And now it's August

Some GORGEOUS Anna Maria Parry fabric that HAD to be included. How it fits is shown below, past the chicken photo.

Hard to believe it's already the eighth day of the eighth month of the freakin' year! I don't mean to malign 2025, but dude it feels (at times) like a year from, well, some back and beyond era that I thought was over.

And then there's chickens.... Thankfully they remembered me after a five-day absence while I hung out at my daughter's residence, keeping an eye on those grandsons. My husband had chick duty, but yes I came back to pullets who still respond to my chicken voice, admittedly not as cute as my youngest grandson's chicken voice, but certainly familiar enough that last night one jumped from half a hay bale onto my shoulder! And it was a chicken that doesn't even like being picked up, whoa!

Chicks this morning in the run. 

It was sunny here today, in the mid-seventies Fahrenheit in our neck of the North Coast, and I soaked up some of those rays, but mostly I ran a bunch of errands in the morning, then spent the afternoon washing dishes, doing laundry, working on a Kawandi quilt. I've stopped for the day not merely to write this, but in that I've reached a tricky spot in the quilt and it's now five-ought-four in the late afternoon. For all that I've accomplished as an abuela over the last couple of weeks, I've been itching to get back to a few aspects of life that spell W-R-I-T-E-R and Q-U-I-L-T-E-R. And other adjectives that describe me too.

But something I pondered while playing cards, watching boys thrash about on a trampoline, etc, was this: Am I a writer who quilts or a quilter who writes? And then, what difference does it make?

Pinned nearly within an inch of its beautiful life. How the row concludes remains up for debate.

Stuff to consider in August, I suppose. Late July into August. Mid-summer into early late summer, or truthfully here in Humboldt County true summer. Summer really doesn't start here until late July, once the ground is as warm as it's gonna get and the dragonflies have arrived to mow down most of the pesky mosquitoes, blackberries finally getting ripe, blueberries too. Garden green beans proffering a fine harvest, days growing a wee bit shorter than in late June. Kids preparing for school, so for them summer changes into a hot season in classrooms while summer for this grandma will stretch as long as the days are warm-ish and the rain holds off, maybe into late September. The chickens won't be laying eggs yet, but in another six to eight weeks they'll have proper combs, maybe wattles, and if any are chaps, we'll probably be aware.

(We're hoping for all girls you see, but we'll cross that bridge when, um, it reaches us.)

[Because while we think we're in control, it's already August. Can't stop time or change poultry genders or be more than what we humanly are, be that writers or quilters or grandmothers from far away.]

Probably Owl Chicken, captured by my husband a few days back. I suspect it's Owl because she's the tamest pullet, as well as one of three who appears thusly. If it's Camilla, I'd be surprised.

And the playlist continues; Yo La Tengo with "From a Motel 6 #2". I listened to heaps of tunes while driving home on Wednesday. You can peruse those songs here. And you can find my books here. And you can enjoy the blog posts right here! And tomorrow will still be August, ba-dump-bump!