Just thinking about Stitches West being in two weeks is a great way to get a lot of knitting done. And Mel and Kris will be there! I think this may be the first one where I will have knit every single yarn bought the previous year by the time the next one happens–one beautiful, soft skein of Neighborhood Fiber Company silk left to go, and believe me, it will not be a hardship to play with that one.

Ran an errand this morning, came home, walked in and thought, oh, the birdfeeder’s empty I’d better go fill–

–nope.

It had been raining, and it took me a second to realize why Coopernicus’s colors looked so dark–he was wet and he’d had the sense to come in under the awning and out of the rain. He was perched on the dolly just outside the window (and it really should be put away, except that I like that he sometimes goes to it.)

Kickin’ the breeze. Telling the world he was there, or perhaps his mate, wherever she might have been listening from. He cocked an eye at me and oh hi and went back to preening, getting that one spot around his right shoulder again and again.

I managed to get my coat off and my Iphone out of my purse and set the purse down without disturbing him. He did stare that camera down for a moment, but then, he used to fly away at the sight of it and now, oh hey: carry on.

He fluffed out his chest.  He preened some more. He was relaxed.

Meantime, intermittent pairs of squirrels played I dare you/he did it/I can do it too and sauntered out to the patio, always just one actually coming while the other stood lookout–but one gray could only stand it halfway, staring at the hawk all the way: I’m not going to try it, you try it! and he gave it up as a bad idea. The ones who did make it under the feeder didn’t stay long at all–but they didn’t flick their tails to signal danger either, even if those last few leaps to safety always came in a rush.

And so, the squirrels having given the all clear as far as it was concerned, a mourning dove fluttered onto the patio from the roof.

The hawk was suddenly bolt-ready, all feathers tucked tight, leaning forward. Lunch! Home delivery! *Cool!*

The dove pecked quietly away, looking at me.

The hawk gauged distance and flight paths: fifteen feet, no tree cover close, totally nailing this in one, two…

And they were off! The dove got a better head start than I expected and was beating it past the awning while Coopernicus was easily closing the space between. Then the roofline cut off my view and that was that, but it was clear that that was one meal he was going to get.

All the drama, never the gore. Again.

Ninety, 100, 40, 80, 100: these are the chances listed on Wunderground of its raining tonight, tomorrow, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Already did some this evening. So badly, badly needed.

Motion caught my eye this afternoon while all of that was still just a hope and looking up through the skylight, I saw my hawk soaring high in the thickening clouds above the redwood, dancing a rain dance on the updrafts, gathering it all together to send it on down, send it all down.

And I went outside and inhaled the essence of those beautiful peach flowers before the rain could wash all the petals away. I brought two back in with me and pressed them in two bird books.

Thirty-three years, I think it’s been–that hat is OLD. That hat was knit before we were parents. That hat was knit in doubled worsted wool on straights and seamed (I had to look for it–I did a pretty good job, who knew.) Gauge swatch? What’s that? Decreases? That’s, like, knit two stitches at the same time, right? Circs? I’d never tried them.

And yet somehow I concocted this hat for my 6’8″ husband. It came out, um, even for him, a little big. As in he vanishes down to his shoulders if he puts it straight on.

I stumbled across it tonight and told him,  thinking out loud, You know–I could cut the top off, frog it back to where the ribbing starts, and we could have a thick warm cowl out of that thing.

He got this big goofy grin on his face and took it from my hands and pulled it down over his nose, a big poof in back.  “That’s MY hat!” he protested, and you could just make out the grin under the bottom of the wool. Did he want to model it, then? Nooooo, no he did not thankyouverymuch as he made silly half-faces at me.

Just in case there are any new knitters reading this: we all start out as beginners.

That thing makes for great peek-a-boo games with the grandsons.

The pistachio buffalo blend. The lace pattern is from the Tara’s Redwood Burl shawl in my book. I’m guessing it’s their Skies yarn, not currently in stock.

The red hat is one strand Malabrigo superfine Finito in the calm Cereza and one strand Malabrigo Silkpaca baby alpaca/silk in a brighter red to add sparkle and near-worstedness to the gauge. Amazingly soft, both, done here in the Water Turtles lace.

And… Okay, the backstory is that we’ve had problems with our mail delivery for years. There’s a new guy on the route and I have high hopes for him.

The doorbell rang at about 6:00 pm, the mailman with a package to be signed for for Richard.

I smiled at him, “Isn’t there a blue package for me?”

“No, no, just this.” (Oh wait! And he fumbled in his pouch.)

As he brought the familiar blue Colourmart funky-shaped plastic bag into sight, I exclaimed, “There it is!” He looked at it like how did that get in there? He turned it over to read the address while I noticed that the top of the bag had been slit wide open with the top of the cone of silk pleading, Save me AlisonKenobe, you’re my only hope!

The customs declaration said yarn and yarn indeed it was. I must be Alison. He relinquished custody and smiled and waved me good-day.

A lot of people would love this. Really love this. Somebody will.

They might not have Swedish ancestry.

You know how some yarns, when you go to block them, as soon as they hit that water the deeper color is just oh so perfect but you know the thing can’t stay wet all its life?

The lime buffalo blend from the Halloween factory-reject sale is finally a cowl. Knitted. Done. Out of my stash. I wondered if there weren’t a bit of mill oil (which feels like dried hair mousse) to it, left unwashed in the bin as an off skein–it felt like it as it ran through the needles, to my surprise. So I treated it like that when I got done: hot soapy water and lots of rinses.

The water went a pretty bright green at the initial bath and then stayed clear, thank goodness, I don’t have to worry that it might crock green onto some future recipient’s favorite white cashmere sweater in the rain or some such disaster.

But the soggy cowl looked like an avocado that had been cut up yesterday.  Somebody’s favorite color, was my mantra as I slogged through the knitting over the weekend, somebody’s favorite color. Doesn’t have to be mine. Buffalo is warm and it’s supposed to bloom and be soft and it will be once I wash it. (I’ve been hoping.)

Tomorrow I find out what it’s like in real life. Once it’s dry the color will perk right back up again.

And I immediately cast on in a red that made my eyes happy. My turn.

It’s not just one or two blossoms anymore, it’s several branches. I’m beginning to be able to see just how gorgeous my yard is going to be in Spring in a few years as these trees grow up.

We were talking to Sam last night and I was marveling to her that we had flowers. On a peach tree. In January!

She did one of those shake-your-head-ruefully-while-laughing moments, and answered, Let me tell you: WE’VE got things in bloom. A type of shrub and a type of tree, dunno what they are yet, but, yes, they’ve got flowers on’em.

Me, stunned: In *ALASKA*?!!! In *JANUARY*?!!!

She affirmed: In Alaska. In January. We were warmer than Florida, so, I guess… But…yeah. They’re blooming. It’s the weirdest thing.

I was in the middle of answering an email about Coopernicus when there he was, swooping in, same time of day.

That branch is a favorite king-of-the-mountain spot for feathered and furred because it offers a commanding view of the birdfeeder and the yard, but it is dead and is on our must-go list, I’m sorry to say. Too dry. Too flammable.

And then I noticed for the first time that there in front of the dense limbs and leaves it also provided room for him to open those big wings wide unimpeded to lift off at full speed if need be. Interesting. (Those branches that look big and in the way in front of him in the second picture are actually the little twigs around the birdfeeder.)

He watched over me for 28 minutes, occasionally telling the world about it, occasionally looking around at every leaf from his side–while the rest of the bird kingdom held its breath unseen.

He left and there was a sudden explosion of life. A junco tumbled out of the olive tree, pulling up to a safe finish just at the ground. Towhees jockeyed for suet, a chickadee to the feeder, then a dove arrived below at the all-clear. Briefly.

Another grand scurry and all became still again.

And I went off to pick up my husband from work so I could tell him what the doctor said about the latest on the Graves results: autoantibodies that cause hypothyroidism and autoantibodies that cause hyperthyroidism. For the lucky patients, they balance out. Me, well, no.  Several months of testing to come.

And I utterly forgot to give the doctor the hat in my purse that I’d knitted for his wife. Which answers my question as to whether it was the right project for her: no. Not there yet. But then knitting some more while having a spare for the give-away bag is not exactly a punishment.

It rained! Two nights in a row! Not a lot of rain, but, actual water falling out of the sky!

I finally blocked the waiting Lisa Souza Tahitian Blue shawl.

It was one of those moments, picking the finished piece up this morning, looking it over, swirling it onto my shoulders, having not till that moment been exactly sure how it would come out, where you think, Wow. This is one of the prettiest things I have ever knitted. This is what I had hoped for. (Thank you, Lisa!)

And.

This evening, a single dove arrived and pecked quietly away alone on the deserted porch, and I looked at it and thought oh honey–you’re a sitting duck. Don’t you know that having no random helter-skelter in the way of the chase is exactly what a hawk wants?

But Coopernicus came in the long way across the yard and the dove happened to glance back over her shoulder just in time and somehow she beat him.

Or else he wasn’t really trying, as he curved around to land on that chair again. He exchanged glances with me, lifted one great foot then the other as he turned and then he took off towards the redwood at great speed.  He was dead serious about not being late for dinner tonight.

Y’know? I could get spoiled….

My nest will be here. No, MINE. It’s been an ongoing contest this week between the ravens and I assume the unseen hawks for domination of the old redwood tree and at times the tall tree of the neighbor on our other side.

At one point yesterday even I heard a fair amount of squawking. Richard-the-younger and Kim gave me a birdbook a few years ago that has Cornell Ornithology soundtracks on the side and it notes that their recording of Cooper’s hawks was of one defending its territory. Seeing three ravens perched in the silk oak all looking across the street but no hawk, hoping I wasn’t going to cost him valuable energy defending his airspace from the electronic intruder, I opened the side door and briefly hit play. (Just the one time.)

The ravens vanished.

Again today the birdfeeders were empty for hours at a stretch, all the songbirds avoiding–something.

I got a message from Michelle saying she’d caught a bad cold and just felt really sick and feverish right now (and I inwardly protested but you haven’t been exposed to me for a week now! Poor kid.)

And I thought wistfully towards the universe, missing Don, too, It would really be good to actually get to see Coopernicus, y’know?

About two hours later, he swooped into sight and landed over there. Then he saw me and flew onto the porch and right outside the window, as close as he could get, and perching on the back of a wooden chair, he looked straight in at me for maybe a minute. You rang?

I was in awe. Our full attention was on each other. Such a beautiful bird, the early afternoon sun giving his colors their full glory. Then at last he turned to do a quick glance around him for a bite, nope, and flew back to where he’d been a moment before: the tree the scrub jays like to fly out of to harass the other birds. He jumped and flew through their best haunts, perfectly mimicking their typical patterns, then over to the top of the shed where they sometimes forage. Showing those guys who’s boss for me.

He was right under that redwood tree. Out in the open and as visible as you could ask for: MINE. All of this. Just like I said.

I don’t think I have to worry about who’s winning. He and his mate always do.

Thank you, everybody, I appreciate it; today was a relief after yesterday. I was pretty discouraged there.

Interesting political theater, meantime: watching Congresspeople before the State of the Union address.

One guy, clearly aware there was a camera pointed their way, was smiling quite jovially as Ted Cruz talked to him. Cruz, even seen mostly from the back, clearly was getting more and more intense, jabbing a finger hard in the air, lecturing, the camera lingering to capture the moment while the other guy (dunno who he was) was being easygoing in response.

John McCain was just in front of the two of them and smiling in bemusement at the harangue going on behind him and lifting but not quiiiite entirely rolling his eyes but oh so close as to call it. Then they all sat down for the address and as the camera panned back their way my impression that that had to have been Cruz was confirmed.

I didn’t knit as the President spoke because I was at that indecisive what-to-start-next stage and besides, I didn’t want to miss a word. This was the proverbial and actual Leader of the Free World and I wanted to hear what he had to say.

President Obama laid out the challenges before us, invited Congress to help him meet those challenges and then, acknowledging reality, laid out what he personally was going to do to move us forward. He basically asked them to work together, take the credit for it and run with it.

When my uncle was a freshman in the Senate, there was no one law and in many states, anybody–anybody–could access your medical records for the asking *except you*.  You were legally barred. My uncle’s proposal was for a Federal law saying that other than in specific psychiatric cases where there is clear cause to shield the record, all patients should be allowed to access their own and others would need to meet a standard to do so.

The members of his party were quite upset. This would be a Federal law on something the states should regulate. States’ rights!

Uncle Bob responded by saying Senator (I don’t remember who but a ranking Democrat) is against it.

Oh well in THAT case! And his fellow Republicans rallied behind it.

Then-President Clinton ran with it and took credit for it when he signed it and that’s fine, presidents always do get the blame and the credit, the point was to get it done. Probably nobody outside the family associates my uncle’s name with that law. He doesn’t mind a bit. It needed to happen.

Given today’s political realities, I think any member of Congress willing to buck the trend of intransigence and (just) do their (bleeping) jobs would get quite a bit of personal and political credit from a grateful country.

(I started a Malabrigo Mecha hat during the rebuttals. An easy decision.)

Woken up by sharp chest pain at 3 am. More but less intense several other times later in the morning.The cardiologist told me it didn’t go on long enough for it to be my heart–and a phone call was as close as I was able to get to actually seeing him. Just more lupus hit’n’run stuff no biggy.

The Crohn’s, it snarls.

He told me to go see my family practitioner and I said okay and with that good intention took my fever straight back to bed for most of the day. But I did, at one point, quite deliberately get up and order that last cone of aqua dk silk from Colourmart, a color I like but had not tried yet. Just to make a declaration to myself and to look forward to knitting it. This is just a blip.

Hawks like my Cooper’s fly through dense tree cover to go after their prey, and someone took slow-motion photography of his Northern Goshawk demonstrating in a two and a half minute video how such a big bird could fly through such small places. The Air Slalom team for the win!

(Just finished a cowl despite the return of the fever. I have no idea who it’s for, just a sense that it’s important that it be ready and waiting when I do find out. I’ll wash it when I feel better.)

A Polar-opposite Vortex. We’ve had our second week of daytime temps in the high 60’s and even 70, 71. Balmy, record-breaking, but also in that this rainy season so far has had the least rainfall in 434 years. Local nurseries now advise a weekly watering of the fruit trees, something we never have to do this time of year.

The buds are beginning to swell on the one-year-old peaches (in January!) with over a hundred of them on this Tropic Snow, my earliest variety.

The plum, cherry, and apples are still dormant. Daylight hours still matter so far. So are two blueberry plants, with the third with lots of little white petalled fists in the air yelling Me, ME! at the teacher. Pick ME! Soon!

Someone explain to me why the green plant back there on the right didn’t die back like it does every winter. Not the oxalis, the, the (it’ll come to me about an hour after I call it a night.) It didn’t even blink. Last January when I planted the peaches I was trying to remember exactly where that stuff was going to be come spring because the bed was bare.

It’s playing Calvinball with me.

It’s going to be an interesting year.

Remember that day my doorbell rang to my great surprise after I’d blogged about my 20-year-old leaky springform pans that had smoked up the oven when I’d made a batch of chocolate tortes? There was Don’s red minivan in front of my house, Don on the passenger side waving hi, and there at the door was Cliff, holding out two new pans for me to bake from. “Well, I gotta have my chocolate tortes!” grinned his dad when I ran out and gave him a hug.

When Don first became ill, I offered to bring him one so that he could have a slice any time he felt like it; he was appreciative but said he wasn’t allowed to eat it now. I would have offered Cliff directly, but I didn’t want to make it any harder on his dad just then, having a favorite but denied food right under his nose. Not the time.

I got a beautiful letter in the mail today from Cliff. Telling me of his father’s last days. It was pancreatic cancer he had had–I had misheard on the phone, turns out.

Don had reached a hand out to Cliff; Cliff had held it gently in his own for a long time, and finally told his dad he was going to go eat breakfast and then come back to take care of him.

And in the short time Cliff was in the other room, Don, having offered and been given comfort and a last moment of shared presence, slipped peacefully away.

Cliff was grateful for his dad’s long and good life, and promised to let Richard and me know when the memorial service would be. We are honored.

If it would be welcome, and I expect it will be, I will bring chocolate torte. I have good pans for that.