The Wayfaring Wordhack

A winter version of Queen Anne's Lace.

Summer's version is here.

I used to think I had a mind like a steel trap.  Now I wonder if it is not more like a barbed wire fence: Loosely strung, rusted, full of spaces to let thoughts pass, but still capable of snagging and holding on to things and causing harm.

...

On my country walks, I like to indulge in woolgathering, but not like these fences, snatching wool from passersby, hoarding and disguising their barbs under pearls of fleece.

Or do I?  

Maybe I catch inspiration like that speared leaf, snagging it out of my surroundings, only to let it dry and crumple while I find the time and inclination to make something of it, until one day, the leaf is a dessicated skeleton, the inspiration no more than a faint memory.

If Don McLean's moss growing fat on a rolling stone was a negative thing, I wonder how lichen growing thick on a rusted line compares.  Maybe, if want to work my creative process into this comparison, it would be best to side with the Ancient school of thought who viewed the accumulation of moss as a good thing. Like seeded oysters, those clusters of lichen might be steadily absorbing rain rich with elements and dust just gritty enough to grow a story that will spark my enthusiasm. I'd like to hope so...



This post seems to have a melancholy bent. Strange, for I feel not melancholic at all...

 Took the little munchkin out for a walk in the stroller (as opposed to the mei tai--click on the link to see what it is dlandon  [you can make one easy-peasy.  J made ours and he's only touched a sewing machine once in his life]), so she could see the world. She's still too small to see much when she is in the mei tai. Had to bundle her up against the cold.  In the end, it was hard to pick her out of the layers. :P

This, I took Soëlie out for a walk in her mei tai, and we passed a gathering of four old men standing by the boulodrome (where you play "boules," aka petanque), smoking cigars. Bonjours were exchanged, some more heartfelt than others.  On my way back to the village, only two men were left, and when one judged that I was out of earshot, he grumpily said to the other, "I just hate seeing babies carried like that..."  Then I truly was out of earshot and didn't hear the rest clearly, only that something "incites others to..." do something, probably something as equally wrong and rebellious as wear one's baby.  o.O

 Here's a pic of the nursery. Note to self:  Don't wait until 10 pm to take photos...



See the crib sheet and quilt I made from the nifty flannel I ordered online?  The quilt is going to be a rag quilt, but I haven' had a chance to wash and dry it yet, so the seams aren't frayed as they should be.  Since Julien is big into the sea, I decided to do a mobile of sea critters to habituate Little Bean to future surroundings.

Didn't Julien do a fabulous job with the dresser?

Here are a couple of before photos. From plain ol' pine to colorful goodness. :D

        

I have started assembling photos from around Menetreol to give you an idea of what a typical village in the area looks like, but I don't have enough that please me yet. I don't typically take such pictures.  Anyhow, in the meantime, something related.

Two very different looks at our little village by the canal:





I think my belief in the ferocity of the dogs would be helped if the sign was not bright fuscia and the lettering not quite so elegant. :P Sadly, I did not have room to fit in the photo of Christmas decorations. One of the things that drove me mad about France when I first arrived was seeing Christmas decorations well in to March, and I'm not talking about just on homes but in businesses. I don't need to see Santa hanging from a bakery roof in April, thank you very much.

On a creepier note:


I took these photos just after reading asakiyume 's post mentioning spells and hoodoo.  The top left photo shows bones embedded in the sides of a stone garage, presumably for hanging things on. The bottom left is, yes, a goat's foot next to rusted bolts and a Heineken bottle. The whole is sitting on the windowsill of an abandoned house.  And the last is a sheep or goat's skull on an attic window. I am not, of course, on a witch hunt. That would not be funny, because...

Coincidentally, last night in the news, there was a story about the alarming number of women who are killed in our day and age for being witches. The story concentrated on Assam,  India, but I'm sure it happens elsewhere, too.  My news was in French, but here is a link to a video about a woman fighting the persecution (The same woman was interviewed on the French news and gave land coveting as a reason widows are often branded witches after their husbands die; perfect excuse for for a greedy someone to get their paws on the widow's land). But women are not the only victims, as this article shows.

 Hallelujah.

Our landlady called today to tell us that our downstairs neighbor Mr. Heavy-Smoker Loves-His-Music-LOUD is leaving in two weeks, tops.

And there was a shout of joy in the Faure household!

I'm not much of a wildcrafter, though I would love to be. I'm like the little child, always curious about the way things smell and taste, and Julien is forever telling me, "Don't put that in your mouth."  However, since getting pregnant, I'm much more careful what I consume, never you fear.  Still, even babe-in-the-woods me can identify with ease and surety the bounty that surrounds our home, from the wild asparagus and strawberries growing (well, that *were growing;* season is sadly at an end) just on the other side of our excuse for a yard, to the wild onions, cherries, and plums in the fields bordering the Loire.

Like the strawberries and asparagus, the season for onions and cherries is at an end. I picked the 1.2kgs of cherries in the photo below just the other day, but already I knew that it was too late. The fruits were drying, hardening around their stone hearts, and bees and flies were not happy to share the last of the bounty with me.  I do, however, have some of my juicier first pickings in the freezer and am anticipating a cherry pie or, if I want to make my husband happy, a clafoutis. The prunes are just starting, though, and I gleaned two kilos, which have been made into jam and canned whole* to enjoy later in a yoghurt or a fruit salad.

You might wonder what a photo of pizza is doing amongst my other finds. Well, the last of the wild onions found their way into those glorious seafood, spinach, and goat cheese creations, so I thought why not.

Jam is not the only thing I have been making. Someone very dear to my heart (*refrains from pointing fingers at her husband*) bought a canister (500g) of yeast that expires August 13. Of 2010. That is enough yeast to transform 100kg--yes, kilograms--into leavened goods. No way I can use all of that, but I made a start with whipping up a batch of whole wheat, grainy pizza dough (for the yumminess above). I also baked a loaf of bread yesterday. Does the season for baking ever transform into something else?

And speaking of seasons, soon I will be able to harvest blackberries, walnuts, hazelnuts and apples! Even milkweed pods if I'm adventurous and wildcrafty.** Bring it on, Mother Nature; I'm ready for you.


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*This is an easy, delicious thing to do, which I learned from my mother-in-law:  Put your washed fruit into a canning jar along with a tablespoon of sugar (the fruit makes its own juice) and pop the jars into your pressure cooker. Steriilze for 10 minutes once the cooker has started whistling. Let the pressure fall off naturally. Cool the jars and check the seal.  Voila, nothing could be easier.

This is my first attempt. Pretty, huh?

I'll let you know how they taste once Julien comes home to try a batch with me.

** Has anyone on my flist ever eaten milkweed pods?

Sunlight slanting under storm clouds is my favorite kind of light.

The beautiful moments I spent outside with my camera made the rain of these days past worth every drop.

Check out that blue!

Last night we had a hedgehog in the little space of gravel-covered dirt that serves as our yard.  I heard a stray eating our cats' food and went down to chase it off.  At the bottom of the stairs, Mr (or Ms) Hedgehog was sitting calmly--so calmly I suspected it was dead--in front of the courtyard door.  Because it would have had to climb a whole flight of stairs and get back down them in a hurry, I doubt the hedgehog was the food thief.

Julien carried it back to the hole under our fence and it waddled off.  Maybe it'll be back one of these evenings as frigg  tells me they don't tend to wander much from their territory.

The other day, I was driving along the canal and saw an odd-looking duck.  Her back was too elongated, and I thought she was trapped in something like a net. But as I drew abreast of her, I saw that she in fact had eight little ducklings swimming merrily along beside her.  Widdle ducks...one of the cutest baby animals ever!

And in sadder news, I saw a dead ferret on the road.  The poor thing was gray, with a white throat, and it was sad to see one so still when I know ferrets are such lithe, lively critters.

So as not to end on a sad note, the banks of the canal are yellow with the blooming of wild irises. And that is both lively and lovely.