It's a Mickey Mouse World

There's not much to say. I think the video speaks for itself.

Forgive Me, Readers, For I Have Sinned.

It has been 6 months since my last blog post.

I have wonderful intentions of keeping this updated, but I seem to fall short on delivery. Here is time 47 (it seems) of my keeping up appearances.

I don't have a planned post for today, but since I was thinking about it, I decided to leave you with a little fun, courtesy of Snoop Dogg and the HBO True Blood series.

A New Leaf

Today, the family and I took the opportunity to get out and get a little fresh air and exercise. We live 10 minutes from Lake Thurmond, one of the major reservoirs on the Savannah River by the Army Corp of Engineers. We actually used to spend a good bit of time in the area, but 2009 was a really stressful and full year for us. Necropolis and I decided today was as good a time as any to make a change.

Necropolis, Things 1 and 2, Pearly Sue and I all trecked out to the Bartram Trail along Lake Thurmond and walked and looked.

We saw a LOT of pine trees, fallen leaves, and small granite outcroppings. Lake Thurmond is actually along the path of the granite vein that also created Stone Mountain, more than 120 miles away.

Unfortunately, we didn't have the foresight to bring trashbags. There was litter everywhere, and some of it too big to move, like this bouy.

While we were hiking I kept my eyes open for mushrooms, to share with my friend lisascenic. I had about given up on seeing any, and as we were almost back to the truck, I spotted these. I have no idea what they are, but I'm hoping Lisa will chime in here and let us know.

A Blaze of Glory

Just some New Year's photos to share. Blessings to you all.

A Final First

When Nec and I were very brand new parents, we probably behaved like most first timers. Okay, yeah, we were convinced our progeny was the brightest, most beautiful, wonderful child ever conceived in humankind. We meticulously chronicled every small detail of every minor milestone and major achievement Thing 1 could manage. And, in some ways, we were justified. Thing 1 was a quick study, even as a newborn and achieved the usual baby milestones much more quickly that most in his peer group.

By the time Thing 1 was 15 months, however, we discovered there would soon be a Thing 2, and priorities shifted. We still reveled in the minutiae of Thing 1’s seemingly miraculous abilities, but our attention was now divided. Whereas before we had only 1 small, perfect being to focus on, we now had to start over and record each detail of the newest member of our family.

As most parents of multiple children close in age will tell you, at times, your survival mode it to keep your head down and take each day as it comes. Somewhere in our total brilliance, we thought it was a good idea to have 2 children less than 2 years apart. 2 babies in diapers. Yes, I was obviously suffering from a strange and inventive form of parental senility.

At any rate, we did record, and I can remember, most of the biggest, important milestones in Thing 2’s infanthood. I also know that while he could sit up, crawl and walk more quickly that most, he didn’t cut his first tooth until he was almost 17 months old, almost a full year past the time the majority of babies will cut a first tooth.

The Things continued to get older, as children will do, and I noticed a disturbing trend of diminishing milestones. These had altered and changed over time, to where it’s not based on physical and motor development, but more on societal achievements, such as a first day of school or a first sleepover. The physical measures became less and less frequent, and more difficult to define. It’s tricky to see how quickly a child grows from day to day or week to week. Every once in a while, however, there are some exceptionally stellar moments that remind a parent of the joy and wonder that is raising a child.

Last month, Thing 2 finally lost his first tooth. He’s now 8, and will turn 9 in a couple of months. Developmentally, he is years behind most of his peer group. Most children lose their first tooth towards the end of year 5 or during year 6. This is, unless they manage to knock out their front teeth by diving into playground landscaping when they’re 3. But, that’s a story of a different Thing altogether.

Thing 2 lost his first tooth, and while I was genuinely excited and happy for him, I was starkly reminded that my children are quickly growing up, becoming their own person, and leaving their father and I behind in the dust.

I don’t think I’d have it any other way.

Why, yes. Yes I am....

...watching the Crab Show Marathon on Discovery, or TLC, or whatever channel.

At least I'm not overly emotional.

And, to make it even better, Necropolis is making his award-winning (really!) chili. It's really, really good.

If I might, I would like to offer this advice.

It has been found, in the McD household, it would be ill-advised for me to watch a movie with racial and political themes based on actual events while suffering from a severe cold, being heavily medicated, delirious from lack of sleep and very probably premenstrual.

I'm just saying.


The movie in question was "Rosewood" which I had never seen before. It's actually a very wonderfully powerful movie, but I should probably stick to romantic comedies and Musicals (just watched My Fair Lady, too) while I'm in this condition.

An Open Letter To Mike Helton

This email was sent to the only address I had for contacting NASCAR on November 2, 2009. Mike Helton is the President of NASCAR.

Dear Mr. Helton,

I write to you today as a lifelong fan of NASCAR. I have watched and listened, cheered and heckled, supported and bemoaned, throughout the years. I have watched decisions such as restrictor plates, radial tires, COT, deletions of Rockingham and other longtime tracks, decisions I don’t necessarily agree with, but see the necessity for continued growth of the sport. As a fan, I am aware I cannot know or understand every decision, recommendation or debate within the NASCAR Corporation. However, I agree change is inevitable and preferable to stagnation. I have to believe the changes in NASCAR, regardless of my personal opinion (which is wide and legion), are made with the interest of the owners, drivers and teams, and, hopefully, the fans.

That said, I was appalled and thoroughly disgusted with the race at Talladega on Sunday. It is my understanding that just before the race, in the drivers’ meeting, the gentlemen were warned and strongly admonished to cease or severely curtail the use of the bump draft and other ‘reckless’ driving practices, with the added threat of severe penalties and disciplinary measures. Since I did not personally witness the drivers’ meeting, I can not speak to the issues addressed. I did, however, clearly witness the results. At least three-fourths of the race saw in-line driving, which was more like watching a caravan than a stock car race. It was not that drivers were incapable of more competitive efforts, but rather the results of extreme caution on their parts. Drivers were shown on the televised production to admitting to boredom and voicing concerns of engine damage while driving at half throttle. I can assure you, this is a first for me as a NASCAR fan. I do not believe I have ever witnessed a race where drivers drove with extreme caution for 170 laps and race for 20. When the drivers did feel free to race, chaos ensued. Without the normal attrition, shuffling and weeding out of various cars associated with a ‘normal’ race, here were an unusually large number of cars involved in a 195 mile an hour rush hour scenario. This resulted in two wrecks within 5 laps, where cars were airborne from air under the tail – another alarming occurrence. I am sure I am not accounting anything you did not witness yourself. However, I cannot express my disgust and frustration strongly enough. I feel, based on my observations of the post-race interviews, many drivers share, in part, my feelings. While no driver I witnessed expressly said as much, it was written clearly in their facial expressions and demeanor.

My disgruntlement is one of a TV viewer, and I cannot fathom the anger I would have experienced if I had put down my hard-earned money for a ticket. I have attended races, and I realized for many fans, the entire weekend experience is a large part of the enjoyment. Personally, no amount of camping, tailgating, camaraderie, or restrooms on every corner would overcome my repugnance. Had I attended, I am sure I would have felt ready to demand a refund at the conclusion of Sunday’s race.

I do want to offer my admiration for the safety features of the COT. It is those very features, which often impacts race car performance, which allowed Ryan Newman and Mark Martin to walk away from their cars. I am willing to see the sacrifice of speed and handling for the drivers’ safety. Racing is most definitely a dangerous sport, regardless of the numerous safety features and regulations. But, at its heart, stock car racing is about putting one car against another to see who can best drive the wheels off the thing. It is about speed, finesse, love, hate, pounding hearts, blood, sweat and tears. Racing should be a pure a sport as possible, giving all allowance to the necessity of safety. The drivers of these cars know the risk and their abilities, but thinly veiled treats in the drivers’ meeting is micromanaging at the least, not to mention an insult to the professionalism of your drivers.

Mr. Helton, I am a fan and an adult. I realize sacrifices must be made for the greater good, whether it’s for reasons of safety or profit. I also realize it is not a perfect world in motorsports, or anywhere else, for that matter. However, I firmly believe an apology is due to the fans, drivers and race teams for the travesty that was this past Sunday’s race. It is an insult to assume your drivers cannot do their job to the best of their ability or that the fans would willingly pay to see the sub-par racing. Being a privately held company, you are reliant on fan support for your continuance. I would like to believe the fans are at the heart of most your decisions. I suppose there will always be someone willing to race and someone willing to watch, regardless of the quality, but please do not insult the intelligence or sophistication of those of us who know the difference.

Regardless, I will most likely find myself in front of my television next weekend. I will be there to watch and cheer on ‘the boys’. I truly hope it will be worth my time and money.

My best to you in your endeavors,

Are You Lonesome Tonight?

I'm a terrible blogger.

Or, perhaps I should say I'm not a very faithful blogger.

There's plenty going on in the McD house that might qualify as blog fodder, but I've either not had access to a computer (thanks, Things), or I've been too exhausted to put together two thoughts to prepare a blog entry. But, once again, I'm going to attempt to be a more faithful and creative thinker.

Maybe.

At any rate, tonight was the big Trick-or-Treat pilgrimage. Personally, Trick-or-Treating falls into the realm of parental responsibilities and less into the fun catagory. I feel more a member of the Donner Party and have less Halloween spirit than the rest of the McD house. It's the costuming. The Things don't allow me much in the way of creativity anymore. I think next year, I am going to insist on something more interesting than the latest movie character.

Now, I'm off to work on some of the ferocious knitting I have to complete before December 25. I always promise myself that I'll start the gift knitting early, but as Mary Poppins says, it's a pie crust promise.

And, I have somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 pictures to download from the camera.

I suppose it's a good thing I get an extra hour tonight. I'm going to need it.

Because....well, Just Because...

Sometimes, it's the little, bizarre things in life that make you smile.

While putzing around on the web a couple of days ago, I ran across some photos that defy even my pontifical efforts.

What you have just seen is an example of guerrilla knitting. A short and sweet definition would be creating knitted art by public means. Love it or hate it, this artwork definitely grabs your attention. The group responsible for the above artwork is known as Knit the City and hails from London, England.

Somehow, I think Dr. Who would be right at home.

Knit the Planet!

All approprite permissions for the above photos have been granted by the lovely ladies of Knit the City.

Crossroads seem to come and go

Yet again, I find I have taken a longer hiatus than I planned.

The Old Man is still with me. Every day is an education, a struggle, a labor of love, a day filled with moments of second guessing. It's been a journey I would never have imagined.

The Things are out of school, and we're trying to enjoy the summer while adjusting to the needs and requirements of The Old Man. It's a work in progress.

Perhaps the biggest news is I scored 25 free Jacob sheep fleece. I'm now learning all there is to know about cleaning a fleece for processing. More on this in the future.

Oh, and I learned about a month ago that I have a "large, buldging herniated disc between L1 and L2". Apparently this is unusual in 'people my age'. These herination tend to happen in lower discs.

So, I am alive, and hopefully, I can make the blog a more interesting place this summer.

It's all about the journey, right?

Wild Blue Yonder

I haven't posted in ages. I feel like a total slacker when compared to my friend lisascenic, who chronicled her and her husband's story in detail, while I can't manage to post over a couple of months. However, The Man (my father) is doing well, has been discharged into my care, and we're learning together how to live as a recovering stroke patient. He's ready to live life as his former self. I know the reality.

My sister and I try to mitigate as much of the daily routine as possible, as much to keep him from getting bored as anything else (like burning down my house). One of these activities was to take him to Bristol, TN to a NASCAR stock car race a couple of weekends ago. We had a blast. However, we had a special incentive as well.

Thing 2's class has a project they participate in about a character called Flat Stanley. Flat gets flattened by a bulletin board at school one day, and is fine with the exception of be really, really flat. Flat decides to use this to his advantage and mails himself places to have exciting adventures. Thing 2 had already mailed his "Flats", but I contacted his teacher and told her where we were going and if it would be okay to take a Flat. She thought is was a great idea. So, there were the four of us at Bristol Speedway. Sweet Soul Sister, The Man, me, and Flat. We had a great time.

We Can Rebuild Him; We Have the Technology.

Most of this blog has been dedicated to the ephemera of my life. And the banal. It was never my intention to use the blog to discuss more personal things or discuss 'real life', but there was a major change recently that has taken over my existence to some extent. And, by the same token, it will in some way be reflected in some of the posts on this blog.

My father had a stroke on January 3.

He has no siblings or close family, and as my parents are no longer together, it fell to my brother, sister and I to become his caregivers and advocates as we navigated the world of hospitals and rehabilitation facilities. Being the oldest of the siblings, I, somewhat by default, became the 'child in charge'. We three siblings make the decisions together, with input from my father, but ultimately, The Triumvirate are the ones who have the power, with me being the legal representative.

When it came time to make the decision to place Daddy in a rehabilitation facility, I didn't hesitate. I live in one of the largest medical communities in the state and have one of the best rehabilitation facilities in our area. I made the call, and really didn't give any other options. The Triumvirate live in various parts of the state, but being the only one who actually lived within a strong medical community made the decision even easier. So, when Daddy was released from the hospital, we loaded him into my vehicle and drove him 3 hours across the state to "rehab boot camp" as the intake nurse called it. (Don't ask about why we actually had to do the transport. I've decided the private medical thing is a racket!)

Daddy's therapy is very, very intense. He has at least 3 hours daily, of a combination of physical, occupational and speech/cognitive therapy. Today was a school holiday for me, and I had the opportunity to actually observe him during his day. To say I was impressed is putting it mildly. To say I hope I never need intensive rehabilitation is an understatement. It was brutal. It is not a reflection on the therapists themselves. They were wonderful, encouraging and delightful people who made difficult tasks humorous and engaging. We laughed and joked constantly. But, despite its jovial wrappings, it was hard, grueling work. Daddy was highly motivated, never complained, worked through each and every exercise, and never asked for a break. I think he would have continued working if the therapists would have allowed it, even though they and I both could see he was at his physical limits and exhausted.

The most fascinating part of the day was spent in OT. The rehabilitation hospital has the Bioness equipment, and Daddy is using the Ness H200 for hand rehabilitation. It's the most amazing machine. It allows his left hand, incapacitated by the stroke, to open and close through electrical stimulation. With this device, his hand muscles and nerves are retrained, and the theory is, the pathways to the brain will be reformed, allowing him to eventually move the hand on his own. I told Daddy he was lucky I wasn't his occupational therapist, because we'd be playing with the toy EVERY session. It was just the coolest thing. I also told him he was starting to look like the 6 Million Dollar Man. When I told him we could rebuild him, we had the technology, I got the truest laugh of the day.

Some times, it's just the little things.

Do You Know Where You're Going To.....

When I was in elementary school, one of my favorite playthings was a white suitcase. That old, beat up suitcase was my childhood version of having a fairy godmother. Open the top, and Bibbidy, Bobbidy, Boo, I became a grownup. Inside were old dresses, hats and purses of my Granny’s. My sister and I (and my brother at infrequent, reluctant intervals) dressed as Grand Dames in these clothes. There were our Haute Couture, refinement, and most of all, the epitome of adulthood.

As I made my obligatory awkward trip through adolescence and into my later teens, I’m sure I thought more than once, “I can’t wait to grow up.” But, what does that mean, “Grow up” or to be a grown up? At high school graduation, I wondered if that was the moment. The moment when I completed my metamorphosis from being a child to the mythological grown up. I waiting all summer before my first semester of college, but I never did feel that difference inside, an indefinable change or state of being that says to myself and the world, “I no longer think or feel or act as of old. As of this moment, I act with a new mature purpose.”

College came, and stayed and lasted for several really fun years. However, I never really felt essentially older inside. I had reached yet another milestone of life. I did what I thought 20-somethings with new college degrees were supposed to do. I got a job. But, I still didn’t feel grown up.

At an impasse, I asked The Mother once when would I feel grown up. Her reply, “When you have children.”

So, I continued to click off the major life milestones that were supposed to make me a mature grown up. I married and at thirty, had the first of my two children. Somehow, astonishingly, despite all the stress and crisis of Thing 1’s birth, I still didn’t feel a member of the grown up club. Yes, I had diplomas, paid my taxed, went to work, had stretch marks, and C-section scars, but I hadn’t crossed that important line in the sand.

Maybe, I thought, it was because I didn’t have a house and a mortgage. I know the illogical nature of this thought, just as I know the whole idea of “becoming a grown up” is somehow inane. Had I reduced it to a date on the calendar? “This is the day I got married, this is the day I had my first child, and this is the day I became a grown up.” It sounds ridiculous. Wondering what defining action will transform me into adulthood is overly simplistic as well. Perhaps I should make it clear that it’s not necessarily that I was so enamored of being a grown up, per se. It is more a sense of it being a failing of character or completion. Being a ‘grown up’ is what we’re taught, as children, we’re to strive to become: to literally grow up from childhood. Somehow, internally, I seemed to be stuck.

I’ve spent the better part of twenty years feeling like the same basic messed up teenager inside. She’s complex and worldly and yes, difficult, as she’s had the benefit of 20 years of experience. At heart, she’s that hormonal, mixed up, crazy chick that has been going through my life living as best she can and bluffing when she doesn’t know what else to do.

No, the mortgage did not magically grant me entry into grownup-hood.

Yes, there’s now a date on the calendar. January, 6, 2009. That is the day a grown up entered my psyche after twenty years of teenage bluffing.

Tuesday, January 6 is the date where I went from being the child of a parent to being the caregiver and decision maker for a parent. Luckily for me, this is a journey and responsibility I do not have to undertake alone. The prognosis appears very good that my siblings and I will not have these additional tasks for the long term.

But, for today, as I am tired, stressed, worried, angered, bewildered, exhausted, and frustrated, I finally feel like a grown up.

And, now that I know that feeling? If this is what being a grown up is about, I’ll take that messed-up, blustering, bluffing, no-holds-barred teenager any day.

I miss her.

"They're here already! You're next!"

I've become a pod person.

Despite using the famous last line from the movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers, I'm not referring to that kind of pod.

I mean a iPod and listening to podcasts type of person.

Necropolis gifted me with an iPod Shuffle this holiday season, and I've been using this past week with a frequency bordering on obsession. Music is okay, but the podcasts have become my particular manna. I started with knitting and crafting podcasts. Some are better than others, but I've not really found my niche there. Yknit and StashandBurn seem to be the ones I go back to listen to past podcasts more regularly.

When I started browsing further on iTunes, I discovered some of my Saturday NPR favorites, and I have listened to every available episode of Michael Feldman's What do you know and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me. Now, one of my personal goals is to have Carl Kassel's voice on my answering machine.

Then, I found my holy grail of podcasts: CraftLit. CraftLit is hosted by Heather, a former High School literature teacher. In her own words, she says:

I wanted to welcome you all to CraftLit, a Podcast for Crafters. I imagine you’re here because you like to work with your hands, but you also like to read. If so, this is the place for you! Our program will follow a similar pattern every week. After some introductory comments, a web, magazine, or book review, and perhaps a song, I will include a chapter or two from a book. We will listen to that book until we’re done with it. And because I’m a former English teacher, I’ll give you some things to listen for in the chapters we hear--just to give you something else to do while you’re knitting, spinning, crocheting, weaving, or sewing. Any painters?

As she was on hiatus during the holidays, I went back and listened to sets of older podcasts/books. Her first selection was Austen's Pride and Prejudice. I knew this was going to be a match made in heaven! I finished that series of podcasts (about 20) in less than 3 days, and now have moved on to the set of Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. Oh, and she's also begun her newest set, Robert Lewis Stevenson's Jekyll and Hyde. Fun! Fun! Fun! I can listen to great books and knit or spin at the same time!

All CraftLit's books come from Librivox. LibriVox provides free audiobooks from the public domain and has 2000 books in its library. LibriVox volunteers record chapters of books in the public domain and release the audio files back onto the net. Their goal is to make all public domain books available as free audio books.

If you have any bit of bibliophile in your soul, I suggest you join us.

You're next.

It's Too Late, Baby

Remember The Crab Show?

Well, if the man in your life doesn't get enough Crab Show in his life, there's now a remedy for that (not TiVo).

Battle 40-foot waves, storms, ice and a nearly 100 percent crew member injury rate in the dangerous hunt for undersea riches on the Bering Sea with the new video game Deadliest Catch Alaskan Storm, to be launched on the Xbox 360® video game and entertainment system from Microsoft and PC.

The game was inspired by Sig, Edgar and Norman Hansen -- three brothers who have made their living crab fishing on the Bering Sea aboard their family's fishing vessel, the Northwestern. The Hansen brothers started game development with Liquid Dragon Studios in October 2005. Deadliest Catch Alaskan Storm lets gamers captain their own boat in the frenzied search for an undersea jackpot. Gamers select one of five real crab boats, including the Northwestern, Cornelia Marie and Sea Star '' all featured on the series, or create and customize their own boat. Gamers then recruit and lead their own crew from a roster of 20 real crab fishermen.

Selecting the wrong boat or recruiting the wrong crew member can mean the difference between landing a Bering Sea jackpot or disaster. Lead your fatigued, hungry and hardworking crew in the strategic search for king crab and opilio crab, while battling to secure your catch and livelihood before other captains and crews get to the crab first.

Authenticity and realism were critical to the Hansen brothers. The game features four real Bering Sea harbors and 34,000 miles of Bering Sea coastline created from the United States Geological Survey. In addition, Deadliest Catch Alaskan Storm is the first video game to feature United States Coast Guard vessels and helicopters.

No kidding. Despite my very imaginative and creative brain, I dropped the ball on this one. I could have made a MINT if I had thought of it.

If you need more verification, go check it out for yourself at Discovery Channel.

Take It On The Run

You take it on the run baby

If that's the way you want it baby

Then I don't want you around

I don't believe it

Not for a minute

You're under the gun so you take it on the run

--- REO Speedwagon

On the way to and from the In Laws, we always pass this little place that has the most amazing horses. This year on the way home, I asked Necropolis to make a stop and let me take some photos.

After a moment of taking photos from the truck and through the fence, I decided to get a little closer and see what I could capture. Necropolis wasn't happy. I'm not sure what he would thought the little horses would do, exactly. There were only about a half a dozen, and they were all small Mustang or Mustang type breeds. In short, gorgeous.

I'm chatting away, cooing to the horses, who are paying no mind and chomping away, while Necropolis is yelling at me from truck. After a moment, I notice I have captured the attention of one of the geldings.

He was a sweetheart and saunders up to the fence. He blows a bit, but then snuffles and sniffs and is ready to be petted. This really set Necropolis off, so I took a couple more photos and tramped back to the truck.

Sometimes I really miss owing a horse.

The stall mucking, not so much.

All I'm Saying Is....

Check it out. It's free.

Register on ArtFire.com

And, yes, I have Six Degrees Arts shop on there.

O Tannenbaum! O Tannenbaum!

This past weekend was Tree Day, otherwise known as "The Third Time of the Holiday Season JPMcD Loses Her Freakin' ........."

It starts with finding the tree. We go live, and The Things think that means they go wild (as in zoo). This year, for some reason, I was really put out with Necropolis and The Things, so we grabbed the first halfway decent tree and brought it home. It wasn't until it was in the living room that I realized we had a mutant tree with antennae.

Now comes the part that no one else in the house can seem to do but me. That would be the lights. We have them on an old cable spool, and I roll them out on the floor, plug them in, replacing any dead bulbs or deleting any dead strings and put the things on the tree. In past years, I would carefully wind the lights around branches and such, having anywhere between 8 to 10 strands, somewhere in the neighborhood of 800 to 1000 lights.

This year, I couldn't find the replacement bulbs I kept (I'm blaming the move), and I had no energy to wind and check and carefully light the tree. I just smooshed (that's a technical design term) the lights up on the tree, trying to hide the cabling as best I could. I was still a strand short.

After the lights comes The Great Decanting. Half a dozen huge and heavy plastic containers filled to overflowing with gee-gaws and doo-dads and all kinds of Christmas regalia are released by The Things. It's almost like watching the little old ladies in their fur coats getting out of their chauffeur-driven Cadillacs at the Day After Christmas sale at Fine's on Broughton in Savannah (that's another story all together).

There's a good side to that, though. I'm so glad The Things old enough to decorate the tree now, I don't even care that most of the decorations are on the bottom half of the tree. All I know is, I don't have to do it.

JenniPMcGyver's Amazing Cotton Spindle

If it can be done, I'm going to figure out a way to do it.

If I'm told it can't be done, I'm going to figure out a way to do it.

If I'm told it's impossible and beyond the realm of plausibility, I will take it as a personal mission to figure out a way to do it.

Behold my latest figuring.

It all started with a cotton plant.

These sorry things show up in elementary schools about this time of year, as the classroom teachers incorporate 'real world' into their lessons. Today, as the unsightly, dead shrub is lying in the back of my co-worker's classroom, I decide all I can really do in this instance is waste some time and dig out some seeds for The Things. I set about my little personal mission, much to the somewhat bizarre amazement of the 5th graders in the classroom.

As I go about picking out the seeds my teacher friend, Ms. E, mentions to the class that I have the ability to spin the cotton into yarn. Okay, this is true in theory, but 1) I have only spun cotton (pencil roving) once, and 2) I wasn't sure it was even possible to spin straight from the boll.

The students, being unconvinced that thread or yarn could POSSIBLY come from that little bit of fluff ("I mean, it's, like, what you clean your ears with"), I take it as a personal mission to prove them wrong. Just to make my day. I'm like that.

There's just one small, inconvenient issue. I have no spindle or spinning appliances with me at school at the time. Never fear, I am a Master at creating something out of nothing. So, I set about on my scavenger hunt. An old rhythm stick (it's good to be the music teacher), a bobbin of jewelry filament (it's good to be friends with the art teacher) and a push pin. And Scotch tape. Lots of Scotch tape.

5 minutes later, I had a working, if slightly unbalanced, spindle.

Now, came the tricky part. Spinning the 1/2 inch cotton fibers into singles. Cotton has its own issues for spinning because of the fiber length. They're just so short, they require lots of twist and some quick finger work to make the fibers stick together. My original plan was to create a supported spindle, but I couldn't work out the weight issues and get a good spin, so I settled on a drop spindle and hoped I could get enough spin to allow me to draft the cotton.

I did.


Of course, I did.

Just call me McGyver.