Unsettling News

The ground wobbled a bit on Tuesday when I found out that one of the editors, who I did not work with here but did in my previous life in Colorado, had died that morning after fighting a nasty, nasty cancer for more than a year. We weren't pals, but we were well-acquainted. Of course, I phoned my former co-workers and, of course, they already knew. Funny how you can not talk to people for several years and then pick up again like it was two weeks ago that you rang them up:

We talked about kids -- how they've grown (engaged?! She can't be old enough to be engaged!) but how we, of course, haven't aged at all and yes, it's good to hear your voice, too.

We talked about work --how the faces change, but that the politics doesn't. And who has left, where they are now.

We talked about L. She was creative beyond belief, exacting and driven. I could see her imprint -- never heavy-handed, but clearly L's touch -- on many, many pages.

We also did some counting. She was the third woman from that era at that paper who'd passed away within the last 15 months. It's my understanding that there will be no services, but that her ashes will be spread near Leadville, I suppose when her husband is ready. She lived in other places after leaving Colorado, but, knowing how much she loved the mountains, it's fitting that she'll become part of them.

How Fast is Fast, Anyway?

Saturday was not only right in the middle of the 4th of July weekend, but it was also right in the middle of a riding clinic out at the barn. Clinician and trainer Ron Postleb, who runs Crown Dressage International out in New York, was here instructing the girls for the weekend. But everyone took the afternoon off and headed to the Lunds' house for some boating and eating and general merriment, the most fun we've had for quite awhile without sitting on a horse. Meredith and Ron:


Laurel, smiling like a Jack o' lantern:


You can't see this, but that's David on the right with a big smile on his face. Caught ya!:


And guess who's driving. Heh-heh-heh. That's BT in the backseat:



Before all the huffing and puffing starts, there is a time and place for these types of watercraft: We were on a small lake in the metro area, not careening around a lake up north. My top speed that afternoon? 45 mph. Way fun.

After dinner and after dark, everyone piled into the pontoon boat for a wonderful putter around the lake -- a perfect way to spend a bug-free, moonlight evening. Friends, beverages, laughter and a cool breeze.

Perfectly perfect.

Perfectly Minnesota.

When The Pattern Says 'Large,' It Means It

A week or so ago, I was sitting on the patio steps, knitting happily on this:


when that little nagging hunch kicked in — you know the one. Yes, I put the sweater on, and yes, it was enormous! There was room inside for old McDonald's Farm. What choice did I have but to start over? Usually such a prospect sucks some of the air out of the room, but this wasn't too upsetting: At 2 st. to the inch, it won't take long to reknit, especially a bit smaller.

And so, back into the frog pond it went. As I ripped and wound the 10 skeins, a question occurred to me. I kept going and soon got my answer:


For comparison, that's an average-size navel orange. In case you're wondering, no, I don't get out enough.

Now casting on: a size medium.

June in the Rearview Mirror

Pfet!

That was the month of June. A driver's license, last day of school, rain, first horse show, rain, second horse show, rain, grad parties, rain, third horse show and Bob's your uncle. Any chance that July will be more leisurely? Not likely, I guess, but we can always hope. Of course, the month wasn't a total washout. Baby Taliskar worked on his tan:



Flannary decided that the grass really IS greener on the other side of the fence:



Phoenix, Webster and Beau, however, held fast to the notion that there's no place like home:



When puppy arrived last fall, I realized early on that my flower beds might never be the same. Some things have survived, however. Happily for me, they're among my favorites. Can't you just smell them?

A Passing to Pause for

Author and illustrator Tasha Tudor died today. She was 92. Corgi lovers will remember her for Corgiville Fair, as well as The Great Corgiville Kidnapping and Corgiville Christmas. Her gentle drawings are immediately recognizable and have provided the artwork for many children's books, in addition to those she wrote.

Proving that one can straddle two eras, she lived in a manner of an earlier time, but was not out of touch with today; her website attests to that.

As much as I'd like to include a photo, I hesitate to set myself up for charges of copyright infringement, so go to her site — or to Amazon — and see what we have lost.

It's a sign of the a'pocalypse

... when the apostrophe has been downgraded to secondary punctuation. I got a new phone this week and, in addition, to having to learn the nooks and crannies of, oh, finding a phone number, I realized that the apostrophe was not where it should have been: five clicks on the 1 key. In fact, it isn't on any key. One of my technical assistants — my 13-year-old — found it in two seconds, buried a couple of screens down. For the record, it's now considered a 'symbol.'

So, here. Take as many as you need:

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

Clearly, I won't be needing them anymore. Not for text messages, anyway.

Orange You Done Yet?

Remember this stack o' orange?


I finally cast on for a Weekend Jacket, one of the Knitting Pure and Simple patterns. I'd hoped to get the bulk of the body done tonight while waiting for the breeches and saddle pads that were in the wash, but I guess I won't. And this is why:


Blossom won't leave it alone. Every time I set it aside to run down the basement to check on my good friend Ken More, she settles in — and I have to pry her loose, claw by claw. I do not want to get snags, so for tonight, she wins. I'll have to call this sweater the Orange Blossom Special. nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.


Yes, you're right. It isn't very funny.

Now for a bit of a mea culpa. I posted something the other day that I'd gotten in an email; apparently it's a hoax of some kind, called the Washington Post Mensa Invitational. Shame on me for not checking it out more thoroughly. I spiked the post, but hoax or not, it's darn funny, so I'm reviving it. It's a terrific round of wordplay:

Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.

Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people, that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The Bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.

Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

Hipatitis: Terminal coolness.

Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease.

Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

Glibido: All talk and no action

Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly — or when you're drunk.

Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.

Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out

Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.

Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole.