I am about to whine and carry on in a very petty way.
The frost on the grass is beautiful, and the woodsmoke in the air is sublime. The houses across the street wear labels of their building dates - 1762, 1795... It's a charming place, Western Massachusetts is. And I'm bathing dogs, scrubbing floors, and otherwise being a lackey to my mother's wishes. I've been at it for three days now, and my muscles are starting to complain at the most moderate requests. (You know, like pick up the coffee and bring it to your mouth.) There is no Internet service at her home on the top of a mountain, so I took an excuse to drive down to town and plug in at the coffee shop for a few minutes before returning to hard labor.
When I grew up here, I had no idea what an active knitting and fiber community it was/is. Like so many young people, I didn't appreciate what I had. I moved to Buffalo, and came back this weekend to help my aging mom with her heavy chores. And now, the New England Fiber Festival is 30 minutes away, and I can't go! Half a dozen fibery friends are there, and I'm elbow deep in Pine Sol. I can hear the festival calling me over the mountains - "You have friends here. The yarn needs you. Ditch your chores and come and play!!" I wish it would just shut up.
I know what my dad would have said - "Do a good job on your chores, and if you have time to play later, go enjoy yourself." Well, I started at 5:30am yesterday, and 4:30am today, and I won't make it. It's like being in the Principal's office during recess. Everyone gets to play except... I'll plan better next time. I'll come 4 days early instead of 2, and get everything finished in time. Nothing will sooth next year's aching muscles like wandering through the Fiber Festival. Yarn is good for the soul.