On the way to getting my Hideaway studio floor all polished - a seasonal thing I do after the harvest has kicked up the dust and spread it thickly over everything I own, I got sidetracked. It usually turns out to be a three-day job, this floor-polishing project, because I always get a little sidetracked.
Today, as I was moving all the previously moved furniture from the unpolished part of the room to the part I polished yesterday, I considered my antique sewing machine. Its wooden case could use a little Tung Oil, I thought. So out came the tung oil, and a-polishing I did go. Just as I finished the last of the six drawers, I knocked over the tung oil can, one of those pesky things that can't stand on its own foot when jostled a little. It went plop on the floor, splashing oil three feet away, and glugged out a half-cup puddle onto the unswept floor. I saved as much of the now-dirty oil as I could, and thinking it might work as a solvent on the Jackson Pollock-style floor paint, as many oils do,immediately cleaned it off the floor with Spic and Span.
OK, that was interruption #1.
Interruption #2 came when I considered my ironing board cover. My ironing board is a wooden table about the size of a twin bed, originally made by my dad, along with about ten other tables, for use in our packing shed when we were growing Asian pears commercially. I love it. Perfect for ironing large pieces of flat fabric. It is covered with batting, a mattress pad, silver-coated ironing board fabric, and a stretchy knitted bottom twin sheet. The sheet had started to turn brown in the middle from many ironings scorching the fabric and the dust that settles there every minute of every day.
The words, "Dye it," were recognized in the nether regions of my brain. First it had to be washed, and now it is sitting in a bucket of blue dye, topped with black dye (modified "color parfait" method from Color by Accident) out in the nearly 100 degree afternoon. I hope it will come out darkly mottled. Then I might do a little discharging with my bleach pen, just for fun. "Ain't nothing bad can happen to this bottom sheet," so it is said.
Interruption #2 ended, #3 was fast approaching. It must be noted that I have not yet mentioned the "To do" list I kept running to and scribbling full of to-do ideas as they made themselves apparent during my furniture-moving moments. Make covers for folding chairs. Paint mismatched cabinet wood. Handpaint grassy flower border along walls. Make sleeves for small quilts. Etc. Ten or eleven items so far. I now have enough projects to keep me going until Thanksgiving, providing I don't take a trip anywhere. Ha.
All furniture having been moved, I started sweeping, and there was interruption #3, horrible sight, a pile of doggy doo (should have been #2) in the corner under my ancient TV (any TV that is not flat now looks ancient). I touched it tentatively with my broom, wondering how many years it could have been since Mattie had left such a mess there and I not seen it. Impossible; I'd swept under there only last March. :) It was dry, totally dry. Swept it out all the way, and this is what I saw:
Poor little froggy. Came into the Hideaway one evening, probably, while I was sewing with the doors open, which I love to do, and never found its way out again. I went out to show the little girls, and they were all properly disgusted, but then told me about the hummingbird that had gotten caught inside the Hideaway several weeks ago and was now hanging from the wire from which my dad used to hang his model airplanes. I hadn't noticed, but went inside, and there it was, hanging head down, looking like it had gone to sleep and never let go of the wire. When I retrieved it, however, I found that a spider web was what was holding it to the wire. I believe it is the skylights that always confuse the birds when they come in. They are so bright that the birds always fly towards the skylights rather than the doors when they try to get out.
The mummified hummingbird looks as if it's drawing nectar from a flower.