So, I finished copying all of our music to my new ipod this weekend, after more than a week of slavish tending.  Sheesh, what a pain.   I discovered that a few of our discs grew wings, which wasn’t much of a surprise.   Still, losing four out of 800 or so isn’t so bad.  And none of the stuff that ran off will be hard to replace.   What will be tough?  Arranging the myriad playlists I now need to construct so the 40 gig of music I just pumped into my new toy is really accessible.   

And I sifted through hundreds of Potomac Celtic Festival related emails to make sure I’m ready for this coming weekend.  Which you should spend at the Potomac Celtic Festival if you can. 

And we met the Yorks’s new chooks.  Someone stole all of their pullets right out of their coop.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that happening before in this area.  Anyway, the new chicks came from a school in the area, and they’re putting on weight pretty quickly and trying not to look too delicious.

And we got to see the Woodshedders and Furnace Mountain String Band out at Beans in the Belfry over Memorial Day Weekend.  What a hoot.  Dami and her family, and Mike and Tara, and a bunch of their tune-head pals were there too. Both bands sounded great, and there was a fair amount of decent clogging space.  A couple of people talked to me about giving lessons, but they all lived out near Brunswick, and thus outside of an area I’d be willing to drive to regularly to teach.  Man, the exurbs sure are big.

And some knitting happened.  I don’t want to jinx myself, but it looks like the blanket is nearing its final size.  Which is good news for my friend Elizabeth, because she is also making a blanket with leftover sock yarn, and she called dibs on whatever I don’t use.  And since she taught me to really darn socks well, her "dibs" holds water.

And we got to have Zoie and Rooney stay with us for several days while Mike and Tara were at Graves.  Rooney can fold up smaller than any dog I’ve ever met.  I think that’s the only thing Kayo doesn’t like about the pup–dogs that fold up small can wiggle between me and Kayo, and Kayo does not approve.  Still, all three dogs and both people had a great time.  Speedwell decided that Rooney was his employee, and Yarrow, surprise surprise, turned into a total scaredy-cat for the first few days.  I guess the big bad cat isn’t so bad after all. 

I tried to take a bunch of photos, but my digital camera doesn’t reach the speeds I need for these dogs.  They’re fast dogs.  Rooney is the pointer, and Zoie has her back to us: she’s a boxer/lab mix, and one of the sweetest dogs on the face of the planet.  They rarely look like this, though. 

They generally look like this:

Champion wigglers, both.  Kayo, meanwhile, remains serene in his goofiness.

And now that the extra dogs are gone, Yarrow is a holy terror, I miss the other dogs, and Kayo is negotiating for an increase in his bone allotment.

The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkein

I’ve been reading and re-reading Tolkein since I was a little kid.  I grew up with The Hobbit and Roverandom.  I was glad to finally discover a cabal of academics who loved Tolkein like I did once I started grad school.  Celticists are required to like the man:  Tolkein was a philologist, and one of the professors who made sure that the work of the great Celticist Thurneysen made a mark on British academia, and thus made it into my skull.  So I love Tolkein, and everything he touched.

A lot of people have a hard time with the Silmarillion because of its length, and because it’s a bit less action-driven than most of Tolkein’s other work surrounding the Lord of the Rings.  Tolkein died before finishing the book, which he was cobbling together from notes and previous works.  His son took over, filled some of the gaps, and published the book a few years after his father died.

Anyway, I loved the book.  Of course I did.  For the average reader of myth and fantasy, it’s a bunch of good stories.  For a myth-obsessed amateur linguist with a decent familiarity with Welsh, Irish, and Old English, it’s a puzzle plus a novel plus a good pot of tea and a snuggly blanket. 

Salt Dancers by Ursula Hegi

Salt Dancers is the story of a woman coming to terms with her own history as an abused child before she gives birth to a child she never planned to have.  Like most of Hegi’s books, the novel is intensely emotional, and deals with questions of childhood, family, abandonment, loss, friendship . . .  the biggies.

I love everything the woman writes, but I didn’t like this one quite as much as I liked the novels set in Germany.  I wanted a bit more of a story to surface connecting the protagonist and the father of her child.  I wanted her brother to have a bit more to say for his decision to allow her to be abused for years.  And Hegi wants us to want those things–I get that.  I would just have liked a bit clearer of a pay off, I guess.  But still, a very good book.

The next time I have some hideous allergic reaction to the world, possibly blended with a virus, and the mucous is getting me down, and I’m balancing the evils of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride vs. the evils of sinus and ear pain and pressure, nay, even the threat of sinus and/or ear infection; remind me of this day.  Remind me that, while I may feel a bit better two hours after I take Satan’s little red pill; the morning after Satan’s little red pill will make my teeth itch, and my jaw ache, and my stomach churn, and all of the mucous will have just plain come back.  Because even though I have this big brain that can remember songs and stories and strange facts; and even though the meth manufacturers of the world have blown up so many houses that the US finally decided to put things that contain pseudoephedrine hydrochloride back behind a nice counter where it’s hard to reach them . . . some of the Devil’s medicine still lives in my house, and it tempts me with nonsense like "maybe I’ve overcome that particular side-effect."  Evil, evil pseudoephedrine hydrochloride.   I may be shaky, but I can still throw you away, you bastard pills.  And I can wait you out, mucous, because I have all of Firefly on DVD, and the complete Lord of the Rings, and lots of Jane Austen films, and I’m not afraid to watch them over and over again. 

Addendum:
It occurred to me, Gentle Reader, that you probably gave me the benefit of the doubt and assumed that I wrote that gibberish above and promptly got back into bed.  Er, no.  I am a both a smartass and a dumbass, remember.  I got dressed; explained to Scott that I had to go to work so as not to miss a very important meeting; commuted into the city (75 minutes worth, thank you Metro); tried to work; sweltered in our 90 degree office; realized I was turning into a zombie and likely to accidentally eat someone’s brain if I wasn’t careful; then realized I wasn’t really going to be of much help in that very important meeting; forced myself to eat a muffin instead of a brain; gave up; sighed; was reminded by a coworker that, as a salaried employee, I indeed have and am expected to use sick leave instead of subjecting others to my disgusting maladies; banged my head against a desk for a few minutes; commuted home (another 75 minutes–just enough time to finish my book but not long enough to be forced to use its pages as tissues); and collapsed on my couch, buried under very demanding pets, all of whom are apparently without a shred of compassion.  Let’s see if I can be as smart again tomorrow.

Whoops.  We’ve been racing around like mad, here.  Busy busy busy (and yes, I do always and only use the phrase as Vonnegut intended.  He infiltrated my skull way back in the way back, that old coot.)  So I’ll fill all y’all in, and back-post some reviews, and try to mend my blog-neglecting ways.

First, Bodwin and Allerin came in and finished our kitchen floor, corrected some problems with our big counter, did some minor but very important roof repairs, looked over some electrical issues, and gave our dishwasher a good talking to.   It’s good enough having someone come in and do tiling and other home improvement for us.  It’s wonderful for those someones to be friends who our dog and cats love.  I don’t think Kayo has forgiven the guys for finishing.  And I can’t wait to have them back to do more.  All of my years of This Old House viewing are no replacement for their expertise.  I looked over the list, and a bit of paint, a possible new laundry room door, a bit of construction adhesive under the small counter, and some cabinet lighting are all that stands between us and a completed remodel.  Ahhhhhhhhhh.  (This is not the time to remind me that we started when rocks were soft.)

Then, we chicas Celticas went to the Potomac River Shore, like we do.  The weather was wonderful, though the water was a bit too cold for most of us.  There was great music, delicious food, wonderful company, hilarity–everything we demand, basically.

Tara, of course, took the photo with her wacky robot camera.  Thanks Tara!  And I have to point out that I somehow ended up in the tall row.  I think it was the shortest WW ever.  I should really only be in the tall row when I’m hanging out with little kids.   We didn’t bar the tall ladies or anything (well, we did bar the tall men)–a few of the taller women decided to sit on the deck there.   But I think we should all give some thought to calcium, weight bearing exercise, and yoga.

The weekend convinced me that I need an Ipod, so I ordered one and started copying all of our music.  We have a lot of music.  And copying CDs to a hard-drive has to be one of the worst accompaniments to knitting ever attempted.  Blanket progress is dramatically slowed by all of the CD wrangling and button  pushing.  But I’m up to the Is,  have about two weeks of music saved to a drive, and impatiently awaiting my new gadget.

All of the recent travel (Beltaine, MD Sheep and Wool, and the Women’s Weekend) have gotten well in the way of gardening.  But I did get a couple dozen asparagus plants in.  It cost me one of the worst allergy attacks I’ve ever had, and I got to harvest many many rocks from the vegetable bed as I worked.  So I’m afraid I’ll have to turn into one of those people who wears a surgical mask while gardening–at least while spreading gallons and gallons of compost at once.    But fresh asparagus next spring!  Worth it.

Owls Do Cry by Janet Frame

Janet Frame is another one of those authors whose books I ration.  I discovered Frame’s work after I fell for Jane Campion’s work.  The Piano led to An Angel at My Table, which was based on Frame’s autobiography of the same name and some of her other work.  Frame died a few years ago after a life of tragedy, astounding accomplishments, and gorgeous writing.  Some writers wish they would write like Dickinson or Faulkner or Shakespeare . . . I wish I could write like Frame. 

Owls Do Cry was Frame’s first semi-autobiographical novel.  It follows a New Zealand family through the death of a daughter, the mental illness and subsequent institutionalization of another, and the general tragedies of  deeply injured  children.  But the plot isn’t what normally matters in Frame’s books.  her language is intense, and beautiful, and poetic.  And right–always right.  I’m sure I’ll read it again. 

Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser.

I was a bit late to the party with this one.  I was worried that reading the book would either force me to become a vegetarian or make me afraid to ever eat anything again. 

It turns out that, as disgusting as the information about much of our food supply is, I continue to care more about workers’ rights than I worry about personally suffering from food poisoning. 

Not that I like food poisoning–it’s not fun to experience on a personal level, as I re-learned last fall.  And knowing that children, elderly people, and those with weakened immune systems are being killed by preventable food poisoning all the time in this country makes me really angry.   

But the danger to our food supply is really a symptom of how screwed up corporate law and culture is in the US.  Terrifying.  Very bad for communities and workers and consumers.  I started working on my list of who I need to boycott, and I’m afraid I now can’t eat anything that I don’t grow myself, which is a problem since I live in suburbia, can’t have livestock, have a relatively small vegetable garden, and really do like to eat animals. 

1. A friend asks "Would you like two free tickets to see Tony Rice, Jerry Douglas, Allison Krauss, Dan Tymynski, Ron Block, and Barry Bales play tonight?" What is the appropriate answer?
a.  Hot damn!
b.  Sheewwww Doggie!
c.  Good lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise
d.  Do they sell beer there?
e.  All of the above

The last time we saw Tony Rice play he didn’t speak at all on stage.  It was a couple of years after he developed dysphonia.  Tony Rice was touring with Bela Fleck, Sam Bush, Jerry Douglas and several other bluegrass luminaries.  It was a great show, but I really missed hearing Tony’s voice.  This time around, he spoke a bit and had Allison and Dan sing his songs.   It was great to hear him chat with the band mates and introduce some of his tunes–there’s something spooky to me about musicians who don’t speak on stage.  Folk music is supposed to be, well, folky and open and relaxed.  I would still love to hear Tony Rice sing live one day, but I won’t complain about my good fortune–not many people get a chance to see that sort of musicianship even once in their lives.    Dan and Allyson were both in good voice, and hot damn, Barry Bales can play some slap bass.  Good show all around. 

Thanks Mike and Tara, and thanks to your buddies who bailed on the show!  We had a great time. 

Remember when I used to review things, like books and movies?  Yeah, me neither.  I did though, and then I got lazy or something.

The Deceivers by John Masters

I’d link to the book on Powell’s, but it took me years to get a copy, and they don’t have any and probably won’t for a long time.  Scott recommended this book to me ages ago, and I had to track and wheedle and bend over backwards to get a copy.  It’s been out of print for a while now, few libraries have copies, and I finally paid far too much for a copy that had clearly been mouldering in some basement for years.

The novel is set in India during the height of the East India Company’s power.  Our protagonist is an officer in the EIC, and he learns about the thuggee cult’s operation in the region he’s responsible for.  So he set out to find and crack the cult, accidentally ends up in Kali’s service, mayhem ensues, and somehow he makes it out alive.  I don’t want to say much more than that.  The history seems pretty good, though I’m no expert on India’s history so it could all be crap.  The writing is engaging, the plot is interesting and frightening.  I’m really glad I finally got a copy.  I guess I’ll stop rubbing it in now.  Now I just need to find a copy of the film to watch–it has Pierce Brosnan in the lead, which officially makes it an Irish movie, and thus puts it on my homework list. 

Also, reading this book reawakened my abiding interest in Kali cults, particularly in Thuggee.  And I found this while I was looking about for more on the subject.  If, when I allow myself to buy books again next January, you see me holding that book, remember that it’s because I’m interested in Thuggee strictly in a historical sense.   I don’t think I’ll add this particular book to any wishlists, though.  Not appropriate for birthday pressies, ever, how-to books on strangulation.  Very off-putting for the recipient and the giver. 

I’ve been meaning to write.  I know you don’t want to hear any excuses, and I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about me and sewing, and me and spinning, and me and the kitchen.  Well, none of them are true.  I may have picked up a few needles with eyes lately, but they’re not really much of a temptation these days.

But things have changed between us, and we both know it.  I’m not leaving you–I just need a bit of freedom.  Freedom to leave the couch, and see people who, well, who don’t knit.  Or don’t just knit.  I’m not turning my back on you.  I promise!  I’m just trying to reconnect with some old friends who were feeling a bit neglected.  Namely, soil, and flowers, and vegetables, and some people. 

All that talk about the Maryland Sheep and Wool festival was true, you know.  I did go.  I just focused on people and music and the great outdoors rather than, well, you.  I’m sorry.  I did hang out with both Rowans, boy and girl (knitter), and with Brooke (she knits) and Mary (she makes us knit), and the Two Sock Knitters, and Juno, and Jayme, Janet, Jinann, Carol (all knittets and most spinners)–heck, all sorts of knitters were there.  And look what Mary made:

It’s not the best of pictures, but that’s the top of an ironwood walking stick.  It was hard for me to photograph, because it’s about seven feet tall.  And it’s essentially the predecessor to the fallow-deer antler distaff she’s making us.  It looks like she’ll use beech.  Isn’t that great?

And remember that green bag we were working on?  It’s finished, and at Tuatha.  I needle-felted some fiddle-head inspired designs on it.  I know they’re hard to see there, but the fuzz isn’t as powerful at obscuring the detail in real life.

But before Maryland Sheep and Wool, I really started focusing on plants.  It happens, you know.  Don’t worry.  I’ll grow some flax.  For now, though, I want you to meet some of my other friends.

This is sandwort, and blue-eyed grass

And their neighbors, bachelor buttons

And cransebill

And clematis

Round back, there’s Golden Star (she’s a native).

And more clematis

And iris

Verbascum

and lilac.

I know they all look strong and well, but some parts of the garden need serious help.  While you and the festival got all of my attention last summer, the Egyptian walking onions and rosemary and strawberries were attacked, see:

They need me.  But I promise to come back once it gets hot.  Knowing Virginia, that could be next week.  I’ll tell you all about it while we work on the blanket, ok?  Ok.