He got his start in folk music and folklore studies here in Bloomington, IN and I was vaguely acquainted with him way back when. '96 was My Year in New York City - not exactly my favorite year, but one rich in stories and characters and, ahem, *growth experiences.*įunny you should mention Dillon Bustin. (oh god I'm opening floodgates aren't I this is going to end badly with people offended what if it's not even alpaca I have no more idea what I'm doing now than when I bought it) Email me, username at gmail, if you can give some yarn a home.
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I don't know how to treat it, how it has been treated, anything.Īnd I sort of figure knitters and crocheters here might. I don't know what's in the four or so balls I bought at an earlier market (never tried working with them because there wasn't enough for a scarf). I don't know exactly what went into it, besides, presumably, alpaca. This yarn deserves to be made into something interesting. I'm probably never going to use it because I can't figure out *how*. So I went to market, asked around, failed to be market-savvy and intelligent, desired strongly not to haggle (almost every time a shopkeeper approached me to ask what I was looking for, I wanted to run away and hide), found out that either what I was buying or what I had bought the day before may contain synthetics, and ended up with a cone of pretty fuzzy grey three-ply alpaca yarn. I got the bright idea that for Christmas, I'd get some alpaca yarn, which had to be cheaper, and make Mom a scarf. Where alpacas are kind of common, and edible as well. Disappointing class (partly my own fault) but we did spend time in, you know, Peru. Three or so years ago, I went to Peru for a Spanish class. I've told myself I should do this for a few months now. Much later, it occurs to me that I should supply the name of the song. We’ll be a-yearning for what you will bring. We’ll be a-waiting, we’ll have the lamps all burning The swallows in the sleeploft, the frog at the spring: The snake in the cellar, the mouse in the cupboard, Maybe the kerosene lamps will be shining in the windows.
Come on a winter evening, and maybe the smoke will be drifting out of the tin chimney. If you’re lucky, you can just see a cabin in among the trees to your left. The path, barely traceable under the fallen leaves, descends sharply through close-grown Doug firs and tan oaks before emerging at the edge of a landslide. At a certain place, unmarked, turn left and head into the trees. Beware the rattlesnakes and the black widows, and don’t step in the poison oak or the bear scat. Peer over the side of the bank at the concrete blocks, still shaped like the bags that got left out in the rain.
The old road, cut long ago by a drunkard, has washed out in a dozen places: walk it now, don’t drive. If you unlock the chain across the road (closed with the rancher’s trick of interlocking padlocks, so everyone has his own key) and drive on up the mountain, taking the correct turnĪt every fork, you come to a turnout on the right, with a flat spot to park your car. Just north of town lies a certain turnout, from which a gravel road winds its way past an old ranch house and through a disused corral filled with rusting fridges and washing machines. I found the orchard, abandoned by their children,Ĭalifornia Highway 96, which runs from Willow Creek up to I5 out past Happy Camp (where everyone is a Happy Camper as long as you don’t make that joke), passes through Weitchpec on its way. I found a big barn there, built by his sons. There I found a log house, built by a settler. There is a small lane, winding through a meadow. There is a gravel road through the hills. It begins thus: There is a highway, runs to the country. There is a song I heard once, years ago, from a group called the Whammadiddle Dingbats, but it’s originally by a chap named Dillon Bustin. If sixty-nine is an intimate number, lover and beloved curled up together, yin and yang, light and shadow, all of that…then what can we say of ninety-six? A number of estrangement, back to back and curled up in silence, lovers who no longer speak?įor me 96 is not like that.
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