“How to niddy-noddy,” says Iris, taking apart the device and putting it together.
“How to niddy-noddy,” and I don’t know whether it is a question or a statement.
My previous dye technique involved putting yarn in a pot, dying it,
then spending an extraordinary amount of time untying tangles.
So I* made a niddy-noddy for loopingΒ nice hanks.
Nice hanks!
*NOTE: Martin made the niddy-noddy. I told him where to cut the PVC & after he cut it he accidentally put it together. It tookΒ all of three seconds. But I took it apart & put it together, so I made it, too. Then I suppose becauseΒ Iris took it apart & put it together, she made it, too.
(She had already eaten all the mushrooms and sweet potatoes. There was creme bruleeΒ for dessert.)
I’m working on making a score of dollies. All their homes have been accounted for in advance. Although I am supposed to be making one per week, I have opted to try the assembly-line method of production. It’s really helpful, because I can refine my technique immediately when I did something I realize I can do better. It’s sort-of like lettering drills that elementary school teachers give their students: practice one thing lots and lots, move on to the next, then string it all together.
“I’ve got all my heads in a rowβ”
βI think that stems from a duck-hunting metaphor, which is rather morbid when one thinks about it.
“Don’t put all your heads in one basketβ”
βΒ I don’t know if that one’s any better.
I hired some Quebecois to do yard work.
After doing a bit of digging, they set a whole bunch of stuff on fire,
then they stood around to watch it burn.
Iris really took to one of them.
He taught her how to judge a good stick.
But aside from a few more sticks, our yard is a bog.
There is really very little to burn.