I grew up in a house and neighborhood with wood siding in an area dominated by brick homes reminiscent of the colonial era–after all, George Washington himself made use of the blacksmith shop a half mile away. Tradition.

So there’s been this odd interest that I wouldn’t have guessed I had at seeing what a brick house looks like if you could see how it’s built.

A war is not how I wanted to do that.

I sent a private note of admiration for her talent and of support.

In response, she sent me pictures: shredded drywall, pock marks in the bricks behind where that drywall had fallen from, a tennis ball blasted across the room, broken things, crumbled things, but overall, the walls were intact. Or enough so, anyway, and she vows to rebuild. This is her home. In Kherson.

Her mother’s, though, was closer to the dam that the invaders had blown up and it is ruined. But she’s alive. And they will come back from this.

This is the woman who created my cherry tree gerdan, the most intricate one I have. It took me a year to decide to spend that much–but I could just hear my art dealer father exclaiming over the skill and talent that went into it and how much of my own family’s history it reflects. All those summer trips to pick-your-own farms, all those hours and hours of jarring and jamming.

My own Stella cherry looks just like this right now.

I am so glad I got it.

She’s working on a new design right now as a way of coping (bead on with confidence through all crises, paraphrased the knitter to herself, nodding her head) and I am checking her shop every day because I want to see what it will be and because, having seen what she personally is facing, it feels even more imperative to help. There is the World Central Kitchen–and there are individuals. I can’t do everything, but I can do some things.

Getting to wear her artwork is just the cherry on top.

So I was heading out to go get that Brie for that cherry cheese sandwich…

…And the car wouldn’t open up.

Michelle knew where the fob batteries were, Richard handed me the mini screwdriver set, go for it.

The second tip from the right was the one.

Turns out that that screwdriver magnetized the screws, so when I went to put them back in they danced like the proverbial angels on the head of a pin and then managed to hold straight out from the tip–if, if, if I could hold my hands steady enough while trying to twist the screwdriver.

Several attempts.

How about-?

And that is how I found out you can hold the screwdriver in the right hand and twist not the screw but the fob itself with your left while the magnetization holds the screw just steady enough. Give the fob a twirl. Again. Again. Again.

It worked!

So tell me why the fob with its brand new battery still doesn’t unlock the car as you approach the driver’s door, I groaned as I started to walk back towards the house thinking I had just installed a dud.

Unwilling to concede quite yet, I pressed the unlock button even though it hadn’t worked for over ten years.

Popped that lock right open, to my complete astonishment.

I don’t get it, but I’ll take it.

They’re good, but the ones still on the tree will probably show me I should have held off a day or two more to let them get a little darker and sweeter.

Except that this recipe is demanding I go buy a bit of Brie right now so I can roast cherries in balsamic and then use them on toasted cheese sandwiches to make them, as the pleading promise of childhood offers the beseeched, pretty, please, with cherries on top.

Indeed they are in those photos.

I described it to Richard and he’s all in.

I asked Michelle if there were any nondairy Brie substitutes out there and she made a face and said yes but they’re vile.

Well alright then.

He and I will just have to try it out with the real thing. I am totally ready for it. (Other than, y’know, not actually having the cheese yet.)

They’re doing something of an experiment: it’s that time of year when the coming-up medical residents find themselves assigned to random new hospitals and towns, the universities are letting out for the semester, Silicon Valley layoffs suddenly erupted in waves again, vacations, people move in, people move out.

So they decided to have the two wards that meet in our building do so together rather than sequentially. Just for June and July and let’s see how it goes.

Generally, the Mormon Church keeps congregations small enough to be personal in the hopes of nobody feeling lost or ignored in the crowd.

And so suddenly there are a lot more small kids running around, more background chatter, and some working out of who does what when responsibilities overlap.

The Zoom that I use for captions got switched off after the first meeting because the other ward didn’t know of anyone who needed it. Oops. One of ours, halfway through the second meeting, suddenly realized I’d put my phone away and dashed over to the relevant laptop to set it up again. Thanks, Davi!

It also means there’s a whole slew of young parents who don’t know a thing about handknit finger puppets bought in bulk from Peru.

There was a wiggleworm of a toddler sitting behind us who was determined for awhile there not to sit still nor quietly today despite her daddy’s best efforts. He was single-parenting it and had several older kids, too.

She was adorable. She was a handful.

Once she was actually doing what he said, so that we wouldn’t be rewarding and reinforcing unwanted behavior, Richard, who could hear them, nodded to me: Now.

And so a vivid pink puppy dog with black eyes and nose got passed over the pew to her profound delight and her father’s relief.

She was clearly three, just old enough to be among the kids invited to come sing a song to their daddies for Father’s Day. She stood at the very front up there, pink puppy jammed hard onto not one but two fingers and clearly barking energetically along with her singing as far as she was concerned.

The song ended, the Primary chorister motioned to the children to exit stages left and right and back to their parents and they dutifully started filing down the (four? maybe five) rather shallow steps to either side.

Not her. That was boring and slow and she was not going to do that. She gleefully leaped over the edge of the pulpit fast before any adults could see what she was up to and jumped to the floor, puppy held proud and high in triumph.

We lost it. It’s a shame that that was just out of reach of the Zoom camera, I’d want to show that video at her wedding some day. You GO, girl!

One of the things we wanted to do before Michelle leaves was to stop by our old favorite haunt together, Timothy Adams Chocolates.

But the Sorry We’re Closed sign was up. We stood in front of the door, surprised and disappointed, while inside, Timothy saw us, threw the door open, flipped the sign over and welcomed us warmly in.

We were in luck: they were both there. Hugs all around.

And of course we bought chocolate, both liquid (I highly recommend the Madagascar Valrhona 64%) and not. Loved their new looks.

Adams is the designer behind it all, so I asked him if this one particular one over here with the colors and lines: was that inspired by Piet Mondrian? (asked the art dealer’s daughter, giving the name a French accent because that’s my second language. Dutch, not so much. While talking to someone whose last name is Holland.) Frank Lloyd Wright?

He laughed. And then he showed me the secret.

Just like everybody’s grandmother, he had a collection of favorite artistic–wait for it–buttons. In a jar. He shook them out. Gold and shiny, roses here, abstract there, he hunted, turning them over to see the tops, till he found it.

My Piet Mondrian wannabe, the raised lines of metal, there you go.

They’d already rung us up and I hadn’t seen it in time so I’m just going to have to go back to get my Grandma Mondrian button chocolate the next time. (Edited: Wait. They actually do call it the buttons collection? I had no idea. It’s the dark cream caramel one.)

We will be back.

After much attempting to sketch and graph yesterday (again), today I dove in. I’m on the second color and it feels great. (Let’s see, two more rows of this, four of that, then double the number of…) I won’t be entirely sure of myself till I see the whole thing done, but I decided I’m willing to accept whatever imperfection I may find as I go along. Begin the pattern!

What I’m hoping is that what it is and who it’s for will be so instantly recognizable that I don’t dare show it till it’s done and received.

I still haven’t got that top part charted at precisely the angle I want because knit stitches just don’t stack up that way at that count. It shouldn’t matter in the end, though. A triangle is a triangle. And if it’s too tall, then…

…That’s the angle a small child would see it, looking way up from way down below.

It was $12.32 for my 100g/650m and curiosity got to me.

Here, feel this, as I held it out to him after it arrived this afternoon. So soft. And look how shiny it is.

He smiled a Yes Dear and dutifully ran a hand over it for me.

I gave it the fragility test: see how easily a piece breaks off.

It didn’t, and I had to quit trying.

Not that any of that justified buying it, and I’m going to be considering awhile before actually diving into it. Maybe. It and I are still negotiating.

A viscose yarn that sold out before mine made it here from France: it is 100% dandelion. I knew I’d regret it if I never tried it.

I had a kid in middle school who has a kid in middle school, it’s been that long.

But the guy recognized me, mask and all, while I was still stuck back at, no, that couldn’t possibly be. But then he made me recognize his face. That face.

He looked just like he did–except this time he was inside the grocery store in the daylight, not outside of one with nobody else around in the dark so he kept his fists to himself this time. Not that he actually touched me that other time–he just threatened to, as he pounded them on the window of my car after I’d jumped inside and locked the door.

Because he had hit my car and I had taken out a camera and snapped a picture of it and his license plate.

What are you, some kind of *** **** private eye?!! he’d screamed.

There in the dairy aisle his face suddenly hardened so severely that I was half-afraid he was going to pull out a gun. Thank heavens for California restrictions.

Was this guy tall? the years-ago cop asked me–while telling me the guy had done time for assault.

Nooo, I said doubtfully, not reeeally…

Well, the license of that car owner says he’s 6’6″.

Oh. Yeah, he probably was. Officer, let me introduce you to my husband so you can see why I didn’t think that was tall.

This evening.

He got behind me in my checkout line just as we were finishing up.

I got out of there and into my car and out of that parking spot hoping he wouldn’t see what I’m driving these days nor my plate, got an improbable green light out of there and held it together and didn’t start shaking till I was home and in my husband’s arms.

Richard said all the right things.

And he’s right.

“Pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you…”

Lord, I’d ask you to bless him but I have no idea if he’d even let You nor how to make his life any better and if anyone along the way for him can help, please bless them. I can’t do anything. I’m leaving it up to You, because You do know and I don’t.

It’s amazing how that just lifted that whole weight clean off my shoulders.

It’s not my problem anymore.

They finished the awning today. It looks glorious.

And then, yeah, it’s June, and wool?, but still. FO stashes come in handy and I offered them their choice.

The first guy picked the bright blue. The second picked the stripey mostly purple/blue/pink one.

I sent them off with lemons and oranges from my trees, along with some early cherry sampling, and got back to the start of the next big project. And man, 225 stitches across sure goes faster than 271 did.

This is where my game of yarn chicken was just before the 271 stitch cast-off row yesterday. Won it.

The men came and worked on the awning today–which included replacing and painting some of the thin corrugated-looking wooden strips that the panels rest on and are held in place by. A few of my guaranteed panels made by the Palram greenhouse people were, oops, cracked and going straight back to the store.

They will be back tomorrow to finish.

It is innately silly and very very human to want to accomplish more when someone’s watching. Even if in fact I was doing this in the next room, but hey, motivation is motivation, I’ll take it.

That’s over two pounds of yarn. Plus four swatches! It’s a good start.  

This one hit close to home for me.

We have friends who are identical twins, I’m guessing late 40s, who own a house together. One of them was giving a talk in church today and started with the usual teasing about which one is the evil twin brother.

But then, as he went on, he told the story of something we’d known only the barest outline of.

Recently, he was supposed to meet up with a friend over dinner. He was dog tired that day, getting more so, and finally let himself realize he just didn’t think he could manage it; he was just going to call them and cancel with profuse apologies and go home and rest.

He sent up a little prayer to ask if that was the right thing to do, just to, y’know, be sure, because sometimes the small decisions matter more than we’d think.

What he didn’t expect was an intense feeling of, NO!! GO. TO. THAT. DINNER!!

How…but okay, so he turned the car that way.

He didn’t even get out of the car. He couldn’t. His friend saw him and took one look and called 911, and he ended up in emergency heart surgery.

He stopped the story there a moment, took a deep breath, looked around the room taking us all in, our physical, actual presence and his own, remembering, and continued.

If I had gone home instead, he said–my brother was out of town. He would have come home and… I don’t… My friend saved my life.

I picked several pounds’ worth of mandarins and juiced them up today, and as I was doing so I remembered a dessert I used to make that was a variation on baklava for which you had to use the zest of a fresh organic orange.

The recipe specified organic, claiming that there were residues that affected the taste if the oranges used were not.

I was skeptical, but a friend was happy to share a few from his tree (this was before we had our own) and I tried it both ways and the grocery store oranges had a bitter aftertaste I had not expected. Huh. Al’s from his garden did not. Well then.

So here I was, running the little electric 1980s juicer that just keeps going and going and going, and I went and zested a bunch of them as long as I was using them. Because why not.

Now, Michelle and I love rhubarb strawberry pie and Richard will take his as straight strawberries, thank you, so when I saw rhubarb at the store I knew I had someone to split the calories with me.

Meaning, two pies were made today: she, a strawberry one for her daddy and I made the two-to-one rhubarb-intense version for us.

What’s that? she asked me, looking at the small plate on the counter.

The zest from a bunch of those oranges.

Throw them in. You don’t want just sugar and fruit, you want flavors. Spices. Add that teaspoon of cinnamon. Throw in that zest. Make it great.

Alright then!

We all had her strawberry pie for dessert. I had a small piece–I was saving room, and went for seconds with the rhubarb.

Huh, I wondered out loud after the first bite. It tastes like honey. But there’s no honey in there.

It smells like honey, Richard affirmed.

You want to try it?

But it was still rhubarb; thanks, but he did not.

To Michelle: You want a slice?

She will, for breakfast.

My sliver became a second sliver. This was really good.

But I am mystified: how does it taste like honey? I mean yes, I like orange honey and have some in my cabinet but none of it went into that pie. The only thing I did differently from any other rhubarb pie I’ve ever made was that organic homegrown orange zest. Huh.

Got a text yesterday: could they come today?

And so at long last the damaged awning panels are all gone. The new ones will come next week.

For all these years, till that first one blew off in the storm, I thought they were just translucent, but they were actually smoky colored on top. Having all of them gone makes not just the patio but the family room stunningly bright on an overcast day in June. I had no idea it could be like that. None.

The new ones will be both UV blocking and clear–so that brightness is going to stay. You all are going to have to be patient with me if I get excited about finally seeing bird bums: I would have loved to have seen the zone-tailed hawk from underneath a few years ago after it soared across the yard and then landed on that thing, suddenly not much more than a shadow.

Oh, and: after the termite repair work 20 months ago, I went to the Benjamin Moore store to buy a small can of the new house color. I was thinking for the mailbox, but really it just seemed a good thing to have on hand. We never used it.

That spot where the painters missed and left exposed wood? That that smoky awning had kept me from seeing for over a year, much less in time to call them back to it?

That little can came in handy today and Chris’s guy totally took care of it.

Today both momma and poppa peregrine fed the lone eyas (baby peregrine) breakfast, which was a good thing, because it was banding day, and not only were they not going to feed her while there were humans on their nest ledge, they were going to be flying around defending against the possibility of any more such intrusions for a goodly while. As one does.

Which means that when that baby finally got fed again this evening, she was letting her parents know at the top of her voice just what she thought of how long they’d let her go hungry. And that whole abandoned to the giants thing! Yeah, cool bling on the leg, but, FEED ME!

The thought occurs, not for the first time, that whenever I let those sounds come out of my computer during the daytime, somehow the birds outside my window all just vanish.

During the worst of our wildfires a few years ago, our air quality index hit 385, if I remember correctly; our warnings to stay inside lasted 31 days.

With the Canadian wildfires, New York City hit AQI 407 today.

My first reaction to the news photos was, but you can still see the building beyond even if it’s a hazy orange–we couldn’t. After reading that number, though, I remembered cameras can’t fathom how dense that smoke can be. I could not get mine to take any picture that showed how we saw it.

On days when you can’t tell the sun ever rose nor where it is…

I so feel for what everybody on the east coast is going through. Wishing air filters and cleansing rain and the ends of the fires for all concerned. Wear a K95 mask outdoors. Stay safe out there.