bears, skirts and dinner

"On this mountain [God] will destroy the veil that veils all peoples, The web that is woven over all nations; he will destroy death forever. The Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces; The reproach of his people he will remove from the whole earth; for the Lord has spoken."

                                                              -   Isaiah 25:7-9

Meanwhile, tomorrow is the feast of St. Patrick; I'm working, so we had the dinner today. The crockpot did much of the work.

The cabbage was in another pan.

I've been reading "The Bears and I" by Robert Franklin Leslie. Published in 1968, the author is a young man in the north woods of Canada. Are there any of these type of men left? Can someone live like that in this day and age?  Anyway, he has to "adopt" three motherless cubs, and he tells the story so well; it's a page-turner!  I had brought the book home for my mother years ago and it was such a favorite with her, I'd gotten her a copy to keep. After she died I ended up letting it go, as I figured I'd never read it, but at work last week it came across the desk and I was suddenly interested. It's hard to put down! Bears are more like us than I'd realized. If you like animal stories, I very much recommend it.

"A wild bear grows to maturity and stays healthy for his twenty-five or thirty years on a vigorous program of physical exercise and diet unparalleled for any animal of his weight. I've watched both black and grizzly bears swim across the lake three miles wide, then climb over a mountain on the other side when easy alternative routes were available to them. I have seen black bears gallop down a mountainside and ascend a 200-foot fir without even breaking their speed - climbing by throwing their arms and legs around the trunk like a pole-climber - until they were near the top of the tree."

                                                -  The Bears and I

I saw this image on pinterest and saved it. I've got a sweater this very color, although not a turtleneck and not cropped. But that's all right. I have black suede maryjanes and I could copy the look well enough. So I poked around online and found some quilting cotton that is almost exactly this pattern.

I made a casing for an elastic waist, put in wide pleats, and it is machine basted. If i hadn't been so busy with the corned beef dinner, I could have made more progress. But it's an easy design to make and won't take much longer.

"To a bear, loss of face represents genuine calamity. Within his local society, withdrawal from any struggle most generally incurs loss of pecking rights - the established wilderness protocol of who has the right to clobber whom."

                                                  -  from The Bears and I

hopefulness

 There are icicles everywhere. Riding along, you see scads of them, hanging on almost every building. I don't know why some buildings don't have them. It's very cold all the time, but when the sun is bright, I guess there is some melting, because these things are lengthening by the day.

I had finished knitting the hand warmers and gave them to my friend, but I'm knitting another pair with the same yarn. She wears them over thin knitted gloves, and the basic bind-off I use doesn't have any give, really - they could be a little less tight at the opening, and since I have more of the yarn, and they're easy to make, I'm knitting another pair with a different bind-off, and it does seem better. I have a book that's just cast-ons and bind-offs, and it's very handy. Sometimes you buy books you think it would be good to have, and they just accumulate and you wonder why you bought them, but I'm happy I bought this one. 

A year ago, I received a book of Coleridge's poems, which I'd asked for, but they haven't really clicked with me. I enjoyed Malcolm Guite's Mariner, so I guess I'm more interested in the man than in his poetry. But I do like this one which I read today:

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair -
The bees are stirring - birds are on the wing -
And Winter slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, o ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live.

- Work Without Hope, composed Feb 21st, 1825

And we know from Emily Dickinson, don't we, that hope's the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.

a Happy Thanksgiving

 Well, it was a nice day and we had a good time. The cats didn't end up getting any turkey - they were sleeping while we ate. Daisy, of course, was at hand when I set the table.

Don't tell me I should have driven her off as soon as I saw here there - I already know that. I think she liked the tablecloth.

On the subject of cats, my brother went to the church early in the morning; his intention was to go to Mass, but first to the office, where he had to use the copier. He noticed some bags on the steps of the church, but did not investigate - this was before seven. At eight thirty, it was still there - it was an orange cat, in a carrier, with all its possessions, i.e., bowls, harness, etc.. As he was wondering if he should just bring it home, the organist came along and said he'd take it, and see if the local vet could find a home for it. So he took it upstairs in the choir loft, where the poor creature was crying. But there is a crying room up there, so that's where the kitty went. We are looking forward to Sunday when we'll see him, to find out the rest of the story.

I was pretty shocked at this - I follow several cat rescue channels on youtube, and see this sort of thing all the time. But I never saw it here. That is probably naive, to be surprised. 

Anyway, we are hoping for a happy conclusion to this Thanksgiving story. 

My autumnal display on the front steps looks pretty, I think.

Everybody likes Thanksgiving.

"In sober moments [Sir Walter] Raleigh's friends had no faith in his stories, but tonight he held them spellbound. In America, he said, vines laden with grapes cling to tall cedar trees, and sitting beneath them the natives drink the powdered bones of their chieftains in pineapple wine. 

Why? asked Nicolas....The customs of these people seemed to him odd.

That they may have their courage in them, of course, cried Raleigh, bringing his knife-hilt down with a crash on the table. Don't you know that we all of us feed on the courage of the dead? If there had been no valiant men in the past to show us the way to live would we be anything today but spineless idiots? 

Tell us some more, said Philip with kindling eyes. Is it very beautiful, that land?

                                                          -   from Towers in the Mist, Elizabeth Goudge

"As we have grown and prospered in material things, so also should we progress in moral and spiritual things. We are a God-fearing people who should set ourselves against evil and strive for righteousness in living, and observing the Golden Rule we should from our abundance help and serve those less fortunately placed. We should bow in gratitude to God for his many favors."

                                               (thirtieth) President Calvin Coolidge, 1925

almost there

I had some windows open today while I did my work, it was so mild! The dampness didn't matter because I was using the oven. The cats were certainly happy.

The squash pie is in the fridge downstairs, and I made the gratin, too, also in the fridge - squash pie because I also baked some pumpkin cookies. The pie recipe is the same for squash, pumpkin or sweet potato, and I've made all three over the years. The squash has a light, thinner texture, the sweet potato is the most substantial. I like to use dark brown sugar for that one, light brown or maple sugar for the pumpkin pies. 

Half an hour before dark, I finally got a pot, and made it outside to cut those berries. I stuck them in with two dried hydrangea heads and - let's say it looks artistic. I'll soon be looking for evergreens, anyway, since Advent is almost upon us. Just as I was coming back inside, a skein of geese flew right over, dark against the cloudy sky, in formation and honking. They were heading east, but I'm sure they knew what they were doing.

beauty

 "...I think all beauty adds to our heritage, whether it be the flawless purity of the Greek in the Parthenon or the rich and lavish splendor of Dylan Thomas. So my Johnny Keats saying, 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' gives a lift to us today in an uneasy age."

                                                                -  Gladys Taber

life and growth

A rabbit got into the garden last week. He didn't seem to eat anything we would regret. They seem to find so much among the grass, God bless them. A simple diet is best, isn't it? Then I didn't see any rabbits for a week, until today when there were two baby ones, running around the hedges. So, it continues. 

Look what somebody dropped off at the library this week.

I love this story. Look at the cover!

So elegant, with the gold edging. But there's a fragrance, like the previous owner wore perfume and now the book has it. I might just bring it back - I don't fancy having to smell that whenever I read it. Such a disappointment.

I was reading in St. Matthew's gospel, near the beginning, and it said that after the Magi came and asked where the child was who was born king of the Jews, "he was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him". I never noticed that before - all Jerusalem was frightened? How interesting. 

I picked a handful of beans today and steamed them; my brother can have them with his eggs tomorrow for supper.

returning things

 I saw two rainbows today, and almost by chance. We went to the supermarket as it was getting dark, with a thunderstorm looming. It didn't come to fruition, but as I was putting away the groceries I just happened to see the first one out a window, nice and clear. 

After supper I was reading and turned to look outside for no reason, and there was another, and in a different spot than usual. They always appear in the back yard, but this was over to the side.

The catbirds are back. Or, one is. I don't know how many return every spring. Anyway, I'm happy to hear their warblings and mewings.

With skirmish and capricious passagings,
and murmurs musical and swift jug jug

-  from Coleridge's The Nightingale

One if by land, two if by sea"

Good Friday has some competition this year in the U.S. - it is two hundred and fifty years since Paul Revere took his famous ride up north from Boston, warning that the British were coming. Longfellow's poem is fantastic in every way, except that there were others making this journey, and Revere was apprehended by the British partway through. Perhaps Longfellow didn't know all this, since the story was not well-known before this was published. 

I basically lifted it from poets.org, rather than type it all in. But I would have, if I'd had to! But it wouldn't behave when I tried to center it. Small troubles.

Paul Revere's Ride

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,—
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war:
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,—
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,—
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,
That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

-  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1860

four Ruth Pitter poems

 I mentioned to Gretchen, in a comment, that I was reading a little book of Ruth Pitter's poetry. And that I couldn't really find one I actively like.

This book was published in 1953, so I guess it's safe to put a few here. 

                 The Ermine

I know this Ermine. He is small,
Keen-biting, very quick withal.

He dies of soil. He is the snow.
I marvel anyone can know

This Ermine: he is delicate.
Yes, maculate immaculate,

He is well seen and known by me,

Rough-handed homespun though I be.

I muse on him. His little eye
Reflects no beam I do not spy.

I through his snowy silence hear

Beyond the labyrinthine ear.

Royal he is. What makes him so?

Why, that too is a thing I know:

It is his blame, his black, his blot;

The badge of kings, the sable spot.

O subtle, royal Ermine, tell

Me how to wear my black as well.

Okay - now, I have no problem with this poem; I don't think it's gloomy. What is it about? If a real ermine, why is the word capitalized? Does it matter why? Is it really about something else?  I have no problem with this poem. But I move along through the book.

The Great Winter, 1946-1947

The leaves die, fall and go.
They lie all under the snow.

In the great snow the grass dies;

Still the deep clouds fill the skies.

Summer wept, and now the east

Roaring falls on man and beast.

And man and beast die, fall and go;

Under the sky's pall, rain or snow;

Neither hut nor palace stays

The sure ending of their days;

Age and sickness and the wars

Stretch them stiff beneath the stars.

And the stars die, fall and go.

Eye by eye, they cease to glow;

Orb by orb, the storm of suns

To its end in glory runs;

The great wheels, the galaxies,

Shall turn no more about the skies.

Since all must die, fall and go,

Why do we mourn that it is so?

All mourn, lament and weep

That creation falls asleep?

This was given us to make

Our spirits homeless for His sake.

Okay, this poem is sound theology - she's a believer.  Next:

The Other

Like a bird in the rainy cover
When song is fallen still,

It dwells apart, and over

Blue hill upon blue hill.

As a bird in the green places

When summer days are long,

Falls weary, and embraces

Silence instead of song,

Far and apart it muses

In the obscure and dim,

Forgetting the sweet uses

Of voice and feather and limb.

Small, small and slender,

Crowned with its faint gold crown,

It dwells where the light is tender,

Like fair hair falling down.

Swiftness and song were moulded

Into that wing, that breast;

But now the wing is folded,

The throbbing throat at rest.

When from that bosom narrow

The fiery singing flew,

Like a sharp secret arrow

It pierced my armour through.

But its great silence haunts me

In the solemn summer gloom;

The voiceless thing enchants me

As with a sense of doom.

A monument, a token

Of all we have betrayed,

Of all that we have broken -

It makes my soul afraid.

Far from the tumult fleeing,

The shrines that we destroy,

Is it my own grieved being

Mourning its unborn joy,

Or some indignant spirit

Whose power can afford

To give us what we merit -

A silence like a sword? 

All right. Now we are getting to what I complaining of to Gretchen: these poems seem kind of gloomy. Well, this one does. To continue:

The Neophyte

Something I see and feel,

But I must not speak.

It lives, O it is real,

But cold and weak

As a far light in a cave,

As the faint glow

That the green glow-worms have,

As stars of snow;

As tenuous jellies small,

Knotted, turned in,

That you may see on a wall

Where the tide has been;

Whence the great swinging deep,

With its bell-mouthed roar,

Has gone, and left them asleep,

Flowers no more;

Has gone, falling away

Far to the main:

But with the day, with the new day,

Shall come again.

Alright, I think they are not really gloomy, but they seem to be. She has faith in God, in the next life, and her poems all seem to be about that. I think it's just her way of saying it. I have no problem with her ability! I cannot write poetry! I told Gretchen that I missed Christina Rossetti in comparison. But, Christina wrote a lot about love: lost love, unrequited love, hopeless love, etc.. So that's where she was coming from and that's what she had to write about. And this woman can only tell things in her own way, too. It's just that she is saying true things, but there seems a heavy-air hanging about them. (in my opinion)

I can't say I dislike these poems; they are well-crafted. Maybe I'm just nit-picking.

morning surprise

 I know this is the worst photo ever.

At the moment, sunrise is around seven o'clock here, and this morning at seven my brother was outside watering some shrubs before taking his walk. He called to me that the sky was pink and I said it is that way from time to time at sunrise. But then he said there was an orange rainbow and you could see it from the front of the house. Well, I didn't have my contacts in yet, but I went out on the front step to look; I didn't see any rainbow. So, I went to the back door (which is not in back, but on the side of the house), and I saw it, across the street. It was fading, but he said it had been pretty bright. 

Okay, we all know the conditions for a rainbow, I think - I always run outside to look for one after a rain, when the sun is bright somewhere and the clouds are still dark on the other side. But it hadn't been raining. It was dry. And, our rainbows are always in the east, in the back of the house, never across the street, in the west. Not to mention that I never heard of an orange rainbow - mostly orange, he said. 

I can only assume it was due to the aurora, which has been appearing even where we live, a couple of times. Nothing like in northern Europe, but more like a bright pink sky well after dark, at night. So, is this connected to that? It must have to do with the electromagnetic activity.

catbird at the garden

 showing off a beautiful tail.

 I had no idea.

a day's work

 Well, I finished Howards End; I’m relieved. Of course, it is well written. Of course, it’s a good story. But I didn’t *like* it. This may be due to imperfections in my attitude or understanding, but there it is; I’m glad to finish it.

Robins have been around.

I've been thinking of a drapey, spring skirt; I bought a rayon print in a nice strong but muted turquoise with - for lack of a better term - animal print stripes. Which sounds weird, but the colors are brown, sort of a gold, off-white and dark red. I have a brown sweater, and probably other things I can wear with it and I think an elastic waist is the simplest course.

The color is washed out in this picture, but there's something about brown and turquoise, or robin's egg blue - it speaks to me of spring. And two yards cost me fourteen dollars from denverfabrics.com. I need to figure out how wide I want the casing to be, and what size rectangles for the front and back pieces.

We were supposed to go see the new film about Mother Cabrini with some folks from church, but I've got a slight intestinal thing. I thought I'd better stay home. Three of my co-workers have had terrible bugs run through their families in the last three weeks, and how do I know if I'm a carrier? Anyway, I washed the bathroom floor and cleaned the kitchen counters, which was satisfying, and I felt better for staying home. 

When I go to the basement to bring up something, I'm usually juggling the stuff or I use a plastic bag. But there was a sturdy basket hanging down there which I suddenly remembered. I cleaned it up, and now it serves as a very handy and far more pleasant way of carrying things up from my shopping trips downstairs.

So we, when this day's work is o'er,
And shades of night return once more,
Our path of trial safely trod,
Shall give the glory to our God.

a big dose of snow magic

 Well, it's done snowing; we got roughly a foot. It was supposed to continue till seven o'clock this evening, but things have turned east. That part of the magic is over. 

Most of these photos were taken around seven this morning. It was so enchanting I kept going from window to window, noticing the dancing snowflakes,

the wet snow sticking to all the shrubbery around.

The contrast of color here and there against the mostly white landscape

and just the general fluffiness of it all. I have seen it a hundred times, but never tire of it when it comes again.

sort of a fishbowl effect here - I like it!

a bit about St. George

 Well, it did snow yesterday to freshen things up a bit and the cold continues, with today being the coldest - but it didn't end up as cold as predicted. And, as we came out of the grocery store we felt a very fine snow again! It continued for a few hours and now it's all a beautiful soft white blanket out there.

Daisy has been helping me pack away some of the Christmas things.

I'm sure I don't need to elaborate.

There's a piece about St. George in Magnificat this month which surprised me. As we all know, Shakespeare died on his feast day, April 23, and was either born or baptized on that, too. And there are the legends, that he slayed a dragon. That's about all I ever knew of him.

The article says he died around the year 303.

this book is lovely, by the way

"Saint George is generally considered to have been a soldier-martyr under Diocletian. He was canonized in 494, but gained enormous popularity during the Middle Ages as one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers, who were specially invoked during the Plague....George is also a beloved patron of England, in whose battles he has a long tradition of miraculous intervention. As recently as 1914, British soldiers, about to be overpowered by a larger German force, reported a winged army around them, calling upon their leader: either Saint George or Saint Michael, depending on the account. The German infantry paused their onslaught, and the British forces escaped destruction. Later, German prisoners mentioned their surprise at seeing the British using longbows again."  emphasis mine

What a story!! 

The above book was illustrated by the late Trina Schart Hyman, whose work I love. I also am fond of a book of John Updike's poetry about the seasons, for children, also illustrated by her.

January

The days are short,
The sun a spark
Hung thin between
The dark and dark.

Fat snowy footsteps
Track the floor,
And parkas pile up
Near the door.

The river is
A frozen place
Held still beneath
The trees' black lace.

The sky is low.
The wind is gray.
The radiator
Purrs all day.

-  John Updike,  c1965.

Simple in their descriptions, but greatly enhanced by Trina's wonderful paintings.

enjoying it while we had it

 We had a snowy day at last. I'll call it a Christmas snow since we are still in the "greater" Christmas/Epiphany season. But it went quickly, after a warm day and then rain, more rain. 

I often wonder how my raised beds are doing out there, in so much wet. It rained again overnight, hard, and the wind howled; I was surprised the barrels stayed upright. It ended up a warm day, though, and I even opened some windows. But now the cold air is coming.

Meanwhile, the Three Kings left - they never can stay long because of Herod. So things are quieting down. 

I wanted some color outside and there are these silk poinsettias I don't seem to use in the house - I stuck them in the dirt, and there they have been at least two weeks. They're like the mail carrier: outside in sleet and snow and all weathers, uncomplaining.

about the Baby

 I like the way the nativity is set up in church this year; it's a bit cramped-looking, actually, but somehow more dynamic. The three kings are very close by, but it creates a pathway of sorts in between them where you can see the Baby.

When I typed "baby" above, I got that double blue line which tells me something's not right. When I changed it to "Baby", it went away. Isn't that surprising to you? That it thought I should spell baby with a capital B? I hadn't thought it was necessary there, but guess I was wrong. 

The Baby and his mother

so much to do

 The little tree on my desk at work.  

Christmas lights at Dianne's

 Bill and Dianne's front yard is populated with all manner of lights, shapes and creatures; it's so cheerful. I got some pictures -

I had to walk up there and stand in the road, taking my photos.

It's all so well arranged, very tasteful, I think.

Good job.

busy-ness

 It's time for baking, and I'm really trying to be faithful to it. There was a butter cookie recipe in my magazine the other day, and afterward I realized I'm so out of practice in rolling out cookies! Some were too thin and several broke apart, I think because I didn't let them cool enough before moving them. Today I baked some with oats, cranberries and chocolate pieces. I didn't have dried crans, so I cut up frozen ones, didn't want white chocolate, so I used dark. I also decided to make them with einkorn flour, which turned out rather interesting. 

Before they went in.

Einkorn feels different than regular flour, it doesn't seem as dry, or flyaway. And they say you should use one quarter less liquid in your recipes, but cookies don't have much in the way of liquid. Two eggs and a tablespoon of vanilla in these. It didn't occur to me to increase the flour but I will do that next time. This flour absorbs liquids and fats differently and you have to take that into account. If you can figure it out. So they spread out quite thinly but I have to say they're good and einkorn is easier on my digestion. It's going to be trial and error for a while.

I took photos of a couple more quilts hanging at the library -

and

This one has some sparkly fabric in it. And lastly, this quilt, which isn't part of the current display, but which was made for the library thirty years ago by a quilt group in town. It hangs above the stairway going up the the children's area. I just love it.

I was thinking since I find Christina Rossetti's poems so appealing, I could maybe find a book about her. So I got a copy of Georgina Battiscombe's  A Divided Life. I like the way it's written, and am glad I had the idea. Funny thing: I got it on Tuesday and was reading chapter one. It said she was born on December 5th. That was the day I was reading it! And today I picked up my issue of Plough - I have to finish it, because a new one should be coming soon - and the article speaks of the influence St. Ambrose had on St. Augustine, and how extremely busy a bishop could be back then. Well, today is the feast of St. Ambrose! Everything means something, but I have no idea what. Still, it is funny. 

Anyway, Augustine described how Ambrose would just quietly snatch moments for reading, in between all the pulls on his time and attention. The article says, "Ambrose has chosen to use his spare snatches of time to return within himself, to become an island of stillness. His reading, certainly, is an example of leisure."

That pretty much sums up Advent, trying to make oases of quiet and stillness in the midst of the other stuff.