knitted ones and loved ones

RLY's apple cozy (now keeping apples everywhere warm [and unbruised-in-the-bag]) (I think this is a bit of leftover malabrigo):


LMV's fingerless gloves (misti alpaca bulky [brown], and leftovers from the kiddy hats):

(+ smooth doggy nose)


LTM's hat: I held the cream color double, the effect of which made the hat very cylindrical and probably too warm (leftover green from ALMcS's pompom hat, plus cream paton's classic wool, I think, and brown sheep bulky blue):


EEM's bday xmas tree scarf (misti alpaca handpaint bulky, garter stitch, size 13s):


+ xmas matching earband (headband? something), buttons courtesy of my mom's button box ("pattern" mine, inspired by PMcCMcS):

Scary spice, in use (+ doggy):


JEC's xmas scarf (more misti alpaca handpaint bulky yarn, garter stitch, size 13s):


The scarf in action, the picture also notable for being the scarf's recipient's wedding day to Mr. Cinch, there:


Happy.


The forced march through the xmas/birthday knitting is now complete. I now have to break myself of the video-viewing habit, which kept my brain in check while my fingers did the walking.

. . .

Omaha

For the first time ever, I will be voting in a place where my vote might actually change something.

. . .

NE makes the NYT

Link. Ainsworth, mentioned in the article, is about 5 hours northwest of Omaha, and 3 hours northeast of North Platte. It's also two towns over from the infamous Bassett, the present home of Dr. J.C. Frankly, the article is as cheesy in places as the Lincoln Journal Star is constantly. But the coolness of wind turbines, now producing 1% of the energy used in Nebraska, apparently, can't be denied.
. . .

in which I use a thesaurus and the series of tubes

DMB posed me the following: "what is the word for people who live in north platt [sic.]?"

I had no idea. So I asked my colleagues, both of whom were born in NP, attended high school here, and are around 50 years old. One has lived here pretty much her whole life, the other moved down the road to Ogallala for a while and is looking to move back. Neither of them had any idea either. The best guess was "Flat Rockers?" Apparently Flat Rock is a nickname for NP, for reasons unknown. (The mystery deepens. Platte, I believe, is french for flat, but the rock part remains obscure.) Conversation on this topic led us to NP's other nickname, which is, of course, Little Chicago. My colleagues couldn't enlighten me regarding the provenance of that moniker either, but Wikipedia could: "During the 1930s, high crime rates and corruption caused North Platte to be infamously known as 'Little Chicago." This is ludicrous. Of course, that leaves "Little Chicagoans" as an option, but no one would ever know that it referred to North Platters (as I choose to call them, and as the receptionist at the North Platte Convention and Visitor's Bureau reluctantly suggested). The last alternative is just to refer to them all as the afore-blogged Bulldawgs. This cognomen, like "Little Chicagoans", does not obviously identify the denizens, but it at least retains some of the local flavor.

In other NP news, NP has graced the lyrics of at least two songs. Here are the lyrics to one, Superslab Showdown, by C.W. McCall, complete with interpretation. And here are the lyrics to another, A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left (originally called to my attention by HDL).

Yesterday, my trusty sidekick, Lulu, and I took a beautiful drive through midwestern Nebraska. I found the first few towns quaint (in an entirely un-Annapolis way) though smelly. Later I discovered that my trusty sidekick had barfed on the backseat. So they are probably merely quaint. Anyhow, I do have photos to show for it, but it's hard to post them w/o internet access at home. Maybe next weekend. At that point I will give more detail on our trip.

This was our route:


View Larger Map

I can't speak highly enough the beauty of the Nebraska sandhills. If you don't take the opportunity to visit me while I'm here, you perusers of the series of tubes, you will have forgone a wonderful, and uncommon, opportunity.

bonne soir,

. . .

the dirty little move

It all happened very fast. At a Bright Eyes concert in midtown on friday, Conor Oberst stalled and Lou Reed (a thinking reed), all muscles and new york and deeply lined, appeared. He and Oberst sang waiting for the man and dirty blvd to a full, standing audience. Then to home and then to bed, because the next day was the day I left New York City, my Dirty Little Move (DLM, coined by LWT): a more apropos send-off than Lou Reed's surprise performance couldn't be asked for. Early Saturday I picked up the moving truck (watching a good portion of a good-old-shoot-em-up western while waiting), and H*s, SWT, and E.G. and I packed her with all my manifold belongings. H*s and I said our goodbyes to 1018 manhattan avenue, apartment 1, hopped (literally: she's pretty high off the ground) into the penske, and set out for the west. The DLM started off inauspiciously, though with high good humor: I managed to make the first wrong turn possible, and taking the Queens-Midtown Tunnel was made more exciting by the police search of the penske for midget wrestlers (not to mention the surprise $9 toll), and we had to drive straight thru manhattan on a holiday weekend and figure out how to get a truck into the Lincoln Tunnel. From then on, however, the DLM unfurled with surprising smoothness. At some point, when we passed a sign instructing us not to take horses on to the highway, the penske acquired the moniker Betsy. About 8 hours after entering the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, Betsy, H*s and I made it to my brother and his family's apartment in lovely-but-difficult-to-navigate Pittsburgh, PA. That day was a mere three-state day: News York and Jersey, and the uncounted mountains of Pennsylvania.

We primed the pump of the second leg of our trip with lots of baby-holding and bagel-eating; a slow sunday morning, thoroughly necessitated by the events of the days past. Then, with our new (and later, we discovered, needed) atlas and this highly recommended book of NYT crossword puzzles, Betsy, H*s and I set out once more. Through more Pennsylvania and mountains, West Virginia, several thunderstorms, Ohio, four crossword puzzles (two Tuesdays, one Monday, and one Wednesday), Indiana, a beautiful sunset, Illinois, endless darkness, Iowa, an hour of Nebraska and several hundred dollars worth of gasoline we drove, 17 hours, and arrived this morning around 6:30. You can't ask for a better road-trip companion than H*s--grab him for your next one. Nor are there better pit-stop hosts than my brother, my sister-in-law, my niece, and their dog. And the crossword puzzles were perfect for keeping both driver and passenger awake and focused. Google maps did well by us, with one small exception (a momentary Pittsburgh confusion with no adverse effects), and we only really needed the atlas for the small portion of the trip for which we'd come up with directions ourselves (a bad move).

We are now paused, and Betsy is parked, in Lincoln, and we'll shake the final leg, to North Platte, later this week.

. . .

just not enough posts for one day

Nebraska's Lake McConaughy, about 60 miles from North Platte.

. . .

the nyt's nebraska travel section

"omaha's culture club"

the midwest's prairies

nebraska's star party (you won't get plutoed)

the sandhills

nebraska city (small pleasures and lazy days)

venturing off Interstate 80: "Nebraska is a place of clear light and calming vistas, of architectural landmarks, both majestic and humble, and many quirky little museums."

. . .

sandhill cranes and airport dreams come true

The sandhill cranes, named for the sandhills of Nebraska where they stop by the millions to feed on their way up to Canada for the summer, may be viewed online here. My parents and I stopped to see them on our way home from North Platte. Right around sunset, the birds all come from the fields, where they've been eating corn left on the ground from the previous fall, to the Platte River, where they spend the night. Apparently they like to sleep (standing up) in the (very shallow) water because the water helps them hear predators coming. They've been doing this for zillions of years. Anyway, it's quite a spectacle to see huge numbers of three-feet-tall birds flying to the river and jumping around and making friends, all backlit by a beautiful Nebraska sunset. Maybe next year I'll have a sandhill crane party. But for now, the Cranecam will have to do. I highly recommend checking it out around the time of sunset or sunrise (when they leave the Platte) Nebraska time.

It was a little chilly in the blind where we watched the cranes.

Dad was pretty intent on the bird- and deer-watching.

In other news, I got to be the person who gets the sign at the airport! When I flew into Omaha, I was met by one of the Omaha Legal Aid folks, who had a sign for me! with my name on it! and he remembered to hold it up so that I could see it! (cough, cough, Zach) It was really great. I've always wanted to be one of those sign people, and it was especially great because it gave me something funny to say first thing (about how I'd always wanted to be one of those sign people). AND THEN! on the way home today, I got to be one of those "Paging Anne McShane, please come to Gate C4 for immediate departure" people! My plane was delayed, and I was wandering around the airport, and apparently they decided to take off a little earlier than was listed on the marquee. So really, a banner airport trip.

Here are some other classic moments:

I met Young Liam. He seems pretty cool, if a little gassy.


Nice as always to see H*s and SWT, + tasty bread in the sunlight.


And I do love me some magnolias.


I got to see other fine people but somehow they didn't make it into the camera. And I think five cats? yes, five. and a happy dog with not a thing wrong with her saliva glands.
Two thumbs up on the trip home.

. . .

I get to go home tomorrow.

I'm glad.

I'm really glad about this, too:



It's worth it to watch till the end--that's where the best part is.
Props to Cute Overload.

. . .