MindSpinner

Though both my grandmothers sewed, it was my aunt who taught me how. My mother never cared for sewing. She was all tomboy and outdoors woman, and saw no need to sew for herself when her mother could sew, for her, clothes at least as nice as any found in a department store. When I was young and not so encumbered by the to-do list, I made many of my own things, even my own wedding dress.

Now Dark-haired Daughter has taken a resolute interest in sewing and fashion design, and my mother has pitched in to buy her a machine. We went yesterday to pick up the sewing machine of choice, a Husqvarna Viking Prelude 370, along with a couple of beginner’s books on sewing and fabrics. Let the fun begin!

Catapult Kid and Dark-haired Daughter were in an accident tonight. They will be OK, I think, though Catapult Kid was unconscious for a few minutes before he was revived and was able to walk away from the smoking, crumpled car. Dark-haired daughter says her leg is hurting, but she seems otherwise OK. She was able to call from the scene of the accident. Another car was involved. She was told that the woman driving it would be OK. I hope that’s right.

I have not seen them yet - they are still at the local hospital. I asked the Reverend Dr. Ex if I could ride with him to the hospital, having no other car, but the answer was “I will pick them up myself” and “They don’t need a lot of unnecessary tests.”

My kids are alive and not profoundly injured. That is a huge reprieve from potential tragedy. I won’t be mourning the car; I am too busy being grateful.

You know that bowl of spinach you just ate does not smell good when the orange kitten sniffs the bowl and then scratches earnestly all around it as if to bury it in litter.

Catapult Kid is home again, his future with the Guard uncertain. Responsibility for the screw-up lies with a flawed recruitment process. Initially decked by a deep disappointment, he’s been recouping, re-adjusting, and re-envisioning his future.

On another front, my new name is No, No, Nanette, a sea change which means nothing much to anyone - and shouldn’t - except to me.

Life in 3D requires much of my time, mental energy, and emotional fortitude right now, so I’m giving notice that I’ll be ducking in to write a post when writing is a good to me or when something insists on being written down, but I won’t be trying to post just to be regular or consistent about it.

In the meantime, my best to all who stop by .

The orange tent out back
will come down today.
The blue cooler still partly filled
with ice and cans
of Coke and Ale 8
will be emptied.
Diverse sleeping bags
will be wrangled into rolls,
more or less,
and stashed away.

The boy who invited his
best buddies over for a rolicking
midnight Airsoft battle
(and when he was two
strode straight into the roiling surf
of his very first sea)
will be leaving
on Tuesday for eight
months of training.
His Special Forces unit
has already been calling
to see how long
’til he’s ready.
Military Intel people,
so it seems, are needed yesterday.

On the other hand,
last night’s 6mm plastic BBs
will be unearthed in my garden
for the next thousand years.
Green. Blue. White. Yellow.
I swept up the ones
strewn across the driveway
near the car and the wood pallet
stood on end for defense,
but I will not pick up
the ones fired and fallen in the garden
among the carrots and the onions,
the thyme and the slender
green blades of iris.
Not even one.