Of Oil and Icons, Animals, Gardeners, Accomplished Stepdaughter, and That Damn Afghan Again

Not too long ago a Manchester (England) newspaper published a story about the difficulty women have in comprehending the warnings conveyed by dashboard icons.  Instantly I flashed back to some years ago, to a fairly long trip in my Honda Civic (may it rest in peace) with my pain in the butt beloved sister-in-law Di (the very one who is the intended recipient of the Neverending Afghan).  On the way home one of us said, "Do you smell something weird, like burning electric things?"  "Yeah," said the other. 

And we kept driving. 

Later I noticed that the little lamp icon was lit.  To me it was just that: A lamp, like Aladdin's.  To me it meant there was probably a burned-out bulb in a turn indicator or a backup light or something.

And I kept driving.

You know the end of the story, right?  No mystery here.  The engine in the valiant little Honda Civic gave up the ghost and had to be replaced.  What I still want to know is, HOW HARD WOULD IT BE TO PUT THE LETTERS O, I, AND L BELOW THAT STUPID LITTLE LAMP (WHICH IS REALLY AN OIL CAN) PICTURE?  HUH?  HOW HARD COULD THAT BE?

And speaking of oil.  Long ago, when I was a girl in my 20s I drove from southern California to Seattle.  In a silver Corvette Stingray convertible, as it happens.  Arrived in July when the weather here is most excellent.  Rented a house, got a job, prepared to stay awhile.

One day a man appeared at the door.  He had a work coverall on, his name embroidered on the left in red thread, and "Somebody's Oil" embroidered below that.  He wanted to know if they should continue the same oil delivery schedule as with the previous tenants.  I was enchanted, mentally picturing a six-pack of Pennzoil in a neat wire carrier, like whipping cream or whole milk.  I had never heard of oil heat, you see.  What a wonderful place the Pacific Northwest is, I thought.

"Well, I'd like to," I told him, "But honestly I don't think I'll need it delivered.  I only used a quart and a half all the way from L.A."

I do not remember his reply.

And in the way life teaches lessons when you are good and ready to heed them, I learned about the oil furnace in that old house on Christmas Eve at about 6:00 p.m. when the heat abruptly stopped coming out of the grate on the wall.  And it was COLD in there.  I called an electric company to report the malfunctioning thermostat and was informed I was probably out of oil and I should check the furnace.  At that very moment I recalled the oil delivery man and my cavalier dismissal of his offer to deliver oil, and it all became horribly clear.

With a sinking heart I understood that it would take the promise of an arm and a leg plus dibs on my firstborn son (who was shivering right next to me and who at age four was the reason I could not just let it slide until the 26th) -- it would take all that plus a postdated check and a pinkie swear to get oil out there.  It did, it surely did.  But we were warm when Santa came.

And speaking of cold -- it has been.  Beautiful bulldog Zoe has been spending a lot of time by the stove, soaking up rays and warmth.  As far as she's concerned, nothing, but nothing, beats a warm tummy and toasty jowls.

There's been a goodly amount of snow at the Summit and last weekend we were packing to go skiing when what do we see?

Why, little dachshund Harry Truman, that's who, already packed in the bag, hoping, hoping, hoping in his little wiener heart that we would not leave.  Or if we did leave, we would take him along.

A vain hope, as it happened.  He didn't get to go this time, and I felt like Hard Hearted Hannah removing him from the bag and walking out that door.  But when I came home he was lavished with hugs and he got to go back to work.  His job is to keep me warm at night.  There are nine dogs here, and most times only this one sleeps with me.  He's a talented snuggler.  A good little earth dog too, loves to dig for moles.

And speaking of dirt (well, we were, in a way) last weekend was the Appreciation Dinner for the Master Gardeners.  As I think I've said, I DID IT, I DID IT -- I managed to become an official Master Gardener.  Had I known how hard it was, how challenging, maybe I wouldn't have had the courage to do it.  Without help from Carolyn and Roxanne, I'm pretty sure I would have just dumbed out of there.

The dinner was beautifully set up -- see? Centerpieces of flowers, little candies and packets of seeds at each place.  Really wonderful.  And the food was first-rate. 

Seems to me that in general (with the notable exception of myself) people who like to plant stuff also like to cook.  This dinner was potluck and it was a real garden of earthly delights.  I was assigned to bring a dessert, and I must confess I contributed boughten cookies.  It was best that way.  Really.

Here are Michael and Carolyn, fellow Master Gardeners.  They look happy, like they're enjoying the revelry.  But -- if you look carefully you can see the expression of RELIEF on both those faces.  We managed to study "Noxious Weeds of Western Washington" and the always-fascinating cliffhanger "Brown Rot on Stone Fruits".  BIG relief to have them in the rear view mirror of our lives.  The books are there if we need them, but we read them once already.  And once was enough.

Each of us was assigned a mentor, an experienced MG to guide us along.  Mine is glamorous little pixie Letty.  Here she is, beside me.   She looks composed and happy.  I, on the other hand, look like I've been on a ten-day bender.  Carolyn took the picture and how she managed to blur the left side while keeping the right crisp is a wonderment to me.  But then, Carolyn was a published photographer in days gone by so I guess she knows how to do these things.  We'll consider it an artistic statement.

Sooner or later, we're going to have to actually ACT like Master Gardeners and give time to the community.  MGs can choose areas of interest, like working with kids, helping in the Discovery Garden, working on the plant sale fundraiser or the Tulip Festival, helping with public education -- all sorts of wonderful and interesting projects.  But.  A certain amount of this time must be in clinics. 

Now, clinics are where some MGs sit around waiting for a citizen of our fair county to wander in clutching an ailing piece of flora.  The citizen seeks a diagnosis and a recommendation.  The MGs are supposed to provide it.  Letty and the other veterans keep telling us these clinics are FUN.  They say it in the same tone your mother used when she told you cough medicine tastes good.   

I am unequal to this task, really I am.  In fact, I have been SO RELUCTANT to place myself in the position of having to identify an ailing plant I have not worn my shirt with the MG insignia lest some misguided citizen ask me for help.   Just in case somebody has seen me lurking around the grange and asks anyhow, I have it all figured out.  I intend to listen patiently to the question, furrow my brow -- and then point over the person's shoulder and shout, "Hey!  Isn't that Brad Pitt?"  (Or I guess if it's a man I could say Anna Nicole Smith.)  And then I plan to run like hell.  As far as Japan, maybe.

And speaking of Japan.  My evil stepdaughter has been hired to teach in Japan.  It's EXACTLY what she has wanted to do since she graduated from UW with a degree in Linguistics.  She's thrilled, even though she has not been told yet exactly WHERE in Japan she will be. 

There are no words, really, to convey how much pride I take in having her be related to me, being her wicked stepmother.  She is intelligent and thoughtful and I love her a lot.  To me she seems so young -- I wish she'd wait awhile -- until she's 45 at least -- before going so far away.  But I remember how at that age I was practically fearless and ready to take on the world, and I can only wish her godspeed.  So it seems that next year George and I will be somewhere in Japan, visiting.

Speaking of Japan, that's where Noro Kureyon comes from.  The Neverending Afghan, pictured here, is not made of Kureyon.  But I needed a segue and that was a pretty neat one. 

So.  This afghan.  I knit and knit and knit.  Does the size of this thing change at all?  Nope.  I think there are elves who come in the night and tink it back just to plague me.

Even though it's a perpetual WIP it seems to me after all this time I ought to show you how it's turning out at this point.  Diana picked the yarn herself so I have every expectation she will like it.  I've combined a simple yarnover pattern with a sort of rib over six stitches in between.  I had to work out something that would show up okay with the variegated yarn while still being interesting, and this seems to do the trick.  But there are glaciers that move more quickly than this project.