Dry is a funny thing. Woke up this morning cold. The house, which I've now shut up, is still holding the cold (I'm wearing a sweater); it's 85 outside, and 90 a bit further inland. When there's no moisture in the air, there's nothing to hold the warmth. Humidity is currently around 5%. It never ceases to amaze me what a difference it makes to go from maybe 30% humidity to 5. Not only do temperatures vary wildly depending on whether you're in the sun or not, but it's clear clear clear. The blue of the sky goes all the way to the horizon - no haze to get in the way.
We haven't had our power shut off as a preventative measure to avoid utility-sparked fires (we were on the list for a while), and the wind seems not to be picking up. Keep your fingers crossed that conditions shift a bit for the better, and keep good thoughts going for our firefighters and the folks who have gotten caught in the fires that are burning in other parts of the state. And if you're in the same conditions - go drink an extra glass of water before you realize you need it!
Showing posts with label California. Show all posts
Showing posts with label California. Show all posts
Friday, October 11, 2019
Thursday, August 22, 2019
Day 42: Roadrunners
True confessions time. I never saw a roadrunner in person until after we'd moved down here. One day, soon after we moved into our house, I looked out the window and saw this bird walking up a tilted tree trunk. My first thought was, literally, that looks like a miniature roadrunner! Because there was no way that a real roadrunner (per the image in my brain) could actually get up into a tree.
Which really tells you all that you need to know about my understanding of roadrunners.
I can't possibly be the only one who only ever thought of roadrunners in the context of Wile E. Coyote. And folks, in that cartoon, Coyote and Roadrunner are very close to the same size:
I mean, that Roadrunner is, at minimum, up to mid-Coyote's chest, right?
Not right. Coyotes (which I see a lot) are about medium dog sized, with longer legs, proportionately, than most dogs. Roadrunners are not - I repeat, not - about 2/3 the size of real-world coyotes. If a coyote stood up on its hind legs, a roadrunner could not (again, I repeat - not) look it in the eye. Greater roadrunners are maybe 20-24 inches from beak to tail. And that's pretty big, based on the ones I've seen around here.
(Not my image). They do, though, actually stand around with their tails straight up, like Roadrunner does above. It's very distinctive, and it's why I immediately classified that bird as somehow being roadrunner-adjacent. The only reason I couldn't actually get my head around the idea that it really was a roadrunner, is that I truly expected roadrunners to be (I hate to even write this, it's so embarrassing) sort of more, well, emu-sized.
FYI. They're not.
Which really tells you all that you need to know about my understanding of roadrunners.
I can't possibly be the only one who only ever thought of roadrunners in the context of Wile E. Coyote. And folks, in that cartoon, Coyote and Roadrunner are very close to the same size:
Not right. Coyotes (which I see a lot) are about medium dog sized, with longer legs, proportionately, than most dogs. Roadrunners are not - I repeat, not - about 2/3 the size of real-world coyotes. If a coyote stood up on its hind legs, a roadrunner could not (again, I repeat - not) look it in the eye. Greater roadrunners are maybe 20-24 inches from beak to tail. And that's pretty big, based on the ones I've seen around here.
FYI. They're not.
Monday, August 5, 2019
Sunday, August 4, 2019
Day 24: Baby trees
I don't know if it's all of the rain (actual precipitation!) that we had this year, or if I've just noticed for the first time, but there are baby trees everywhere.
Before going to Bluesapalooza, I mentioned that I managed to get a hike in. I finally was able to go to the Minarets viewpoint by the trail, rather than the road - the last two times I was here, the trail was completely covered with snow. As was the road, come to think of it:
Tilly didn't mind.
But yesterday, there were only small patches of snow, and I was able to be on the trail, hiking under trees. For me, the high Sierra come with a scent memory that is so powerful that whenever we come to the mountains and I stop and close my eyes and inhale, a goofy grin comes over me - it's the scent of sun-warmed pine needles and decomposing granite. There's really nothing else like it in the world.
Back to the baby trees. I first noticed baby oaks on my favorite walk (more on that another time). And then, when we were here in June, we stepped out into a clearing surrounded by Jeffrey pines, and all over the ground, everywhere, there were baby pines, still with their little pine nut seed caps. I don't know if you can see those little brown caps on top of the needles, but that's what they are.
Are there baby trees where you are?
Before going to Bluesapalooza, I mentioned that I managed to get a hike in. I finally was able to go to the Minarets viewpoint by the trail, rather than the road - the last two times I was here, the trail was completely covered with snow. As was the road, come to think of it:
But yesterday, there were only small patches of snow, and I was able to be on the trail, hiking under trees. For me, the high Sierra come with a scent memory that is so powerful that whenever we come to the mountains and I stop and close my eyes and inhale, a goofy grin comes over me - it's the scent of sun-warmed pine needles and decomposing granite. There's really nothing else like it in the world.
Back to the baby trees. I first noticed baby oaks on my favorite walk (more on that another time). And then, when we were here in June, we stepped out into a clearing surrounded by Jeffrey pines, and all over the ground, everywhere, there were baby pines, still with their little pine nut seed caps. I don't know if you can see those little brown caps on top of the needles, but that's what they are.
It's amazing to me - they are so tenacious, so small. I can't quite imagine how they get from this state to their huge, long-lived adult selves. I found myself treading very carefully anytime I stepped off the trail. And coming right behind them is the next year's crop:
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
Tuesdays on trail
Tuesday mornings always feel a bit special to me. Lately, weekends have been taken up with Kivrin and homework, with brief breaks for a ride each day; unfortunately, that means no time for long weekend hikes. Mondays are completely booked up. It's Kiv's late start day, so I drop her off and go straight to work. With sunsets coming earlier and earlier, there's no time at the end of the day to even ride, let alone ride and walk. So Tuesday mornings, after I drop Kivrin off at school around 7:20, are the first day of the week that I get to visit my favorite trail.
I have been hiking on this trail now, week in week out, month after month, season after season, for years. Sometimes I'm there regularly, sometimes not. In the last few years though, I have gone at least once, and usually two or three times, a week. This consistency, coupled (I firmly believe) with my practice of mindfulness, has led to a feeling of deep intimacy with that particular place, an intimacy coupled with the joy of always, still and yet, finding something new to surprise and delight me.
I heard an interesting piece some time ago on NPR (you will see the relevance soon) about picky eaters. They interviewed, among other people, a psychologist who works with young people who are on the extreme end of that spectrum - one, for example, who would only eat one brand of frozen pizza for every single meal. Out of curiosity, she did the same thing for a month: the same kind of the same brand of the same frozen pizza - for every single meal of every single day, breakfast lunch and dinner. Now, what was interesting about this experience was that she found that she began to notice even tiny differences between these frozen pizzas - she was so attuned to that one experience that even little changes were magnified for her. It gave her some interesting insights into picky eaters - the more restricted their palates, the more likely they were to restrict their eating in some ways, because the differences with new foods were almost too intense.
I got to thinking a lot about that. When it creates an unwillingness to try something new, that level of attunement* is, I think, problematic. However, it also suggests, to me, a conclusion that I find quite lovely: that deep intimacy and knowledge has the potential to lead, not to boredom and stultification, but to an attunement that allows one to notice ever-smaller details. It means that the mundane has the ability to surprise and delight and teach, if we just pay careful and loving attention.
Which is how I feel about my connection to this little piece of place. There is always something new to notice, and a deep sense of comfort in greeting old friends and noticing how they change through the seasons and years.
This morning it was cold. Driving there, my car didn't think it was all that cold, but I well know that the trail itself, largely located in a little creek bed, tends to be anywhere from five to ten or more degrees colder than the surrounding area. As soon as I stepped onto the dirt, I could feel the cold air, settled along the trail, licking at my ankles; it felt to me like a visceral demonstration of the urban heat island effect. Because, while it was around 50 degrees in the parking lot, in the lowest part of the trail, the plants and earth were covered in frost.
As the sun began to touch the tops of the trees, though, the utter stillness that is typical for my morning walks was broken by the rustling of leaves - noticeable because the wind here doesn't usually pick up until later in the day. But we're due for a Santa Ana, and as I crested a small rise, I could feel the currents of warmer air beginning to run down from the sunny spots further up the hill, before I descended back again into the cold still bottoms.
There were fun surprises waiting for me on my walk, too:
Someone decorated one of the little live oaks on the side of the trail with ornaments. It made me smile; I'm guessing the tree feels rather festive, too.
Not to be outdone, one tree hung a leaf from a spider web, midair above the trail.
And of course the sycamores come with their own holiday ornaments.
This insight in itself gives me great pleasure. I find that it applies to so many areas of my life: friendships, marriage, knitting - each, precisely because of consistency and time-depth, flourishes under attention.
Happy Tuesday!
*Is attunement not a word? It's marked as misspelled, and the option I get when I ask is "atonement", which is not at ALL what I'm going for. If it's not, it ought to be. Therefore, I declare that it is.
I have been hiking on this trail now, week in week out, month after month, season after season, for years. Sometimes I'm there regularly, sometimes not. In the last few years though, I have gone at least once, and usually two or three times, a week. This consistency, coupled (I firmly believe) with my practice of mindfulness, has led to a feeling of deep intimacy with that particular place, an intimacy coupled with the joy of always, still and yet, finding something new to surprise and delight me.
I heard an interesting piece some time ago on NPR (you will see the relevance soon) about picky eaters. They interviewed, among other people, a psychologist who works with young people who are on the extreme end of that spectrum - one, for example, who would only eat one brand of frozen pizza for every single meal. Out of curiosity, she did the same thing for a month: the same kind of the same brand of the same frozen pizza - for every single meal of every single day, breakfast lunch and dinner. Now, what was interesting about this experience was that she found that she began to notice even tiny differences between these frozen pizzas - she was so attuned to that one experience that even little changes were magnified for her. It gave her some interesting insights into picky eaters - the more restricted their palates, the more likely they were to restrict their eating in some ways, because the differences with new foods were almost too intense.
I got to thinking a lot about that. When it creates an unwillingness to try something new, that level of attunement* is, I think, problematic. However, it also suggests, to me, a conclusion that I find quite lovely: that deep intimacy and knowledge has the potential to lead, not to boredom and stultification, but to an attunement that allows one to notice ever-smaller details. It means that the mundane has the ability to surprise and delight and teach, if we just pay careful and loving attention.
Which is how I feel about my connection to this little piece of place. There is always something new to notice, and a deep sense of comfort in greeting old friends and noticing how they change through the seasons and years.
This morning it was cold. Driving there, my car didn't think it was all that cold, but I well know that the trail itself, largely located in a little creek bed, tends to be anywhere from five to ten or more degrees colder than the surrounding area. As soon as I stepped onto the dirt, I could feel the cold air, settled along the trail, licking at my ankles; it felt to me like a visceral demonstration of the urban heat island effect. Because, while it was around 50 degrees in the parking lot, in the lowest part of the trail, the plants and earth were covered in frost.
There were fun surprises waiting for me on my walk, too:
Not to be outdone, one tree hung a leaf from a spider web, midair above the trail.
Happy Tuesday!
*Is attunement not a word? It's marked as misspelled, and the option I get when I ask is "atonement", which is not at ALL what I'm going for. If it's not, it ought to be. Therefore, I declare that it is.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Transitions
You would think that, now that the semester is over, I'd have more time for things like blogging and knitting, but somehow it hasn't worked out that way. I have, in fact, still been knitting (although less than you'd think), but I've been spending so much time at the computer trying to get through several really big jobs that have been waiting for my summer "free" time, that whenever I am not working, I'm avoiding the computer like the plague.
I am done with two of those tasks (or at least, they're in someone else's hands for now), so I'm hoping the computer allergy will abate.
It also doesn't help that I tend to think of Sunday as my blogging day, but I've been travelling the last several weekends (lots and lots of driving up and down the state involved), so Sundays have involved cars, more than anything. Basically, I'm in transition from a spring schedule to a summer one, and in the same way that, once one has taken everything out of the trunk on a road trip, it doesn't all seem to want to fit back in the same way, I am trying to get everything to fit.
The travelling not only included the language revitalization work that always makes me happy, but took me to parts of the state that I love. The rolling hills north of the Bay Area just seem to tug at my heart.
No wonder the cows look so content (see them there?).
The grass was just starting to turn from a lovely spring green into what will become a tawny lion brown.
And the oaks...
I have a tendency to take a rather inordinately large number of pictures of oaks.
But I really do love their shapes.
All of the meeting time meant that I needed something that required very little concentration. Luckily, I had just the thing. A few weeks ago, I cast on for the Indigo Ripples Skirt, which I've been wanting to knit since I first saw it in IK ages ago. You may remember that I bought some Rowan denim on sale when I was in Sacramento over the holidays, so as part of my plan to knit down some of the stash, I paired the two up, and off I went.
(Not the best picture, but I figure I'd better post while I'm willing to sit at the computer.)
I knitted this very much as the pattern said, except that I made the stockinette portion longer, and knitted fewer repeats of the lace at the bottom, to make this more into something that I might actually wear to work. I'd been wondering how well the yarn would wash, and whether it would tighten up into something un-see-through enough for public wear; the swatch seemed to suggest that it would. And I think it did.
It's very comfortable. It's a bit darker than it appears in these photos, but much lighter than the yarn was in the ball. (In fact, the yarn released dye on my hands every time I knit, so that my fingers and palms were blue, and it was possible to see the way I wind the yarn around the fingers of my right hand by following the blue lines it left. However, it hasn't left any dye on my skin since I washed it.) When I was done, I threw it into the washer and the dryer, which seems to have taken care of the extra dye and faded it out some. It also shrank by several inches lengthwise, which was exactly what the swatch predicted, so I'd planned for it.
All in all, this turned out well. I knitted a skirt a few years back, which did not (it's so huge on me that I only wear it to the beach as a cover-up - it's knitted from Elsbeth Lavold Hempathy - and it didn't wash up as un-see-through as this one did), so I'd kind of worried. It's not something that is necessarily fun to knit, either, although it was very easy. I find cotton to be hard on the hands, although to be fair, the Rowan Denim isn't nearly as bad as some others I've worked with. I would use it again, but I think it'll be good to give my hands a break.
Especially since the other big project that I'm currently working on (momentarily unbloggable) is knitted from a linen yarn that's a real bear to work with. It's stiff, so it feels like it's constantly springing away from me. It takes a lot of work, and my hands can't deal with it for too long.
So in the meantime, I'm on the hunt for something that'll be a good antidote for that one. I've been carrying around the pattern for the Color Affection Shawl for months; maybe the time has come to find some yarn for that one?
I am done with two of those tasks (or at least, they're in someone else's hands for now), so I'm hoping the computer allergy will abate.
It also doesn't help that I tend to think of Sunday as my blogging day, but I've been travelling the last several weekends (lots and lots of driving up and down the state involved), so Sundays have involved cars, more than anything. Basically, I'm in transition from a spring schedule to a summer one, and in the same way that, once one has taken everything out of the trunk on a road trip, it doesn't all seem to want to fit back in the same way, I am trying to get everything to fit.
The travelling not only included the language revitalization work that always makes me happy, but took me to parts of the state that I love. The rolling hills north of the Bay Area just seem to tug at my heart.
All of the meeting time meant that I needed something that required very little concentration. Luckily, I had just the thing. A few weeks ago, I cast on for the Indigo Ripples Skirt, which I've been wanting to knit since I first saw it in IK ages ago. You may remember that I bought some Rowan denim on sale when I was in Sacramento over the holidays, so as part of my plan to knit down some of the stash, I paired the two up, and off I went.
(Not the best picture, but I figure I'd better post while I'm willing to sit at the computer.)
I knitted this very much as the pattern said, except that I made the stockinette portion longer, and knitted fewer repeats of the lace at the bottom, to make this more into something that I might actually wear to work. I'd been wondering how well the yarn would wash, and whether it would tighten up into something un-see-through enough for public wear; the swatch seemed to suggest that it would. And I think it did.
All in all, this turned out well. I knitted a skirt a few years back, which did not (it's so huge on me that I only wear it to the beach as a cover-up - it's knitted from Elsbeth Lavold Hempathy - and it didn't wash up as un-see-through as this one did), so I'd kind of worried. It's not something that is necessarily fun to knit, either, although it was very easy. I find cotton to be hard on the hands, although to be fair, the Rowan Denim isn't nearly as bad as some others I've worked with. I would use it again, but I think it'll be good to give my hands a break.
Especially since the other big project that I'm currently working on (momentarily unbloggable) is knitted from a linen yarn that's a real bear to work with. It's stiff, so it feels like it's constantly springing away from me. It takes a lot of work, and my hands can't deal with it for too long.
So in the meantime, I'm on the hunt for something that'll be a good antidote for that one. I've been carrying around the pattern for the Color Affection Shawl for months; maybe the time has come to find some yarn for that one?
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Well, we made it!
We did, in the end, go to Yosemite. It was under false pretenses, rather, but it as it all worked out in the end, it's OK.
On Thursday morning, we packed up and got ready to go, waiting to hear from the managers at the place where we were staying whether the water (which was off due to a broken main) was back on. Now, I'm willing and able to go without water in the right circumstances, but those circumstances (not to put too fine a point on it) involve access to an outhouse (especially in the winter). It's no fun to be in a house with no running water, if you can imagine what I mean here. I will say no more.
We finally got the news that the main was fixed, and packed up and hit the road around 1:00 for what should have been a 7-hour drive. (Shades of Gilligan's Island here.) Around San Onofre, we realized that we had forgotten the camera. We turned around. One hour later, we were back at San Onofre. (One ought not to have to see the same nuclear power plant twice on the same drive.) And then we hit LA. It took us a full hour to get through Santa Monica. Santa Monica really isn't that large. But we finally made it up to Yosemite and to the house where we were staying at 10:00 (pm), to be greeted by my parents with the news that with regard to the water, not so much.
Alas.
However, we all decided to make the best of it and headed to bed. It was rather disconcerting on Friday morning when the manager made it clear that she assumed we had water and had to be told that, in fact (as I may have mentioned), not so much with the water. We were assured that it would be on by the time we came back from our adventures in the valley, and further assured that if it were not fixed, we would be moved to a house with running water. (Hooray!)
So off we went to Yosemite Valley. We came through the tunnel in the road down into the valley to be met with this:
Talk about a perfect day for views. We stopped to be tourists (of course).
The whole park was caught between burgeoning spring and winter.
New green growth and white snow were everywhere. Especially on the trail that we took to hike to the bottom of Upper Yosemite Falls, which were in full flood. It's one heck of a climb (about 1100 vertical feet over the mile and a half up), but the views of Half Dome through the trees were pretty inspirational.
And there were some places to stop and (literally) hang out.
(Note, I did not know about that until it had already been done.)(And yes, the drop just to the right there off that rock is exactly as precipitous as it looks.)
When we finally made it to the view of Upper Yosemite Falls, we felt like we'd really earned it. And we found out later that they falls are probably the best they're going to be all year.
I'm convinced. Do you see that they're falling into a huge snow pile there? Amazing.
Evidence.
We also found a place to look down on Lower Yosemite Falls. I didn't last long, I must admit. Those are great big redwood trees way down there - we were high up.
The trails were wet and slick and steep, but beautiful in their own right.
It was a wonderful way to spend the day, even though there was still no water when we got back. But we moved houses, and never was a hot shower more welcome. You can also bet we all slept well.
The rest of the weekend was much the same. We snowshoed, and snowshoed some more, and everyone went on a ranger hike (while I worked, sigh). And on Saturday night, my parents treated us to a truly amazing meal at the Ahwahnee, which was quite an experience - I was lucky enough to sit with a view of Yosemite Falls through one of the huge cathedral windows. The food was delicious, the views were like a postcard, and the company was wonderful; it was certainly a spectacular way to spend an evening. (The girls were duly impressed by the grandeur of the dining hall, and Younger Daughter was particularly taken with the pianist: "Look, mama!! It's not a radio!" Heh.)
In the middle of all of that, I got very little knitting done. In fact, most of what I did get done happened on the drive home. So this is what I have to show for my weekend away.
One square of the Mitered Crosses Blanket from Mason-Dixon (proceeds go to Japanese relief efforts). That's Noro Silk Garden in the middle, and Berocco alpaca (I think) worsted weight on the outside. I'm knitting it on the amazing size six Signature needles that my beloved sister-in-law gave me for my birthday (can I just say how much I love Signature needles)(and my sister-in-law for knowing that I love Signature needles? She also gave me size fives for Christmas)?
And that's all the news that's fit to report!
On Thursday morning, we packed up and got ready to go, waiting to hear from the managers at the place where we were staying whether the water (which was off due to a broken main) was back on. Now, I'm willing and able to go without water in the right circumstances, but those circumstances (not to put too fine a point on it) involve access to an outhouse (especially in the winter). It's no fun to be in a house with no running water, if you can imagine what I mean here. I will say no more.
We finally got the news that the main was fixed, and packed up and hit the road around 1:00 for what should have been a 7-hour drive. (Shades of Gilligan's Island here.) Around San Onofre, we realized that we had forgotten the camera. We turned around. One hour later, we were back at San Onofre. (One ought not to have to see the same nuclear power plant twice on the same drive.) And then we hit LA. It took us a full hour to get through Santa Monica. Santa Monica really isn't that large. But we finally made it up to Yosemite and to the house where we were staying at 10:00 (pm), to be greeted by my parents with the news that with regard to the water, not so much.
Alas.
However, we all decided to make the best of it and headed to bed. It was rather disconcerting on Friday morning when the manager made it clear that she assumed we had water and had to be told that, in fact (as I may have mentioned), not so much with the water. We were assured that it would be on by the time we came back from our adventures in the valley, and further assured that if it were not fixed, we would be moved to a house with running water. (Hooray!)
So off we went to Yosemite Valley. We came through the tunnel in the road down into the valley to be met with this:
When we finally made it to the view of Upper Yosemite Falls, we felt like we'd really earned it. And we found out later that they falls are probably the best they're going to be all year.
We also found a place to look down on Lower Yosemite Falls. I didn't last long, I must admit. Those are great big redwood trees way down there - we were high up.
The rest of the weekend was much the same. We snowshoed, and snowshoed some more, and everyone went on a ranger hike (while I worked, sigh). And on Saturday night, my parents treated us to a truly amazing meal at the Ahwahnee, which was quite an experience - I was lucky enough to sit with a view of Yosemite Falls through one of the huge cathedral windows. The food was delicious, the views were like a postcard, and the company was wonderful; it was certainly a spectacular way to spend an evening. (The girls were duly impressed by the grandeur of the dining hall, and Younger Daughter was particularly taken with the pianist: "Look, mama!! It's not a radio!" Heh.)
In the middle of all of that, I got very little knitting done. In fact, most of what I did get done happened on the drive home. So this is what I have to show for my weekend away.
And that's all the news that's fit to report!
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The train!
Yup, the light at the end of that tunnel was a train. As of tomorrow, the semester is officially here. I'm as ready as I usually am by this time; my syllabi are finished and posted on the online course sites, my files with course materials are all in the drawer in my desk (instead of in my filing cabinets), the dates on the course assignments have been changed, I have printed up the class rosters, and added the names of the many students who have asked to be put on wait lists (because it's apparently impossible for our administration to actually activate the wait-list feature on our enrollment software - and yes, that does make me cranky, because it's both a huge amount of additional work for me, and because it means that faculty have to be the bad guys, even though it is by no means our fault that there aren't enough sections for all the students who need classes).
I have also wound up yarn for meeting-type projects, copied the patterns (I like to have trashable copies in my knitting bags - I don't want to lose any originals), and cast on (I don't know about you, but I need to concentrate when I get a project set up). Since I also have a birthday coming up (and since I will be spending all day on my birthday in meetings - CFA, budget committee, Senate, right in a row), I decided that starting a couple of simple projects in decadent yarns would be the way to go. To that end, I got started on the Lune shawl last night with my handspun silk/cashmere.
It's knitting up beautifully. The scarf will probably turn out smaller than the pattern, as I'm using a slightly finer yarn and smaller needle, but I like the way the fabric is turning out at this gauge. Once the pattern is established, it's completely mindless, but decadent in this yarn, just right for meetings. I also cast on some Bugga - my first for myself! - to knit another pair of the Kimono Socks. I have/had a pair, but they seem to have slipped into the dryer, and are now too small for my feet. I have long wanted a second pair, so this seems like the perfect opportunity. Of course, for these to be a second pair, I may have to knit yet another pair after this, but this seems like a good start.
That's it in knitting news. I finished my aunt's socks, which don't make for exciting pictures, since they're exactly like the Lenore socks I knitted for myself. I've mostly been enjoying the lovely weather by taking my knitting out to the back patio - it won't last, so I'm sucking up the sun while I can. I haven't had a chance to take any pictures of the hood I knitted (too busy sitting in the sun), so I can't share that. I can share a couple of shots from some hiking we did a few weeks ago.
Happy kids, happy dog.
We have also lately had some spectacular views of the snow-covered mountains north and east of here. Right from the hills behind our house. I wish we could get a clearer shot - early in the morning, when it's clear, they're just right there, bigger than life. I think if you click to embiggen this picture, it's clearer - the white there on the horizon is not clouds.
Snow-covered mountains and San Diego. Weird.
I have also wound up yarn for meeting-type projects, copied the patterns (I like to have trashable copies in my knitting bags - I don't want to lose any originals), and cast on (I don't know about you, but I need to concentrate when I get a project set up). Since I also have a birthday coming up (and since I will be spending all day on my birthday in meetings - CFA, budget committee, Senate, right in a row), I decided that starting a couple of simple projects in decadent yarns would be the way to go. To that end, I got started on the Lune shawl last night with my handspun silk/cashmere.
That's it in knitting news. I finished my aunt's socks, which don't make for exciting pictures, since they're exactly like the Lenore socks I knitted for myself. I've mostly been enjoying the lovely weather by taking my knitting out to the back patio - it won't last, so I'm sucking up the sun while I can. I haven't had a chance to take any pictures of the hood I knitted (too busy sitting in the sun), so I can't share that. I can share a couple of shots from some hiking we did a few weeks ago.
We have also lately had some spectacular views of the snow-covered mountains north and east of here. Right from the hills behind our house. I wish we could get a clearer shot - early in the morning, when it's clear, they're just right there, bigger than life. I think if you click to embiggen this picture, it's clearer - the white there on the horizon is not clouds.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Verbal knitting
I went north, and I have returned. (Go north, not-so-young woman, go north!)
(It doesn't have the same ring, does it?)
It was a wonderful weekend. I learned not only the ten assigned verbs plus three endings (more aspectual endings than tense, I think, even though everyone persists in understanding them as tense)(and if that interests anyone, I would happily do the brief tense/mood/aspect discussion with regard to verbs some time; always willing, always willing), but two more verbs to boot! And one of them I even intuited based on the data provided during the learning of the first eleven. Man, did I feel good.
But even better was the fact that everyone else seemed to learn them, too. (One should expect that a linguist could learn a few verb endings if push really came to shove; the real test of a good set of immersion lessons is whether they can capture and hold anyone's attention, and whether people walk away with useful and useable language. People did.) This was a three-day language camp for a language that currently has three native speakers (native in the sense of growing up speaking the language as a first language; they also happen to be Native), as well as a couple of pretty fluent second language speakers. There were a good fifteen or so of us at the camp, across at least three generations, and we all declared it a success.
On the two mornings that I was there, I even got to go on a quick hike with Laura, the amazing woman who not only hosted this event, but who also finds all the grants that keep this project (and several others like it) going. I have absolutely NO idea how she does it, since I am a grant anti-magnet, but she writes them and manages them beautifully, and we are all grateful beyond belief. She's also wonderful company (and enjoys a good beer at the end of a long and language-filled day), and she takes me on good hikes with her dogs.
It is the sepia season here in California. I wish I could paint...
Our walk took us up a drainage (long since dammed, alas), near which there are grinding stones, very likely used by the Kawaiisu people who were the forebears of the folks in that first picture up there.
I can imagine women looking out at the view from that rock on a morning like this, watching the light come through the trees.
There are still a myriad of oaks in the valley.
It turns out that language camps are also good for knitting. I finished the first of the pair of socks I'm working on for Younger Daughter. She is delighted.
I was inspired to knit these after seeing Lori's. (I can't find the exact post, for some reason, but here's her Rav project.) They're the Circle Socks, and since I was rather winging the pattern from some scribbled notes I'd made, these are a little different from the actual pattern. Younger Daughter is pretty happy with them, though; she says they look like fish, and they really do, don't they? Lovely bright tropical fish. They are very "her".
I have knitted mine out of Jitterbug, on size one needles. Had I had all of my needles with me, I might optimally have gone up a needle size, but this worked out well enough. I knitted them over 56 stitches, and made the foot a bit wider than the leg (62 stitches). The heel is eye of partridge. I broke my cardinal rule, though, and did not cast on for the second sock as soon as I'd cast off the first, so I must go tonight and remedy that, lest I neglect to get these done.
Next time, lace.
(It doesn't have the same ring, does it?)
It was a wonderful weekend. I learned not only the ten assigned verbs plus three endings (more aspectual endings than tense, I think, even though everyone persists in understanding them as tense)(and if that interests anyone, I would happily do the brief tense/mood/aspect discussion with regard to verbs some time; always willing, always willing), but two more verbs to boot! And one of them I even intuited based on the data provided during the learning of the first eleven. Man, did I feel good.
But even better was the fact that everyone else seemed to learn them, too. (One should expect that a linguist could learn a few verb endings if push really came to shove; the real test of a good set of immersion lessons is whether they can capture and hold anyone's attention, and whether people walk away with useful and useable language. People did.) This was a three-day language camp for a language that currently has three native speakers (native in the sense of growing up speaking the language as a first language; they also happen to be Native), as well as a couple of pretty fluent second language speakers. There were a good fifteen or so of us at the camp, across at least three generations, and we all declared it a success.
On the two mornings that I was there, I even got to go on a quick hike with Laura, the amazing woman who not only hosted this event, but who also finds all the grants that keep this project (and several others like it) going. I have absolutely NO idea how she does it, since I am a grant anti-magnet, but she writes them and manages them beautifully, and we are all grateful beyond belief. She's also wonderful company (and enjoys a good beer at the end of a long and language-filled day), and she takes me on good hikes with her dogs.
It is the sepia season here in California. I wish I could paint...Our walk took us up a drainage (long since dammed, alas), near which there are grinding stones, very likely used by the Kawaiisu people who were the forebears of the folks in that first picture up there.
I can imagine women looking out at the view from that rock on a morning like this, watching the light come through the trees.
There are still a myriad of oaks in the valley.
It turns out that language camps are also good for knitting. I finished the first of the pair of socks I'm working on for Younger Daughter. She is delighted.
I was inspired to knit these after seeing Lori's. (I can't find the exact post, for some reason, but here's her Rav project.) They're the Circle Socks, and since I was rather winging the pattern from some scribbled notes I'd made, these are a little different from the actual pattern. Younger Daughter is pretty happy with them, though; she says they look like fish, and they really do, don't they? Lovely bright tropical fish. They are very "her".
I have knitted mine out of Jitterbug, on size one needles. Had I had all of my needles with me, I might optimally have gone up a needle size, but this worked out well enough. I knitted them over 56 stitches, and made the foot a bit wider than the leg (62 stitches). The heel is eye of partridge. I broke my cardinal rule, though, and did not cast on for the second sock as soon as I'd cast off the first, so I must go tonight and remedy that, lest I neglect to get these done.Next time, lace.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The other thing I've been trying to get done
Is happening today. I don't know if any of you have been tracking the series of events happening at college campuses across the nation today to remind people of the importance of publicly-funded higher education, but we're having a teach-in and rally here on my campus, and I've been part of the (very small but tremendously efficient) organizing committee. We talked about it and figured that we're teachers, and what we do best isn't carrying placards (although that has its place) or shouting slogans (although that, too, has its place) but rather teaching, so we have four faculty members on a panel talking about the California Master Plan, the politics of funding higher education, and the directions that our new models are taking us (a hint: they're not good). Then we'll be taking lots of questions.
The really cool (and terrifying) bit is that we're streaming this puppy live. Today, from 10:30-11:45. And we'll archive it, too. We're also going to be reading email questions to the panelists during the question and answer period. So, should you happen to see this, and should you happen to be interested, here's the url with the link to the teach-in (I checked, and my co-organizers said I could share):
http://www2.csusm.edu/cfa/
I don't usually advertise things like this, but this issue of publicly-funded higher education is an important one (I admit, I'm biased), and I think it's all too often swept under the rug or misunderstood. I hope with all of my heart that today's events -- not just here, but everywhere -- will change that just a little bit.
I'm wearing my new sweater for luck, and I'll be reading out those email questions, so let's hope I don't say something silly or misread something crucial. And once this is done, I'll be past my last big hurdle for a while.
The really cool (and terrifying) bit is that we're streaming this puppy live. Today, from 10:30-11:45. And we'll archive it, too. We're also going to be reading email questions to the panelists during the question and answer period. So, should you happen to see this, and should you happen to be interested, here's the url with the link to the teach-in (I checked, and my co-organizers said I could share):
http://www2.csusm.edu/cfa/
I don't usually advertise things like this, but this issue of publicly-funded higher education is an important one (I admit, I'm biased), and I think it's all too often swept under the rug or misunderstood. I hope with all of my heart that today's events -- not just here, but everywhere -- will change that just a little bit.
I'm wearing my new sweater for luck, and I'll be reading out those email questions, so let's hope I don't say something silly or misread something crucial. And once this is done, I'll be past my last big hurdle for a while.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Pictures
I don't know that I have the energy to write very much today, so I'm going to share some basket photos with you. Most of the ones I'm posting are Pomo baskets. I'll try to remember to say if they come from another Tribe. These pictures were taken last night when we went to the Hearst Museum's off-site basket storage facility. They hold some 10,000 baskets, 9,000 of which are Native Californian. I don't know that there's any way to adequately convey the weight of all of those baskets stashed away in rolling bookshelves.
That's just one row. And each of those bookshelves is filled with baskets.
Little baskets, big baskets, burden baskets, fish traps, baby baskets. You are all hand-workers. You know that when you put yourself into something you create, when you make it right so that it will do its job and last and be something lovely to rest the eyes on, you want it to be used. We all know the tragedy of giving someone a handknitted shawl, say, and having the recipient tuck it away in mothballs "for special" (am I speaking from experience? indeed I am). This was like that, times 9,000.
I am always in awe of the little bitty presentation baskets, decorated with feathers and beads.
(I admit, I sometimes fret about all the little topknotless quail running around.)
Some are so small, I can't imagine anyone's hands being dextrous enough to weave them. That blurry object in the left corner is my thumb, for scale.
And the patterns. My goodness, the patterns.
These basket caps are woven so tightly that water can't come through. (They're from further north, as you can see from the sign.)
I wish these could come back into use, but of course, they can't be touched with bare hands, as they've been treated with mercury and other pesticides over the years. They can only be held while wearing gloves.
Tomorrow: Back to language
That's just one row. And each of those bookshelves is filled with baskets.
Little baskets, big baskets, burden baskets, fish traps, baby baskets. You are all hand-workers. You know that when you put yourself into something you create, when you make it right so that it will do its job and last and be something lovely to rest the eyes on, you want it to be used. We all know the tragedy of giving someone a handknitted shawl, say, and having the recipient tuck it away in mothballs "for special" (am I speaking from experience? indeed I am). This was like that, times 9,000.I am always in awe of the little bitty presentation baskets, decorated with feathers and beads.
(I admit, I sometimes fret about all the little topknotless quail running around.)Some are so small, I can't imagine anyone's hands being dextrous enough to weave them. That blurry object in the left corner is my thumb, for scale.
And the patterns. My goodness, the patterns.
These basket caps are woven so tightly that water can't come through. (They're from further north, as you can see from the sign.)
I wish these could come back into use, but of course, they can't be touched with bare hands, as they've been treated with mercury and other pesticides over the years. They can only be held while wearing gloves.
Tomorrow: Back to language
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Songs of praise
Oh, wow. I woke up this morning, and the marine layer was back. It didn't last long, but I actually needed to pull up the sheet last night because with the fans on, I was a bit chilly. This, after the weather we've had, is nothing less than a miracle. Now, don't get me wrong, the overcast didn't last long, but it's not supposed to this time of year. It is, however, supposed to be there of an evening, and it has been tremendously disturbing to my equanimity that it hasn't been.
I'm good with extreme weather. I grew up here in California, and I've lived in the San Joaquin Valley, in L.A., in the Bay Area, and here in north San Diego county. I've spent stretches of time in Lake County and in the Trinity Alps. I get changeable weather. Over the year in Sacramento, it goes from over 115 in August to below freezing in the winter. Now, I know that 115 doesn't seem too bad to those folks out in Tucson, and freezing is nothing to everyone who lives in points north, but remember, you've got to have closet space to cover what you need for both kinds of weather; this requires planning. As a child, we used to go to San Francisco sometimes from Sacramento, and I'd remember leaving, the sun pinning us to the driveway like helpless bugs, and my mother would say, "Take a sweater." We'd look at her like she had sprouted a spare eye in some unsightly place and refuse. Two hours later, we'd be freezing in fog-bound SF, wearing summer clothes on a 50-degree day. (Later, when I lived there, we laughed at tourists who did that.)
I must confess here to a love of fog. Maybe it's the memory of the relief I felt at stepping out of the car and feeling the cold, instead of unremitting heat and sun. Maybe (as my husband firmly believes after seeing how happy I was the first time I went to Ireland and it rained on us for days) it's some remnant of my Irish genetic past, telling me to seek cooler climes. All I know is that the weather that makes me happiest is brisk. Some (such as my dear friend from Hawai'i), might even call it cold. I honestly would far rather spend the day in jeans and a wool sweater, walking along a beach in 50-degree weather, the wind making my cheeks cold and red, than lie on a towel on the sand on a 90-degree day with the sun making my skin hot and red. Hiking in a raging wind makes me happier than anything in the world. I stand on a ridge, and with the wind in my face I am sure I could just lift my arms and fly. (This is, perhaps, the largest part of my fear of exposed precipitous heights. There is this small part of me that wonders how it would feel to free-fall through the air; I'm sure it would be great right up until the landing, and I hate to imagine the second thoughts I'd have for about 10 seconds if I ever tried it.)
In spite of that preference for cold that draws me north just as often as I can get there, I love California in the sun, too. In spite of the snide comments of those in other parts of the nation that we have no seasons here, we do. They are just off-kilter from traditional seasons, and sometimes tremendously subtle. Far from the usual white winter, muddy spring, green summer, and red fall that story books show, we've got green winters. The rains come, and like some kind of miracle in December, little sprouts of grass show up all over the hills. Plants get tremendously excited by the chance to reproduce and wildflowers cover the hillsides by March. Sage grows rampantly, as does the poison oak, and in some places, if you know where to look, you can begin to stake out claims on blackberry futures (always knowing that you will pay a price in poison oak to get there). By May, the grass is turning brown, and summer is starting; this is the season when the hills take on the aspect of sleeping lions, brown and lazy in the sun, looking as soft as velvet. The sage and fennel bake in the heat, and hiking at this time of year means coming home smelling like a Thanksgiving turkey. If you're lucky enough to live in a fog belt area, you can walk the hills under bay laurel trees, and come home with leaves that make your hands smell of far-away places. Fall here is fire season, and the color in the foliage comes not from our oaks, but from the poison oak, which shows off its hiding places with bright red flags, laughing that you didn't know it was there earlier. All the other colors at this time are in sepia tones: olive, brown, sage, grey; they are subtle and lovely, and it is texture that gives the landscape depth.
I went to the LA County Museum of Art with the girls this past spring, where there was an exhibit of art depicting California. There were two huge paintings by an artist whose name (alas) I cannot remember; but the paintings are burned in my memory. They are my state as I see it. One was entitled simply "The Ocean", the other "Hills". The ocean is all shades of greys and blues; not the bright turquoise of a Mediterranean sea, or of the Caribbean, but quiet tones, blending into the sky; the horizon line blending in almost seamlessly. The hills are the velvet browns of fall, sleeping, and waiting for rain to bring them to life with grass and landslides; these are the hills that Native Californians called the walking hills because they move each winter as water undermines them. There was a quote from the artist. Someone had asked him if he had a religion, and he replied, "I think it is California". I get that.
I know there are other beautiful places, and that other people find California appalling in its self-aggrandizement (so do I, sometimes), but that is not all there is. True, there is something about LA, its brashness, that appeals to me (for short periods of time). And I have always adored Berkeley, where no matter what I do, there are a dozen people within arm's reach who are weirder, more opinionated, more out there than I could ever hope to be; I love the concealing cover of their doings. The exuberance is worth valuing in its own right. But most people, who think of Hollywood as the epitome of this place, don't know its quieter beauties. They don't know that most of the state is rural, and conservative, and much of it is poor. Not just the urban poor who are noticed once a decade, when Oakland is crowned the murder capital again, or when LA riots, but those who live in places that are relatively untouched by urban woes. Who grow many of the crops that have made this such a rich state, including the illegal ones that are stashed away on federal lands in the mountains of the north; if you grow dope on federal property, the land can't be confiscated when the crop is found, right?
Working with Native Californians as I do, the point of most commonality for me is this attachment to place. Not to a movie California, but to a land of variety and subtlety. To the way the red clay mud sticks to your feet in the winter, making you slip and slide when you hike. To the smell of the air when rain falls on sage. To the blind feel of walking through tule fog, trying to breath cold, wet air. To coming over a rise and coming face-to-face with a kestral, hovering in hopes of flushing a ground squirrel; or meeting up with a coyote, who looks up with a wise, knowing smile; or seeing a heron rise from a marshland beside the freeway, wondering where the rest of its swamp went when it wasn't looking. That's a different kind of thing, more timeless, more about an attachment to an ecosystem, to the feeling of being one small but integral part in a seamless whole. Sitting on a beach, watching the land meet the sea, I have brief moments of feeling that unity that Buddhists seek. I feel it hiking through a sepia landscape, watching for the small changes that tell me it's going to be hot, or cool; seeing fog drip from live oaks. I could probably feel this in other places, but this is where I am, so this is where it happens most comfortably for me.
All this is by way of saying that it bothers me on a deep level when something is off-kilter in this ecosystem. And this weather is way off-kilter. I know heat. I know the Santa Anas that pour in from the desert, ionizing the air, driving up the temperature, and making everyone crazy. This past week has been weird, still, humid weather. Not at all normal, and frankly, not to my taste. I know people who say that they love humidity, but I figure either a) they've never experienced humidity, or b) they're lying. I mean, how is it possible to enjoy feeling sweat trickling down your back just because you're exerting yourself by breathing? I used to visit my Nana in Rhode Island in August, and man, that is some miserable weather. Like breathing through warm, wet wool (now, breathing through cold wet wool is called "damp", and I like that). Anyway, cold and grey at night, and warm during the day. That, my friends, is what September here is supposed to be like, and it had damned well better stay that way.
I'm good with extreme weather. I grew up here in California, and I've lived in the San Joaquin Valley, in L.A., in the Bay Area, and here in north San Diego county. I've spent stretches of time in Lake County and in the Trinity Alps. I get changeable weather. Over the year in Sacramento, it goes from over 115 in August to below freezing in the winter. Now, I know that 115 doesn't seem too bad to those folks out in Tucson, and freezing is nothing to everyone who lives in points north, but remember, you've got to have closet space to cover what you need for both kinds of weather; this requires planning. As a child, we used to go to San Francisco sometimes from Sacramento, and I'd remember leaving, the sun pinning us to the driveway like helpless bugs, and my mother would say, "Take a sweater." We'd look at her like she had sprouted a spare eye in some unsightly place and refuse. Two hours later, we'd be freezing in fog-bound SF, wearing summer clothes on a 50-degree day. (Later, when I lived there, we laughed at tourists who did that.)
I must confess here to a love of fog. Maybe it's the memory of the relief I felt at stepping out of the car and feeling the cold, instead of unremitting heat and sun. Maybe (as my husband firmly believes after seeing how happy I was the first time I went to Ireland and it rained on us for days) it's some remnant of my Irish genetic past, telling me to seek cooler climes. All I know is that the weather that makes me happiest is brisk. Some (such as my dear friend from Hawai'i), might even call it cold. I honestly would far rather spend the day in jeans and a wool sweater, walking along a beach in 50-degree weather, the wind making my cheeks cold and red, than lie on a towel on the sand on a 90-degree day with the sun making my skin hot and red. Hiking in a raging wind makes me happier than anything in the world. I stand on a ridge, and with the wind in my face I am sure I could just lift my arms and fly. (This is, perhaps, the largest part of my fear of exposed precipitous heights. There is this small part of me that wonders how it would feel to free-fall through the air; I'm sure it would be great right up until the landing, and I hate to imagine the second thoughts I'd have for about 10 seconds if I ever tried it.)
In spite of that preference for cold that draws me north just as often as I can get there, I love California in the sun, too. In spite of the snide comments of those in other parts of the nation that we have no seasons here, we do. They are just off-kilter from traditional seasons, and sometimes tremendously subtle. Far from the usual white winter, muddy spring, green summer, and red fall that story books show, we've got green winters. The rains come, and like some kind of miracle in December, little sprouts of grass show up all over the hills. Plants get tremendously excited by the chance to reproduce and wildflowers cover the hillsides by March. Sage grows rampantly, as does the poison oak, and in some places, if you know where to look, you can begin to stake out claims on blackberry futures (always knowing that you will pay a price in poison oak to get there). By May, the grass is turning brown, and summer is starting; this is the season when the hills take on the aspect of sleeping lions, brown and lazy in the sun, looking as soft as velvet. The sage and fennel bake in the heat, and hiking at this time of year means coming home smelling like a Thanksgiving turkey. If you're lucky enough to live in a fog belt area, you can walk the hills under bay laurel trees, and come home with leaves that make your hands smell of far-away places. Fall here is fire season, and the color in the foliage comes not from our oaks, but from the poison oak, which shows off its hiding places with bright red flags, laughing that you didn't know it was there earlier. All the other colors at this time are in sepia tones: olive, brown, sage, grey; they are subtle and lovely, and it is texture that gives the landscape depth.
I went to the LA County Museum of Art with the girls this past spring, where there was an exhibit of art depicting California. There were two huge paintings by an artist whose name (alas) I cannot remember; but the paintings are burned in my memory. They are my state as I see it. One was entitled simply "The Ocean", the other "Hills". The ocean is all shades of greys and blues; not the bright turquoise of a Mediterranean sea, or of the Caribbean, but quiet tones, blending into the sky; the horizon line blending in almost seamlessly. The hills are the velvet browns of fall, sleeping, and waiting for rain to bring them to life with grass and landslides; these are the hills that Native Californians called the walking hills because they move each winter as water undermines them. There was a quote from the artist. Someone had asked him if he had a religion, and he replied, "I think it is California". I get that.
I know there are other beautiful places, and that other people find California appalling in its self-aggrandizement (so do I, sometimes), but that is not all there is. True, there is something about LA, its brashness, that appeals to me (for short periods of time). And I have always adored Berkeley, where no matter what I do, there are a dozen people within arm's reach who are weirder, more opinionated, more out there than I could ever hope to be; I love the concealing cover of their doings. The exuberance is worth valuing in its own right. But most people, who think of Hollywood as the epitome of this place, don't know its quieter beauties. They don't know that most of the state is rural, and conservative, and much of it is poor. Not just the urban poor who are noticed once a decade, when Oakland is crowned the murder capital again, or when LA riots, but those who live in places that are relatively untouched by urban woes. Who grow many of the crops that have made this such a rich state, including the illegal ones that are stashed away on federal lands in the mountains of the north; if you grow dope on federal property, the land can't be confiscated when the crop is found, right?
Working with Native Californians as I do, the point of most commonality for me is this attachment to place. Not to a movie California, but to a land of variety and subtlety. To the way the red clay mud sticks to your feet in the winter, making you slip and slide when you hike. To the smell of the air when rain falls on sage. To the blind feel of walking through tule fog, trying to breath cold, wet air. To coming over a rise and coming face-to-face with a kestral, hovering in hopes of flushing a ground squirrel; or meeting up with a coyote, who looks up with a wise, knowing smile; or seeing a heron rise from a marshland beside the freeway, wondering where the rest of its swamp went when it wasn't looking. That's a different kind of thing, more timeless, more about an attachment to an ecosystem, to the feeling of being one small but integral part in a seamless whole. Sitting on a beach, watching the land meet the sea, I have brief moments of feeling that unity that Buddhists seek. I feel it hiking through a sepia landscape, watching for the small changes that tell me it's going to be hot, or cool; seeing fog drip from live oaks. I could probably feel this in other places, but this is where I am, so this is where it happens most comfortably for me.
All this is by way of saying that it bothers me on a deep level when something is off-kilter in this ecosystem. And this weather is way off-kilter. I know heat. I know the Santa Anas that pour in from the desert, ionizing the air, driving up the temperature, and making everyone crazy. This past week has been weird, still, humid weather. Not at all normal, and frankly, not to my taste. I know people who say that they love humidity, but I figure either a) they've never experienced humidity, or b) they're lying. I mean, how is it possible to enjoy feeling sweat trickling down your back just because you're exerting yourself by breathing? I used to visit my Nana in Rhode Island in August, and man, that is some miserable weather. Like breathing through warm, wet wool (now, breathing through cold wet wool is called "damp", and I like that). Anyway, cold and grey at night, and warm during the day. That, my friends, is what September here is supposed to be like, and it had damned well better stay that way.
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