Lamb and Frog

I don’t think one can specify the precise moment the medical profession in America became the medical industry. It was probably close to the time the ‘word’ HMO became a household name. And, probably, like some cancers it was a slow, mostly invisible, but wholly insidious process. By the time America’s body politic became aware of the cancer, it was probably to late to do much other than slow the disease and prolong the agony.

I can say that Americans have lost much to this process-disease, perhaps most notably the ability to age gracefully. Still, I think that medical industrialists (those who used to be called medical professionals) have lost much more. They have gained the world (in power and money) but have lost their souls.

I have come to loathe doctor’s appointments, doctor’s offices, hospitals, doctor bills, and, for the most part doctors and their minions. What once was an honored and respected profession has become, in my mind, the physiological version of a stock broker.

In addition to the loss of my Grandmother, Stella, Casa de Lamb and Frog suffered two other major losses in recent months.

“They” were finally successful and the RMT was stolen from our driveway at about 1:30 a.m. April 24th. Pablo the Harley Guy heard it fire up and rumble out behind the back wall and told us he thought “Where the hell is Bill going at one in the morning?” I was wide awake spinning on the wheel in the bedroom (without my iPod in my ears) and didn’t hear a thing. It was recovered about two and a half weeks later, but it was trashed. The insurance company totalled it. I don’t miss it (and I don’t think Bill does either). And I really like the replacement:

which more or less fits in the garage (note the position of the front tire).

The other loss was much, much more difficult to bear. I’m still not over it and don’t expect to be for a long time. On July 17th we said goodbye to our faithful four-legged companion of the last fourteen years—our gentle giant, our red-headed rug hugger, our Wolfgang.

No one ever messed with our stuff until after you had retired. You had a bark that would scare off the baddest of bad asses, but you were always more of a hider than a fighter. You were a world-class beggar, but took your treats so gently a toddler could feed you. You didn’t steal from the trash or the table (well, not much and we’ll forgive the elk steaks you took from the TV tray, that was just too big of a temptation). You didn’t jump on people, bark for no reason, dig holes, or wander or run off.

You slept by my side of the bed every night. You patiently protected the cats and the kids and worried about me when I was sick and confined to the bed or the bathroom. You walked by my side out of the mountains when I got lost even though you were just a puppy.

From the day we rescued you out of the back of the cage at Petsmart until the day you left us you were a true and loyal friend.

Mama misses you bubba.

I was once asked “How did you learn so much about computers…did you take a bunch of classes or something?” “No,” I responded, “I’ve just broken them in every way possible to do so and had to fix them myself.” Some lessons just don’t sink in unless you learn them the hard way. For example, not plying in the same direction you spun the singles.

Since I learned that lesson, I’ve spun and plied quite a bit of new yarn (for sale on etsy if you’re interested) without any major mishaps:

(And you wondered why I hadn’t been writing!)

I even learned how to chain (Navajo) ply. I taught myself using video tutorials, this book, and information on Ravelry’s spinning forums. The technique itself is not difficult. A little fiddly maybe, but if you’ve crocheted, the concept is straightforward enough.

In chain plying you make a three-ply yarn from a single strand (usually I ply two singles together into a single two-ply yarn). The technique has some disadvantages: it is less forgiving of poorly spun singles (e.g., thin or thick spots in the yarn are plied together instead of getting balanced by the other strand as usually happens) and, because a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, it creates a yarn that may not be as strong as a standard, twisted three-ply. It also has some advantages: it preserves the color sequencing in the single and you don’t end up with leftover singles (which happens when you’ve spun more yardage onto one bobbin than another and then plied two bobbins together).

I decided to practice using leftover singles from the batches above. The first time it was easy. Too easy. So easy that I got overconfident. A couple of weeks later, after finishing some traditional plying, I decided to go ahead and ‘quickly’ chain ply the leftover singles. Heh, heh, heh. It didn’t go so easy this time. I made a mess of it.* I got frustrated. I finished making my mess, returned to my regularly scheduled knitting (more on that in a future post), and (not surprisingly) continued to obsess about what had gone wrong. And, of course, I figured it out.

The first time I tried chain plying I studied the technique and then got right to the wheel. The second time (because the first had been so easy), I didn’t even think about doing a ‘refresher’, I just sat down and started spinning, forgetting the one crucial bit of information I needed to make the effort a success—when you’re learning to chain ply it’s best to use the slowest possible ratio (the biggest whorl) on your wheel. I had left mine where it was for the regular plying (on the middle of the three choices on the plying head). Drat. But as with pretty much all lessons learned the hard way, I’m pretty sure this one is gonna stick.

*The singles were for practice only and I’m probably just going to use the resulting three-ply for embroidery practice, so no big loss, but still…argh.

“Mom, can I go to Bobbonaught’s* after dinner, ‘cause…”

“ ‘Cause why?”

“ ‘Cause we’re gonna watch a dead cicada get eaten by ants.”

“By all means, go.” (Venture forth in the name of science.)

Approximately ten minutes after being excused from the table in comes the Duck on a full howler. Why? Because squatting over an ant hill resulted in getting bitten by an ant! And it burned! Go figure, eh?

Mommy’s little rocket scientist.

* Names have been changed to protect the mischievous.

Ah summer. This year the teakettle has been in use (primarily for preparing hummingbird food) so it remains (to my knowledge) a spider free zone. I do, however, have spiders on my ceiling. In every room of the house. I mentioned this to some friends and one responded “Maybe it’s time to move.”

“Nah,” says I, “I kind of like them.”

I’ve said before that when it comes to the local wildlife I’m pretty much a live and let live kind of person. I draw the line at 1) mice and 2) four specific types of insects (two creepy crawlers and two fliers). A (partially non-voluntary) change in our household cooling system has resulted in the cats not having ‘free range’ outdoors this summer so the mice problem has largely resolved itself (as has the occasional bird issue).

As far as the creepy crawlers go, I’ve been lucky with the ants (so far, so good) and the coffee traps appear to be keeping the cucarachas at bay. If the city fogged the manholes this year, it was early enough in the season that the patio was not overrun—Thank God!

Fliers? Well, the flying cucarachas are lumped in with the crawling kind—seen one, seen one too many. I don’t tolerate houseflies. They’re just gross and annoying. And of course all. moths. must. die. (for what I hope are obvious reasons).

Still there do seem to be an awful lot of spiders in the house. Thinking on what, if anything, to do about this, I decided that they were not a blight on my existence but a gift from God. I’ve been feeling rather outnumbered by all the boys in the house—almost to the point of angst. They’re boisterous, and they watch stupid stuff on TV. I love them, but that doesn’t mean they don’t get on my nerves.

So, in his infinite (and infinitely subtle) wisdom, what does God do? He fills my house with other (silent) spinners. So of course I let them live…

even when they’re boys.*

*Yes, that’s a male black widow on the windowsill. It’s OK, really…it’s on Bill’s side of the bed!