chop, haul, knit, purl

What's better than getting into the car on a gorgeous October day of vibrant color and soft breezes, popping a Segovia classical guitar CD into the slot, lowering the windows and driving alone to Santa Fe to spend an afternoon with a friend I haven't seen for awhile because we've both been too busy. We walked, talked, ate late lunch outdoors under the trees on Canyon Road.

last harvest admiration

 a less-than-Edward-Weston type pepper

She asked me to bring new socks for her. And showed me the heap of well-used pairs I've been supplying her with for more than a decade. We reminisced about when and where. Patterns and colors I'd forgotten about but that instantly triggered memories of where I was when I worked on them. They were less garment and more grimoire (book of evocations). Tangible clues to our pasts. Most of her socks are still in great shape and she said it's like having a drawer full of art. Way back in the days when I first came to Taos she encouraged me to write and to enable that, bought my hand knits to keep me going. Another friend (since moved away) also amassed socks. Once they had a friendly argument about which one was the bigger collector. No decision. And now my daughter has joined their ranks with her own growing collection. I guess I'm one too - a collector of yarns to make the socks to warm the feet, to be here, right now, in this moment.