AI totally failed on this one: just because one guy ruined a turkey baster shlurping up the caustic goop at the bottom of his dishwasher doesn’t meant that that’s the way to do it. Spare me the robot-think. I scrolled on.

I lifted the silver cap on the side of the sink: yes water went through it but only barely; I put the cap back. I pulled out the filter at the bottom of the Bosch and sprayed it clean. Looked okay–oh wait. There’s a long hair caught at the bottom.

Now whose would that be, says the guy with the migraine, glad to be able to hand over the problem of the day.

I gave it a few twists to prove it twists and having by now gotten the water out of the bottom of the machine as much as possible, consulted the instructions again. They said something about some white cap and honey ain’t no white cap no way no how that I can see. I put the filter back in, took the soap square out just in case I’d have to do this all over again, and turned the machine on.

It ran great for about five minutes. Then it gave the error message we’d woken up to yesterday.

Back to the instructions.

No I am NOT going to pull the dishwasher out, and neither was his back going to, but I did look under the sink. Hose looks old but fine. I gave it a little tug, as if that would tell me anything.

I scooped the water out again with a metal measuring cup (a whole lot easier to clean than the rubber inside of a turkey baster), got the last of it out with paper towels again, and took the gray filter out again. (I found out there was still a bit of dishwasher water down in there when my hair landed in it. Great. I mean, what’s it going to do, bleach it?)

Back to the instructions. They were full of jargon they assumed everybody knew and I was like, Magnetic resistance? On plastic parts? What?

Wait. Are they saying over here that that filter comes apart? We’ve had this machine how many years and I never saw that? It does? It does!

And there.

There at the hidden bottom of that inner part.

Was a second and totally tangled single hair that had twirled and twirled and wrapped around a small piece of fat. The meltings from a cheese sandwich maybe?

I worked it out of there and was certain it couldn’t be that simple. I clicked the two filter parts back together (make sure it clicks! they said) and back into the machine and hit Express Wash to test it for an hour.

It. Worked.

I pulled the filter back out and scrubbed it down again after taking the photo and thus seeing bits of crud that had reappeared in that one spot, thank you blog.

I loaded today’s dishes I hadn’t done by hand yet, put the soap back in, let the machine cool down for as long as I could stand it and then set it to actually wash this time.

It finished its 168 minute cycle as I was typing this and everything is gloriously clean.

Just in case you ever wanted to save yourself the $238 Bosch dishwasher repair job I paid for last time. The online instructions were kind of terrible, but the relief at success is giddying.

(Postscript: I just found how-to videos from Bosch, here. For next time.)

His pre-op required an EKG at a satellite cardiology clinic.

Did he want me to come with?

Up to you, he said.

Carpool lanes?

I always like having you with me, you’re welcome to come.

Hah! Waze said take the surface streets.

When we arrived, the others in the waiting room were quite elderly. But that quickly changed: suddenly we were the elderly ones by comparison. In cardiology!

First, a woman (an older mom or a younger grandmother) with a girl of about three and a boy of about five wearing a patka. They were in a strange place, it was close to dinner time, the front of the building was partly boarded up in plywood due to some remodeling and you know how little kids pick up on their parents’ worries no matter how hard you try–and without the understanding to know how to handle those big feelings.

The place just didn’t look friendly to her. She started whining. Then, despite the woman’s best efforts at loving her into being okay, the escalating began.

Excuse me? I asked.

Surely I couldn’t be talking to her–but finally the woman turned to me.

Next thing you know the two littles were transformed by those little finger puppets, playing happily together with them, the big brother clearly looking out for his little sister and her responding in kind.

A man of about 45 had come in in the meantime and everything in his posture and face shouted stress. But although he still was not making eye contact with anyone in the room, there was this small smile that had sneaked onto his now more relaxed face.

Another man about that age came in and sat down alone and hunched up. A few minutes later what turned out to be his wife and daughter showed up to join him, and soon the daughter, about seven, was watching the littler kids playing as her mom checked in.

She totally lit up when I asked her dad if would she like one, too?

He had looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders and I knew so well that fear of major illness when you desperately want both of you to get to see your kids grow up. And hey, to grow older together, too. That was the plan. Remember?

Their daughter got a soft bright black and yellow bee, deliberately chosen (I didn’t say this) because she could wear it on her finger but she could also run a yarn through the wing loop from the way it had been knitted so that she could wear it as a necklace or bracelet later if she wanted to, to keep it with her without having to hold it all the time. She was old enough to take care of it and keep track of it.

A honeybee! Yay!

It broke the logjam of fear in his face and everything was now about his beloved daughter’s delight and his wife’s joy at their daughter being loved in the world. All that was left was love, and you could feel it extending to everybody in the room.

Everything in me wished healing for everybody else. I was so glad that in that place of anticipating what you can’t yet know, they got to take a little bit of tangible goodness home to see them through whatever may come.

If only, if only the women who make these could know the profound effects their work does for good in the world.

Ever wondered why people tend to unconsciously walk in circles when they’re lost?

I never realized, till reading this article, that actually yes I very nearly always do turn left to go all the way around the block when taking a walk. Turning right just feels–it feels ridiculous to type this out loud–wrong. So much so that in 39 years here I’ve done it probably twice, because I remembered it because it felt weird.

For those hitting a paywall: someone was doing a study and got distracted by the the unexpected and ran with that.

It turns out that no matter where you live, no matter your language, no matter your culture, given a random decision most people will walk heading left rather than to the right. Counterclockwise. Tell people to walk across a gym to the wall and then turn, whether it’s a crowd or an individual, whether they’re right handed or left handed, nearly everyone turns left.

They wondered if it might be conditioning. They went to where people drive on the other side of the road. Still to the left. They studied children running to music in their school’s play yard, with a drone overhead recording. Still to the left. All ages everywhere across the world.

The direction of the planets around the sun.

We are stardust.

I made my first trek of the year to Andy’s Orchard today. (A bit of history on him here.) Red nectarines, several varieties of peaches, coral cherries went into my basket, you know that if he’s growing it he considers it the best tasting there is–

–but there was no sign of the iconic Anya apricots. A few other good ones, yes, but I was afraid I’d missed them for a second year in a row and there might not be a next year. So I asked.

Her: There might be some in the back–I’ll go check. She came back out with two boxes, saying that was all there were.

Me: Would it be greedy of me to take both?

Her: No, go ahead!

They are small and the color is uneven and that bit of mottling is from sugar spots inside the fruit. Give them a day to ripen perfectly and they’ll be ready to help our apricot-loving neighbors celebrate their baby.

There were two new signs near the farm: saying, not Andy’s Orchard, but Mariani Orchard. I have never seen that before.

I wonder (I so hope!) whether a younger member of the family decided to take it over and continue it on after all.

Today walked me back home.

A post from eighteen years ago was found by the granddaughter of my childhood piano teacher this morning; we messaged back and forth and it was a treat to hear from her. Those lessons were a big part of my life–and they were not just for me, in the long run, but the effects extended forward throughout my kids’ lives and now my grandkids’. I told her about my son minoring in organ performance and playing the Mormon Tabernacle organ for his final.

Then I put down the computer and went off to Leeanne’s funeral.

Her sister-in-law was of course there.

Richard and I grew up with her in Maryland. And with Leeanne’s cousin, small small world. There was a lot of catching up to do.

This evening I saw another note from my piano teacher’s granddaughter and told Richard she’d gone to his high school. Note that we went to rival schools and have been teasing each other over it for decades.

His face lit up: She’s smart! I win!

Cracked us both up. Nope. I win!

I win!

We both do!

Our parents lived across the street from each other when they were newlyweds, and he’s the part of my growing up that has stayed with me all along this sweet road called life.

99F per the weather report, 102F per my Prius.

I had no way of knowing how the Australian wool had been stored nor had I asked; it seemed ungrateful to after all that other-Alison had done to get it to me.

It had come ziplocked and that ziplock seemed to have been in use for some time, given how easily I accidentally poked a hole through it. Good.

I took it out of the freezer first thing this morning and put it inside a black plastic bag and set it out in the back yard to heat up.

This evening I put it back in the freezer. Just in case it was only warm enough to prompt some unknown thing to hatch rather than die: freeze heat refreeze and I wish I’d remembered to move it to the car in the hottest part of the day when I ran that errand, but it should be good enough as is.

If you’re going to have a heat wave you might as well use it.

We were out celebrating a friend’s birthday when a call came in and when he saw who it was he excused himself and stepped outside a moment.

They will know more soon and right now there’s nothing we can do. And so, while we pray, we wait.

I picked the first pound of the sour cherries. The best part of having a rare (for here) tree is inviting friends over to come help themselves, but I’m not seeing much gleaning possibilities this year; the unusual rain in May wiped out a lot of the fruit set. I’m thinking we’ll get about three pies for the entire year.

But the cherries there are are the bigger for it, so, less work to process.

The sweet cherry tree had only just opened its flowers when that storm hit. We got one single cherry from it and it had five peck marks but I finally found one and it was mine and I brought it inside. Just…I tried to get myself to…don’t ask me to eat that–they wouldn’t…

The faster I get the white afghan done the faster I can go play with colorwork again. Twelve rows. Ice packs. The cabled rocks are deliberately random but it works because I said so and I would tell you how many there were but then I’d have to pull it out of the protecting zipped tote where I’ve stashed it for the night.

Besides, then I’d knit some more on it and it’s getting late.

It rained again last night. So odd.

The neighbors were out taking a walk. Their three-year-old showed me the tiny purple flower and a few of its leaves he’d been holding tight in his hand.

I silently thought as I admired his find, oh, some neighbor would be glad those future prickly weed seeds didn’t happen.

They asked about the tree?

The city had come by this morning to take on that fire blight. Which would have meant removing nearly every limb, but it looked surprisingly better when they got done. Maybe we’ll get a few more years out of it after all.

Look! I said to their little boy. There’s a bird’s nest! We moved under the limbs and looked up so he could see it better.

He was very excited about that and you know he’ll be telling them about every bird he sees for the next little bit and he’ll probably think he knows where they live.

She had outlived her initial prognosis by several years with the help of a study at NIH, but in the end cancer and age took her.

The first Sunday of the month is our Fast and Testimony meeting, where traditionally Mormons fast for 24 hours (or whatever one can in their own circumstances) and then donate the money that would have been spent on that food towards feeding those in need. In that meeting we take turns as the spirit moves us to get up and speak briefly. Or to sit in quiet contemplation, listening.

I took a turn.

I said, My children were 2, 4, 6, and 8 when I was diagnosed with lupus at thirty-one. About a year later I found myself being told I needed a cardiology appointment.

Leeanne found out. She insisted on coming over and picking me up and taking me to the clinic for that appointment. (I don’t remember whom she got to watch my kids at home.) She stayed there with me, reading quietly outside the exam room where I got to watch my heart beating on the screen. It would not have occurred to me to ask, but she was determined that no young mom who had to be worried about her kids’ futures (I was) should have to go through that alone. She was there for me.

At the time, I barely knew her.

I wanted her grandchildren who were in the audience to hear this story from me directly. I said, I don’t know if she remembered that later but I never forgot it and have been grateful to her for it for all these years.

Serving by love is what living the Gospel is. And she did.

The mail came.

I’d wanted darkening gradations of the color mix I had in an out-of-print colorway and I could not have asked for better than what was in that package. I opened it in the moment of truth hoping hoping almost not daring to hope–and then stood there just staring: They. were. perfect. Thank you Alison in Australia!

Then in the evening we went to hear our niece’s husband playing in a band in a local park. He’s in the symphony but he also plays bluegrass for fun. This was the fiddle’s turn and those guys were good.

A kid put on a purple dinosaur costume that I hadn’t seen coming. He had to pull the clear chest part down a few times so he could see but eventually he got the hang of it.

A two-year-old girl with a big princess flower clip in her hair ran over to investigate this brand new thing in her life.

He pulled his head out from the opening just below the clear part to show her not to be afraid and waved hi.

Next thing you know he was back inside and they were dancing together to the music in wild abandon.

Oh! her face said. I stepped on its tail. Is that allowed?

Yes! Dance!

Yay! (Twirl.)

It was just the most adorable thing you could ever have hoped for.

So the phone line that AT&T is taking away in six weeks died again at the same hub across the neighborhood a week after they finally repaired it after waiting months but at least this time they sent someone out right away.

Who after some hours over there and over here said he thought he’d fixed it–but he’d turned it off at all but one room of the house, till Richard went out there with a test phone and helped walk him through what he’d unplugged and got everything restored by getting him to plug those over there back in like they’d been before he came. (No you are not going to be able to say it must be inside the house so the company can charge us for the visit because it never was.)

And then I had to take a second try at figuring out how to say what I had to say because there was so much that could go wrong. Yesterday’s rough draft? Edit edit edit.

There was a long long line at the post office for that registered letter I wanted to send.

IRS, huh? asked the guy to the whole crowd. Gee thanks dude.

Oh well, might as well now, so, Yeah, I told him, they hit us last year with a big fine over an account we have nothing to do with, we paid it, they went oh sorry our mistake and refunded the fine (they paid interest on it!) we thought that was all settled and they suddenly decided a year later that we owe it all over again.

We don’t. So, yeah. IRS.

I didn’t say, and they sent us a threatening letter months after the check had cleared last year, telling us to pay it a second time, and our protest of that is what got them to go oh wait and refund us.

Possibly because there are three people with the same name in the same town? Two on one street till last year. Redelivered their mail when I needed to but never did get to meet them.

On the way home there was a shiny new big and black gas-guzzler Ford 150 pickup with a bumper sticker that was–supposed to be funny? I mean, they certainly didn’t put their money where their mouth was? “I identify as a Tesla.”

Then why didn’t you buy one?

It was not a day for relaxing and knitting. But finally after dinner I made myself sit down with it.

And promptly knitted a purl row in knit stitches all the way across before I realized it.

I decided to fix it by dropping each stitch one at a time, flipping the yarn to the other side, picking it up, and knitting the next row right then and there. Easy, right, and progress, too!

Two hundred and twenty eight times. Don’t do that. It’s harder to keep the tension even, and with a splitty yarn knitted doubled on the purl ridge where it will show the most… An hour. Next time just tink back and start over.

Some days you just need to stop and go do something else.

I need some knitting to relax me from my knitting. Just not that one right now.

To which my helpful brain suddenly earworms Rick Nelson’s song written after performing at Madison Square Garden: “And if memories were all I sang? I’d rather drive a truck.”

It’s 21″ unstretched.

Another repeat and a first rock that looks a little lonely and out of place there all by itself. It needs a couple of friends.

Meantime, the peregrine fledglings went through three rescues between the four of them and are all flying around fine now and having a good time. Here they are, mugging for the camera.