It’s funny, all these blogs I got to through knitting, and how many don’t talk much about it any more. Which is fine, because I have enough projects to last my lifetime, and not enough money to buy the beautiful yarns that are out there. Except, did I tell you that the local yarn store is run by this wild lady who dyes her own, including this one sock yarn in yellow and red that would look just like flames knitted up? I don’t go in there at all….

I’m working on Daughter’s socks, the ones that were supposed to be done in time for her orientation camping trip? Last August? I’m still working on the 6-pack of beer I bought when she went away to school, too. I’m working on a purple scarf, “Branching Out.” I don’t really care for lace, at least in lace-weight yarns, except for those first few glorious moments when it comes off the blocking board. And knitting it. Very satisfying, following the pattern and watching it unfold.

I applied for a part-time job at the local book chain store, for a lot of reasons. The first being BOOKS, and meeting people who read books. Second, I could use the money. Third, I will never feel secure in a job again, I suspect. I was told that my supervisor and her boss had noticed me slowing down. Strangely enough, this was after they found out I have COPD. I might be slowing down, because I’m having trouble getting the one drug that makes me feel wonderful, so I’ve cut back on it to make it last. On the other hand, I feel like I have license to slack. And look for another job.

That moving thing. Good grief, how did I get all this stuff? I mean, it’s not like I have amnesia. I can look back and go, “oh, yes, this is Aunt Mary’s whatever,” but when you think about all the people who have died before me, I’m screwed. I started calling around about this one set of china (service for eight – absolutely beautiful and formal and in near mint condition – a couple of coffee cups have a little stain) and stuff ain’t movin’, nobody’s interested. It’s worth two, three hundred. I’m going to dump it at a garage sale for $100 – if I can get that much. I want it gone. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to talk myself out of either the other set of china (my paternal grandmother’s?) or my own ratty collection of this and that or my grandmother’s little tea set that I’ve adored since I was five, so I will still be burdened with two sets of china, plus a bunch of other stuff. I am a material girl.

I suppose that’s the perfect lead-in to talk about the sewing stuff, and my mother’s sewing machine in the mahogany cabinet. We won’t.

I’ve been editing furniture in my head. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to part with quite a bit. Maybe not all the rockers. There’s that one set of chairs that would be worth lots more if the seats were redone; I’ll let somebody else make the money. The table my computer is on? Maybe. Either that or my grandmother’s kitchen table. It’s got a tablecloth on it right now, so I don’t remember how much I love it.

And then there’s the books. I’m going to be getting in contact with a bookstore to come give me a quote (part of the purpose of this is making money, right?). I had decided to keep all the art books; everything else was going to go. I’m still being ruthless, but I started running into snags last night. Camus came up. Then books of essays that I didn’t even know I had. Thank goodness I found Hans Christian Andersen and Grimms’ fairy tales. I thought I’d purged them both. (I haven’t come to the interior decorating books yet. I’ll have to think about those. They should be considered art, right?) I’m clearing out Latin American realist fantasy, or whatever that genre’s called. Then the poetry books started showing up; they have to stay. I ran into a copy of Robert Frost from 1924, with woodcuts from J.J. Lankes. That one’s messing with my head. Probably worth good money, but poetry! and woodcuts! I think it will have to be pretty darn good money. There’s a leather-bound copy of Longfellow’s “Hiawatha” out there in some box, too. Arrgh.

I vaguely remember an essay by somebody about working in a used book store, and selling off some author’s collection of books, and how sad it was to piece them out, because as a group they represented the author’s mind; separate, they were just books.

But then again, if it’s my mind we’re talking about, perhaps it’s best.

So, yeah, working on a garage sale, and a pair of socks from a year ago. And it never rains. All I want to do is go out and look at the sky.