Red

It's my favorite color.  I saw a really red day lily today over at DS's house.  I know it looks kind of pink-ish in this picture but, trust me, it's really red.  Red red.

Red is also the only color of geranium that I have planted for years.  This poor specimen is in a pot that is overshadowed by bleeding heart leaves but the flower has poked its head up above the leaves to shine like a beacon in the sunlight.






I just realized that I'm not knitting anything red.  First there's this black and white Hawk's Wing shawl that is kicking my butt.  The odd numbered rows (of the four-row repeat) have four sections of knitting, each one a different arrangement of the same stitches so I can't get into a rhythm.  I find that the only way I can get through the rows is to sit at the kitchen table with the pattern in front of me and follow along section by section.  It's kind of driving me batty. (but then it's not a long drive)

To have something brainless to knit tonight in the park and as an antidote to the frustration of the shawl, I cast on a Grandma's Favorite dishcloth using the swan (white) and raindrop (blue) colors of cotton/linen yarn I used on the Log Cabin one.  Once the pandemic is over I'm going to have a bale of dishcloths because that seems to be the only thing I can reliably knit these days.


I got to visit with LC and OJ today and watch her ride her bike just like a big kid.  She's amazing.  She can go fast and slow and even turn around and come back.  Genius!

16 July--Barbara Malcolm, Tropical Obsession. 

Shortly after Rooibos got back to the police station, the phone rang.  “Yes, this is Detective Inspector Rooibos.” He took notes.  Hale leaned toward his superior’s desk.  “Thank you, Mr. Wilson.  You are sure about this?  There is no more recent will?”  He listened and made more notes.  “You are the executor?  I understand.”  Rooibos rested his forehead in his palm.  “And his insurance?  Who benefits?”  He put down his pen, nodded, thanked the attorney again, and hung up.  Rooibos looked up at Hale and tore the page out of his notebook and balled it up.  “Ms. Davidson is not mentioned in Mr. Spencer’s will nor is she the beneficiary of his life insurance.”  Hale said, “Yes, sir.”  “So, what does that tell us, Sergeant?”  Hale thought for a moment.  “That Ms. Davidson did not have a financial reason to kill Mr. Spencer.”  Rooibos threw the balled-up notebook page into the trash.  “Exactly. Making it highly unlikely she pushed him off that cliff.” He stood.  “I am taking a walk.”

Rooibos walked down to the Club Nautico marina where the Baca di Amor water taxi was docked hoping to find Dax Manning at work. Clifford Oxford who also drove the water taxi was working instead. “Oxford, how is your mama keeping?”  The men shook hands.  “I haven’t seen her at church the last couple weeks.”

“She’s keeping all right.  My sister needs her to watch the children; Clara works on Sunday mornings.  Mama goes to services on Saturday night.” 

Rooibos nodded.  “Do you know what Dax Manning does besides drive the water taxi?” He said.  “I can’t imagine he makes enough to live on doing this.”

Oxford said, “Manning used to divemaster for Toucan Divers but got fired for flirting with some American woman whose husband did not appreciate it.”  Oxford laughed.  “He had a big black eye and limped around like his ribs were broken for a week or so after that.”  He smiled to himself at the memory.

Rooibos smiled too.  “What does he do now that the divemaster job is over?”

 “He spends a lot of time with one of the Venezuelans, I don’t know his name, but his boat is called the Santa Rosalia. It is blue and white, and usually rafted to the red boat with the palm trees on its deck.

“Anyone else hang around with Manning?” Rooibos said.

“Yeah,” said Oxford, “that young Rasta guy, Bunny, runs errands for him, and they borrowed my cousin Diego’s skiff to do a little fishing off the windward side last month when the wind died down.” Oxford wiped his brow and neck with a blue bandana. “Do you think the night wind will ever come back?”

Rooibos smiled and shook his head. “I am just a policeman still trying to figure out what makes people do the things they do.  I will never be able to figure out what makes the weather do what it does.”  He gazed out over the sea.  “How is the fishing?”

“Rotten,” said Oxford, spitting over the side of the boat. “The water is so flat that all the fish are hiding in cracks underwater and not coming out to get sunburned, just like people staying in the shade or in their air conditioned hotel rooms and not taking the water taxi out to the island for a little hootchie cootchie on the beach.”  Oxford winked and nudged the policeman, “Even when it’s hot a man is still a man and has his needs.”

Rooibos nodded.

“I have been trying to tell my wife that ever since the night breezes stopped but she just pushes me away saying that I can start being a man again when I bring home an air conditioner for the bedroom, as if I have enough money for such things.”  Although if it went on much longer maybe he would find a small one in a window of an empty house and just borrow it for a week or so. It would not be like stealing and, well, he was a man with needs.

Today's toss is a box of boxes, each one holding a white porcelain angel ornament that Mom bought for me in the 70s.  I never wanted them, she did, but I displayed them at Christmas for a few years.  They were too big and heavy to be hung on the tree.  Pretty but useless.  They're in the car.

We've had a few Wisconsin summer days this week but the humidity is supposed to come back tomorrow and the 90s will be here for the weekend.  Good thing my lawn isn't growing much because once again I won't be out there mowing in the hot and humid.
--Barbara