013


A thought popped into my head yesterday and now I can't shake it.  I realized that I talked about knitting in my writing blog entry yesterday, even put a sweater picture on, and I thought maybe I should just have one blog to write about all the things I do in my life, not segregate the crafty things into their own blog.  Would that make entries in this blog even longer?  (sometimes I think they're too long now)  Would it bore the pants off people who don't care about knitting or sewing?  Do I care?  That other blog was my first blog and it's attached to my Ravelry account, plus I don't talk about crafty things every day, but that's not the worst thing in the world, is it?  I'm open to suggestions.

I'm waiting for it to get full light out there before I take Porter on our walk.  It's overcast again and windy but I'll wear a hat and mitts, and a coat of course, so it'll be fine.  I kind of like walking on windy days the best, blows out all the cobwebs.  (speaking of cobwebs, why are they called that?  Cobs are horses or the middle of corn ears, not spiders, and spiders make webs.  I don't get it.)

I didn't get to the sewing machine yesterday, I ended up on the couch working on my sock knitting.  It's going so well, so quickly (I'm halfway down the foot already) that I'm mentally planning what yarn to use to cast on the next one.  Maybe a nice green.  Or purple.  How about yellow?  No, green.  Or purple.  (see?  here I am talking about sewing and knitting in what started as my writing blog but seems to be morphing into my everything blog, what to do, what to do?  is this my innerHitler talking?  are there really rules I need to follow or can I make up my own rules?  Rachael Herron talks about writing and knitting and sewing and the rest of her life in her blog, true she doesn't post every day but still...  there's a way to redirect people who visit the craft blog to this one, isn't there?  seems like I might have made a decision, I'll ponder it on my walk, see what Porter thinks, she's very intuitive about such things)

November 25--Auguste Renoir, By the Seashore. Chloe sat in the last rattan chair on the long porch.  Her hands lay still in her lap as she stared out to sea.  A scrap of embroidery was crumpled in her fingers, the needle catching the light, quivering with her every breath.  Today he would come, she knew it.  His ship would round the point trialing smoke from the tall stacks and the sailors would be lined up along the rails in their dress whites.  Gabe would be the handsome one, the only one of the hundreds of men she would truly see.  His last letter was in her sewing basket.  She had read it so many times she had it memorized.  "I'll be coming home to you," it read but didn't say when.  Soon, she prayed, let him come soon.  Reports of ships lost at sea chilled her, news of men washed away in storms made her cry.

Well, it sure doesn't look like it's going to get much lighter anytime soon so I guess I'll bundle up and go get the dog for a walk.  Can't forget the bag of peels and veg ends for the chickens.  Adios.


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