That brilliant Dottie Angel and her beautiful Happy Hangers. I saw these the other day at Jane's blog (and also, because of Jane, spent the morning watching YouTube clips of The Delicious Miss Dahl, which, sadly, we cannot watch entire episodes of here in the U.S. — though I did of course run right out and get her cookbook after my friend Sarah told me about it and said she had been looking at it just this weekend). I had not much worsted-weight wool, but now (after a Happy-Hanger yarn run) I do. Andy, our friend Aimee, and I have spent the past few days emptying every Goodwill in the area of their skinny old wooden hanger collections. I used to have a ton of these, but then a couple of years ago I re-did my closet and got all new matching wooden hangers, with the big curvy-shaped tops, so had none. Knowing me, I'm probably buying the same hangers I brought to Goodwill.
Spring light is sooooo moody. The palette of spring is so beautiful to me. The grays, the greens, the blues, the pinks. The color is so saturated, the pigments so intense. Andy said there was an incredible rainbow when they got out of work last night. Everyone stood on the hill taking pictures. Outside our living room windows this week, we have a different picture: Our neighbors recently removed the ten-foot (totally claustrophobic) laurel hedge that bordered our property and effectively blocked our view of absolutely everything to the west of our house. The hedge had been there for about ninety years, we think. Now that the enormous wall of deep, dark, so-dark-green-it-was-almost-black is gone, our whole house feels different. All of us are overjoyed. From the sofa I can, for the fist time, see the intersection, my other neighbors' rock wall, the huge dogwood trees in the parkway, a flock of neon azaleas on the next block, the kids playing basketball down the street, the sky, the sun as it is setting. Even the light in the house is different. A fence will go up, at some point, I know, and block the view again, but the fence won't be ten feet tall or ten feet wide or dark as ink, the way the laurel was.
Yesterday afternoon, it poured rain. Thunder — which we only hear rarely here — rolled above the house from one end across to the other. The poor sweet dog trembled with anxiety. I put down the yarn and went into the studio and opened the sliding door, and looked out at the cloister-dark back yard. A froth of pink from various neighborly trees (and our little dogwood) glowed bright against the pewter sky. It was strikingly obvious that my favorite colors had come straight from the stormy scene.
I knew that was usually how it worked, but it seemed ridiculously obvious yesterday. I actually took the yarn photos before I took the yard photos.