I Shouldn't Go To The Fabric Store

 


LC, OJ, and I like to have picnics.  I've been thinking about getting some coated fabric of some sort that I could use to back the jellyroll race quilt top I made a few years ago so this morning I got out the quilt top and tootled over to Joann's to see what was available.  (I had a coupon.)  By the time I drove the couple miles to the store I thought about looking for cotton/spandex knit fabric in solid colors--navy, brown--for making more leggings too.  I didn't find any coated fabric but I did find a whole bunch of bolts of outdoor fabric which I figure will be good at keeping dampness at bay, at least for a while (I chose the fish one--what a surprise),








 

some knit solids for leggings, beige linen and striped linen for more Dress no. 1, and this rayon & spandex knit fish or feather fabric for a Dress no. 3.  I thought it looked like fish but the bolt end and receipt both said feather.  *shrug*




As soon as I took these pix I took it all downstairs to wash and dry it. (thanks for the cautionary tale, DD)  If I ever make another jellyroll race quilt top, you can be sure that I'll use the serger so that the seam allowances are overcast because this double-handful of threads is what I had to cut off the back of it so that it could dry flat-ish.  What a snarl.





After lunch I got out my iPad, pad of paper, and a pencil to work more on The Seaview outline.  I think I'm writing down too much, doing too much work, when just a quick note would suffice.  I'll cogitate on it.





After supper I smushed up the three overripe bananas and made banana bread.  The house smells terrific and it took all of my self-control not to slice into a loaf.  The little demon in my head thought that I should cut it for the photo but I disagreed.  Maybe not totally but I didn't get out a knife.


On my way home from the fabric store I swung by Kwik Trip for bananas and on the way passed the parking lot where Sunny Hill Farm has a stand.  No corn yet but they did have fresh strawberries.  Real, grown about 5 miles from here, ripened on the vine strawberries.  Oh. My.  So delish.


26 June--Barbara Malcolm, Horizon. 

             I was glad that, for me, gardening season was finished so I didn’t have to worry about running into Mr. Baker over the petunias for a while.

            But the following Tuesday when the class arrived at the café, there he sat in the waiting area.  He stood when we entered and said, “Hello, Mrs. Logan,” in his deep warm-honey voice, which made every woman in the group sigh and turn and smile at me expectantly.  I stifled a groan but pasted a smile on my face and invited him to join our group.  Floyd was not pleased when Mr. Baker pulled out my chair and sat down on my right.  Floyd plunked himself down on my left and glared at his perceived rival.

             I felt like I was under a spotlight and was embarrassed by the knowing looks I received from the other women, especially Samara.  I wished I could sink into the floor and just disappear.

            I sat there, fuming, between the two men and looked around the table at my smiling, chatting classmates.  We had only one more class and everyone had really bonded these past weeks.  My eyes moved to my right where that jerk sat.  He was leaning back in his chair with his left arm oh-so-casually draped over the back of my chair.  I didn’t want him touching me but couldn’t figure out a way to get him to move it without causing a scene.

              I tried leaning forward and to the left, but that put me nearly in Floyd’s lap… and too close to his breath.  I sat silently, fuming, and trying not to breathe.

             Mr. Baker made up for my silence by being charming and funny.  He introduced himself to the class and asked them about their work.  He expressed an interest in their paintings and how they thought they’d progressed in the class.  Listening with half an ear, I was surprised to discover that he knew a lot about art.  When someone mentioned our plan to spend a weekend in Chicago at the Art Institute, Mr. Baker’s eager answer silenced the whole group.

             “Of course, you have to see the Picassos, the Monets—especially On the Seine at Benncourt—his light and colors remind me of this part of the country; and the Gauguins.  But you shouldn’t miss Kandinsky either; his use of color is brilliant.  Be sure to look at Mary Cassatt because she was such a pioneer as a woman breaking into the Impressionist movement at that time.  Of course they all painted in oils.  I know you’re studying watercolor but I’m sure you can learn something from every artist.”  He looked at his silent audience and went on.  “You have to see Manet’s Racetrack Near Paris because those are the best skies, Jules Breton’s Song of the Lark because of the somber mood his use of color evokes, and all of the Renoirs.  Especially the Renoirs.”

               Eight pars of eyes stared at him, apparently stunned by the outpouring of knowledge from an unexpected source.  The authority and depth of understanding from a man who looked more like a hick farmer than an art aficionado stilled the usual small conversations of the group.

              “Why shouldn’t we miss the Renoirs?” asked Samara.

               “Because he’s got it all—vivid color, great brushstrokes, excellent light, and a depth of feeling in his work that many so-called Masters could only dream about.  Plus I love his choice of subject matter.  I could live with any Renoir the rest of my life and be happy.”  He looked around at the rapt faces.  “So, who do you like?”

                I was disgusted by my classmates’ eagerness.  Each one vied for his attention, gushing about the artist that inspired them.  Vi even reached across and laid her hand on his, looking soulfully into his eyes while she expounded on the depths of Edward Hopper’s work.

               Finally Mona asked the question that had been bothering me.  “You say you’re a gardener, Abel, so how do you come to know so much about art?”

               He explained it by saying, “Anybody can line up flowers in a row.  I’m thinking the talent to make a beautiful garden is very similar to the talent an artist needs to make a beautiful painting.”

               I suspected he knew more about art than he let on.

             When the conversation turned to books, he had read many of the titles mentioned.  He showed a surprising interest in the classics and confessed to an addiction to mysteries.  I liked mysteries, too, but I was damned if I’d say that to him.

              Driving home from the café I fumed that Mr. Baker had trumped my snub of last week and shown up tonight.  He’d greeted me so innocently, blandly waiting for me to remember my manners and introduce him to my classmates.  And then he had monopolized the conversation by being all charming and funny.  And his remarks about art.  I bet he’d spent the week studying art books so he could impress me with his knowledge.  And then when Mona and Vi started talking about books, he’d just jumped in, giving opinions right and left as if he’d read every book ever written.  The last straw was his comment about loving mysteries.  Hah!  That’s a transparent attempt to impress me, if I’ve ever heard one.

              My irritation with that man so consumed my thoughts that I was home before I knew it.  As I walked up the flagstone path to the back door I glanced up and saw Clara, wraith-like in the moonlight, making her way over for what had become our weekly midnight chat over a cup of tea after my class.

I saw the hummingbird make a quick stop for a sip today and then there was this Downy Woodpecker visiting the pellet feeder.  I can't tell whether it's a male or female because I only saw its butt.  So here's a bird butt for today.  You're welcome.
--Barbara