I dyed yesterday. Five batches of Coopworth, for more felt play. This is not a lot for somebody who really dyes, but it was a substantial project for me. I'm trying to get the dyeing done before Bill comes back next week--you know why. This roving was dyed in the crockpot, and will be carded with other, less feltable wool, of which I have a lot. (At some point, I seem to have made a major investment in superwash merino, which doesn't felt by itself, but can be coaxed. I believe I had socks in mind at the time.) I'm feeling virtuous, using up some of my stash. Of course, "using up" probably isn't the right word here, since I'm merely converting the wool from one form (roving, top, batts) to another: felted stuff. The real product here--for me, anyway--is the learning and the fun of playing with this fascinating material. Maybe the other products (the felted stuff) will eventually be good enough to give as gifts. Maybe I'll even use them as giveaway in contests--now, there's a thought!
Also yesterday, more work on the book (Briar Bank--the fifth book in the Cottage Tales series). I'm at 75,000 words now, and thinking wrap-up thoughts. I'll probably do another 3,000 words or so, and then go back to the beginning and work through the whole text again. Somehow, it's always easier for me to write the last couple of chapters when I have the whole book in mind. As it is now, I have only the last few chapters in mind. If I don't go back, I'll risk dropping a plot line. Haven't you seen that happen, particularly in mysteries? The author gets so busy resolving the major plot that s/he forgets to tie up a loose string or two. The result: irritated readers.
One sad consequence of all the rain: the rosemarys are struggling. I have a dozen or so, most waist-high and as big around. They love it when it's hot and dry, but they hate wet feet, and there's nothing I can do for them, poor lambs.
Reading note. We humans have a strong desire for groundedness in place. We want to be rooted; we want to be somewhere real. The saying, 'Wherever you go, there you are,' seems also to be an acknowledgment that wherever you go, of course, you take places and people from the past with you. In other words, you can't escape who you are. Wherever you go, there you are, facing yourself again in the mirror.--On Ice: An Intimate Portrait of Life at McMurdo Station, Antarctica, by Gretchen Legler