In a perfect world I would make cornbread every day because my chickens like it so much. I just sat on the back steps and tried to get them to come eat a few leftover pieces of it out of my hand and the jungle fowl did but the rest would not. This is my fault- I did not hand feed them enough when they were peeps. It makes me sad. But maybe I'll start trying more seriously and frequently now. I love the way their beaks feel as they peck, peck, peck away at the crumbs of the cornbread. Back when this house was built, cornbread was probably the only bread they made and ate. Or maybe not but that would not have been unusual. Corn was such an important staple. Grits and corn meal showed up every day, I am sure, in one form or another. Wheat flour was not nearly as readily available and probably far more expensive although I'm sure biscuits were made too.
That's little Darla. She's so plain and yet, so precious. She lays me the one really big egg I get. I got that picture this morning as she was leaving the hen house. I thanked her. I wonder how many chickens have been raised on this piece of property. Thousands and thousands, I would assume. It feels so right to keep a little flock myself.
I laid low today. Low energy, low motivation, low spirits. But I finished up August's dress and I love it and I hope he does too. Once again- it's soft.
A cotton knit and I thought I was not going to be able to figure out how to do the buttonholes but by golly I did. The parts that the buttonholes went in were backed by interfacing and so that area was sturdy enough to take the beating of the always-dependable Greist Buttonholer Attachment. In fact, I think they may be the nicest buttonholes I've ever made.
Tidy as can be.
I love buttons. I'm like a child with a granny's button box. I will buy old buttons at any thrift store. Here's my main source of buttons.
And here's an especially beautiful button I found in a mason jar holding someone's collection that I bought at Wag the Dog recently.
Isn't that a little work of art? There was only one which makes it all the more special.
The buttons I sewed on the fox dress are nothing special but they needed to be big enough and those get the job done. I sewed a pocket on the dress because one should always have a pocket. August has now found two marbles and he brought them to show me yesterday when we had lunch. I think that a boy who finds marbles should especially have pockets.
So I've been soothing myself today with chicken feeding and sewing and button sorting. I'm seething inside at what Trump said about Christine Blasey Ford. That if the sexual attack of Kavanaugh had been that bad, she should have filed a police report.
I want to file a police report against Trump every day of my life. His presence in the White House and on Twitter and in social media and on the news makes me feel violated and terrified and threatened and triggered. I have discovered that it's not so much a description of sexual abuse or molestation or attack that triggers me. It is the fact that the women who suffer these things are so often not believed. Or are ignored. Or denigrated.
Or sent death threats.
And Trump is a walking, talking example of how little society cares when women are treated like chattel for the taking. Like asking-for-it sluts. Like If you're famous you can get away with grabbing them by the pussy.
And Kavanaugh can blithely sit there and insist that he certainly doesn't remember any incident like the one Ms. Ford has reported but let me tell you this- she not only remembers, she's paid good money for therapy because of the pain it caused her. Because of how it changed her life. And not in a good way. And all of the therapy in the world isn't going to bring back the girl she was before it happened.
So. Sewing. Letting chickens peck cornbread from my hand. Hanging sheets on the line. Watering my porch plants. Noting the growth of the succulents I pulled up in Roseland from the dirt beside the road and brought home to plant in a blue pot as well as the two mango seeds which have sprouted from Roseland mangoes that I stuck in dirt and watered.
Things that require my concentration and make me feel grounded in good and decent reality.
Things I do which require putting one foot in front of the other.
Maybe when (if?) it gets a bit cooler, I will feel better. I think all of us who live around here will.
Despite all, I wish you a happy Friday.