Honey On The Vine

The honeysuckle's blooming away and I couldn't be happier.  The hummingbirds are happy about it too, they just flit through too swiftly for me to get my camera up and running but I promise you, they're there.  Seeing that honeysuckle out there blooming reminds me of Grandma's house out at the farm.  She had a huge honeysuckle vine that grew over a frame that shielded the trash cans from view.  In fact, this vine is a part of that one so when a nurseryman said it was a weed and I should dig it out I carefully instructed him why that would never happen.  I love it, it reminds me of Grandma and being a kid in a carefree world.  We had a rainy morning yesterday when I took this picture.  I'd like to say that I focused so the raindrops show on purpose, but I can't.  It's just dumb luck.

I've been working away at the ever-lengthening rows of the Oriole Wings Wrap but I can never be monogamous with a project.  Having only one project in my knitting basket makes me itchy.  What if I didn't want to knit on that today, huh?  What if I want something with bigger yarn or a smaller commitment?  So I dug out one of the "Onesies," got Durwood to play swift while I cranked the ball winder, and cast on the first of a new pair of woolen house socks for me for winter.  Which will eventually roll around no matter how hard we try to wish it away.  I picked up this yarn in a Tuesday Morning a few years back unsure of what I'd do with it, and now it gets to be slippers.  I like the colors but they sure are odd together, aren't they?  I'm calling them Toasty Feets, I don't remember the pattern name offhand.

I think I've got arthritis in my right thumb.  The knuckle's swollen on one side, kinda knobby, and it constantly feels like I whanged it with a hammer or against a door frame.  That's what arthritis is, isn't it?  It's not cancer of the thumb or anything, right?  (omg, I'm turning into Mom, the super-hypochondriac.  no, no, no! *bashing head on desk*)

June 19--Flora Mace, Double Doll on Blue.  "Mayah took my doll," Charille said, tears making streaks in her dusty cheeks.  Selba's dull gray eyes turned from the tub of washing to stare at the child in the doorway.  Mayah pushed Charille out of the way.  "You don't have no doll, butthead."  She turned to her mother who stared at the girls.  "She don't have a doll, really Mama, it was just a cob with some silk and leaves."  Mayah shivered.  "I gived it to the hogs."  Charille wailed but stayed in the doorway.   She said, "Pap made it for me."  Mayah danced around the pine table.  "Don't care," she said to her little sister, "Pap's gone and so's your dumb doll."  Selba's hands floated in the cooling water looking plump and young but she knew they would be red and scaly, old and dried up once the washing was done.  Someday she'd have something better than hog fat to put on them to keep them from bleeding in winter.

Well, that's cheerful.  It's a work day again.  Yesterday was a work day too and I had customers, real, cash paying customers.  More please.  Time to shower, etc.
--Barbara