It's turkey time

Everywhere I look I see another one.

Outside....

Narragansett Turkey (a heritage breed) #1 of Coggeshall Farm, Bristol, Rhode Island

Naragansett Turkey #2 of Coggeshall Farm, Bristol, Rhode Island

inside...

Bell & Evans, purchased yesterday at Dave's Marketplace, East Greenwich RI

in trees.

Espied today roosting in a greenhoused calamondin tree.

The Knitting Goddess has oft remarked to me that she hates holidays, much preferring ordinary life. I am beginning to understand the wisdom of this view. Why do we futz around for these events, allowing ourselves to be buffeted by the Stürm und Drang of lengthy travel, artificially-induced interpersonal dynamics, gluttony, acid reflux, and the deep boredom of chitchat with people we don't know?

The yin-and-yang of Thanksgiving at my house this year:  everyone invited has canceled at the last minute. This is providential, as the dishwasher--an almost new Bosch--died last week. Thus, all is in balance. (File for future reference in case you're contemplating the purchase of this brand. It's the second Bosch that died within weeks of purchase. The first was replaced gratis by the merchant. Stay tuned for an update after the repair-guy arrives later today.)

We are left with too much food, most of which we'll freeze. Our Thanksgiving will be minimalist, just H & moi, the turkey-craving cats, and the always-ravenous Lola who will repeatedly proffer the paw, roll over, dance unbidden in circus-dog circles, and whimper pathetically while her people serenely enjoy their repast.

Gentle knitters, thank you for reading this blog so loyally. For that I'm truly grateful. I look forward to seeing your photos of what's on the needles on Friday (send them to me!), as we celebrate Knit Something Day (November 25). May your Thanksgiving meal be tasty, and may peace be with you and your yarn.

Festival Overture

The weather was beauteous and so I enjoyed getting lost in Colt State Park en route; the waterfront views were dramatic and spectacular.  Eventually I arrived at the Third Annual Bristol Fiber Festival; J had already gotten there and and was stamping her feet and alerting personnel to track me down the instant my shabby dark green stationwagon pulled into the drive of the Coggeshall Farm Museum, the charming historic mileu wherein the festivities occurred.  J, the self-proclaimed "last housewife in Weston, MA" (although I call her "the most entertaining person in Weston, MA") has a persuasive manner (i.e. a friendly stream-of -consciousness rap that always involves childhood memories, beloved pets of yore, and gossipy tidbits about people you don't know and could care less about, but who become semi- interesting by virtue of J's byzantine narratives that mainly involve whose kid went to school with so-and-so and how they have succeeded or fucked up). The traffic man did as told, and when I slowly coasted past stopped me to ask if I were S?  

Behind him I could see J flapping her wings impatiently.  I invited her to ride with me to the first available parking space, which was shortly found, and we then rushed to the farmgrounds, just in time to see the first sheep-shearing demo of the day and to discover my friends Gerry and Janice, of Westerly's May-Ger farm, selling their alpaca products (yarn, roving), honey, and eggs.