DYEING MOHAIR – PART II
My brother-in-law, John, has agreed to help me light the camp stove so I can steam my dyed fleece; I’d ask hubby’s help but he hates anything more complicated than turning on a light switch…and admits that even that baffles him on especially dark nights.
I knew I couldn’t light the camp stove using a book of matches, and I knew I wanted something longer than a wooden kitchen match. I also knew that a fireplace match wouldn’t keep me far enough from harm’s way. Nor would it light the propane fast enough for me to hightail it to the house once the thing was lit. I needed something bigger and better than a match. I needed…the Olympic torch…but I knew that was out of the question so I headed back to the hardware store.
Either it was my lucky day, or the manager had just come back from his break because, although some of the sales people were hiding down less popular aisles so they could talk to each other on their walkie-talkies, there were several of them offering help to every customer they could find. My helper caught me before the automatic door slid shut behind me.
“I have to light a propane stove so I need something better than a match to do it,” I said to him.
“We don’t got nothin’ like that,” he replied.
“I think I’ll look in the patio section and see what you do have,” I told him.
Evidently curious to see what I’d find there, he went with me. Before even entering the patio section I saw, hanging on an end rack, a barbecue lighter shaped like a gun with a very long nose.
“Maybe this will work,” I mumbled to myself.
“Nuh uh,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re gonna light a propane tank you need somethin’ bigger than that,” he stated.
“I’m not going to light the tank,” I tried to explain, but he cut me off, and whipping out a walkie-talkie he pressed the talk button.
“Caroline! Caroline! You there?!” he shouted into the unit.
“Yeah,” Caroline shouted back through the static.
“Caroline,” you got anything long, real, real long, you can use to light things with, over there?”
I wanted to tell him that I didn’t plan to light the camp stove from the neighbor’s yard, but I doubt he would have listened anyway.
“No,” she yelled back. “Nothing like that over here.”
I started to reach over and take one of the barbecue lighters from a peg, but my helper put his hand out and stopped me.
“Caroline,” he said, once again into the walkie-talkie, “haven’t you got something?...like a long stick or somethin’?”
“A stick won’t work,” I told him, inundated with visions of me lighting the stove, then running for the house with a flaming stick in my hand.
Again he stopped me before I could get my hands on one of the barbecue lighters.
“No. Nothing like that over here,” Caroline repeated.
“Then how about a long pole? Something she can tape a match to? This lady needs somethin’ to light her propane tank with!”
“I’m not lighting the tank!” I snarled, nearly as frustrated as him. “I want to light…” But before I could add, “…a camp stove” a man walked up and asked my helper where the nuts and bolts were. Now I could have told the man, having spent most of the previous day in that aisle buying unnecessary items, but instead I took the opportunity while my helper was distracted, to grab a barbecue lighter from the rack.
“Thanks for your help,” I called over my shoulder as I ran for the check-out stand.
My etsy shop is at: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

DYEING MOHAIR LOCKS

I was watching a cooking program on TV when lo and behold I saw just what I needed to assist me with dyeing my mohair fleece.
Having been raised by a mother who, as a kid was struck by lightning, I am deeply entrenched in the “fear of God’ when it comes to electricity, gas, fire and anything that could possibly be poisonous. So it was only natural that breathing the fumes from the freshly dyed steaming fleece vapors concerned me no end. But with the little camping stove I’d seen on TV I would be able to steam the fleece in the yard while I stayed safely behind locked doors. The solution was perfect! I ordered the stove the same day.
A few days later it arrived already assembled (thank heavens!) along with a propane hose, a little vent shield thing, a spring and a fifteen page manual filled mainly with the Do’s and Don’ts and what would happen to you if you did the Don’ts and didn’t do the Do’s. Overly cautious to begin with I vowed I’d be extra careful when I got to the propane part of the agenda (how could I have ignored that part when I bought the thing?!). But after giving myself a severe talking to and then chanting affirmations about my courage and abilities I was once more psyched up about using the camping stove. So when I saw that the little vent shield thing used to regulate the air flow to the burner was missing the screw to attach it!...well…I was nearly beside myself. Should I return the whole thing: stove, propane hose, little vent shield thing and spring, along with a nasty letter? I was tempted. But then visions of noxious fumes wafting through my home set my heart pounding and I decided to simply go to the hardware store and buy a screw to fit.
Since I didn’t trust my measurement of the hole (third line over, on the tape measure) I decided I’d better take the stove with me. I invited hubby to go along and carry it.
When we got to the store and saw the array of nuts, bolts and screws and how messed up they were in the bins our hearts sank (well my heart sank, anyway). And after ten minutes of trying to find something that would screw in all the way and not just three turns, we tracked down a salesperson who found us a metric bolt. It still didn’t screw in all the way, but we were determined (well, I was determined) that we could FORCE it in once we got it home.
Unfortunately I hadn’t thought to bring the spring that was part of the set-up (actually I thought the spring had been accidentally put in the box instead of the needed bolt). So when we got home and put the spring in place, then added the little vent shield thing, and screwed on the new metric bolt we were dismayed (I was dismayed, anyway) to see that, try as we might, the metric bolt wouldn’t go in far enough to bolt down the vent – instead, the vent dangled off the bolt like a condemned man hanging from the gallows.
It took me a good twenty minutes of staring at the problem to come up with the brilliant idea of making the whole thing tighter by attaching a nut…or two…or three!
So back to the hardware store we went (as I bragged shamelessly about my superior brain). And this time we brought along the camping stove, the metric bolt, the spring, and the little vent shield thing.
This time we didn’t fool around; we walked in and immediately asked for help.
The man who assisted us found us a metric nut to go with the metric bolt. It still wasn’t a tight fit but we took it anyway – we were tired and hungry (at least I was).
It wasn’t until we were pulling up to the house that I realized that with my newly purchased metric nut and my newly purchased metric bolt I had managed to successfully plug up the hole where the propane hose (already complete from the factory with all necessary screws) needed to be screwed in!
Oh well, I’m sure I’ll find a use for the perfectly good metric nut and bold. I might even find a use for it on the next thing I purchase.
My etsy shop is at: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

BUSY, BUSY, BUSY

I've been very busy (and who isn't you ask), but I say this as a reason/excuse/point- of-fact as to why I've been away from my blog for so long. It's because I've been spinning, dying and setting up an Etsy shop (note the photo of my avatar - painted by the one and only Hubby: James Zar).

If you'd like to see some of my handiwork, you can go to www.recklessspinner.etsy.com
Hope to see you there!

DOUBLE TROUBLE

With my energy level back to par, I’ve started spinning again for a woman who sells yarn to yarn shops – hence my delay in getting any blogs done. But it won’t be long before I get organized, I’m sure; and I am enjoying working with the wonderful colors this woman comes up with.
It was last year during the Santa Ana winds, when the early morning sun had stained the sky the color of crushed raspberries that I decided to work out in the backyard on my latest handwork adventure (one of way too many undertakings, I’m afraid). This particular piece is being knitted for the Dulaan Project (www.fireprojects.org – it amazes me that by doing something easy and fun, I might be making someone’s life a little better). The item I’m working on is a child’s turquoise and lavender, knit-from-the-neck-down sweater.
With my bag of knitting gear and my soft wool, I settled onto the swing next to my garden and was immediately greeted by the drifting scent of Rosemary (the perfumed air provided by our cat Skittles as he snooped through the low lying branches of the plant – it seems that cats are always on the lookout for new adventures – too bad their paws are not made to hold knitting needles).
Although my garden takes up a very small area it suits me fine and is easy to care for. Situated at the top of a gully the garden is fairly quiet, considering it’s in a congested neighborhood. And being organic it’s full of bees, ladybugs, butterflies and birds (that is, once I’ve taken our two kitties into the house).
I’ve promised myself that one night I’ll stay awake and find out what leaves tiny, muddy prints around the huge bowl water I leave out for the thirsty creatures who visit the garden during the wee hours. But so far I’ve been too lazy to stay awake beyond my regular bedtime which is early, even by my standards. I suspect the prints are being left by a raccoon; I doubt that the feral cats would leave tracks all over the place (cats being much too proper to tramp through mud). One of the feral cats is a beautiful, slender feline with a very unusual, gray spotted coat and one clipped ear (a sign that some good Samaritan did the responsible thing and had her/him spayed/neutered). And while he (Hubby calls it a she, I refer to it as “he” – consequently it’s called he/she interchangeably by either/both of us) is getting friendlier, there have been days when it seemed terrified to be caught in the yard with Hubby even though Hubby is loaded down with bowls of cat food. For some time Hubby had been complaining that he was spending more time feeding the feral cat than painting and in fact the feral cat was eating as much as Skittles and Sugar (our black and white female) combined. We were both amazed at the amount of cat food that the little guy/gal was packing away until one day when I glanced outside and saw that there were two he/she’s – twins of all things! A perfectly matched pair of beautifully dressed felines – who may/may not be (but probably are) preparing their share of double trouble for our household.

MONEY ISN'T EVERYTHING

A couple of weeks ago my granddaughter accidentally left her purse (containing her cell phone and wallet) in a taxi. Not only did the driver deliver her purse to her house and leave her belongings on the front porch, but inside her purse he’d left her a note. The note said, “I lost my wallet one time and when I got it back it was empty. I didn’t want that to happen to you,” – folded inside the note was a hundred dollar bill!
Wanting to do something nice in return, my granddaughter tracked down the taxi driver but all he wanted was for her to pass on a kindness to someone else.
Her experience reminded me of an incident that took place several years ago when my older sister (not older than the hills – just older than me), a family friend, my mom (who’d be the first to say she is older than the hills – age 92 to be exact) went out to lunch. The car we were in was low to the ground and my sister and I were having a heck of a time getting mom out. As we tugged and pushed on her we started to laugh and the laughing only got worse when my mother starting scolding, “Don’t you girls get me started laughing!” We finally extricated the poor woman (without the use of the Jaws of Life) and went in to lunch.
During the meal I noticed that a man at a table across from us kept glancing in our direction (not that I blamed him – we were still chuckling over mom being stuck in the back of the car). The man was well dressed: black slacks and black silk shirt. But the reason I noticed him was because before he sat down I saw that he had something similar to the receiver of an old fashioned phone hanging from his belt by a long black cord, and I wondered what that was all about. Was he in the restaurant on his lunch break? If so what kind of job required that he carry half a phone dangling from his person?
The man left as we were finishing our meal and when the waitress came to see if we wanted dessert, my sister asked for the check.
“Your check has been taken care of,” the waitress said. Pointing at the table that the man had recently vacated, she added, “The man that was sitting at that table paid for your lunches and said to tell you to have a nice day.”
The four of us were stunned into silence (finally).
“Who is he?” one of us asked.
“I don’t know,” the waitress answered, “he comes in every once in a while,
chooses someone and pays for their meal. And he leaves before anyone can thank him.”
That guy made our day! And not because we got a free meal, but because it’s so
great to be reminded that there are some really nice people sharing our space on the planet.

THE KING LIVES

On a shopping trip a few years ago, I met The King. No, not that King - I was nowhere near Graceland. This King was in his early twenties, and lacking the formality that usually accompanies royalty, he casually introduced himself simply as "The King". He showed no shyness in admitting his concern for the welfare of those visiting his Kingdom, and without complaint explained that he kept a careful watch, five days a week, over his domain that started at the pencil aisle and ended at the packing supplies. A man of integrity, he took his responsibilities seriously and quickly helped me locate all the items on my shopping list before being summoned over the speaker system. As he walked away he said that if I needed further help, to call him. I'd barely gotten out the words, "Ohhh Kiiing," when he was back at my side - it was almost a pleasure spending more money than I'd intended.
After leaving all my cash at the check stand, I called for the manager - who slowly slunk from his office.
"I'm the manager," he choked, as if fearing that if he heard one more complaint he’d be compelled to run his head through the paper shredder. His demeanor left me unsure of his sense of humor so without calling The King, “King”, I simply pointed at the young man and said to the manager, "That guy is a great salesman and I wanted to let you know."
Like magic the manager's attitude changed lickey-split and happily he stated, "I'll make a note of it in his employee file."
I always take the time to tell store managers when their employees are really good and I would have loved to compliment another guy that helped me at the hardware store.
The store had just opened on a Sunday morning, and I'd begun to scour the shelves for a light fixture when a nicely dressed fellow started down the aisle. With an eye toward tidiness, he was straightening the area by realigning all the merchandise.
After some searching I found a floor sample of the item I wanted, but there were none in boxes on the shelves. So as the young man worked his way toward me I called out to him, told him what I was looking for and asked if he'd help me find one. He agreed in a gentlemanly manner.
Together we'd pulled down, and put back, every box on the messy shelves before he said apologetically, "I guess there aren't any more." When he saw my disappointment he added quickly, "But maybe there are some in the back." My frustration mounting, I asked brusquely, "Well, would you mind looking?!" "Oh, okay, sure," he replied with some embarrassment.
Ten minutes later, as I was about to walk out of the store in disgust, the young man reappeared. His tie was askew, the front of his black slacks and white shirt were smudged with dust, but in his hands was a large box. "It's not the same one, but it's close," he said with a smile.
Happily I took the box to the check stand and when the item wouldn’t come up on the cash register I was asked the price. I stated that I didn't know and explained that the man who works in the lighting department, or (from the way he was dressed) perhaps it was the store manager, had gotten the light fixture from the back room. The cashier called for the two men to come to her register. When they appeared, both the manager and the man working in the lighting department were dressed in jeans and brightly colored T-shirts sporting the store's logo.
The young man who'd helped me certainly deserved to have my stamp of approval placed in his employee file - if only he'd been an employee.

JIMMY SQUIRREL

After one of my treatments last month, we went to the park to see the ducks. Unfortunately the ducks were on furlough (while their ponds were being refurbished) and in their place was a woman who set her parrot on a big rock for me to photograph him (unfortunately she chose a rock that was in the shade – but you can still see him). And there were also oodles of chubby, gray squirrels.
We watched as a young mother held out a nut to one of the fluffy tailed critters. The squirrel was cautions on its approach, but then sat up on its hind legs, took the nut and ate it right there in front of the woman. Of course her son (a toddler) reached out to touch the little guy and beside me, Hubby gasped, “What if the squirrel thinks the baby is holding a peanut and accidentally bites his finger!” I have to admit, I was getting nervous, too. But the mom, being on her toes, had everything under control and easily slipped in between her son and the squirrel.
My sister was telling me that years ago the park near her house was full of gray squirrels. She and my brother-in-law used to take their son (a toddler at the time) and go visit them. Their son loved the squirrels and called them all Jimmy Squirrel – nobody knew why, that was just what he called them (like his cousin who stubbornly called his dad, Bill – not dad, not even his real name….just Bill). My sister said her son desperately wanted to feed the squirrels (while in his mind he probably also had visions of catching a few) and in his excitement he’d run up to one holding out a peanut – which of course caused the squirrel to take off in terror. He’d chase after Jimmy Squirrel for a ways, eventually throwing the peanut in the direction of the departing animal. But before long he’d turn and moving as fast as a toddler is able, he’d hurry back toward his parents – and right behind him would by a horde of hungry Jimmy Squirrels.