Wet and Wetter

One of the great things about living in a more rural than suburban area is that I feel very comfortable telling the girls to go outside and play. I don't worry that the ball is going to go rolling out into the street and they'll be mowed down by a passing Eclipse. Instead, they go out and bounce the ball around until it lands in the creek.

This weekend, the ball finally landed in the creek. It was really only a matter of time until it happened, so the only people surprised by it were the girls. Peaches started to go after it and Aoibheall had to tell her repeatedly that the ball was gone, there was no way Peaches was going to get it back, and just leave it alone and get away from the creek already!

The next day, around lunchtime, I spied the ball heading toward the slow bend at the end of the gabion wall. Quickly, I put on shoes, trotted downstairs, grabbed a hoe and clambered down to the creek. Last summer, I'd made it all along the rock wall to the edge of our property on that side, and I reckoned I could get there and reach the ball. I actually made it, hooking the ball without falling into the creek. The problem was, I needed at least one free hand to make it back, and I was too far away to hurl the ball (or, indeed, the hoe) back up to our yard.

I settled for throwing the ball upstream, hoping to put it in the still water next to the wall where I might be able just to reach over and get it. I made it most of the way and then, a couple feet short of where I needed to be on the wall, my foot slipped and I stepped in the creek. At that point, it's about 3 feet deep. I figured, "Oh well, I'm wet now; might as well just get the ball." I waded over and picked it up.

Then I went inside and took a shower, because man, that creek water is nasty. Not so nasty as, say, Venice canal water, but still. Gross.

I also got nettle stung in spite of being careful about whacking the nettles out of the way, and my left hand and arm tingled for a day.

On Maintenance and Quality

Life sometimes seems like it's just bodysurfing on waves of entropy. "Have some fun," is followed by, "Clean your room," and it never ends. That's okay, so long as there's some fun punctuating the cleaning.

For Mothers' Day (U.S.), my parents came up for the weekend. They brought up more treasures from my grandmother's house, including a tool chest that still smells of machine oil and kerosene and a metal lunchbox that has stacked sections, the bottom one being for charcoal and each higher one for something that is supposed to be progressively less warm. My mother explained it as, "Charcoal, then soup, then other stuff, until you get to your tortillas up at the top." It was last used forty years ago, and now I'm itching to clean it up and invent some kind of excuse to use it. Man, that is so cool.

Aoibheall has been making clothes for the BabyGoddess. She and my mother go fabric shopping practically every time my folks visit (which thrills both of them) and then she gets busy making useful things that make us all happy. Today, BabyGoddess is a little giraffe, as Aoibheall just finished making a cute little dress from a reticulated print. It's swell!

While Aoibheall was making clothes, I was sanding and oiling a shelf for the master bedroom. Now we've gotten rid of the last of the cruddy pressboard bookcases and I've moved a couple of boxes down to the basement. We're ready for more books to be unpacked, because the pressboard bookcase has been replaced by an 8 foot 2 by 10 and a china cupboard that's older than I am.