... you get diagonal icicles. I left to go to Friday Night Knitting and these were dangling from the gutters over the driveway. It was above freezing on Thursday, then the wind kicked up in the evening, and the temperature dropped dramatically on Friday and the melting then refreezing snow turned into folded and slanty icicles. Cool, huh? Isn't nature amazing?
What else is amazing is how fast LC changes. When I watched her on Wednesday she was fussy and still gazing blankly off into space but last night when she came to Knitting Night so Daddy & Mama could go have a beer, she watched me like a hawk and worked hard to smile and coo. She wasn't very fussy either, she didn't snooze much unless she was in my arms (awww) but she was happy with her pacifier in the monkey sling most of the time. She can came back, all the knitters said so.
Today the sun is shining but it's still pretty windy. My friend Lala's driving up to White Lake to visit her Mom and said she'd stop here for a bit of a visit on the way. I'm really looking forward to it even though it means we have to excavate the piles of table and chair crap so she has a place to sit and put her tea mug. I'm thawing out the remaining half of broccoli cornbread I made last month (it's been hissing at me to eat it every time I open the freezer) and I carried up a jar of Durwood's homemade tomato soup just in case she hasn't had lunch or wants a little something to keep her from starving to death on her long drive.
February 22--Franz Peter Bunsen, Kettle Drums. Felix stood at the back of the stage in his rusty old tuxedo, four mallets in his hands, counting measures by tapping his toe. He had learned to tap silently because Bern the first percussionist didn't like toe tapping. You might say Bern had an unreasonable prejudice against it. Franz admired the old kettle drums that belonged to the orchestra. They were silver, long tarnished nearly black but with such sweet tone, with royal crests emblazoned on the sides and sinuous feet like writhing serpents. The notes marched toward him, he raised his hands and--pum, pum, pah dah pum--the mallets blurred down to strike the taut calfskin drum heads. On a count of four he gentled away the sound with a soft touch of his hands and then he want back to tapping out the measures until his next flourish.
There isn't much action there but I like it. Atmospheric, you might say. I think I'll go shovel off the table and chair, then zoom to Festival to pick up some of the $1/lb. chicken thighs, a good price that ends today. Durwood wants some of the Bella mushrooms on sale today too. Time to flee.