Crochet Plarn Sleeping Mat

I haven't had much time to craft lately. Crochet is always easy to do in class or on the subway, but I'm mostly out of yarn. Luckily, I've had something else in mind for a while.

I spoke with a man in December who has been sleeping on the streets for about a year. He said he stopped staying in shelters after being hospitalized for infected bedbug bites, and he recently had to abandon his sleeping bag because it got wet and grew mold. 

I know there are church groups who crochet plastic bags into prayer mats and sleeping mats to send overseas, and it occurred to me—isn't this a need we might need to address right here?

It will take me a while to finish this mat. Right now it's just over a foot long and I want it be six feet. In the meantime I'm going to try to find out if anyone else is doing this sort of thing. At the very least a mat like this should keep a sleeping bag out of the direct wet and chill of the ground. 

Have any of you ever taken on a project like this, or known someone who has? I'd really like to know if there are any programs already in place.

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Eye drops... reaction.
No screens, no light, no reading.
Alas for the blog.

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A Tale of Paradiddle Puddles

I would like to thank Immenado and my mother for messaging me with story ideas for Paradiddle. Even if my mother's did sound suspiciously familiar—I think my Gran would recognize them.

It seems Paradiddle is a very busy little goat, so I was only able to fit one adventure in this week. I wouldn't want to have the poor kid get into five different scrapes at once, anyway.

Paradiddle Puddles and the Bridge

I know a gleeful, little goat called Paradiddle Puddles:
A leaper and a laugher and a getter-into-muddles.
Paradiddle's sister got to go to school each day,
But little Paradiddle only got to walk part-way.
"Don't cross the bridge," his mother said. "It's straight back home you trot!"
And every day he wondered to himself, "Why not? Why not?"

On Monday Paradiddle walked his sister to the bridge.
On Tuesday, though, he touched it—just a tiny, little smidge.
Wednesday he tap-tapped it and he giggled at the sound.
Thursday he put two hoofs on before he turned around.
Friday came. Paradiddle watched his sister go.
He wondered, "What will happen?" and he nudged it with a toe.

Paradiddle looked to left and right. Nobody there.
He took a step. Another. "What will happen if I dare?"
"What will happen?" One more step.
"What will happen?" Just one more—
And Paradiddle raced across to reach the other shore.
Nothing happened. Disappointed, Paradiddle turned around—
And what happened was his mother at the window, glaring down.

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