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So I’ve been working away finishing the binding on my quilt, but meanwhile, I’m drooling over
After all, what’s not to like about a pile o’ pink fabrics. All different pinks from dark to light, bright to dusty. Ummmm – I’m just not normally a pink person. But something is compelling me to buy pinks. I think it’s photos like these. I mean, what’s not to like?
On the other hand, I spent one mindless night trying to unravel this mess. Hand dyed, varigated yarn. Pretty and pretty unruly!
Finally, an end of week question for YOU gentle reader. What’s on your bulletin board or frequently-looked-at wall or frig space? How about letting us have a peek? Here’s mine:
Bornfamous quotes an article with Mark Twain’s words: ‘I’m a very old man. I’ve had lots of problems. Most of them never happened.” That Mark Twain was not only witty, but wise. Then she goes on to talk about facing fear
Who hasn’t faced fear? Who hasn’t procrastinated and ignored and denied something that needed doing and risked not getting it done. Often when the task, the phone call, the requesting of another is done, it was only a fraction of what our fear described. I often say to myself as I’m dialing – what’s the worst that can happen – they can say no. That’s not life threatening. It’s just a no. And yet it’s hard not to put off, push back, ignore, lay aside. To accomplish, you must commit.
As Yoda said “Don’t try. Do.” OK, so it’s a silly source, but good thought. Intent matters. Strong intent accomplishes things both big and small.
Turned my last corner on the big grant quilt. It’s now tentatively titled “The View From Here” apropos of the grant itself. Whooo hooo! The end is in sight – one long side to do and then the sleeves to baste down.
On a different note about Saturday’s adventure: I saw several places where maple sap gathering was taking place. The first place I saw: a grove surrounding a pickup truck. The bed of the truck contained a large white plastic container. Another similar container was on the ground and many many yards of plastic piping fed into more piping that eventually emptied into this container.
Thinking this was a not unpleasing and distinctly New Englander solution to gathering this cash crop, I drove a few more miles before spotting another stand of maples, each decked with a roofed, galvenized pail. While less efficient perhaps in gathering the sap, perhaps it was targetted at the even more important tourist dollar.
Regardless of technique, my impression that the tree tips were reddening while I watched, waiting to burst out in blossoms, was buoyed by the fact that if it’s maple sugaring time in the peaks and vales of New England, can Spring really be far off?
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