And today's thanks go out to...

whoever it was who invented mascara. My self-esteem increases about 1000% when I'm wearing a good mascara. Eyelashes are just sexy.

I got all my errands run yesterday, and am doing laundry at the moment. Also finishing up the first sleeve on that shawl-collared sweater--about 4 more rounds and the bind-off. Yay! Then I think I'll take a break and sew buttons on the grey sweater.

Last weekend, when my sister was here, she decided to drive out to show her daughter where we used to live in the country. My niece slept through the whole thing, but it was a memorable experience anyway.

In the first place, fog rolled in out of nowhere. I forget how isolated I am from Nature here in town. Fog just isn't that big a deal. You don't have any distance views in town--there's buildings everywhere--and you're controlled by traffic and signs and lights. Out in the country, esp. where we lived, where it's fairly flat, fog is a different thing altogether, it wraps you up, slows you down, and makes you wonder where the monsters are. It was also beautiful, in an eerie way--the muffling silver fog, silvery-beige field stubble, the flat silver pond where the river had overflowed, bold black strokes of tree trunks... I loved it.

It was also sad. I don't know if it's like this in ranching states like Montana and Wyoming, but in states like Illinois, Iowa, and Missouri, rural America is just heartbreaking. When we first moved out to te country, fields were still fenced, and farmers still rotated crops. Their cattle and hogs still grazed in pastures, and in the winter they were let into the fields to glean and fertilize (though of course the farmers put down fertilizer in the spring before planting). A lot of families still had a few chickens, and almost everyone had a couple of horses or a pony for the kids. I learned you could orientate yourself by looking at the chicken coops--they always faced south. There was usually a big wooden barn, the pride of the place, and a couple of loafing sheds, and near the house there would be a vegetable garden and a small orchard--usually apples--and often a grape arbor. And almost always a big old elm in front of the house. Well, now the fences are gone, and so are many of the houses and barns and outbuildings. Many times the only way you can tell there was a home there is by a gravel driveway, a security light, and the broken old elm tree; now it's just a flat mowed space with a new metal building for storing machinery, and an ocean of soy or corn stretching off into the distance. Along the road where we lived there are several places where the old house is gone, and of the houses that remain, it seems most of them are in a sad state. And ours could hardly be seen. It's set on a hilltop a fair piece back from the road, and the current owners have let what used to be pastures around it grow up into scrub. So we peered through the trees and the fog at what we couldn't really see, and went slowly back to my house. Which strikes me as being a metaphor for life.

Speaking of lost things, a couple of gardening catalogs I receive sent me announcements that they'll no longer be publishing a paper catalog--on-line only. What a loss! What's nicer than sitting around on a cold winter morning with a cup of your favorite beverage, or snuggled up in bed, leafing through garden catalogs and dreaming? On-line just isn't the same. For one thing, the pictures aren't as good. For another, it's much harder to just browse. And so much of the web-page is devoted to other stuff--"May we suggest" or "Sign up for our Newsletter" or "Web-Only Special!" It takes away from experience of, well, dreaming. It's obtrusive--as it's meant to be.

*sigh* I'm getting old, I guess. My body's not the only thing that's stiff and creaky.

I'm going to go finish my sleeve.