In chicken news, we seem to have named the birds. Not one of us named the bird we originally thought we were going to name. I was all about the Buff Orpingtons (the tan birds) at first, but my girls fell in love with them as chicks ( when we thought they were actually the Plymouth Rocks, which are white now, but were kind of tan as babies) and named them Pippa and Gertie. The girls yielded the Plymouth Rocks to the boys, who named them JuJu and (Disclaimer: the three year did this) Mike. The boys, who were going for the manly black hens in the beginning, let me name the Australorps (the pure black birds), who are Rose and Lucy. My mother put in a vote for Lucy and Ethel, but it was too late. And my husband--who yielded all the birds to everyone else because he is just that kind of guy-- saved the Barred Rocks from being named Bea and Martha (after my great aunts -- the old biddies, right?). They are now called Laverne and Shirley. Nice work, Al.
Here are some pictures of the girls, hard at work modeling for the camera. They seemed to like it, but I think they really thought it might be something they could eat.
Matty likes to feed the birds. Here he is poking some oats through the fence.
Sometimes he puts his fingers in too far and doesn't like the results. The girls peck pretty hard when they are hunting for food.
Probably the biggest excitement around here recently was the surprise purchase of new beds. The kids have been sleeping on futons forever. We had been thinking that it would be kind of nice for them to have new beds. Real furniture. A mattress that didn't give anyone, including a parent dealing with post-nightmare kids, a crippling backache. But, you know, beds are REALLY expensive. Especially when you have promised the kid with the funky shaped room a loft bed. So we put it off. For a really long time. And then all of a sudden we bought not one bed, but a giant loft bed/desk combo. And bunk beds for the boys, since we had already taken leave of our senses. And mattresses for the loft bed and the for the girl who didn't get a new bed but wouldn't care as long as we replaced her crummy queen size futon mattress. Here, after a full 6 hours of labor on my part (which included some instructions that had nothing whatsoever to do with the parts provided), are some happy campers:
They love their new beds and I love how much nicer their rooms look. Even Matty likes to sleep in his bottom bunk. Although, when I asked him what happens when he is good and sleeps all night long in his bed (the answer is supposed to be "Stickers!" here), he said "I am all alone." So much for the incentive system.
Below is the latest in knitting news. Over the summer, I had an ever increasing list of works in progress. It was becoming both stupid and counterproductive. I got the urge to just finish something, %^%$ it! And so I did. The first thing is my new Zipped Vest. Great name for something that I have just put buttons on, no? The pattern is for a man's vest, and even though I femmed up the color, the fit was a little baggy instead of curvy. So, in place of the zipper, I added button loops and located the buttons in a gentle crescent shape partway across the left front. I am in love. The vest is cozy and warm and was worth the endless hours of moss stitch. Not that I'm about to make another.
Item two is two-thirds of my Central Park Hoodie. The left front is in progress and going quickly. In a bold and original move, it will be followed by the right front. Then a little finishing (quite a bit, actually, between the button band and the hood) and hopefully the whole thing will be done and wearable before I board the bus for Rhinebeck and the New York Sheep & Wool Festival in October.
As a warm up for Rhinebeck, I spent a few hours at the Finger Lakes Fiber Festival. As a member of the Genesee Valley Handspinners Guild, I got to volunteer at the festival and I chose to work at the fleece sales table. Bad move. I fully believed that, with all the spending opportunities on the horizon at Rhinebeck and all the stuff and fluff still waiting to spun from last year, I could restrain myself and really not buy very much. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Two hours at the fleece table gave me plenty of time to take a look at all the fleeces entered in the competition. Touch them . . . admire their fine qualities . . . and find one in my price range. About the only thing that kept the whole venture sane was the fact that you can't charge at the fleece table. Cash or check only. Still, with only $40 in my wallet (which is unheard of riches for a girl who never carries cash), I was able to sell myself a 5.5 pound corriedale fleece from Ewe #512. I must say, she did a fine job growing her wool this year. The fleece is a mix of dark, chocolatey browns, light grays, and a whole lot of in-between colors. On the left is the fleece sitting in my fleece basket waiting to be sorted and washed, which will take me a few weeks. On the right is the picture of me indulging my anal retentive side by organizing the fleece into uniform bundles ready to be washed. Below that is not a rack full of dead mice, but a lovely collection of soft and fluffy fleece bits drying in my office. I've stretched a few layers of blue mesh netting over my old quilt frame to serve as a drying rack. It makes a great tent for Matty to play under, but sometimes he starts to poke at the roof (who wouldn't, really?) and that's when it starts to look like all the little dead mice are coming back to life. Kind of makes you jump.
With a little luck and a lot of work, that wool will be spun up into a heathery brown-gray yarn and made into a sweater for my hubby, kind of as a thank you for not giving me a hard time every time I bring another bit of fluff into the house.
Last, Cody has asked me to give him equal time. He thinks the chickens and the strange brown stuff that smells like a sheep but doesn't move when he tries to herd it have gotten more than their fair share of press and he would like everyone to stop and appreciate him for a few moments. He also feels that it would be best if this could become a daily practice. Here he is giving me his best long-suffering-ever-faithful-canine-companion face. Don't ever tell me that dogs can't talk.