Last night Rebecca, Kristen, Brandon, Kathryn, and I gathered for our third annual pumpkin-carving. We served hot cocoa made on the stove and fresh-baked pumpkin bread (both courtesy of Kathryn); the pumpkins Kathryn and I had picked up that afternoon at a little corner garden shop called Carter's Corner, the grounds of which were laden with gorgeous round richly-colored pumpkins and occasional hand-scribbled notices informing us of the 39 cents per pound cost. I subsequently searched out the smallest and lightest pumpkins although after several minutes of searching the grounds among the little kids and their parents, my biceps were rebelling against my awkward two-gourd load. When I whimpered a feeble protest at Kathryn's more thorough search, a man smoking a cigarette calmly insisted upon taking one and carrying it to the counter with us, seemingly happy to witness another "guessing."

I got the impression that this was one of his fall entertainments, the guessing contest, as he stood placidly by watching the transaction. "Oh, I'm not very good at estimating weights," I said to the girl at the counter when she urged me to guess for a free pumpkin, but she and the cigarette-man pressed me until I half-heartedly tossed out "10 pounds?" "Go up," the girl told me conspiratorially, so I revised my guess to 12 pounds. Bingo! The first pumpkin was free. I had a go with the second, immediately surmising it a bit lighter--11 pounds perhaps? but dully stuck with my original guess to keep things simple and overestimated it by a pound. I'm still kicking myself for not going with my gut and nabbing that free pumpkin, but hey--I don't mind supporting a good business, right?

We listened to my favorite artist, Vienna Teng, as we chatted and carved until 11 at night. Rebecca carved the most artistically, executing a full-blown rose with shading carved at various depths--quite skillful. Brandon finished a jolly face in minutes, and Kathryn outlined the Beatle's logo with a pointed wheel. I think she still means to carve it out. I tried my hand at a simple school of fish, hacking out about five goldfish that don't even look as good as the cracker. Pumpkin carving is not my forte. Kristen "came to the rescue" and chiseled out swirls among them, but let's just say it's a good thing pumpkin-defacing comes only once a year for the Moore girls.

But the evening finished with three more or less completed jack-o-lanterns, a compost pile topped with stringy orange globs, and nicely toasted pumpkin seeds. I do love fall!

Yesterday I celebrated my birthday, and it was a pleasant day spent with Kathryn, Mom, Dad, and later on in the evening, Rebecca. Having declared the night before that I wanted few reminders of my advancing age, we spent the day as we might any ol' Saturday with only occasional interruptions of sheepish "happy birthday, Valerie"s.

I was eager to try out this recipe I had seen for Parmesan encrusted chicken, so I made some for our supper. It is a very easy yet flavorful recipe which is perfect for slicing up in a salad. I tossed spinach, greens, tomatoes, and toasted whole almonds with a simple dressing of lemon juice, olive oil, and honey which I learned from Hazel and served it with the chicken. Kathryn sliced up little purple, red, and gold potatoes, drizzled them with olive oil and salt, and baked them at medium high heat for our side. Dad and Mom put together the crowning glory, however, an eight-layer jiggly tower of chocolate cake filled with vanilla pudding and glistening with ganache over the top and sides. Its daunting presence in the middle of the table testified to where my edible priorities lie.

We rounded out the day with a quick game of a Monopoly copy-cat called Bookopoly which my parents' had picked up in the garden shop of all places. Instead of the Boardwalk or Park Place we bought lovely book-properties like Goodnight, Moon, The Sound and the Fury, and To Kill a Mockingbird. The dreaded jail space was T.V. time-out and one of the penalty cards read: Caught reading Cliffs Notes; go back 3 spaces. Isn't that fun?

Last week I accompanied Kristen on her data collection trip, and we spent the weekend monitoring seat belt use in western Virginia. If ever you see a petite girl wearing a yellow reflective vest, red hat, giant purple sunglasses, and clicking dials on her clipboard, make sure you and your shot gun passenger are wearing your seatbelts properly. She can see the glint of the unused seat belt buckle dangling behind you. And she will mark you a "No" when she does.

It's rather strange the intersections we found ourselves haunting--a corner outside a general store, the edge of a big white house's lawn, a cotton field. Very little traffic passed by, but a good percentage of that traffic was friendly. More than a few times a car would roll to a stop as the inevitable elbow poked out the window, bracing the curious driver as he leaned out--"what are you doing?" "Are you selling something?" "Honey, did your car break down?" I usually watched these interchanges from Kris's car, feeling rather like a ninny in my skirt and flats in the tall dewy grasses. I could just imagine some of the unfriendly types snorting about how the damn government spends our damn tax dollars paying two lumps to chat along the side of a random road. No, for most of the sites I would read or nap in the front seat, popping out only occasionally with a funny story about a budgie or to snap photographs of fields.

Ever since I left England I have been searching for the home and land I want to own some day, and western Virginia is a step in my dream's direction with its friendly population, mom-and-pop stores, and fields--oh yes, and livestock like cows or, best of all, GOATS. The pace of life is slower here and people are content to lounge on their front porches as the cars go by. The house I will own will have a porch, a porch that's big enough for chairs and the odd table or two. I can see my children running around, my dogs scattered on the steps sniffing the air, and the occasional waft of fragrant goat wisping from the back, bug-tusseling with the sharper scent of jasmine that's planted alongside the house. I shall have vegetables planted on raised beds, a few fruit trees and soft fruits, and copper gardening tools tucked in the shed--where, ahem, my sweet little children last left them.

These children--five or six--I will teach at home, training the older to teach the younger in some subjects. They will have chores around the house and farm and no television. I want them to cultivate imaginations of their own. There's no telling what they'll come up with as entertainment--they might form an entourage of talking cats named, oh, Melissa and Maria and Mary; they might make their own mystery movie called something like "On the Verge of Darkness" that involves clever twists that truly puzzle their viewers. They might don their fluorescent Ninja Turtle helmets with interchangeable eye bands that they for some reason picked out at the toy store having never shown any interest at all in Raphael or Michelangelo and cycle around bends as they evade the "cops" since they're "robbers." They might take on the role of busy mothers named Marge Smith and Marjorie Boushingles who take their kids to ice-skating lessons--and who might inadvertently show up at the dinner table instead...

...On second thought, maybe television is villainized. I um, think I'll park them in front of the tele for the whole day 'cause there's no telling what shinanigans kids'll come up with these days...or in days in which their mother grew up.

Wwoofing Adventures #3

12 June 2008

As I pray in St. Paul's Cathedral, a choir begins to sing...softly. The sopranos are light and the basses are gentle. I see the offering pouch I noted last summer, still beneath the candle stand and proclaiming in squeaky magic marker letters that I HAVE BEEN STOLEN FROM ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL. I also hear the thud click and ratchet of commercial tourism layering its tinny sound over their holy melody. Is it a fitting illustration of the old fight between God and mammon or am I overdramatic with sleep deprivation? The information booths and stands advertising guided tours for four pounds do seem to suck the marrow out of the cathedral as the stamps authorizing our right to enter thud and click, thud and click.

Setting out from the Bird's Nest after breakfast, we had returned to central London for our self-guided walking tour along the Thames. I loosely plotted a route from the Tower of London to Westminster Abbey where we would also pass by the Wibbly Wobbly Bridge (officially known as the Millenium Pedestrian Bridge), St. Paul's, Leicester Square (for the half-price ticket booths Meagan and LeeAnn were anxious to peruse), and Covent Garden. Having been awake for a day and a half by then, plodding through London forced our bodies to keep up with the new time zone and provided us with a mental map of the area which we would visit for the next few days. It was gratifying to walk through my memories of London which had lain dormant since I returned from last summer's two literature classes, and whenever I spied something familiar I rejoiced in the clarity that comes from recognizing what you have not seen in awhile.

It was overcast and every-so-often it sprinkled, but I don't think we minded much; we were still amazed to be in England actually beginning our long-anticipated wwoofing adventure. "Can you believe we're here walking around?" we breathed, words which would be repeated and rearranged as our staple phrase for the next two months. It would crop up at all places in our conversations accompanied by never-flagging head shakes and exclamations: "Oh I know!" "No, no I really can't." All the nebulous dreaming and paper-laden planning now took on real textures and experience: the slippery slick stone of the pavement and the spitting precipitation of the London sky reminded us that we were indeed here at last.

Our elatement dipped at times throughout the day such as when LeeAnn could not find a working phone card and, bordering on hysteria, finally resorted to purchasing a rip off at a small shop, or I, teetering even closer to hysteria, couldn't find a bathroom and cursed myself at every step for drinking coffee and lots of water that morning. Yes, my elation dipped as my search for a toilet took me several blocks up and down the street until I finally gave in and entered Starbuck's, traitor to the British experience. I knew they had restrooms, however, so I bought some exorbitantly-priced fruit bread to justify my use of their facilities and returned to St. Paul's where we trudged up the hundreds of steps to the outer dome and my skirt caught the wind and flew up to my chin.

--Note to self: a light and airy skirt is inappropriate for windy days and climbing openwork metal staircases with fellow tourists climbing directly beneath you.

We trudged up Fleet Street and walked right past Dr. Johnson’s house; the rainy pavement sent our cold, flip-flopped feet skating; the bridge on the way to Covent Garden turned out not to be the bridge on the way to Covent Garden. Our enthusiasm and vigor waned as the afternoon wore on until we finally sought shelter beneath the columns of the Lyceum Theatre, chilled, wet, hungry, and tired.

We decided to head back to the Bird’s Nest and finish the route tomorrow.

He's part puppy, part goat, part horse, part donkey...ready and, I might add, eager to play at whatever part he's needed. He's an animal of many faces and moods, something the world has never seen the likes of.

He had humble beginnings as a man's extra-large lambswool hand-me-down, fabric scraps, and buttons. Actually, I never used the buttons, but they were nice in the picture.

All of him fit on one felted sleeve, a truly economical sort of chap.

Sewn by machine and stuffed with shredded batting, he emerged in three dimensions, ready to claim the heart of any unsuspecting child.

He's attentive...

and eager to play...

He's mysterious...

and content to ponder the intricacies of life.

He is called Philbert, and he's waiting for someone special.

This afternoon Kathryn and I toured the neighborhood with Dad's SLR as we explored the features of the old camera. My favorite thing about a manual is the control it allows me over the depth of field--it really allows me to choose exactly what I want the viewer to focus upon, literally.

So armed with manual, notebook for recording our experimental techniques, and the eager eye of the amateur photographer, we set out to learn what we could about aperture and shutter speed.

We shot a whole roll of film on our adventure.

12 June 2008

Our hostel in Deptford Bridge was just beyond Lewisham College’s gated car park as a tower of darkly-shadowed brick and peeling sills. It had four stories, the first of which was a pub painted in traditional white and British green. A red-striped awning housed a few weathered tables and benches and a chalkboard sign advertised last night’s menu. Frankly it looked like it could have been or still could be the target of vandals and I thought vaguely of graffiti and broken glass as we approached.

Clinton was the host on duty, a Canadian bass player who was spending his gap year in the UK. He was settling down to his chocolate cereal and offered us some breakfast, too, which we accepted as the midnight yoghurt was fast failing us. We chatted about our plans for the upcoming weeks as we learned of his time there in Deptford--since September--and the ins and outs of the Bird's Nest. Despite the rather rundown exterior, the inside held a casual charm with its heavy wood tables and creaky benches, the warm rusts and hunter greens of the cushions, the brass handled taps at the bar, and the signs pointing out the WC, drawn by a quirky hand on bright pink cardstock cut out with pinking shears. Clinton periodically scanned the digital jukebox mounted on the wall, asking for song suggestions, and I wished I had paid more attention to the Bob Dylan and Eagles' songs Kristen had been forced to learn on guitar; after furiously upending every file in every crevice of my memory I only came up with "Wild World." He said it was a good song.

Our only other breakfast companion was Ed, a tubby sixty year old man who hailed from the great state of Arkansas with tee-shirt, accent, and easy affability to prove it. It seemed he had come to the UK for the sole purpose of wandering, for when we prodded him for his day's plans he vaguely mentioned downtown Greenwich and some Hard Rock Cafe he hadn't seen yet, and I got the impression that his London expedition was as much a mystery to his friends back home as it was to us sitting now at the Bird's Nest, just a head-shakin' clumsy unspoken mystery. Relieved, therefore, of the mental acrobatics required to picture Ed shuffling among a tour group at Westminster rather than popping his can of beer in front of the t.v., I chuckled to myself at the mix of people a cheap hostel attracts.

The room was very cheap at only 10 pounds ($20) a night, but the drawback was in its being a six-bunk co-ed room. That did not appeal to my conservative nature but really, how bad could it be? Then horror flicked across my mind--What if he were staying in our room? Ha, no; that would be too funny. Besides, the only other bunk occupied in our room had a small pink beach towel draped over the head and a sleeping mask, definitely not the accoutrement of an Ed.

Our snickering was cut short when we spied soft bare shoulders peeking out from the blue striped sheets the next morning, gently rising and falling to the beat of his unabashed snores. And he did wear that sleeping mask.

I've found the artist of the alphabet prints I like so much--I first saw them somewhere in England (or was it Scotland?), a perfect union of strong lines, tender colors, and vintage subjects.

William Nicholson's work has inspired me to work on my own set of letters (especially since these prints were so expensive), so I'm having fun thinking of all the A for ______, B for ________, C for __________, that sort of thing. I'll probably carve each print out of linoleum.

A successful bit of shopping Saturday morning:

• about 1 yard of coral and gold upholstery fabric: $0.50


• glass pitcher and stirring rod with six glasses: $2.00


• small ceramic mixing bowl: $0.50

Don't you love yard sales?

This is the first of many posts detailing the adventures my two roommates and I had in the UK under an organization called WWOOF--Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms. Having never really farmed nor concerned ourselves particularly with environmental issues, the three of us nevertheless hopped on a plane June 11th and set out for two months of farm labor and learning, accented with weekend tours of historical UK sites. Posted sporadically will be my account of our experience.

June 12, 2008

There’s nothing like waking—or was I even sleeping?—and ladling strawberry yoghurt between my teeth at 2 am trying to convince myself that the last three hours of tossing and turning served as the necessary punctuation between night and day. How much time has passed between now and the flight’s beginning? What time is it in the U.S.?

But we’re not supposed to remind ourselves of the old time; we’re in Britain now. I will obediently set my watch to our new time zone.

We arrived slightly before our due time of 6:55 and disembarked to a bustling Heathrow International Airport. The yellow signs marked INTERNATIONAL ARRIVALS and CUSTOMS became our guides and we went from one to the other as a preschooler swings from rung to rung on the monkey bars. As we proceeded to baggage claim, my imagination kept foisting upon me the scene of the three of us staring at the emptying carousel, watching as bags were reunited with their owners one after the other while our humble rucksacks never appeared. Those bags contained our entire trip, all the work and touring clothes we would need, all the sunscreen and Advil, all the shampoo and wellies and cameras and socks and host gifts and rain ponchos we had so carefully packed—and what would be the compensation? My whole bag was probably worth around $50 and I certainly would not be able to replace everything in it for nearly that amount here.

Our bags appeared promptly on the carousel, however, and we were soon free to buy our Oyster cards and take the Picadilly line into central London where we changed to the Jubilee and then the DLR, finally arriving at the outskirts of Greenwich in a little corner of town called Deptford Bridge.

Deptford. A mottled stretch of brick shops outlined the streets with its little grocery stores, laundromats, a two-story Noodle King, and dim-windowed salons displaying posters of sultry-haired models. One shop had a handwritten advertisement for a nail technician. I had noticed en route the gradual evolution of passengers as we came closer into Deptford as the designer shoed,
suit-clad men of the world’s financial capital were swapped for the sweatshirt hooded, baggy-dropped jeans of…well I could envision them on street corners or in alleyways conducting business of a whole other sort. These were those streets. And here was our hostel.

By the way, I attended St. Thomas Episcopal Church yesterday morning with Mom and Kathryn in tow. Ahhhh, liturgy and solid hymns at last!
Old Testament lesson
GosPel leSson
pSalm rEcitatiOn
new TestameNt LessOn
NicEne creed
kNeEling
Eucharist
cOnfEssion
robes
book of comMon Prayer

The congregation was very friendly and supplied us with a small tree's worth of information about them and their ministries and beliefs. I certainly shall attend again.

typical post-college musings of an English major

I continue to lean towards a career in academic libraries--begrudgingly, mind you, because that modest career comes with a rather big price tag called graduate school. I'm just not willing to spend roughly $50,000 for two years of education when that seems to be the average annual salary for an academic librarian, and to accrue that kind of debt when the librarian is on her way to the endangered species list with the rise of the computer and internet makes me shudder. When budgets are cut, librarians are as well.

But when academic librarians describe their jobs as "teaching without the classroom," well, such a career sounds about perfect for me. And it fits in with my Myers Brigg personality type--career guides based off of that indicator have said so. INFJs are cut out for the job with their capacity for organization, ability to work alone or one on one, and tendency to work for the ideal--in this case, the ideal of keeping information accessible. And can I say that I just love books? Any environment studded with shelves and shelves of them cannot be a bad place to work.

My friend gave me advice on paying for grad school: move close to your chosen school and work there. Often the benefits for full-time employment include a few credit hours free, and that can go a long way toward the cost. Of course scholarships help as well, but I loathe applying for anything too competitive. So shall I just pack up and move to North Carolina or Kentucky?

But next year and grad school aside, I'm still looking for a job around here, and I'm thinking temp services. Mom has been recommending that for quite some time as a good way to gain experience and knowledge of companies, all the while providing that all important foot-in-the-door factor that's so important in getting employed. Who knows? Perhaps temp work will lead me to a career that I enjoy or at least don't hate without grad school. That makes my wallet happier.

All in all, however, I'm in no rush to attend grad school. I much prefer taking my time earning what I can while considering my options. No use in rushing into debt for something I don't enjoy all that much anyway.

Are we missing something in church today? This morning I visited a new church with my family, a sister church to the one they usually attend, but let me say, I was not impressed with the worship--if that's what they insist on calling it these days. So many of these contemporary praise songs are all about the singer and his relationship with God, not about God in and of himself. You know those types, don't you? "I will give You all my worship," "You are my first love," "I'm desperate for You"...

Are we actually forgetting God's grace? Our praise songs are more pleading prayers and quick-toss promises than consideration of God's character, his timeless and infinite character. I find much more peace when I remember his unchangeable character than when I reflect on how I treat him. The rather puritannical self-examination these sung statements encourage has me falter through worship time as I consider how my words and behavior just haven't matched this past week and in all likelihood will not match up this week, either. I cannot depend upon myself. My only comfort comes in rehearsing that God will do what he says he will do, that he was, he is, and he will be, that because he says Jesus Christ's sacrifice counts me as righteous, I am righteous. When I think on his grace, I have peace; when I think on me, I have doubts.

Perhaps we should relegate some of these songs to confession time or to prayer time--sung prayers are beautifully communal--but keep those songs that direct our focus to God on high over ourselves as actual worship.

I am really feeling antsy here on the outskirts of the city where cars and stores and all the interlocking noise and stuff that makes a city exists. I have to get myself into the country.

But that's not easy. Where's a girl like me supposed to find a home with a budget of well...little? I'm working on my resume so that I can start seeking jobs and get the salary part taken care of, but while I do that, I'll apply for part time jobs in this area as well. I have to make do with city-living for a little while yet--dare I say a year or two? (shudder) before I can think about relocating to the country. That is what I will pour myself into now that I am back from Chicago and both Kristen's and Hannah's weddings are behind me--not to mention my UK travels as well.

Discontent is pricking me, I know; I am not satisfied with my suburban lifestyle. But that discontent is goading me to change how I've always lived for something simpler now, something drawn with fewer brush strokes so that the picture declares with strong bold lines the epitome of what it is. I must press on in hope for the future, but, Lord, let me not overlook the present.

I've found this wonderful magazine publication called MaryJane's Farm which encourages readers to delight in the simpler organic things--beit the vegetable garden, the treadle sewing machine, the skillet supper. MaryJane loves the outdoors, so her work provides a path out into the country while I am stuck in the city. You can find her work at www.maryjanesfarm.com.

It's nearly six in the morning and I've been up for a couple of hours; the sun's starting to lighten the sky. I like adjusting to the time change from this end better than at the other end. Sometimes I still tell myself what time it is in the UK as if I cannot quite let go of life over there. I suppose that if I were at Hazel's house now, we would be anticipating elevenses and perhaps retiring the poor mower for a much needed break from slicing through all the nettles and thistles and grasses. It feels like I've come from another world.


Yet it feels surprisingly ordinary to be sitting on my bed typing away here in Virginia. I mean, after all that has happened over the summer, life might have felt different returning, but I've rewoven myself seamlessly into the goings on of Chesapeake. The wedding really is coming up; Mom's gotten her preparations down to the details now, details which will flurry over these next two weeks like snow in western Pennsylvania. We visit Vista Point this afternoon in order to iron out the fine points of the reception; I've typed up the guest list in alphabetical order this morning so that the gate guards will better check the guests into the naval base; we've got palms and willows all over the house and half-finished flower arrangements on nearly every counter top and table as Mom experiments (she is doing the arrangements for the wedding); Friday I'll go over to Kris's apartment to help her move most of her things downstairs into Brandon's apartment. She is in the midst of finals, poor thing, but Friday she'll be finished. Everything's coming together, and yet there is still much to do...

The sun is out now and the peachy--purple-ly wash over the sky is fading. I think I'll go start some tea bread for later and fix myself a cup of tea while I'm at it. Over the next few weeks or months I will write more about my trip and what I've learned working on organic farms and about living as a good steward of our resources. It's an exciting time.

What book shall I bring to the UK? I've been hashing out my options and I'm just as, well, overwhelmed as ever. There are so many good books, how can I choose the one to accompany me on all of my upcoming adventures? I was discussing this over dinner with my family last night. We've been eating out on the deck since the weather is so nice, especially in the evenings, and the air is quiet enough to carry its armful of jasmine scent over to us (we have jasmine vines intertwining the deck rails as well as honey-suckle, which the hummingbird enjoys). I like how we always pull out a table cloth first, before setting the table.

But anyway, back to the books. Lewis' Space Trilogy? George MacDonald's two-part series about--what was it, the Fisherman's Wife? Howard's End or Marcel Proust's Swann's Way? A Faulkner book might be good, since that requires at least two readings in order to make any sense of it; that would be efficient. What about a collection of short stories, such as those by my beloved Eudora Welty or some by Flannery O'Connor or Jeffrey Archer? Shall I give Walker Percy another try? I didn't much like his Last Gentleman, but perhaps The Moviegoer is better. What about a page-turner by Dorothy L. Sayers? I want something that will hold my interest, but not hold it too much and tempt me to read when I should be experiencing the culture or chatting with people; something I haven't read before but something that will be comforting and familiar nevertheless. Goodness. Something like Lanterns on the Levee perhaps?

As long as I'm avoiding the rest of my sewing projects, I'll type out a list of what I'm packing for my trip to the UK. I cannot wait to try packing it up completely, just to see how everything fits.

Working Attire:

• green twills (for those heavy-duty days of working amid briar patches)
• navy workout pants (which don't make noise when I walk and which dry out quickly; good for those days in the mud)
• gym shorts (also serve as jammies)
• 2 tee-shirts (also serve as jammies)
• 2 tanks (to facilitate better tan lines since I don't want a really dark farmer's tan for Kris's wedding)
• 3 pairs of socks
• sneakers
• wellies (big and bulky but necessary; at least I can pack squishable things within them)
• jacket or hoodie (the North country especially gets chilly)

Touring Attire:

• red skirt
• brown tank
• black tank
• blue knit dress
• brown shrug (this can be wadded up in my day bag and retrieved for those chillier times or those times in a cathedral)
• ivory cardigan
• 3-4 scarves (an absolute must, in my opinion)
• tie-up shoes (these served me well last summer as they are comfortable and hardly take up any room in my bag)

Then those extras:

• disposable rain poncho (yes, giving up style for utility)
• swimmer's towel (tiny and unsatisfying but practical)
• bathing suit (for those beautiful clear lakes in the Lake District)
• undergarments (six total...and that's as much detail as I'll go into)
• toiletries, consisting of deodorant, contact lens solution and case, 2 pairs of extra contacts, 2 razors, and SPF 50 sunscreen, tweezers, bobby pins and hair bands, and a few other things
• Advil Liquigels
• electric plug adapter and voltage converter
• camera battery charger (the only thing we need a converter for, darn it)

And for my day bag:

• travel toothpaste and toothbrush
• travel Bible
• Complete Works of Shakespeare (as this uses about 5 pt. font, it's quite tiny)
• camera (holds around 1000 pictures, so that should do for all three of us)
• journal/sketch book
• fun read
• water bottle
• flip flops (for those hostel showers and some casual touring days)

Meagan, LeeAnn, and I have divided up the toiletries so that we pack as efficiently as possible. That's why I have not listed such things as shampoo or laundry detergent (we'll be washing out our clothes quite a bit!)

I may have to update this list once I check how I'm doing for space, but when I packed a trial run a few months ago, everything fit, and since then I've pared down the list even more. How's all that for 7 weeks?

of sewing and birds

Well, there it is, the biggest task awaiting my return home: sewing my bridesmaid dress for Kristen's wedding. I leave for the UK in less than two weeks and I'll return with only a week to spare before the event, so I must get this done now. At least I've already done the hardest part of the whole dressmaking process, fitting the pattern and making a muslin mock-up, but somehow it's still daunting indeed. I am particular about my seam finishes--the inside must look as neat as the outside and the dress must not require much fidgeting to look right once completed. In fact it must require very little because I'll have better things to think of during that time.

Then I still have a bit of sewing for the England trip. I've made a simple knit dress for easy traveling (knit doesn't wrinkle much)--a pattern I've drafted all by myself and made with only one yard of fabric: a whole dress with only one yard! I love those projects which use up every scrap so that, once the project is completed, there's nothing left to store. I'll need to finish up my day bag, an over-the-shoulder type big enough to hold my journal/sketch book, travel Bible, and daily baguette and cheese and water bottle (reusable, of course), yet still inconspicuous and easy to maneuver through the crowded Tube stations and trains. And then I'm toying with the idea of making a wide-brimmed hat. One made out of fabric could be stuffed into my backpack well enough, and hats are so good for protecting the face, neck, shoulders, and hair from the sun. But that won't be high on my priority list. Last I just have to replace a kinked zipper in one of my beloved skirts. Oh yes, and I need to sew buttons on one of my cardigans, too. I guess there's more to do than I thought.

As I write, a bright red cardinal keeps alighting on my room's window sills--he likes both of them. He hops around, checking the view for only a second or two before diving straight down. He looks like he's falling. I hope that I can catch a picture of him. Perhaps he's scoping out a good place for a nest? Or is nesting season already over now?

I always look forward to returning home from school, but moving back in comes with its hassles, too. Where do I stash my year's new supplies of books? My books and I have talked and toiled together, so I cannot give them up, but my shelves are filled. My return, therefore, usually entails some hefty organization. This year I cleared out the top of my closet which held my notebooks from grade school, high school, and college, as well as a lifetime's worth of letters and birthday wishes, childhood drawings, oh, and other things, making room for all the new.

I love the sunlight streaming through my white curtains. And notice my nightstand? My brass bed was handed down to me from Mom

and Dad; my Dad painted it for me.

This is my little sitting area. I found the bentwood rocker at someone's curbside on bulk pick up day (my favorite day in the neighborhood). When I went back to pick it up with the car (it was a neighborhood a long ways away from my own), its little legs were sticking up out of the trashcan. I re-upholstered it and Dad reinforced it. It was my first piece of furniture. That little copper bar beside the chair is my doorstop so that Reg can wander in and out at his leisure.

Here are my wibbly wobbly bookshelves. Sometimes the doors fall off in my hand and the drawers are hard to open, but I love the storage it provides for my books, teacups, pictures, hat stands, and music. Off to the side is my rather buxom dressmaker's dummy. I still need to sew a cover for her so that she's my size.

But thank you for stopping by--always glad to have visitors.

Yesterday evening I returned from a weekend in Culpeper, Virginia with Kris. Data collection (her job for the Click It or Ticket campaign in which she stands on street corners and counts how many drivers and passengers are wearing seatbelts versus not) takes her on many weekend trips across Virginia, so whenever I'm in town, I like to accompany her.

So yes, I'd like to live in Orange County eventually. It's beautiful with its wide green lawns and hills contained with dark brown, black, or white 3-plank fences, the lovely warm bovine odor, and horses and feral cats in abundance. Isn't it soul-freeing when your eye is allowed to wander, unchecked by development or industrial progress? It's restful.

I met the feline love-of-my-life in Orange. His name is Triscuit because he's the color of Wheat-Thins, only "Wheat-Thin" is not really an adequate name. I was closing the car trunk when I turned around and saw that Kris and I were being observed by this lonely creature sitting amid the tall waving weeds, sitting cooly and assuredly and yet somehow mischievously. In the next several minutes he crept closer in, never venturing too far from his safety net of bushes, as if he were an early maritime explorer and the bushes were his shoreline; he could always retreat if these two girls turned out to be monsters. Anyhow, we weren’t, and he spent the next hour rubbing his body against our legs, arching so much that he would fold himself into somersaults and then, twisting, would flop his legs open, inviting us to stroke his tummy. He batted at the paper from my sandwich wrap, ripping into it with his little pin-prick nails and poked his head up through the slats of my fold-out chair. He was so frisky and so social. When Kris and I had to go, he seemed to bid us goodbye, thanking us for visiting his realm. Then he darted back into his weed-filled abode, ready and waiting to capture the hearts of others. Dear dear Triscuit.