The Sycamore

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see Nature all ridicule and deformity, and some scarce see Nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.- William Blake, 1799, The Letters

I got up early on Saturday to help a friend. On my way to her house I was greeted by the sun rising over the river that seperates our homes.

Standing next to her family home is a Sycamore tree. I love these trees. Some people call them ghost trees because they tend to shed their bark down to a smooth white base. This tree is so old that only it's upper branches now shed their bark. The base of this tree is huge. I have pictures of her house from the 1920's and this tree was there then and was already bigger than the house. She is thinking of having the tree cut down as she is afraid it may fall on the house.

I can understand her fear but the tree is in perfect shape. I keep thinking that it has looked down on the four or five generations of her family that have lived in that house. It would be odd to look across the river and not see that tree there anymore.

Well with helping her and then having to take my laundry to my mother's to do (my washer got tired of keeping up with my kids) I have not had much time to do fiber. I did finish the second sock. I started a pair of thrummed mittens and I am up to the decrease at the top on the first one. I am still working on the afghan and I got to spin up some more of the cormo that I had dyed. I guess I didn't do so bad after all.