Our friend Alice was at the wheel, I was on the passenger side, Richard behind me as we drove back from Oakland this afternoon.

Her eyes steadfastly on the road and not even glancing to the side, being an avid birder she motioned towards what had caught the corner of her eye, saying, simply, “Look.” Knowing I would want to.

White dots in the distance and nearer, a single crane standing sentinel, alone. A closer flock appeared as the road continued past the cracked-brown edges of the shore: there in the gray-blue water of the Bay, the white pelicans’ plumage shone brilliantly in the sun.

They circled to play a game of Go Fish and a beak of orange-gold was raised in success.

Finally, finally I got to go to knit night at Purlescence. I almost went last week but felt like, no, after that flu and two days’  break and then a cold, one more week. Just to be sure I don’t give any of that to anyone.

I got the BIGGEST hugs! I tell you. I’d missed those guys so much.

And towards the end I ripped out most of what I’d knit there because I hadn’t caught an early goof. It still felt good because now I know it’ll come out perfect. It’s a shawl that’s been waiting awhile for me to proof-knit it a second time because I do that when I’m intending to publish a pattern. I hadn’t gotten around to it and hadn’t gotten around to it so finally I’d given the second-done one away so I would have to.

Begin. The rest is easy. And it is! Man, that Malabrigo Silky Merino is nice stuff.

Finally seem to be over that bug and have my energy back. Time to really get out and go somewhere.

So I texted Michelle, having looked forward to the thought all month long: Want to go to Mariani’s?

She called back with a YES! so fast I didn’t even have time to see if they were still open for the season. Turned out she’d taken her car in for routine maintenance and they’d told her they wouldn’t be done for four hours and she was stuck with no wheels and nothing to do. (Prime knitting time, to a knitter, but…) She’d just wandered to the grocery store a few blocks down to buy a snack.

“I’ll be out the door in five minutes.” I hadn’t eaten yet. Yay for leftovers–I didn’t even bother to warm them up, let’s go!

And so we were on our way. She checked on her phone and yes, open.

We got to Morgan Hill, turned onto the street, and a small tractor was pulling up to the mailbox near the entrance sign. I came up alongside and hesitated before turning into the driveway: my car is a Prius and people don’t hear me coming. I didn’t want him to pull forward without knowing I was there.

It was Andy himself under that hat as he glanced up from his mail and the instant deep warmth in his face as he recognized us and waved us on in made my day. Sometimes on this planet earth of ours we allow each other to see how much we matter to each other even when we don’t know each other very well. I do passionately want his farm to keep providing the best of the best despite the pressures of encroaching city and drought.

On display were the last six peaches of the year. Most were huge, a pound and a quarter. I didn’t see it, so I asked, “What’s the name of the variety?”

The lady grinned. “Last Chance!”

We bought them all. I filled the rest of the crate with plums. We added strawberries, green veggies, honey, and a chocolate/apricot/marzipan candy that definitely warrants coming back for. Not too sweet. They got it exactly right.

There were also the very last of some green figs with a deep red center, and knowing they wouldn’t have a long shelf life, I only took seven or eight and left the other half for the next person coming along.

We’ll definitely go back to try out the monster Mutsu apples. Soon.

Someone fairly new to the area gave a talk in church today and introduced herself a bit. She mentioned her love of knitting chemo caps and how knitting for others in need had centered her when she was struggling.

Then she starting having aches and pains herself but shrugged them off–until she couldn’t: it was uterine cancer.

And that’s how they found out she had ovarian cancer too. The uterine had saved her life because it had given her symptoms.

And there were her friends from her knitting group, keeping her company during the long days in the hospital.

I’d wondered if her hair meant… It’s growing back in nicely.

Richard and I came home and shortly after we found ourselves exclaiming, Oh look!

He stayed a good fifteen minutes and I thought in my friend’s direction, Honey, someone’s looking out for you too now.

Richard, looking for his camera quickly (no luck) and wishing for a better shot than my iPhone could do at that distance wondered if it were a new hawk; I said, could be but could be the lighting. The fact that it let me pick up and point my phone at him says to me it’s my old friend Coopernicus back.

Equinox cometh and territories must be reclaimed. And so we are here.

This morning started with 9/11 memories.

And then the day changed.

Last time I sat on this side of the church during a funeral, the pew suddenly lurched hard upwards then down again as the other end rose, a single-use seesaw as the wave passed through. I looked up to see a chandelier swinging wildly right over the head of the oblivious guy just across the aisle and instantly gauged whether, if I leaped across to knock him out of the way, could I do it in time. Stay…stay…!

It held.

This time the earth held still while heaven was happy to move us. Shirley C’s children spoke. Did I hear that right? That her childhood nickname was Squirrel? Too funny!

My grandmother, who lived to be 96, told my mother years ago, Make friends with people younger than you; pretty soon they’re all you have left.

Shirley wasn’t about to wait–when she was in her 50’s she was already throwing parties to meet new young families moving into the area and I know because we were one of them. Games and homemade trifle, get to know each other: come, and know that you belong.

Always cheerful. Always helpful. Always welcoming. One friend who’d known her 39 years said that smile of hers that lit up the whole church every week said to him, I know you: and (he grinned) I like you anyway.

Much laughter.

I learned something I had not known: she had wanted to go to medical school and she had worked hard to attain that, but her grade in organic chemistry–my biologist daughters can tell you how hard that class is–was not quite perfect, and at the time only two women in the entire country were allowed into medical school per year and she was not one of them. So she put that degree to other uses, and thus many students got to have Mrs C in their lives who would never have met her otherwise. They lucked out.

She was here and healthy three weeks ago, how could it be…

An infection and a reaction. It all happened in two weeks. Her children had time to come and they were with her at the end. Her granddaughter in Argentina got to talk to her on the phone. Love, all that had centered her in her life, she centered them with one more time and they her.

Her Paul had wanted bagpipes playing Amazing Grace at his funeral thirteen years ago and his cousin had flown into town and done just that.

I could just picture those notes sounding again as her beloved welcomed her home.

I got to see Mel and Kris! At Kings Mountain Art Fair today.

I totally lucked out: I found a parking space right across the street from where the shuttle picks up and drops off for the outer-darkness cars. Couldn’t ask for better.

Got there and they offered me a seat, come sit awhile. We tried to remember just how far back we go; our kids were a lot younger and so were we. We swapped stories and laughed while I tried to stay out of the way of interactions with other customers. I related having recently had dinner guests where each had two of Mel and Kris’s little rice bowls: sour cream in this one, brown sugar in the other one, a big bowl full of strawberries each: dip, dip, eat.

I needed more of those little bowls, then, and while I’m at it I broke one of the bigger ones this past year and it was a favorite. Fortunately they had just fired a run that looked very much like it–I bought two.

At last it was time to note the height of the sun and be on my way.

Mel insisted on carrying my bag not only to the waiting area for the bus that is a former trolley car, he boarded it with me and took my new pottery all the way to my car. Thankfully he got back on in time to ride it right back to Kris, it being one of the busier times of day for them.

I went home and halved Ghirardelli chocolate raspberry squares to make spikes on a cake dragon…

At the block party, we got the great surprise that a mom and her daughters were there (but not her son) who had grown up friends with our kids. I hadn’t seen any of them since their middle-school days and now the parents live right around the corner.  We had about sixteen years’–how did that happen!–worth of catching up to do between us all.

The daughter remembered that I was always knitting while waiting to pick up my kids back at the elementary school; did I still do that? The mom asked if I still did the, did the, (and she motioned a spinning wheel turning).

Oh yes!

They said that with all the unpacking going on they almost hadn’t made it and they were so glad they’d just dropped everything and come. Me too, oh, me too.

It shouldn’t bother me that much. I told myself that for fifteen years. I should just let it go. I’ve tried to talk to her, she’s blown me off every time, how much does it really matter, I should just let it go. Let it go.

I was almost good at that, too. For a long time. If only the problem weren’t quite so big and bright in my face every single day.

I tried to think through how it would feel if I got what I wanted–would it have been worth it? The answer was a clear, if I do it in any degree of anger whatsoever on my part or, and this is the hard part, theirs, the answer was definitely no, and so I stalemated myself.

We have an annual block party every Labor Day and it’s a wonderful tradition where everybody gets to know each other. When there was a city issue needing discussion, we widened it to several blocks and found the more really was the merrier.

At last year’s, though, when I tried again, wanting to discuss at least a possible change of placement with M, she cut me off with, “I don’t want to be a bad neighbor” and walked briskly away as if that fixed that.

I recently tried running tape–shipping tape so it would hold–from my side of the fence to the belly of her tall Snoopy perched on the fence shading my peach so the tree could get a little more sunlight. The thing had long since ceased being a fixed object; here, point this way.

Someone yanked my tape off my side of the fence and set it back the way they wanted. Full shade.

After all the… But I knew they didn’t know just where my fruit trees were. Still, I was afraid the whole thing would at long last trip me up on Monday. I needed to finally deal with this, and better I do in time for both sides to think and come to an agreement before we see each other.

Another neighbor had their email. Score. If you loved the Anne of Green Gables books as a kid like I did, one of Anne’s lines stuck with me for life: “Paper is patient.” You can take the time to say what you want to say the way you want to say it without having emotional triggers trip you up. You can more easily be kind even when you’re bugged when nobody’s interrupting and it’s just you writing away.

You can delete, too.

And so I spent several days composing a letter to the Ms. I had to notify them anyway that they had several things sprouting up behind their hedge right against the fence where I could see them and they couldn’t and that they needed to do something about quickly before there was damage.

There was the fig tree on my side a few years earlier that, no matter how much I’d wanted one, I took it out as soon as she requested it; it was only right. It was their fence too. I had a new one now planted in a pot where it couldn’t intrude on anyone, and I thanked her for her common sense and said she had been right.

I rehearsed the story of the Snoopy and Woodstock figurines: how they’d suddenly appeared on top of the then-new fence right outside my living room windows and that for all the years since I had had an ongoing visual reminder that had made me sad for her that she’d felt more afraid of being told no than of the appearance of being rude: she’d asked no permission and allowed no input, even when I’d wanted to ask her to just move them down the fence a bit so as to be out of my direct sight.

One arm of the Snoopy snapped jaggedly years ago, ending its weathervane function.

And then someone on their side lifted it out, turned the broken side to face my windows and not theirs, and shortly after added the bright yellow Woodstock.

We were not strangers; I had been in their home back when we’d discussed the best way to replace our mutual fence and I’d invited them to mine, I knew she knew how to reach me. It was the ongoing struggle not to feel insulted that was the hardest. (I didn’t mention that.)

Over fifteen years those wooden figures continued to disintegrate.

That peach shading went on for as much as an hour and a half in the early afternoon in June–there has been no flowering under that direct shade line. I told them I certainly have no say regarding their trees in their yard and wouldn’t expect to, but on items on a fence that I own too? That, I do. I commit my water towards future fruit and I had a problem.

Now, while I was struggling to figure out how to say any of this in a way that might be kind and that might be heard, in a way that I hoped both they and I could be comfortable with after the fact, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, bless her, wrote a blog post that totally saved me: she wrote about how when she and Joe are upset with each other they work on being extra kind to each other to help work themselves through that, fake it till you make it when you have to, she said.

Sheer genius. And boy had I needed that right then, thank you, Stephanie, and Joe, too. What I had been needing to do, both for the Ms and for me, was something nice, something positive, anything. (Well, duh! Sometimes I can be SO slow.)

The squirrels would have stolen any tomato before I’d even closed the door going back in–and so it was one of my cupcake zucchinis that got plunked up between Snoopy and his sidekick before I ever sent off a word. From my garden; have some!

Then, and only then, did I feel ready to start writing; I had the right attitude I’d been searching for and it was a relief.

I found myself checking again and again in happy anticipation: had they taken it yet? No? Now? After several days, at last they did. Bon appetit!

I wanted them to enjoy their figurines, I said, and I imagine there must be some happy story, some strong connection that’s kept them there all this time and that if I only knew what it was it would have been easier to deal with them; I’d like them to enjoy them on their side now.

Add no no no okay you got that out of your system but that’s way too self-righteous delete that try again okay getting better.

Paper is patient.

Finally tonight I had the right mixture of this is why this has bothered me. This is why it’s more of an issue now. You are someone I can count on to do the right thing, I am glad you’re my neighbors, and if you liked the zucchini please let me know because there are a ton more where that came from and I’d love the help using it up. Etc.

I prayed long and hard before sending it off–and felt no, not quite. I studied it, caught a phrase that wasn’t quite…, prayed again. Very close. What more could I…? Oh, I see it plain as day there, okay, thank you.

After repeating that process several times it finally felt right, really right, and taking a deep breath, hoping hard for the best neighborliness forever, I hit–there’s no going back, ready? You sure? Yes. Send.

I opened the sliding doors and walked outside after dinner to see if my baby fig in its pot needed any water and in the time it took me to check out the growth on the warned-about saplings at the far end of the yard and then over to the fig and back across towards the door, Snoopy and Woodstock vanished.

Only the long metal nails remained.

Y E S !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And I came back in and wrote them a very grateful, Thank you, that was VERY kind of you!

Got a note this morning from my next-door neighbor: she was taking some water saved from washing vegetables outside to pour on some of her plants and found the chewed-up bubble wrap in the farthest corner of her yard from our house. She had a good laugh and took care of it for me.

Good to know it’s not waving to the world from the top of the redwood tree.

Just one long row at a time, I told myself.  Then rest the hands for the rest of each hour–I didn’t want to push them into a more lasting inflammation than the little bit going on. There is not a single painkiller I can safely take.

Other than icepacks. Done.

On the hour I picked those needles back up again. Then I put them back down.

Yeah that all worked just fine till about 8:00 p.m. when I just kept pushing on through till ten with one nagging break to go read a newspaper article, because I was so close to being finished and I so wanted my inner vision to become real and accomplished and right there in front of me at long last. This one had been a long time coming.

I started this shawl during my cousins reunion trip over the Fourth of July–where I forgot my instructions so I just had to make it up as I went along.

Ad-libbing may be freeing but it’s also a whole lot slower: you constantly have to stop, take stock of where you’ve been and where you’re going and how much yarn you have left and make sure it’ll be what you want it to come out looking like and that you’ve got the yardage to do it. Will it pinch in below the shoulders? Stop weigh count consider.

It made for slow progress. But it was becoming something new entirely and the closer it got the faster it was finally going and by the time I went to bed last night I knew exactly what every single remaining row was going to be and I was totally falling in love with it like never before.

It’s the lace weight that Melinda of Tess Designer Yarns surprised me with and it exactly matches a favorite shirt.

Tomorrow: cast off. Block.

Wear, with an inner thank you Melinda’s way every time.

Two friends wanted to come by a couple days ago and I had to tell them that between the deep cough and the fever, they really didn’t want to be here.

Then Richard, on the edge of the bug and not wanting to infect anyone just in case, didn’t show up at church Sunday either.

This afternoon I went to go get the mail and there at our doorstep, wrapped together in twine in a bow, were these two bars of chocolate and a get-well card containing an offer to run any errand I might need done while I’m down. Note that the Chocolove so far has been opened, sampled, and exclaimed over–definitely buying that one myself first thing. We will taste-test the second one tomorrow and stretch out the anticipation a bit: life is good.

A huge shout-out to Courtney and Alice and how could I not feel better after that?

I was sitting behind her at church, silently admiring my friend’s new scarf. Amazed that an edging like that could be attached by a machine to look like that and wondering where the stitches that should be bisecting it were that had sewn it onto the outer edges–it looked instead like it had been single-crocheted directly into the fabric.

When the meeting we were in was over, turns out M had been waiting to tell me about the experience.

There were no machine stitches. That edging actually was tatted and it really was all done by hand, gold then white then dangling tiny perfect red flowers that matched the print of the fabric above and moved when she did. Many flowers. It was a huge amount of work and done in a fine thread (and TATTED! I didn’t find anything quite like it but this was the closest–imagine that at about an inch)–you would need really good eyes.

But that wasn’t the best of it: she had been traveling and had befriended an elderly woman and that woman had made that gorgeous work of art and she’d wanted M to have it. She gave it to her.

She gave it to her.

With love from Turkey, forever.

I dangled what I hoped would be happy anticipation: I put this picture on Facebook with how to make it and said I had a lot more of these zucchini/pattypan hybrid squashes to bring to knit night.

So. Cut cupcake squash in half and place cut side down on plate.  Add a spoonful of water; nuke for three to four minutes till soft. Turn right side up again and scoop out seeds. Fill each with a big spoonful of Alfredo sauce mixed with one egg, sharp cheddar (or blue cheese and/or parmesan as you choose) and cherry tomato halves. Bacon bits if desired. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes.

Found one more squash this morning, but to be sure before heading out tonight I checked under those huge leaves one more time and found two more of a good size: how on earth had I missed those? (Well hey. Zucchini.) Seven went into a cloth bag.

All the way to Purlescence I was seeing the most unusual cloud formations–dalmation dog. Leopard print. Lots of little clouds against lots of blue.

Reactions when I put those green balls on the table ranged from oh cool! to oh okay to facial expressions of no no no please keep those far far away from me.

David came out of the back at the last and his face totally lit up when he saw those last two squash and I thought, okay, now I know who saw that post and was hoping. All yours, hon, please, take them–I have five more tiny ones and these have got to go. (I did not count the blossoms. I couldn’t bring myself to. I know you can stir fry those but an awful lot of them seemed to already have even tinier squashes already attached.)

He totally made my day as he made off with them in great delight.

Just before the shop closed down for the night, someone threw the doors open so we could hear the sounds and smell the ozone: it was RAINING! In August! And no it had not been in the forecast. A little, then more, then a good steady rain and lightning as I drove home. Rain rain actual rain, .04″ worth.

Those five tiny squash? With that extra water I’m guessing they’ll be full grown in time to try to ditch them at church.

Of course I went back. We’d eaten the last peach. Besides, having not bought any of those monster Flavor Heart pluots last week I had to.

This time I got to meet Andy Mariani himself, the rock star of great fruit as far as I’m concerned, and if I sound a little starstruck, he’s worked hard to earn it.

UC Davis created a great peach that’s too ugly for the mass market? He sells by flavor; Baby Crawford is now a customer favorite. The Kit Donnell in my hand is bigger than the Lorings were and was bred by Andy himself from those Baby Crawfords and named in honor of a friend of his, a fellow rare-fruit enthusiast.

He told me about a customer who asked him if she had to wait till the peach turned red to know it was ripe–she didn’t know that some peaches come in yellow and even green and red is not always an option.

And he picks his ripe.

I brought back last week’s box and got it refilled with various fruits and like in a good chocolate store, his manager wrote down the varieties alongside each row. (Never mind that smaller but not small plum squeezed in there where it could fit, we know what it is.)

I was curious about the Greengage plums listed on their site, but it wasn’t till I got home and found an article about their orchard that I realized there had been some right on that table the whole time and I’d skimmed right past them.

I’ll just have to go back. Twist my arm. We’ll just nibble on these first, shouldn’t take long at all.

Ellen got to see all the fruit trees last week while she was here, and walking around the yard she said she loved how the place had all these nooks and crannies.

In the drought-absence of a lawn I have gained a respect for the lowly dandelion: they don’t stab and they don’t grab or prickle and they delight little children at every stage. I have just a few.

But the ones that love a desert… I’ve got the worst of them by now but I want the rest gone before the rains come. I’ve seen how fast they can flower after a shower–one day. One. Day. Across species.

And so, it being our allotted watering evening (9-6: not allowed) rather than coming inside between trees as I moved the hose around, timer in my pocket, I stayed out there, my entire upper body against the little pricker factories, pulling as many up by the taproots before sundown as I could.

And came in at last, dead tired, and explained to Richard why I hadn’t come in during each eight minute interlude to, y’know, go knit or something: “I was weeding a good nook.”

If only I had thought of it a day or two earlier I could have shared some of this with Ellen–and likely there would have been more. She, though, gave me a nectarine from her travels in the Central Valley and pointed out the tiny dimples: the farmer had told her the unusual rain striking the skin had done that.

So the story: I exchanged emails last winter with Andy Mariani, the owner of a well-loved orchard a ways south of here, and he was delighted to find someone who knew of and liked Loring peaches like he did.

I didn’t think we got enough chill hours for them to grow here. (But he’s in a slightly different subclimate.)

Yes he did have a few trees. Get back in touch with him come summer and he’d be glad to put some aside for me.

A tad late, I remembered all that and shot him off another note.

The market stand was sold out, he answered Thursday, but if I could come Friday they would be picking the very last few that morning. Maybe three pounds’ worth.

I don’t care if it’s just one single peach, I said, for my first Loring in thirty-eight years it’s worth the trip!

And so they managed to find ten peaches for me tucked among the leaves and set them aside. Michelle and I got there, and the woman at the counter asked, You’re Alison?

She offered samples of a Silk Road nectarine, too. I prefer peaches–but that was like no nectarine I’d ever tasted and would have been worth the trip down all on its own. I’d never had one run juice to my elbows before and I did not know they could have such an intense, interesting flavor–so some of those came home, too.

I did not get the name of the dappled, pretty, ripe, green–cherries? So they were. In almost-August. I’d never heard of such a thing.

We came home with our treasures and cut up our first Loring. That first picture is not a trick of the camera angle–that thing was 508 grams.

Michelle closed her eyes a moment and pronounced, Now that is a peach!

Relief! After all that buildup, it just couldn’t be a letdown, it couldn’t…and it wasn’t.

We took one to Timothy at the chocolate shop. “You didn’t go to Andy Mariani’s, did you? You did? Yes!” He shared it with his employees. Our favorite hot chocolates showed up at our elbows.

The one I later shared with Richard needed one more day to ripen perfectly but it had bruised slightly from all the juice and a little jostling and needed not to be wasted. He too pronounced it good, though I told him Michelle’s was even better.

At least I got to send Ellen off with homegrown Meyer lemons. She’ll just have to come back next July.