A note in my inbox. Oh good, it’s not a phone call nor telling me to come in to hear the news so this can only be good, right?

The needle missed and came up empty on endometrial cells altogether. Inconclusive.

The ultrasound is a month out (for now) and then surgery on the zombie fibroids and we’ll see what all else.

Meantime, I took a picture of February’s apricot sprout next to the third-year tree planted in the ground about that time. I chose the naturally dwarfing one for our yard: less work over time and it seems more resilient than some–its roots were fine with those recurrent atmospheric rivers when another one simply drowned.

I got a message asking if I had an Anya seedling I’d be willing to share? So the little one has been claimed.

And then I planted six more. Wherever they may end up, today needed a declaration that I wanted to put more trees into the future. So why not a fantastic apricot variety that can’t be gotten any other way.

(The wire racks were saved from an old double oven to make it uncomfortable for the rabbit to step on to eat the tree bark. So far so good.)

I’ve been fine/no big deal/not worried/it’ll all be fine/I’m sure it’ll be negative/ about the whole biopsy thing. But today I was  remembering the GI doctor who diagnosed Crohn’s: she suddenly realized she was talking about it without taking my measure on the news she’d just thrown into my life and abruptly asked, Wait–are you okay with this?!

What–that I have a life-threatening disease? I laughed ruefully. So what’s new?

Today I found out my cousin went to the ER in pain and found herself with a stage 4 aggressive ovarian cancer diagnosis. If I’m in shock, and I am, I can only imagine how she and her kids feel.

Somehow that broke through whatever facade I had with myself and now I am just really really really wanting to have my news given to me and over with, whatever it’s going to be.

So I threw myself into hanking and scouring coned yarn and deciding that yes, that blue really isn’t the right blue and yes, I’m really going to go order more and have to wait again for it to come–and then I did–because I can control what I put into my little sister’s project and by golly I am going to do it right.

During that thumb-twiddle wait I wonder if any of my wool, any wool, would be soft enough for my cousin’s head while going through chemo. If you have any experience on that, (I mean, I’ve certainly made them, I’ve just never gotten any feedback on them) I need all the guidance I can get.

The peregrines: the fourth egg hatched, two days after its siblings. It’s clearly a female because it’s almost as big as the others and it gets its beak right in there begging for food.

Monty brought in a meal without getting enough feathers off it first. Hartley harrumphed, grabbed it from him, did a how-it’s-done and then fed the kids herself.

The next time, Monty was determined and the food was prepared.

And so the cam crew managed to get this very unusual shot.

She held up the vial to show me, quite pleased, giving it a little swirl to let the dark red particles stand out in the suspension of pink liquid (solution+me) that for all my curiosity in things medical I kinda could have gone without seeing. But the message was, Much better. At last we’ll finally know for sure.

I was fine till I left that room and then suddenly I wanted to faint and barf, but never mind.

A year ago I had symptoms (still do), and while it was agreed all around that it probably wasn’t cancer you can’t leave something like that to chance, you have to biopsy. So she did–but got precious little in the sample. The ultrasound was reassuring though so she gave me my options on following up and advise on when to do so.

Today was that day.

This time she gave me a prescription to use ahead of time: one pill the night before. That’s it.

Which is a good thing, because the pain was instant and I hope never to take it again.

It opened things right up and today she was able to get that good biopsy and by the end of the week we should have the results.

After I got home I searched the name of that med because it had sounded vaguely familiar and I was curious.

I was staggered. Although, it made perfect sense: it is the second drug that is sometimes prescribed as a follow-up in medically-induced abortions. It induces labor.

And thus affects post-menopausal women such that the doctor can get a decent sample to see if they have endometrial cancer.

Women’s health. Full stop.

The blossoms continue upwards and my sour cherry tree is dancing for joy in a hoop skirt.

Meantime, my old friends Ron and Theresa at thebuffalowoolco.com have been selling the last of their bison/silk socks. They’re my husband’s One True Sock and we stocked up when they announced the cost of silk now is ending those and when they’re gone they’re gone.

But then the mill, using up the rest of the yarn, made a few more pairs.

The catch was that they were seconds.

Ron and Theresa and crew personally went over every single pair to make sure they were okay, and they were, but seconds are seconds and they knocked a chunk off the price.

When Richard opened the package yesterday (I got him something else too because socks for your birthday is officially a That Doesn’t Count gift no matter how much he likes them) it took me about a heartbeat. And then another.

Why they were seconds.

Their socks have a little bison motif knit across the toes and that motif is color-coded by size.

The XLs were yellow.

My mediums are yellow. His are supposed to be orange. It really speeds up the sock-sorting by a lot and I’ve always thought it was a nice touch on their part.

Ron confirmed it when I asked: someone at the mill had forgotten to change that yarn during the knitting.

I told him I’d laughed, because, of all the problems in the world right now? There’s more than one way to eyeball a sock size.

And I told him that surprising us with an extra pair that was bison/merino was very generous–and brilliant. Because someday my hubby will need more socks. And now he has a way to learn in advance that their other ones are great, too. But that was so unexpected and so cool to find tucked in there.

See? Socks *can* be a real gift!

Twice, we had forgotten to get more sugar. I never run out of sugar: it’s just one of those things that’s always there.

Angel food cake time of year and–well that was brilliant. I’d already separated the dozen eggs. Hah, maybe I could…

Going next door to borrow a cup of sugar sounds so delightfully old-fashioned (and half-embarrassing to have to, just like way back when. But we don’t go shopping on the Sabbath, and that was something that was entirely understood back there back then. Maryland was the last state to let go of its Blue laws that enforced the religious concept of a day of rest on many commercial establishments–because Sunday isn’t every religion’s Sabbath. Nor is everybody religious. Equal protection under the law. No governmental establishment of religion. Totally reasonable to revoke. Done.)

The thought also always takes me straight back to–

–I don’t think I had ever actually attached the word “refugee” to her. She was just Vicky. But when your colonialist mom sews what she can of the family fortune inside the hem of her little girl’s dress right before they flee the country in order not to lose that one last bit of all that they had…

As a young woman, that little girl became a nanny to one of my dad’s artist clients, who brought her along with his family on a trip to the US. My mom was cooking dinner for twelve rather than eight and she found herself out of sugar. Knowing Mom, it was surely to bake fruit pies.

She asked Vicky to go next door to borrow a cup.

Vicky came back astonished: Madame! Your neighbors! They are Jewish!

Mom was astonished: Yes of course!   (??!)

We would never…!

I don’t know if she knew that the dad of her young charge had illustrated anti-Nazi material before France fell or that he was Jewish himself. Maybe even she was.

But what came out in their conversation was that America had been portrayed in her growing up as the most flamingly racist, bigoted country there is.

And here was an American woman astonished that anybody would be surprised at having a Jewish family next door. And not just next door. Why would anyone even think about it, people are people.

Too bad it was too early to know that the family that would later buy that house was headed by an African-American surgeon.

After making all the baking sounds in the kitchen this afternoon I said to Richard: You know how we kept forgetting to buy sugar?

The look of uh-oh on his face.

We have a melanger. The box of superfine at the back of the cabinet. We had enough.

—

(Edited to add, and the verdict is, with more than half the sugar being superfine that was the best angel food cake with the best crumb I have ever made, and I’ve made a lot of them. I wrote it down in my vintage 1952 Betty Crocker to make sure I do it that way again from here on out.)

(Forgot to post this last night.) We went off to Oakland for the afternoon and when we came back, three of the four peregrine eggs had hatched!

If you watch this, that baby bird is amazing. A few hours old, not even at the dried white fluff stage yet and already it’s moving around towards where Momma is after being accidentally scooted out of the way while she was paying attention to the firstling. The video was taken just before the third made it out.

Given how bird flu has wiped out most of the peregrines in the greater Bay Area and left nests birdless, to see healthy parents and three living chicks so far feels so good.

Re today’s protests: the initial numbers are three and a half million people participating. The day before Easter, with families with so many other things to do, but they still did.

Long long ago in a job far far away…

He was trying to remember the guy’s name. No, the one before that, what was it. I said do you really want to remember it. No not really. So anyway.

And then he told me a story I’d never heard in full before. He said it was the one where he’d really learned that you have to listen to the other guy even when they’re blatantly wrong and not just try to say what you think.

He had a boss, and this boss had a vision of what he wanted the big project to be and told his minions to get to it.

But there was a problem: that software he wanted them to create and that hardware he wanted to put it into–wouldn’t work. Would break.

This was back when what you now carry around in your phone took a whole room full of computer equipment running on hamster wheels.

Me: Was this the job where the boss was trying to break the laws of physics?

Him: No, no, that was someone else.

The guy wouldn’t listen to anybody trying to tell him anything: you have your assignments, just go do them. You heard me!

This went on for over a year.

One of Richard’s co-workers was our neighbor down the street and quietly told him that the boss had commanded him, presumably at the peril of his job, not to talk to Richard. Why? Because he knew too much and wasn’t afraid to speak up.

People on the team were frustrated and angry and all that did was make things with the boss worse. They wondered how upper management was letting this waste of the company’s resources and their time go on.

Finally, my peacemaker sweetie went Ghandhi on the guy: he quietly talked to everybody and said, Listen: as long as we keep fighting him we’re giving him a shield to hide behind for *his* boss and he can blame us. If we all stop arguing so he’s got no one to push against, maybe that will finally make the difference.

So they did.

(And here’s where I was picturing the protests I’ve seen at Tesla, where everybody is having their say on their signs while loving being in each other’s company and having a good time together.)

The guy’s boss came into town to sit down with him and hear him out on how this big project was going.

The perfect chance to expound on his lofty ideas.

His boss listened to him in disbelief: but you can’t do that with that, you have to have this first to do that and you don’t.

Me: So what happened?

Him: The guy got transferred overseas. To a job with far less authority, about as far away as they could send him from us.

The English Morello tree today: absolutely winter-bare on top, fully in bloom on bottom, gradually working its way up.

That is how I don’t have to do all the harvest work at once, but rather it’ll be one hour every morning picking and pitting and weighing and freezing. One morning per future sour cherry pie for two weeks; after that, I told Constance on Monday, I get tired of it and call friends to come pick the rest. She laughed.

Part of it though is that I want them to see that if it’s their favorite pie, too (and it usually is), if they have room to plant a bush they can grow their own pretty quickly.

So. I’d pulled the last bag out of the freezer to celebrate her. A ceramic pan for the crispiest crust.

Loaves and fishes, way in the back of the freezer where I’d checked three times I just found another bag.

You know that has got to be gone by the first of June to make room for the new. Such a problem. Not.

Curious.

Usually, say in an upscale restaurant or the like, when there’s no price shown you know they’re saying, This is for those who *sniff* can afford it. All others kindly step aside.

There was one sign: Limit 1, with an explanation for those living news-free that there’s a national shortage. (California’s been particularly hard hit.)

No price.

Well, when you need them you need them, as I put the egg carton in my cart. I couldn’t remember when I’d even seen them there this year.

After we got home I found the receipt because I really wanted to know. The surprise was not what I’d thought it was going to be.

$4.99? I haven’t seen that price in months! I told Richard. The cheap ones at Safeway were $8.99!

I guess that’s why Trader Joe’s didn’t post it: they didn’t want their cashiers to be put on the spot having to deal with people trying to hoard in spite of the posted limit.

Think we’ll ever go back to $2.79?

Although, when you put together the chicken coop, chicken food, egg retrieval, egg boxing, egg transporting, egg stocking, (egg breaking), egg checking-out-ing, any of those prices for something so useful in so many ways while offering protein to boot really is a bargain.

One birthday cake, coming up.

If only someone made a half-angel food cake pan.

It was not pretty when I got done. (The pictures embiggen.) I was pretty sure I wasn’t done, but the bin was full.

The forecast was off that day in February and it froze that night.

They say in mango forums to leave the tree alone, give it a chance to make a comeback wherever it will after the weather warms up, especially if it’s past those first few tender years.

So I waited. And wished. The top half of the tree looked utterly dead and what was below didn’t look happy at all.

Saturday it had been warm enough long enough. I went out there with the clippers: no sense in letting the injured parts kill off the rest, and besides, all those dead leaves were shadowing whatever might be underneath, and oh look there’s fungal disease on that one and that one and that one. Out!

Mangos meander. You don’t get a single trunk growing upwards, you get a kid twisting their hair in their fingers endlessly.

I found just a few places where there was blackened branch but still some green above it and those I left alone. Then I watered the tree and hoped. All those years I’d taken such good care of it, one week of warning weather that I didn’t pay much attention to because it wasn’t going to freeze and then it did and I could have avoided all that damage if I’d taken it seriously…

I had needed for some time to take out the old line of incandescent Christmas bulbs draped on it for heat and put in a new set where they all worked but I hadn’t been able to follow the line and see nor reach what I was doing in that thick growth.

I can now.

With Constance headed for home after a great visit, I went back out there this evening. There were some larger branches that everything coming off of them had been brittle and very much dead and were now gone but I’d left the main part just because, because…it all was so much and so hard to do after babying this tree for ten years.

That big V-shaped line in the foreground of the first photo had, it turned out, the tiniest new bits of green at quite a few nodes. Those were not there yesterday. There may well be more tomorrow.

This is one of the smaller branches that still had leaves despite the freezer-burning. The fact that it’s growing from a circle of leaves rather than a single one means that it will be a cluster of new branches from there.

Look and look and look! There are more sprouts all over the sun-facing side of the tree!

All it had needed was the deadened parts cleared out of its way so it could grow again.

Speaking of which, there’s another pro-democracy protest this Saturday across the nation.

We’ve been badly burned but our ideals live on. We can honor the sacrifices of our fathers. We can demand our leaders protect democracy, free speech, equal protection under the law, the right to be heard in a court of law, the rule of law itself that makes all that is America great or at least potentially great. Those are ours and we claim them for the good of all. Go team go!

An old friend needed a place to crash for a night to break up an eight hour round trip and we’ve been having a great time catching up. Years ago I lined up her little kids’ books by height to look pretty for the real estate photos, thus aiding and abetting with mixed emotions her move to California’s Gold Country: happy for her, sad for me. I’m so glad we’ve kept in touch.

One of the things mentioned over dinner was that during remodeling some of the much older houses out there, the owners have found gold embedded in the walls.

Huh. Who knew. Makes sense I guess if you’re in the 1800s and want to put it where no one can find it nor steal it.

I wondered, if I say that out loud will people show up at real estate open houses there with metal detectors?

Of course if that were to become a thing, the owners themselves would give it a go.

(Never did take an updated picture.)

You know those times when you really really hope someone is as knit-worthy as you expect them to be?

I found Hayley. First, I totally threw her with the question, Are you allergic to wool?

That was so far away from anything she expected to be asked that it took her a moment to say she wasn’t.

I told her that most people hand me back my phone and say they can’t make that closed-caption app work–that she was the first person to immediately get it and not only that, that was the first time I’d ever felt fully included in any of those group out-loud chats.

She caught her breath as she almost cried.

And I wanted to express how grateful I was…

Is that a scarf?!!

An infinity scarf, yes, I tried to match your skirt from last week.

I got the biggest hug.

But then, I’d already gotten one when she did that for me.

People like her are how a knitter decides to knit for the next person like that.

Butter Chicken Naan Bites, said the box from Costco that we’d both thought, okay, we could try that.

So here it was, looking like a good thing for throwing a last-minute dinner together after a day of trying to get ready for a house guest. I considered the thing and the country whose cuisine it came from and thought of how we’d ordered Indian take-out and Himalayan the last two times we’d visited my mom. (Three?) It’s a favorite.

And said, Y’know. There are vegetarians.

And there are naanagenerians.

To which he responded with his favorite little head shake and grin: You’re very strange.

A sudden guffaw at the dinner table.

What??

I just remembered what kept me awake last night: can raccoons bend their tails over their heads like squirrels? They can’t, right? But why not, or why would they. Wouldn’t they want all that fluff keeping them warm in winter when they’re asleep?

Off to Dr. Google. The AI summary that is the first thing that pops up these days (it used to be Wikipedia with Google supporting it and should still be if you ask me, but anyway) said that squirrels use their tails to control their falls and raccoons don’t fall so they don’t need it so no they can’t.

Remove the squirrels from the question and the AI said they could. They just often don’t.

Alright, let’s try to find the info where those are plagiarizing from and maybe we can get the real story.

(Too many minutes later) Or maybe not. Still: clearly, it’s not really a thing for them.

Oh look. Calvin Coolidge got sent a raccoon for Thanksgiving dinner (say what?!) and wound up naming it Rebecca and turning it into a pet.

Can you just see that trash panda roaming the White House. Wait till it finds the kitchen.

Although, they do have a high degree of intelligence. You wouldn’t catch one of them, say, *cough* cutting off the lunchtime food source of their young in rural areas.

(Spent a lot of time today counting stitches in patterns and mind’s-eye patterns and doing math and finding there just won’t be room for every detail I want to put in. Richard said, Well then you have to cut half out.

Not half. And the raccoon stays. I just have to knit it first.)