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February 4th, 2012
And just like that, the season turns. I don’t know what that Punxsutawney Phil guy thinks he knows, but his predictions rarely apply here. Spring comes early in the Northwest, and yesterday I spied this little harbinger of good things to come. I’ll take the predictions of the trees over any prognosticating rodent.
The sun’s returning in earnest now, too—not just with this batch of unexpected blue skies we’ve had lately, but with noticeably longer days. Everyone here is just a little more cheerful as a result. Suddenly, everywhere are smiles and open windows, as we all breathe in that first hint of fresh spring air.
January 18th, 2012
I’m not the only one who’s housebound today.
Winter finally remembered us, and for the last four days the snow has been swirling.
Today we woke up to a proper blanketing.
So all over town, people are staying home, and watching through their windows—just like I am.
Thank you to everybody who commented, emailed, called, tweeted, sent cards and packages, delivered chocolate, or dropped by to keep me company. Your kindness has been so wonderful, so warming. I’m doing fine, for the most part, and though we don’t have all the answers yet, what we do know is there are no broken bones or anything really scary. I go back to the doc on Friday, and hopefully we’ll have a proper diagnosis then, as well as a plan for what comes next.
Until then, I’m here, waiting in the white.
January 2nd, 2012
Well, Happy New Year indeed. This is how I’m kicking off 2012 (not actually kicking anything for some time, methinks); nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, I guess.
I was out walking Jessica’s dog Brown in my neighborhood yesterday, when I got hit by a car. It happened at one of those double-T intersections where the cross street ends, then picks back up again further down the block. I was on the main road, approaching the near T-junction, when I saw a the car stop at the far T ahead. He had his blinker on to turn right onto the main street, and I made Brown stop and wait until I was sure of what he was going to do. He turned, and then it appeared he was going to continue straight, right on past me, so I started crossing the street at my T-junction. At the last second, without using his turn signal, he veered to the left, right into my intersection. I yelled for him to stop, but he never saw or heard me. I tried to run out of the way, but he was accelerating, so he hit my left leg before I could clear his car. I went flying forward, crashed on the pavement (with my glasses landing a few feet away) and dropped the leash, Brown spooked and kept running, and the driver screeched to a halt and jumped out of the car. He was just a kid—sixteen, according to the police report—and even more shaken up than I was. I told him to call 9-1-1, and while he did that, several witnesses ran up to help me out of the street and bring Brown back. The emergency crew was there within minutes, and I had to laugh when the EMT checked me in at the ER and gave the official accident code to the techs: Car vs. Pedestrian. Maybe if the car had been a Smart Car and the pedestrian a Sumo wrestler, the score would be tallied differently.
I keep thinking of all the ways this could have been worse. If he’d been driving an SUV instead of a compact car. If I’d been one second late in crossing. If I’d been two seconds late in crossing. If he hadn’t stopped. If it had been raining, or dark outside. If there hadn’t been anyone nearby to help. All things considered, I’m mostly okay, and very lucky to be so—but it’s bad enough. I’ve got some sort of knee injury that x-rays couldn’t determine, and I can’t call to make an MRI appointment until tomorrow (happy New Year). I’ve got an impressive collection of scrapes and bruises, and while there’s no walking or driving (stick shift) in my foreseeable future, there are a lot of phone calls to make.
So all of a sudden, all I have in the world is time. I’m trying to fill it with joyful, quietly productive things, because it makes the waiting easier. And I’ve never been more glad that we traditionally don’t take the Christmas tree down until Twelfth Night.
As I sit, and sip, and stitch, and sit, I wish more and more for some way to thank the unknown Tacomans for their kindness yesterday. The man who helped assess my injuries, lent me a phone to call home, and retrieved Brown. The woman who kept me talking in case of a concussion. The fireman who was so kindly and apologetic about the logistical questions he had to ask. The EMTs who assured me I wasn’t silly, and insisted I accept the “fuss” of an ambulance ride. The police officer who came to see me in the emergency room. Even the shaken teenager who knew enough to do the right thing.
And I wish for everyone else behind the wheel out there to stay present in the moment. Because sometimes looking both ways isn’t enough.
December 25th, 2011
I love it when a journey is required to bring Christmas home.
Hoping yours is holly-jolly, merry and bright.
December 23rd, 2011
The three days Nicole and I spent in Victoria were star-studded with beauty and color, but nothing was quite so breathtaking as the Butchart Gardens, just a few minutes north of the city.
Now a Canadian National Historic Site, the Gardens were the private grounds surrounding the home of Robert and Jennie Butchart. So the place didn’t feel like your average botanical garden or arboretum. There were no exhibit signs, no identifying plaques next to the different flower types, nothing that created the feel of a museum—instead there was the perfect illusion of taking a stroll around the grounds of a palace, or traveling back in time to the days of manor houses and perfectly-maintained estates. Yet this was no exclusive world; the estate is named “Benvenuto” (Italian for “welcome”). The Butcharts welcomed to their home any visitor who wanted to see it, and they were famous for their hospitality. Jennie had reportedly served 18,000 cups of tea to friendly strangers before her family convinced her to charge a nominal admission fee.
It wasn’t hard to see why the visitors came in droves. Nicole wandered off to admire the variety of blooms, but I stood mesmerized by the light.
Usually gardens in the Northwest have a somewhat otherworldly glow, what with our silver skies and rainy mists. But in full sunshine, the place was an absolute riot of color.
I could have spent the whole day just losing myself in the jewel tones all around me.
But Jennie Butchart’s garden is so much more than a flashy display of color: it’s also a staggering feat of environmental design and land reclamation. Jennie was way ahead of her time.
You see, the Butcharts’ land began as a turn-of-the-century limestone quarry, which supplied Robert’s cement company with raw material. When the quarry was exhausted, all that was left was a barren pit. It was Jennie who had the idea to transform an industrial wasteland into a thing of beauty. She had many tons of topsoil brought in by horse and cart, and over the course of several years, she gradually, patiently reclaimed the land and shaped it into a thriving garden.
The result is the stunning Sunken Garden, a masterpiece of earthworks and living sculpture. I was expecting the Queen of Hearts to appear around a bend in the path, a flamingo tucked under each arm. The perfect English garden.
As I continued along the path, suddenly I found myself transported to Versailles—
—and then to Japan.
Lest I lose my bearings, though, reminders that this is the Northwest were ever-present.
Jennie’s garden has evolved far beyond a labor of love. It’s truly a national treasure, and an international curiosity—we heard well over a dozen different languages spoken that day, and struck up conversations with people from five different continents.
Yet despite the flocks of travelers, it was never difficult to find a moment of peaceful, contemplative solitude. I can’t wait to return, and eventually visit Jennie’s garden in every season of the year.
December 20th, 2011
No stay at the Empress is complete without sitting down to Afternoon Tea.
Now, I love a good cuppa no matter where I am, but leaning back in a squashy chair and gazing upward at something like this makes every sip a little more special.
The Empress has been pouring tea every afternoon since it opened in 1908—it was the first venue in Victoria to offer it to the public.
For over a century it’s been one of the city’s biggest tourist draws, but it was easy to forget all about the crowds. Somehow it felt like a quiet, private meal at the home of a dowager aunt. Not normally my, uh, cup of tea, but I loved how unexpectedly cozy it was.
The scones made me miss the Tailor. He would have loved them—and then tried to figure out the recipe.
The savory course was to die for. It was a curious, perfect mix of England (curried chicken, cucumber finger sandwiches) and the Pacific Northwest (best smoked salmon ever). Two months later, I can’t even look at this photo without the memories flooding my taste buds and making me salivate.
The Inner Harbour just outside the window, a good friend across the table, and a seemingly endless array of flavors to hand: the perfect recipe for a relaxing Sunday afternoon.
December 18th, 2011
Yeah, I know. It’s a week before Christmas, and Hanukkah starts tomorrow. Our tree is up, and we even had our mega-huge holiday party last night (62 people—a new record!). But somehow, my mind is occupied with red-gold maples, not flocked evergreens. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone’s lawns are at their greenest at this time of year. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that once these Festivals of Light are over, there’s still a whole lot of actual winter darkness and that Northwestern silver-grey pall to overcome before the sun returns. Whatever it is, I’m not quite ready to let go of autumn yet. So in between the holiday records and the hall-decking, I find myself poring over my fall photos.
Autumn is always my favorite time of year, and this was a particularly good one. We had more sunny days than we have any right to expect in the Northwest, but that’s not the half of it. This was my thirtieth fall, so for me, there just seemed to be a hint of celebration in the air.
And so to start our next decade off with a bang, my friend Nicole (who also turned thirty this fall) and I spent three glorious days in Victoria, British Columbia.
In order to catch the morning ferry to Vancouver Island, we had to leave T-Town at oh-dark-thirty to reach Port Angeles at sunrise.
With view like this as a reward, though, it was hard to complain about the pre-dawn slog.
The tall cups of hot, strong coffee—and knitting!—keeping our hands warm didn’t hurt, either. After a ninety-minute crossing over the Strait—
—and a tight squeeze through the snug Inner Harbour—there we were.
We checked into our hotel,
and then set out to see the sights—those just around the corner,
and a few slightly farther afield.
We couldn’t have asked for better weather for exploring the city,
or better light for showing off its photogenic side.
And whenever our overstimulated brains needed a break from all the grandeur, we could turn our attention to sights both quaint—
—and cute (as a button).
My favorite thing about Victoria, though, was discovering a visual melting pot of Old World and New World,
and of East and West.
When I think of the American West, what usually stands out in my mind are dramatic natural vistas with little or no human presence. So standing on the other side of the border, and seeing an English-style Parliament complex just a stone’s throw from rugged mountains and First-Nations totems was a little jarring at first glance. But then I realized that Victoria isn’t necessarily a city of contrasts, but something else altogether: a blend of all the best parts of the cultures and environments that have come together here. It was both comfortably routine and utterly foreign at the same time.
And I remembered that all my experiences in Canada have been like that: an unexpected twist on something very familiar. Always at hand is the feeling of great adventure in a strange land—and the sense that home is just around the corner.
December 4th, 2011
The Tailor and I were talking today about holiday traditions. In his family, it’s standard fare to find an orange in one’s stocking on Christmas morning. He’s originally from Kansas, where the tradition hearkens back to the days when citrus fruit was an exotic luxury. I remember my grandmother telling me a similar story about her childhood Christmases—she grew up on a farm in Nova Scotia, and an orange in the 1920s Maritimes must have been about as singular as it would have been in, say, Laura Ingalls’s stocking.
If you mostly subsist on local, seasonal produce, those old tales mean a lot more than they would otherwise. After all, all the Florida oranges and Chilean strawberries in the supermarket don’t matter much if you choose not to partake of them. So today, when I cut into the huge, beautiful avocados Sarah and Jesse had brought with them from California when they came for Thanksgiving, I think I knew how Nana, and the Tailor’s ancestors, and Laura Ingalls must have felt all those years ago. Jesse bought them green, directly from the farmer, so they’d have time to ripen for us here. Sarah wrapped each fruit individually in paper, and packed them carefully in a tin. And then together they journeyed for two days to give them to us in person. I can’t think of a more precious gift than that.
We’re just finishing up our Christmas lists this weekend, and planning the final round of gift shopping. I know the Tailor will be expecting the annual orange in his stocking, just for tradition’s sake. So maybe I’ll ask Santa for an avocado in mine.
November 30th, 2011
This fall my alma mater asked me to illustrate the cover of its alumni magazine. Since the issue’s theme was the spectrum that books occupy these days (from hand-bound artist books to e-readers), it was right up my alley.
As usual (see above, I’m nuts), everything is completely hand-drawn, including the magazine’s masthead. (Major thanks to my editor at RISD for having faith in me on that one—and not sending the Brand Police after me for monkeying with the logo!) I wanted the design to be reminiscent of illuminated manuscripts and their younger printed cousins designed by William Morris. If you look closely, though, there’s a twist:
Tech gadgets, ripe on the vine.
(Sorry, William.)
November 27th, 2011
Hot off the press and just in time for this year’s holiday season, I’m proud to present a mini flock of letterpress bird ornaments!
Just like the larger prints in my Flock series, each one of these is printed from a hand-carved linoleum block.
Then each was individually hand-painted with watercolor (which, I’m not afraid to tell you, is painstaking in the extreme!),
and then hand-cut, hand-assembled, and signed/dated.
There are six songbirds in the set—a northern cardinal,
a black-capped chickadee (you might recognize him from our Thanksgiving table!),
a chipping sparrow,
a common yellowthroat,
a dark-eyed junco,
and a mountain bluebird.
Here’s the catch: they are extremely limited-edition. I only printed 100 sets, so once they’re gone, they’re gone. So flap on over to the shop and pick up your set before they fly away for good.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to deck some halls!
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