I spent most of yesterday–the Fourth of July quilting. Pedal-to-the-metal type quilting. Red-Pepper-Quilts-type quilting. But first, I put in two tomato plants, some basil and some herbs. That’s pretty funny to do it on the hottest day of the year, a full six weeks behind schedule. But that’s because I vowed No Garden this year, given our usual crop of $60 tomatoes, an old joke on how much it costs to do home gardening. The possum and raccoons are kind of ticked off at me for closing the kitchen this year, tipping over pots on the patio in search of the usual canteen. So we tilled the soil a couple of days back and amended it today with Miracle Gro (I need some stuff called Miracle Quilt, as does the granny in the cartoon) and little green plants are wilting and wavering in the hot breeze. I’m calling this a preparation-for-winter garden, with some summer enhancements.
More funnies are in how stiff a body can get while sitting quilting. The foot hurts from up, down, poise and the shoulders ache, even though I’ve propped up my machine with two door stoppers at the back to guarantee a good angle. So I have to take a break every once in a while–as the more elderly woman at our quilting bee once advised. She had a timer strung around her neck, purchased after her doctor said to take a break every 30 minutes. So we’d sit there at the table, quilting and chatting along when all of sudden we’d hear a bell, and she’d jump up and stride around our U-shape of tables, arms swinging high as her cropped hair all the while she encouraged us to “get off our duffs” and stretch. More encouragement every thirty minutes until at last, by the end of the bee, we were in need of some stretching and allowed ourselves to be bullied into moving our duffs at least back and forth in place.
Five years later, I still think of her, and try to schedule a break from the machine to read Sunday’s leftover paper, get a drink of water, change the laundry, and yes–write a blog post.
Here’s a photo of the fireworks in black and white–a new twist on our traditional (4th of July) event. They shoot off our fireworks on top of the local mountain–and every once in a while, like tonight, a rocket goes haywire and burns Mt. Rubidoux. No worries, billions of fire trucks are there and are prepared with fire cannons, sirens and a little excitement. We left our downtown viewing spot, winding our way home along all the clogged streets to our quiet house. Much later we heard the cannons going off, and we watched the end of the show from our upstairs bedroom window, the lights flashing for the grand finale, with the thundering sounds arriving seconds later. A good 4th, this year, I think.
