August so far: the dryer. The plumbing. Now the dishwasher. And Monday there will be three of us, so we can’t just ignore it.

When everything looks clear but it barely drains–I heard it trying and a little did but not enough and it threw the error code–do you call the plumber or appliance repair? I’m thinking appliance?

I tried simply clearing out the water and starting it over and that actually worked yesterday. Yay!

Today the panel gave me The Look and did not.

Tree near the shore, day two. These lower leaves look like a palm, the trunk does not because that’s not what I was going for. We’ll see how this comes out.

I know I’ve told this before, but when I was first diagnosed with lupus at 31, I read Norman Cousin’s “Anatomy of an Illness,” where he talks about the need for a creative outlet, any creative outlet, to cope with a major new diagnosis.

Okay. Choose one.

I went to the library to look for books on knitting to see if that could be it for me; I’d done a lot of knitting in high school but had given it up for lack of time and money in college.

Kaffe Fassett’s coffeetable “Glorious Knits” was easily the most prominent book on that shelf and practically fell into my hands. The center of it was two models in multi-color coats in a Dutch amaryllis field holding my favorite flowers.

I knew I could never knit any such thing but I had to check it out for the sake of those amaryllises if nothing else.

That book changed my life.

My first try was a tiptoe into it: four colors. A vest for my mom.

She wore it to the Kennedy Center in D.C. and when she sat down in her seat the woman behind her was wearing not only a sweater from that same book but that same pattern! The woman told Mom, Don’t you just love his work!

I got braver. I finished a wool coat out of 68 separate colors, where Fassett wrote, These are large, but they drape beautifully on everybody.

Then I met the guy and he almost had to duck to come through the door to do a booksigning at Uncommon Threads. My husband does have to duck through a standard doorway. I suddenly saw how it came to be that when I got done, Richard had said, It fits me better than it fits you, go make yourself another one.

And I did! Spent a little more time collecting more yarn (it is fair to say there were leftovers) and my coat had 86. So there.

I’m convinced that wanting to have that colorwork without that having to do all that intarsia work–I remember counting 64 strands across a single row for one project that I was knitting doubled, which was a little bonkers, because guys, those were cotton–is how the hand-dyed yarn industry came to be.

So here I am knitting what’s aspiring to be a Monterey Cypress overlooking the ocean in my intarsia afghan when the news came in that the area near Henry Miller’s library and Nepenthe in Big Sur are on fire. Not the buildings so far. They’re doing everything they can to save them.

Kaffe Fassett’s parents built Nepenthe. He grew up there. His family still owns it. His colorways reflect the area again and again.

A small part of this whole project all along has been an inward sort of a thank you to him for showing me what knitting could be and why I would want to do it. For me, he changed–sweeping my arm across the whole of these past 36 years, like the Kaffe Fassett vest for the foster teen who went on to graduate from college–everything.

For so many more people than just me.

Dr. Rachel Remen passed away on Saturday.

Kitchen Table Wisdom. My Grandfather’s Blessings. Two of the most important books I’ve ever read, and I recommend them to anyone and everyone.

She went to bed in her college dorm room one night and woke up six months later after a coma from blood loss, her first sign of Crohn’s disease. She made it through not just college but medical school after that.

She got offered head of pediatrics at Stanford, her dream job–but turned it down after seeing how they treated one of her young patients. She was determined to alter the culture of medicine for the better since she knew it well from the patient side as well as the professional. People went into it to be helpers but the process stomped the empathy right out of them. That had to change.

I have lived long enough and been a patient long enough to feel it is fair to say she succeeded at that.

A memory: meeting up with a man I grew up with since third grade after finding out he lives here–and realizing as he told me his story that he was in one of her stories, it all matched up, though you’d never be able to figure it out just from what she wrote. His dad and Rachel were old friends. She counseled the son when he was ready to walk away from medicine and helped him instead become a great doctor by working through his pain with him, to see that his compassion was the very strength that his pain was making visible. I have long been grateful to her for that.

She gave a reading at a local independent bookseller sometime in the early 90’s from her book, “My Grandfather’s Blessings” and then took questions from the crowd. I wrote about that here.

For those with long memories, Don Meyer was an elderly friend who used to comment on my blog all the time. Before he went into hospice, he had a visiting med student from UCSF attending to him once a week, they had some program going, I’m not sure of the details. But: Don got chatting to him about Dr. Remen and the young man said with great pride that she was one of his professors.

So through that avenue I sent a request that offered context to the evening at Kepler’s as to who I was, wondering whether Dr. Remen would like a lace shawl knit just for her?

It wasn’t going to be a wedding ring shawl–those take months on tiny needles and I didn’t know how long Don would be getting those visits–but fingering weight soft, soft baby alpaca in cream, I figured that would be pretty universal.

Dr. Remen’s response to my query was to send me her home address in great delight for me to mail it to directly. Afterwards she went me a much-treasured thank you note.

She was 88. The world was so lucky to have her as long as we did.

The treehouse DebbieR referred to. Photos here.

Four stories high, now with an elevator and building-code compliant.

I think if you ever had to cut down one of those trees that it’s no longer dependent on you’d have to do it really really carefully. But what a cool house!

A potluck picnic at the pool, old friends gathered, stories swapped.

I finally got to hear the rest of the story of the duck. The infamous huge duck. That actually once got a swim in the Baylands preserve. But mostly it was right by the side of the main commuter artery into downtown.

The artist who made it from scraps of metal and who knows what all else got harassed by the city over it and finally offered it to one of his co-workers from his day job (this guy) who appreciated such fine, fine craftsmanship.

The new owner’s kids liked to take turns camping in it.

A woman pushing a stroller stopped my friend and said she’d just moved here and her husband had bought the house without her even getting to see it first and she didn’t want to live in that town with the snooty reputation and he’d assured her, It’s okay. There’s a duck down the street. So she was looking for the duck.

Karen just so happened to know exactly where that was. (Here, let me show you the other side of my yard…) The woman went away much cheered. Quirks are fun. Good neighbors are the best. Two-for-one.

Then the particular city official whose position shall not be named here went after them because he really did not like that duck and thought it a blight on the community and dammit that thing was still around after all. Karen described it as “the size of a Volkswagon bug” and she was not wrong. Did I mention it was bright medium blue? You couldn’t miss it.

The judge was appalled: You’re bringing a case against these people? Over a LAWN ORNAMENT? Don’t you ever harass them nor waste this court’s time over such nonsense again!

The family had their seventh child and wanted to put a second story on their house. They needed those extra bedrooms.

That guy again. He told them You will NEVER get a building permit, and then he made good on that threat–until eventually he was fired. They built their second story.

So what happened to the duck? I asked. I used to drive by it all the time and it was one of those little perks of living here, everybody in the city knew that thing.

One of her kids had knocked its head off when no one was looking because he wanted his own bedroom and he was afraid someday he might have to sleep outside inside the duck like his big brother liked to do but that did not do it for him.

But that duck had adventures: permits were issued, it was hauled to the main drag on a trailer to celebrate a Stanford game, it was stolen by the rival high school who did not have a trailer nor permit and they bashed it in a bit in the process but it was gotten back.

So where is it now? I asked. I haven’t seen it in years.

Oh, I’ve still got the head, she said.

I can just hear it: Kids! Didn’t I tell you not to slam the door!

I just hope when they were building this place that the contractors didn’t put all the boxes of things for the bathrooms in one place as they worked on other rooms.

Because you know what they say: people in glass houses shouldn’t stow thrones.

I love my stoneware from Mel and Kris. But I also use small white Corningware plates all the time for all the little things. Good for carrying peach pits to the compost bin and all that.

No matter that they’re never loaded to touch anything in the dishwasher, sometimes an old one will come out with a tiny chip or round divot, which is a good time to let them retire.

I was unloading the machine this morning when suddenly there was this tiny emphatic stabbing of broken glass. Too tiny to see but wow did that thing have a bite to it, there was no question what that was.

I had one of those rare flashes of brilliance: I stepped around the corner to where the heavy-duty clear shipping tape was. I cut off a small piece, wrapped it around my finger and kind of kneaded it just for good measure, hoping I wasn’t pushing the thing further in.

Then I held the tape up to the skylight.

There it was. A round speck possibly smaller than the period at the end of this sentence. There was a tiny drop of blood on my finger, a few minutes more of ouchie while my finger whined at me, and then that was that. It was gone.

So I thought I’d mention it in case anyone else ever needs to know.

Scene: Church. Russ speaking.

Of the purpose of our gathering together: Of learning to serve one another and love one another, fully, completely, as we are Loved, every one of us.

One young dad when it was his turn spoke of the joy of waiting for their firstborn last month, of finally getting to meet her–and of his forever gratefulness for the prayers sent her way as she spent a week in the NICU fighting for her life.

His new daughter is safe and sound and home now. It doesn’t turn out that way for everyone, he said, and he knew that, and he knew he didn’t understand why that was so and he was all the more grateful that for them it got to turn out how they had so hoped.

What he didn’t know yet but I do is that that will see him through so many moments to come of her growing up: this is the child they almost lost. This is the child that G_d meant to have be here, after everything her birth could throw at her, and she is alright. She will be all right. No matter the individual moments along the way.

Teenagerhood ain’t got nuthin’ on the memories held by a parent who nearly lost that child. Gratitude rules.

The thrill of being able to do laundry again does lose a little bit after the twelfth straight hour of it, and tomorrow looks to be the same; the towels have to be clean before you can use them to clean. And there was half a closetful of wet clothes to deal with–long way to go there–as well as catching up on the normal day-to-day.

But every time I walk in and see that new machine it does still feel gratifying to be able to.

I did get a wow and a laugh: he knew the guy who became, it turns out, the owner of this house. We’d always wondered how things had turned out for him.

I puzzled and puzzled and cannot tell from the pictures how the twists in the stairs end in doors that open, but then, for us, we chose for them not to.

At 4:29 he said he was on his way. Yay!

He had me flushing toilets so many times each, stopping when the shower pans started to fill up again, waiting, then doing it again only more and turning on the shower once he got the roots cut to help wash it all out. He was on the roof, I was inside and occasionally running outside for further instructions, phone captions at the ready. There is a reason I put on a skirt with deep pockets this morning.

A little after 6 he was on his way home towards dinner with one of the last of our peaches.

The first dishwasher load is done.

The second laundry load is about to go in the dryer–having warmed clothes is such a novelty–and I will be doing towels and towels and towels tomorrow. They’ve been laying out playing beach bum in the sun and who knew we had so many that were burgundy?

I wonder what the plane passengers have been thinking as they look down near the airport.

I learned the hard way that it’s worth waiting for Lee; last time I thought I couldn’t wait the extra day, I ended up with a kitchen sink that left the living room rug squishy with water for our $800+. It took it a few days to collect that much under the foundation to the point that we could notice it.

When Lee later came to rescue us from that, he saw what the guy had done and told me that that was an under five minute job with a twenty dollar part and warned me about the new ownership of that company.

So this time I waited.

Turns out he was waiting for a delayed flight home with doctor appointments lined up for the week, but he highly recommended his friend who used to work for him.

So I called that guy. He was going to come around 5–but things were taking too long and he called back this afternoon very apologetically; would tomorrow at 5 be okay?

Let’s see, take my chance on some random guy off the internet again or stick with the honest ones who know their job and answer to each other on it and stand by their work.

Good thing I ran four laundry loads after the dryer guys left Saturday.

Which is surely why the slowing system belched Sunday, but hey, we’ll get it back to normal with his help.

No one was doing anything with water this afternoon when he heard the big gurgle sound and hurried to check it out.

The tub was filling with water. The bathroom floors were in Deep Splash mode and flowing out the doors, with ours flowing under our closet and soaking any clothes that touched clothes that touched the floor, and I am married to a tall man. I instantly knew what a huge job this was all about to be.

But everything had been fine a half hour earlier!

And if you mop it up with towels–I had this moment of oh I’m so glad we got that dryer in time! immediately followed by, wait… Water was pouring out of the laundry room too. With no machine in use all day.

At least it was clear. It was clear it was clear it was clear. Not that I’d trust it for that but at least it felt better.

Shortly after, a friend drove up with his shop vac as I was twisting out towels out front and told him I was watering the azaleas.

Dave pitched right in. We sent him home with Andy’s peaches and a pound of dried apricot slabs and he asked about how to take care of the apricot tree we gave him a few months ago; I showed him mine so he could see what his would look like at a year older, and at the difference in growth since he’d picked up his.

This city owns its own utilities and they answer to the voters, which I love because it means their emergency guy came out within minutes to check the city’s line to the house. He was actually apologetic that the problem wasn’t there so he couldn’t do anything about it; we sent him off with thanks and a peach.

We sent yesterday’s installers home with a small box of peaches each.

We’re hoping our favorite plumber can make it tomorrow.

And after that I’m going to have to go back and pick up more peaches at Andy’s because we’re going through them pretty fast.

Okay, it looked like we were back up, I tried to post, and everything went poof. As Richard put it, The blog was well and truly hacked.

Let’s see if I can retrieve it… There it is! And yay again for the resident geek! But my preview is gone and it’s late at this point and you’ll just have to take it with no editing work.

—

And the blog is back up! Yay for the resident geek!

After ten long months of hanging things to dry in the kids’ old bathroom overnight, with family coming soon that just wasn’t going to work anymore. Did Speed Queen owe me a working dryer under the warranty? Yes they did. Would they do it? No they refused. Did the seller go to bat for me with them? No. Speed Queen would only repair the old one, telling me they never replace, and the repairman said that that was a risk he wasn’t willing to take because the board sparking meant it was too much of a fire hazard. Nearly burning the house down once was enough.

He was clearly afraid I would sue them and he would be dragged into it and he was done with it. He wouldn’t come and they wouldn’t give. And so I got nowhere.

I fantasized about returning it to the seller’s doorstep but didn’t want to be charged with dumping.

I can now no longer prove to Speed Queen that their machine is as the guy told me: it is gone. The new one via Costco is a Frigidaire with good reviews and the delivery men were the best.

Two things I learned: companies seem to be cutting costs by getting rid of the interior light and by curving the top of the back dashboard inward at the sides so they can use less metal. Many reviews complained about clothes falling down behind in the gaps that created.

The Frigidaire is much closer to straight up and it has an interior light and it’s a classic front-entry like I wanted and by golly it works, it works and that’s all I ever wanted in a dryer. It cost about half what my Speed Queen did. Warm clothes that are softened in the process! No more burlap towels!

So: I opened the door to the delivery guy with the greeting, My hero! And explained it had been ten months without one. He laughed. 

There were two of them and they each got sent off with a box of peaches from Andy’s bought yesterday and napkins they were going to need for them. It was 4:30, they’d been working since 6 a.m., they were tired, but they both perked up at those peaches, more so than the tip.

The inaugural load has begun. At long, long last.

Oh Birkenstock. Do none of you knit? Do any of you who do knit have a dog or a cat?

Because seriously, the yarn barf shoe, with the strap playing ball band trying to hold it all together, is the funniest thing you’ve ever done.

A hey, how are you. A response of, It’s been too long. A, How about we…

And there we were in an impromptu dinner together after a your house or ours we don’t care we just want to see you guys. Fruit from Andy’s. Her yarn in bins over there so she could choose the colors for the next big project, just like mine are over here at the moment. She pulled out my book and said she was going to knit a shawl for a friend and I pointed out the simplest to do (the Julia) vs the more involved (like the one named after her.) I said doing a three-stitch idiot cord for the neck edge makes a stronger one than what’s in there (hey, you learn something 20 years down the road) and you have the cast-on three, the ones you pick up the stitches along the length of it and then three last ones along the far side. You want a wider edge than I made some of those–start at the count at row 2 on some of those if you need to so it drapes better in the front if it’s for a larger person.

I like doing i-cord, she said, not quite sure what I meant.

Oh right. Idiot cord–it got shortened to i-cord, it’s where the i comes from.

Didn’t know that. Learned something new!

And a great time was had by all, along with a wondering why we don’t do this more often. Maybe we will now.