I drove away yesterday around noon, off into the northwoods, through a reservation, across rivers, past lakes, to visit my friend, Lala, at her ancestral home in tiny White Lake, which is one of those towns where every one knows you, a cousin lives in every other house (or they don't anymore because they're dead but it's still "Uncle Louis' house"), and you can drive around the whole town in about 30 minutes. We talked and talked, cried a little, even spent some time coloring. The bed was comfy and we drove off in opposite directions this frosty morning and I'm amazed to be back home so quickly, almost feeling like I'm back before I left.
Lala gifted me with an old sewing box, a Cool Whip container of buttons, an old tin of random sewing things with a bonus bit of yarn (does everyone's Mom or Grandma have one of those tins?) and (hold onto your hat) a cast iron griddle. Seriously, this is a real treasure. I can't wait to stir up some pancake batter and fry us some up. Hmm, maybe I can convince Durwood that we need to have pancakes for supper. We even have some blueberries and a ham slice to round out the meal. I'll work on it.
I lucked out and had two beautiful days for a drive. There was Shawano Lake as seen from the Park & Ride in Cecil,
a hilly but straight, tree-crowded road through the Menominee Indian Reservation,
and the Wolf River burbling and chuckling under the bridge on County Road M about 7 miles out of White Lake. Such gorgeous scenery.
Last night as we talked after supper I finished Sudoku Snow #7 which means that as soon as I get its tails woven in I can crochet Sudoku Block #7 together and have only six more squares to knit and only two more blocks to put together before making the strips separating the blocks, then figuring out how I want to border the thing and it'll be done--and I'll be stunned that I actually finished something that I made up and imagined how to make and STARTED knitting on so long ago.
March 20--Eric Horan, South Carolina. She was sure no one lived there, not with the screen door hanging by one hinge and half of the windows broken, but as Jo reached out to turn the doorknob she heard a thin voice call "Who's there?" She jerked her hand back as if the knob was hot. "It's Jo, Jo Newcomb from over by Greeneville." She heard sliding footsteps coming near. Soon the door opened a few inches and a pair of bright blue eyes peered out at her.
Make your Sunday a lazy Sunday, I think I'll do the same. Except for scrubbing that cast iron griddle and stirring up some pancake batter, that is, if all goes to plan.