Stay tuned this week for Wednesday\’s blog story installment! If I really can\’t stand it, it may be up tomorrow instead!
We look forward to seeing you then!
The Knitting Muse, English Major Wannabe
Leopards and Caramelized Priests: Ridin’ With the Homies
Long ago and far away—last week—I was in my Monday night class at church. I always come straight from work and I always bring my knitting. Two projects: one tiny and one bigger project. If I need to be discreet, depending on the seriousness of topics in class, I will knit on my socks, for example. No need for a pattern or large, clicking needles, I reason. If I can knit freely, like during announcements, I get out the afghan. (I really prefer the afghan nights because no one seems to have ever been able to figure out how to turn the heat on in the church and I like to lay it over my legs.)
Truth is, whatever I am working on, I just listen and focus better if I am knitting. My concern is not really about what I will or will not learn, it is about being a distraction to others or offensive to that nights’ speaker.
Because the class is one that is open to the public, people can drop in from other churches or just out of curiosity can come in to check it out from the community. This can make for very interesting and lively discussions. It can also be a recipe for hilarious happenings—at least to me.
Rhonda, one of my old friends, always meets me at the class after work. She comes from another dental office here in town, I come from mine. We both come tired and starving and begin the evening by bellying up to the 8 foot, faux mahogany banquet table that is laden with sugary, fatty snacks and weak church coffee provided by some hardworking ladies from the church hospitality group.
We give thanks for their efforts with each maple frosted sandwich cookie and bag of Doritos we stack carefully to make the most of tiny Chinette dessert plates. When we can no longer balance anymore cholesterol and corn syrup bombs, we mince carefully and slowly, weaving in and out of a small, milling crowd, now and again readjusting the angles of our hands so as not to spill our treasures. We take our seats at the meeting table.
The class is arranged in a square shape. There are 8 bare tables matching the one with the goodies buffet. They are put together so that the evening’s speaker can stand up front behind two tables, positioned end to end, and participants can sit at the remaining six tables forming a U around the two at the front. People sit around this U and try to arrange themselves so that everyone can see.
We sit not in front or back, but on the side of the U. There is a nice woman to my left, she could block my view as she is about my size, but I tell myself it should work this time. I just want to sit.
Everyone settles in and as our speaker for the night gets up, I try to determine what level of discretionary knitting I will be doing. Rhonda sees my hesitation and pokes me. She leans into me and whispers, “Don’t you know how many women in this church do this sort of thing? It’s totally fine!!” I watch the speaker for a moment, looking for some sort of cue.
Our speaker this evening is our deacon. He is a 50-something man with a gentle expression. He is very educated and very keen. His knowledge is vast and anytime he speaks, well, people listen.
It’s always so riveting—it brings my mind back to Sunday school when I was a child. I loved the stories of Moses and the Isrealites dearly. Once when I was about 9 or 10 years old, the topic in that class was their 40 years in the desert. I listened so intently that I sat with my mouth gaping, unwitting.
After several minutes of this, drool began to string out of my mouth and onto the heavily lacquered wooden table about 7 of us were sitting around. I had been so engrossed that I didn’t even notice until a pool was already forming. One of my friends saw it before me and giggled, looking back at me from her more forward position at the table. I jerked up, quickly slurped and wiped my mouth, then the table, and probably both with my sleeve.
I don’t want any of that tonight, so I listen for a moment, thinking. The topic is Jesus in the desert for 40 days. I cringe at the number alone, again recalling grade school humiliation. Ok, knitting it will have to be. Socks. If I am busy, at least there can be no drooling. I do what Rhonda had advised and get out my socks. I stick an extra bamboo, double pointed needle tightly into my French braid, so as not to lose it since I planned on using 4, not 5 tonight.
Deacon begins with a prayer and I look around the room as we all stand, then sit. There are the usual people I know in varying ages and dress, and then there are some new ones I don’t. There are also two whom I have seen in the past—they sort of wander in and out of class. When they are there, they are the sort of people who speak to no one socially, but have lots to say during class, interrupting often and loudly. Sometimes what they have to say has nothing to do with the teachings. I wonder if they are perhaps just lonely, odd people.
The first is a woman. She has been to class about three times. I wonder why she comes. She is always so convinced of her own opinions that I am not sure why she comes to a class that is supposed to be instructive. She argues now and again with deacon and does not back down. We always have to move on by just changing the subject.
She is probably about 60, but looks much younger than her years. She is very small in frame and is dressed very well in a close fitting black skirt and button up blouse—the top button is undone. She has shared in the past that she loves talk radio, and will sometimes quote things she hears there. Her voice is somewhat gravelly, like maybe she once was a smoker, but is now in the process of healing from an old habit. She sits on a solitary chair out the square, straight and prim, hands neatly folded. Once I sit down, I can no longer see her very well, except for her frosted, coiffed short-haired wig that is just tall enough to peek over the head of the person blocking my view of her.
I then turn my attention to the other semi-stranger. This one is a man with short hair that stands up as though it had been in a hat all day and then mussed in an attempt to hide the fact. There are two shades of grey. No one would fake that, I muse. He has small eyes behind wireless rimmed, round spectacles. He is overweight, but leaves on his very bulky nylon coat so it is hard to see his figure. As he sits down, he sinks his chin into his neck, creating several chins. He slouches deeply into the chair. At least he is at the table.
When he speaks, he uses an incredibly slow, deliberate cadence. It is as though he wants to be sure everyone hears it all. He clearly has spent a lot of time devising his comments. His voice is nasally, but baritone. I know this well, even though he hasn’t been in class much because it leaves quite an impression on me. I look over at Rhonda.
We both smile—she is looking around, too. Are we thinking the same thing? I settle into knitting and Rhonda gets out a note pad for us both. We scribble notes down as ideas come so as not to forget any remarks we would like to interject—that is, given a chance.
Deacon begins and we talk about the parallels between the temptations of Christ in the desert and the people he meets following that experience. This takes about 30 minutes and I am surprised at the lack of comments so far—the woman sits in the corner, seems like she is listening tonight. The grey man slouches deeper into the chair. Will he fall off? Is he sleeping?
Then we begin the topic of the woman at the well. Deacon speaks of her being a Samaritan and how she is an outcast, being a woman married 5 times. In her culture, this was not accepted and she came to get water alone. Jesus was a Jew and for him to speak openly to her—especially alone—was possibly a great risk to his reputation. As we got into the story, I sort of noticed Deacon glancing at my knitting every once in a while. I moved a little behind the woman to my left. She was closer to the front. I hoped he just was concerned that I would distract people.
I kept watching the two semi-strangers.
Rhonda sat straight as she always does, pen poised in her right hand, ready to write.
Then the comments started.
Suddenly, as if she had prepared a speech, the tiny wig lady launched into a little speech. Jesus was afraid to speak to no one. After all, he affiliated himself with prostitutes. She quoted several scriptures to back her information up. “And,” she went on as if this was the coup d’état, “he EVEN was not scared of touching leperds.” She breathed, relaxing triumphantly. What?
Long silence. The leperd woman read this as triumph.
I looked at Rhonda and whispered, “Lepers? Leopards? Leperds?” Other people were mouthing the same conversation to one another.
“Yeah, she said ‘Leperds.” She wrote it down. Stealth, I thought. Knit knit knit….where were those cookies?
Deacon forgave quickly her grammatical error and went on to speak more about the concept of loving the unlovable.
The man from the back undid his accordion of chins, “Uh, Deacon I know this might be off the subject a little, but I didn’t ever hear nothing about those caramelized preachers before. What does that mean? Caramelized?”
Deacon paused for a moment. Everyone giggled. A group of Carmelite priests had come to visit the church recently. He realized what the man meant and patiently explained that they were a religious order. They were the priests you might hear of traveling as opposed to being the sort who stay and work in one parish. The man seemed satisfied.
Rhonda wrote down, “caramelized.” Me: knit knit knit…..deacon glanced at me. I was crunching up an empty chip bag in my hand, now orange from the bag’s contents. I had started giggling about the notes we were taking. I had written back, “That’s why they stick together…” Rhonda scribbled, “It’s also the reason they wear brown.” I licked my fingers. I smacked a little more loudly than one is usually allowed in polite company.
Deacon went on to talk about the disciples traveling around with Jesus and how they were behind him when he was at the well with the Samaritan woman. They came up later.
More questions came, varied in content and the story was really getting broken up. Rhonda and I were whispering now, I wasn’t even listening anymore, but my mouth and fingers were flying.
The woman in front of me started to look back at us. She was still diagonally situated between me and the front of the room. I wasn’t the problem anyway, was I?
Jorge, one of the youngest members of our little eclectic group was to my extreme left, down the table. I could not see him. He always has the best comments, insightful and seasoned beyond his years. He has wild, wooly hair and smart, dark eyes. He is a gentle soul. As deacon was trying to regain control in a room that he usually commanded, Jorge raised his hand (… which he always does. I think it is because of his still-close proximity to school age).
Deacon, looking relieved, hoping for a solid comment, said, “Jorge!”
Jorge said contemplatively, “So, let me get this straight.” Yes, Jorge, get us back on the path, I thought.
Knit knit knit…crunch, swallow…what did I think I was doing, watching a movie?
He went on, “So, Jesus was just ridin’ with his homies and then there was this woman he wasn’t supposed to talk to ….”
That was it. The dam broke. Rhonda and I began writing all sorts of sentences all over the paper …
“Jesus rides with his homies, the Caramelized priests.”
“Caramelized priests make better riders ‘cause they stick to the seat.”
“Leperds like to eat caramel …”
On and on this went. Glance from deacon….
I went back to knitting. Sigh. These weird people! Where do they come from? I am shaking my head in disbelief.
Deacon’s glance had turned into a gaze. “Is there something you would like to share?”
I choked a little on the first chip from a new bag of Lay’s I had opened. “No,” I rasped.
I sank down mentally. No more notes. I glanced at the woman to my left. I size her up after she looks away from me—she also had been staring at me.
Sigh … next week, I decided, I would have to sit behind someone bigger.
After reading this story, ask yourself some questions. I’ll give you some suggestions; talk amongst yourselves:
- In the class, who is there to really listen and learn?
- Who are the disruptive participants? Is one a standout?
- Who is judging whom? Anyone deserve it? Anyone not?
- Did the writer include these questions stemming from an unnatural need to be liked, trying to make the story mean something in the case someone would be offended?
- Does the narrator have good intentions?
- What are the parallels between grade school and adulthood? What do they mean?
- What is the significance of the number 40?
- What is the airspeed velocity of an African swallow travelling across the Atlantic from England to America if it is carrying a coconut? Use the space below to work your answer. Neatness counts. No calculators.
Check us out later this morning for….
Leopards and Caramelized Priests: Ridin’ With the Homies
Hope to see you then!
The Knitting Muse, Jabbering since 1969
Tina\'s Knitting Journey: 0-60 in 3 seconds
My friend Tina is a hottie. No, really.
Several of us knitters work at the same dental office here in Vancouver (how that came to be is another story, but I digress …) We wear scrubs. Every day. Every single, blessed ever-lovin’ day. On workdays, we are all what I am going to call “Scrub Sallys,” women who all begin to look alike as though we were throwbacks from Mr. Roger’s “Planet Purple.” We are a sea of brown or black in lab coat white wrappers.
When we are not working, we become ourselves again and break out into different categories: Business Bonnies, Dowdy Daisies, Suzy Sports and the coveted, the prized: Hottie Harriets. While people naturally fall in and out of these categories in fluctuation, depending on what each day calls for, I frequently—and unfortunately for those who must associate with me— could be called a Dowdy Daisy. Especially lately.
I have been developing a bad habit of going everywhere in outfits the folks on “What Not to Wear” would love to secretly videotape and play back to me during a humiliating public display. Until that fateful day—and the $5,000 shopping spree from the show—I remain a Dowdy Daisy. Even now I have on yesterday’s hurriedly applied makeup and sweats that I slept in. Yes, I may be doomed. But not everyone does this.
Other girls, like Tina, absolutely transform in “Hottie Harriets” instead and turn heads everywhere they go. Tina has decided that her days off are an opportunity to express herself. She shows up to Wednesday morning knitting meetings freely tossing around long, lovely and thick chestnut hair and flashing a bright smile from a perfectly peachy, creamy complexion. She is quick with a smile or a laugh, and she is infectiously youthful.
She wears great clothes. Tina can pull off knee-high leather boots over tasteful indigo jeans and top it off with a knitted babydoll top that dances around the rest of the outfit as if to say, “Doesn’t this look great?” And it does.
Tina is also a great mom and wife and has a husband and 13-year-old son at home, John. John and his mom are close and it is evident to anyone who sees them. He is a good kid and does what his mom says, working on his grades, dutifully doing homework and chores. Tina loves to make her family things, and one day at work, she became curious about my recent (at the time) obsession with knitting.
We were in the lunchroom where I, and some other converts, were knitting. It’s what we love to do on our breaks—knit, talk about knitting, examine each others projects, look at patterns on the Internet. Tina wanted me to show her what I was doing. She has a technical mind and was fascinated by the precision of knitting. (Well, mine wasn’t very precise, I think she could just see that it was a possibility.)
I showed Tina a little bit that day, and she took off. She went home and hit it hard. She worked for 8 hours on casting on and off, she stayed up late into the night with a YouTube video figuring out the difference between knitting and purling. She spent hours at my house working on a scarf with ribbing, committed completely to learning the stitches. That last part may have been the blind leading the blind, but she figured it out anyway.
People she loved rapidly became the recipients of her work. Other ladies at work got wraps, she sent her mother in Texas a really great hat that was a vintage-style throwback to the old rain bonnets like the plastic ones my grandma used to carry in her purse for emergencies. Most of all, Tina was excited to make things for her husband and son. She bought yarn for them and made John hats and scarves with such skilled exactness that they looked machine made. It was an incredible feat of skill and determination. All of us at work who watched it were amazed.
Her son, who had been quietly watching this activity, had said nothing. His mom had been working hard and he noticed. Still, he dutifully did his chores and homework, said very little, while his young mother was working her fingers over and over stitches and needles.
Until one day when Tina was sitting on the couch with another scarf pattern, which would allow her to practice another new stitch. She was absorbed in her work. He was absorbed in her. He stood for several minutes in the doorway to her left where she could not see him. Then he meandered into the room and slowly, still watching, sat next his mother on the couch. He watched for several more seconds. Then his demeanor changed.
John sat up straighter, made an adult expression of approval. She saw him out of the corner of her eye. The moment was coming when he would tell her, she guessed, that he wanted to acknowledge her work. To thank her for the hours she spent on him. Tina waited for her son to congratulate her on learning such a beautiful skill so quickly, deepening their relationship with his hearfelt appreciation.
John turned to his mother so that now he faced her squarely. He said, “Good. Now my children will have a traditional grandmother.”
Drop the Dog and Run
As I have shared before, I went knitting crazy when I was pregnant. After returning home from Jo Ann\’s fabrics that fateful Saturday bizarre (not a typo) afternoon, I promptly began working on project after project. I wasn\’t fast, mind you, but I was long-suffering and tenacious.
Knowing almost nothing about knitting, I suffered blindly through confusing pattern terminology, YouTube videos, casting on, casting off, knitting, purling, shaping oh, so badly….until finally it paid off. It felt like destiny and I couldn’t be stopped.
At the end of several months, I had completed a blanket, a baby sweater, hat and booties, which I finished shortly before Amy Rose was born. During those days before the birth, I began a sort of ritual.
I would get the new knitted baby things out. Then I would fold them and put them into the baby\’s hospital overnight bag. Then I would get them back out, unfold them, gaze at them one more time, hold them up, assemble them onto the bed as though they were actually on a child, gaze at them, fold them, pack them, get them back out…unfold them…
…gaze…hold them up…
…assemble…gaze…
…fold…
…pack…
…unpack….
…you get the idea.
I just couldn\’t stand it. It was unbelievable to me that I had actually made something useful from two sticks and a string. I was hooked. Once Amy was truly here, you can bet your best, size 17 nickel-plated Addi Turbos with brass tips that she was wearing those clothes all the time. I hated to wash them.
People began to wonder whether or not she had other clothes. The first time they saw the outfits, they would rave, “Oh, isn’t she adorable!” After seeing them several times, the remarks were reduced to, “Do you need anything?” asked in a careful, sheepish way as they suspiciously stared at the baby. I just wanted to see them on her again and again. That was all. Then, a funny thing happened.
The sleeves began to grow short. The hem rose. Amy Rose did what all children did, she grew.
This could only mean one thing: I had to begin knitting faster immediately!
I worked on a new blanket, some hats, sweaters, all manner of baby items. She was my tiny, compliant model. I loved every minute of it. And, amidst all the joy, I secretly feared for the day she would realize that her own ideas could be expressed.
That day has come.
At two years old, Amy Rose has decided that she loves to run naked. Totally, unabashedly naked. Down the hall, to her room, to the tub, from the tub, down the stairs … she would run naked down the street if we would let her.
While this is typical for most two-year-olds, it seems to be of particular joy to her. She revels in removing articles of clothing, freely tossing aside toys in her path and, having freed herself from all earthly burdens, rapidly—and somewhat unsteadily—toddle on her way, curly little head of hair bouncing and tiny bottom jiggling.
We have labeled this behavior \”Naked Running.\”
When I am not worrying that she might be cold or that I may need to lay newspapers all over the floor of our house to accommodate this puppy-style behavior, I am trying to teach her that is not socially acceptable to be naked in public.
Of course, here in Portland, Oregon, we have those well-meaning and lovely folks who enjoy nude cycling on occasion, but generally speaking, people, and babies in particular, need clothes.
While in the throes of this nature vs. nurture debate with my two year old, I continue to knit for her–I have all sorts of things in the works for her. And even if Amy\’s feelings are changing, mine are not: I am still enthralled at the notion of seeing her in my creations. Not only do I like seeing them on her after the hours, days or weeks I spend working on them late into each night, I like to take pictures of her wearing them once they are done.
This would happen every day if I had my way, but our Great Northwest weather and the demeanor of our baby girl prohibit it. Thus, photo shoot days are special.
The other day, after completing a lovely eyelet cardigan and a hat of my very own design, complete with a ruffly, crocheted edge and a ribbon cinch, I wanted to take a photo of Amy in it. I was off work, the sun was sort of out and it was not raining. Much. Here, in the Northwest, we call that a great spring day.
After getting out my camera, my new 50mm portrait lens (purchased in part just for an occasion such as this), and the newly completed knitted outfit, I collected little Amy Rose who came battling all the way, having been torn from watching her Barney DVD.
After arguing in futility for a time with a toddler, I agreed to let her bring her favorite stuffed doggie out with us. I thought that might help the transition. I put new tights, the little hat and sweater and some brand new Osh Kosh B’Gosh cowgirl boots onto my tiny dolly. We headed out the front door.
Jo, my 22-year-old daughter, has recently done some quite artful, intricate wood burning on a crate for our front porch. I liked the idea of seeing the burnt designs contrasting the peaches and cream color scheme of Amy\’s hand knits. I carefully put the crate on the edge of the wet grass in our front yard. I was willing to take a chance for a photo like this.
I set Amy down so I could use both hands to make sure the crate was balanced on the uneven ground so Amy could sit on it. I wasn\’t watching her. Amy took off her hat and stepped in the mud next to the grass that had previously been a flower bed before some recent rain.
I cleaned off the new OshKosh B’Gosh boots and sat her on the crate, hat now crookedly perched on her head. Approximately .008 seconds later, Amy took the hat off completely and knelt in the wet grass holding her doggie a little too low. She was saying, “Buggy? Buggy?”
I cleaned off her knees, picked up the now dirty dog and put the baby back on the crate. Maybe the dog would not be so noticeable in the photo. Where had I put my camera? Oh, yes, it had been around my neck. I backed up from Amy and the crate to look through the camera.
Seeing an opportunity, Amy tossed the dog back into the grass and this time threw the hat over the flowerbed into the driveway. She stood up and ran in the opposite direction of the hat throw, toward the neighbor\’s yard. I stepped in the mud chasing her.
I cleaned off my own shoes and carried a kicking and screaming Amy Rose back to the front yard.
I began to wonder if we shouldn\’t just wait the usual 45 days for the next sunny day and try again. Provided the sweater still fit. By now, I was sweating from all the clothes: mine, my jacket, hot screaming baby body in tights, boots and sweater. I looked around helplessly, still holding a squirming girl under my right arm, potato sack style. I was looking partly for a more private setting and partly to see if any neighbors could see what was going on.
Our house is situated right next to a fenced off, but very lovely watershed complete with evergreen and deciduous trees. Next to the fence, the developer put in a quaint sidewalk that winds from the street, to our side yard and curves behind our house. It travels through some nice landscaping and eventually leads to the neighborhood park.
I thought that maybe Amy would like to walk along the sidewalk then she could get her wiggles out and I could finally get some pictures. I put her gently down under a large evergreen right behind our house, her little cowgirl-booted feet found their footing. I gave her the doggie she had wanted to have outside so badly. I arranged her hat just so.
Apparently curious about this little change of scenery, she looked around quietly. A nice breeze had started up, and little wisps of her curly hair were peeking out from under the creamy ruffle of her hat, lifting and floating in the wind. She looked so precious. She squinted in the afternoon sunlight, trying to look up at me. I backed up a little and got the lens cap back off my camera for about the fifth time.
Amy threw the dog down and she ran. She ran for all she was worth. Toward the park. There went the hat….I recognized this as the moment the clothes were on their way off. I wondered if she could do it with a sweater and tights…
I let her do it. I let her run. After all, what harm is there in dropping a little baggage, a little inhibition now and then? Maybe we all should do it.
I lifted the camera and pressed the shutter button.
Stories of Inspiration Wanted!
In honor of Grandmas Miller\’s birthday today, I would love to hear your own stories of inspiration. You can submit shorter comments and stories in the \”comments\” section at the bottom of \”From Homemade to Handmade.\”
That said, it has come to my attention that a lot of people have had trouble commenting. If this happens to you, please feel free to email me by clicking on my profile in the lower right hand side of the page.
Depending on how many responses I get, I will post them over the next few days or weeks.
It\’s always good for us to remember those who helped us get to where we are today.
I will get us started with a comment my daughter posted on Facebook:
Jolene Winner-ZiemerMarch 30, 2011 at 11:54am
Re: New Post! Blame It on Lucille Ball–A Stash Story
I remember playing with Grandma Miller\’s empty yarn spools when I\’d go over to her house. And the little rooster pillow that used to sit on her couch, that I still have somewhere. And the smell and taste of severely overcooked carrots that she made when I was over.
I love this article Mom, it\’s a beautiful way to honor Grandma Miller.
It reminds me that everything we do in life should be done with knowledge and reverence for the people who came before us. Especially for those of us who are women, knowledge and reverence for the women who came before us.
From Homemade to Handmade: Happy Birthday, Grandma Miller
I was a weird kid.
I played with boys, picked my nose and, on an otherwise pleasant camping trip to Ft. Stevens when I was 8, tattled to the game warden on a young man at Coffinberry Lake because he was smoking and fishing without a license. I then sprinted to my parents\’ white Country Squire Ford station wagon with its wooden side panels and flattened myself out in the rear cargo space for fear that I would make eye contact with the boy who was now having a little talk with the game warden.
For months I had nightmarish daydreams that I had caused him to be incarcerated and would embellish that he had been working to support his family at 14 years old and that I was the one who took him away from his poor mother. Yes, I was a weird kid. But not to Grandma Miller.
She never cared that I chewed constantly on my lips or that I was mistaken for a boy until the age of 12 due to my frizzy hair that my parents had to keep so boyishly short in order just to tame it. No, even though I spent most of second grade out in the hall–in time out–for talking, she loved me.
She was a marvelous seamstress, knitter, crocheter and all around crafter. She always wore dresses, nylons and very sturdy pumps with heels two inches wide and two inches high. When she wasn\’t wearing a large, ornate brooch, she wore homemade beaded necklaces that she treated like treasures, keeping them in a locked jewelry chest in her bedroom. Her face was framed with the softest short gray hair and I loved to watch her pin it tightly in little clips all over her head at night in order to make it curly in the morning. She was only 5 feet tall, tiny and mighty. She was beautiful. And I was the only granddaughter out of her 4 grandchildren.
Grandma Miller took me under her wing, a tiny woman in the making. She would listen to what I had to say, then gently dish out sagely advice, meted out sparingly and with quiet power. Against my will, she made most of my school clothes and, less to my chagrin, knitted me slippers every Christmas. She spent weeks at a time with me in the summer, teaching me how to live while teaching me how to sew and knit. She had unlimited, stoic patience.
I struggled with my sewing and knitting lessons. I couldn\’t make a seam straight, and I certainly couldn\’t get the old-school acrylic rug yarn to stay on the needles. Each time, in each situation, my grandmother would just quietly guide me along, most times ignoring my little girl frustration. She would keep telling me to try again. She would say in her very deliberate, slow voice with the slightest German accent, \”If a task be great or small, do it well or not at all.\” I grew weary of hearing it.
I secretly even used to wonder why we were doing this. After all, I really was only doing it to please her. I didn\’t really want any more clothes that were \”homemade.\”
That was a shameful word to me then, now bringing new shame–and for different reasons–to my mind as I think of it. As a gradeschooler and preteen, I worried that kids at school would notice my non-designer clothing and make remarks; my red hair and freckles already garnered enough negative attention and I just wanted so badly to fit it in invisibly.
I resented the zig-zag finishing stitches on my clothes that were telltale signs of homemadeness and what to me were unusual fabrics–Grandma Miller called them \”polyester cotton,\” while you may know them better today as \”just polyester.\” Most of them had been donated by the countless people she sewed for at no charge. I didn\’t care where they came from.
I know I complained, but my parents and Grandma Miller were frugal people. I would stand in my grandma\’s small retirement community galley kitchen and beg for a top made from velour instead of the polyester cotton. She, in turn, would hang up another fold-over sandwich bag, freshly boiled and ready to be reused, and tell me she would try. I would deeply knit my freckly, strawberry blonde brow with the nearly invisible eybrow hairs, not knowing if she knew what I meant. I struggled along with my attitude troubles and frustrations for several years.
But I kept trying to sew, even though it was hard.
It just seemed like something I was supposed to be doing–maybe because it had been engrained in me for so long. First for myself, then my small children. Gradually, I began to enjoy it. I guess I was slowly beginning to see something that was not fully realized just yet: \”Homemade\” means more than just being made at home. The word carries a certain deepness with it that comes from the time, effort and love the creator invests. I looked forward to sharing this with my grandmother as I got older, even if the idea was not completely developed in me. But it was not to be.
In 1993 Grandma Miller began having small strokes, and over the next two years, her health failed her completely. She passed away in 1995 when she was 92 and I was 25. Those last few years were precious and important ones. They sealed my understanding of Grandma Miller\’s ways and attitudes.
I continued sewing and making our family recipe raspberry and grape jellies like she did. And two years ago, my meeting with Mona at our church (see the first blog entry) completed the circle. I now can do all the things Grandma Miller did. Well, I don\’t do them as well as she did, yet. But I can sew Daisy Kingdom dresses for my girls and I can knit Grandma Miller\’s Christmas slippers. And I do it with the full knowledge of what it means to be making them myself.
Grandma Miller. Born March 30, 1903, tomorrow would be her 108th birthday. Susanna Miller–with no middle name, the oldest in a line of 8 children born to German immigrants on a farm in North Dakota–she knew what it meant, too. I miss her so.
I now proudly use the word \”homemade.\” Because things that are made at home are made with loving hands. They are beautiful.
Blame It on Lucille Ball–a Stash Story
After my Jedi introduction into the world of knitting two years ago, I began knitting and planning knitting projects for little Amy Rose. I was still pregnant at the time and dreamed almost non-stop of this cherubic angel baby who would surely be my easiest since I did, in fact, have so much previous experience with 5 older children ranging from 10 years old to early twenty somethings. I would surely have excessive free time, I told myself, with this perfect little baby.
I bought book after book of lovely patterns, from the simplest to most intricate in style. I figured that I would eventually learn how to perform all of the most difficult stitches and techniques, so I may as well buy them now. And the yarn to make them. All of them.
This sort of thinking led to what my husband calls a time of darkness. The darkness being not the mood permeating our home, per se, but the vast sea of black ink found in the long-listed details on our American Express and checking debit card bills. I was on a tirade, purchasing all manner of knitting things ranging from Leisure Arts patterns found at big box craft stores like Michael\’s, to skeins, then hanks then balls and balls of more and more specialized yarns (the terminology increased almost as rapidly as my purchases–almost).
I was mesmerized by the newly discovered beautiful local yarn shops here in Portland and Vancouver with their friendly, helpful staffs, and I couldn\’t believe the vast selections of everything fiber from online sources like Jimmy Beans Wool. There was so much to attain! I bought Addi Turbos, some for sock class, some for faster blanket completion. I collected Araucania, Malabrigo, Red Heart and Bernat yarns, all in varying fibers and weights. My book collection was getting absurd and was now stacking on the floor as I had used up the bookshelf. I considered getting rid of Steinbeck and Chopin to make room for Paden and Gardener. I was losing all perspective, like an 8-year-old budding engineer left alone in Lego land with his mother\’s checkbook, carte blanche. My American Express card nearly caught fire.
I was secretly searching for ways to make it seem like I was not buying so much, looking for nooks and crannies in the house for storage, then purchasing Rubbermaid containers in all manner of shapes and sizes to fit them. I can confidently say that you can fit enough yarn in one square Rubbermaid container to make about 12 pairs of socks (2 of them chunky weight), 2 afghans and at least 2 sweaters, depending on how strong you are and how motivated. You can estimate this by recalling how you did packing your last only-one-allowed carryon suitcase used on your last flight.
Daily, I was learning more and more online, joining websites like Ravelry and local yarn shop sites where I would learn about better and better yarns. I learned that nylon, for example, incorporated into wool yarn makes a more durable sock, then felt compelled to replace the old yarn I already had. Except I didn\’t remove the old yarn, because what if I learned something else and needed it back?
It looked as though the road to bliss could get pretty expensive. I started to wonder if the yellow brick road that Dorothy had followed was yellow because it truly was gold. It might have even been a toll road. I sure hope she had some spare change in that basket under the dog.
Through these months of sheer excitement and obsession, my husband would remain encouraging–and patient. He still believed me to be a thinking person. Then one day, he decided to tease me by reading the lists of American Express charges out loud. Not the amounts, just the names of the stores. I think he thought the rapid fire sound might have greater comedic and, possibly, therapeutic effect on me:
\”Jimmy Beans
Starbucks
Jimmy Beans
Jimmy Beans
Jimmy Beans
Starbucks
Starbucks\”
Then the debit card statement:
\”Stitchcraft
Starbucks
Stitchcraft
Joann\’s
Starbucks
Michael\’s
Starbucks
Crewel World
Jimmy Beans…\”
…he stopped. I was about to explain that I needed a coffee each time I went out shopping. It was just part of the deal, and–\”Hey,\” he queried, \”Why did you put Jimmy Beans on the debit card? I thought that one was going on the AmEx.\”
Blank stare from me. On the outside. On the inside, my eyes were widening as I realized that I had done it. I had totally Lucille Balled it. And it wasn\’t just my red curly hair. I had gone so beyond the pale of rational thinking, that I had moved from not only trying to make my huge yarn fluff look small with all sorts of containers and storage spots, but I had started trying to spread the charges around, thinking they would look sort of, well, thinned out. A thinly veiled, hair-brained scheme that anyone in their right mind would spot in a moment. I may as well have gone straight to a fast-paced chocolate packing factory and tried to eat all the candy on the conveyor belt to make them look boxed.
I exhaled–I hadn\’t realized that I had stopped breathing. I regained mental conscientiousness and gave a snappy retort, \”uhhhhhh……\”
\”Honey,\” my gentle husband said, \”maybe you should look at what you have. Maybe you have enough.\”
Inside I cried out \”It\’s never enough!!!\” But outside, I said, \”Yeah, you\’re right.\”
I am happy to report that no marital altercation came of this. My husband, with incredible patience, waited for this latest craze of mine to burn out.
And it did. But not because I came to my senses, I simply filled up my closets–there was no more room.
There was an Old Lady from Dagobah…
Why knitting?
It never even had crossed my mind. Well, that\’s not entirely true. My grandmother–like so many grandmothers before her–tried to entice me into knitting with a pair of green, warped size 8 plastic Boyle knitting needles and a family heirloom slipper pattern. But it was not to be. As an 8 year old, I–like so many 8 year olds before me–became quickly frustrated as the yarn repeatedly slipped off the needles as I tried to work it, dropping my stitches and ultimately culminating in nothing more than a pile of tangled acrylic yarn on the bedroom floor. No slippers for me. At least not from my own needles.
Flash forward 30 years…
Entering our annual church bazaar, we knew what we would find–everyone does. There were handmade candles, ornaments, cookies, quilts–so many knitted and crocheted items. Dozens of them. My husband and I made it a point to attend this event every year faithfully. We wanted to support local craftswomen and men who spent so much time and effort to bring us such affordable and beautiful creations–many of which are sold to raise money for good causes.
As the familiar old-church-fellowship-hall smell–now mingling with holiday bayberry and pumpkin spices–enveloped us upon entering, we began to wander around the crowded tables, most of them practically overflowing with colorful items crowded together and stacked high. Browsing was an incredibly slow process as shoppers would crowd and thin, ebb and flow around each banquet table and slender aisle. There was a lot of standing and waiting to get to each display. I was glad we didn\’t have a stroller with us….yet.
I was about five and a half months pregnant with our sixth child–Amy Rose to be, our sixth of \”yours, mine and ours.\” I was not new to pregnancy, but because she was the sixth, I was also not so young, either. We had planned on staying as long as we could, but since I had been pretty sick and uncomfortable through the whole thing, I had mentally planned on being ok with leaving the bazaar a little earlier than usual–just this one time. Then we wandered into one of the outlying rooms, new to the event this year.
The church hall, with its narrow space and long, low ceiling lined in multi-colored fluorescent lights, was not quite large enough any more for all of the vendors in attendance. The once small country church had an ever-growing population from within and from without. This year, the bazaar planners decided to use some of the classrooms outside the main hall for booths. They contained, of course, more of the same bazaar fair. But they also contained something unexpected.
As we wandered into the first, then second classroom, we started talking about leaving soon. We had purchased a few candles, some organic soaps from a local farm, and a handmade quilt from the Catholic daughters with flannel bears and lovely stitching. We had almost run out of hands for carrying things. That\’s when we heard Mona.
It was a distinctive voice coming from the third classroom. I listened to the voice getting louder as we approached it, dense and German, high and pitchy. Elderly?
Behind a table on the left wall was a strong, short, thickening woman with hair straight out of a red bottle of dimestore dye. Her red lips were thin and bright, threatening to leave their feathery boundaries and any moment. Her small, brilliant blue eyes shone from behind trendy purple metallic bifocals. Or were they trifocals? I judged her to be at least 75, probably more–she was clearly well kept.
She stood silently for a moment, hands neatly behind her back. She gazed at no one in particular. She just stood.
As my husband and I neared her table, she barely smiled. She just maintained a pleasant expression and I wasn\’t sure if she even saw us. But I saw her. And I saw the lovely things behind her, hanging on her wall.
On display, there was a darling layette: hat, booties, sweater, clearly handmade. The yarn was probably acrylic with little pink sparkles. I didn\’t recognize the stitches then, but now I can report that the fabric had an interesting grid texture that stood out from its background. It was a result of cleverly alternated knits and purls, exacting in their clarity.
Not meaning to say it out loud, I breathed out, \”I could never make something like that…\” I just couldn\’t hide my awe.
Suddenly, a hand reached up and snatched my left wrist. It was her. The red lip lady. Her eyes were brighter than ever, if that were possible.
\”You can do this.\”
I stared at her for a moment, stunned. \”I don\’t know. It\’s so beautiful…\” I was at a loss for words.
\”Yes, you can!\” She still held my arm. I squeezed the quilt in my right arm closer. She was so certain, almost severe. I began to wonder what was happening.
\”You go to JoAnn\’s Fabrics, you buy the book, you buy the yarn and you do it.\”
She was insistent. She was sure. She seemed to be trying to transfer secret knowledge from herself to me through squeezing my arm. Was there an electricity forming between us? Some secret knitting bond?
\”When I was a child in Germany, I used two pencils and learned to knit. I knitted scarves, socks, sweaters. And lace. They don\’t make patterns for lace like they used to.\”
What did this all mean? Was I supposed to be knitting? Was I ever going to get my arm back? Did the baby just kick? Was this turning into some Jedi-Yoda moment? Was she going to call me \”grasshopper\” next?
A vacuum was forming, a tunnel. I lost all peripheral vision. I expected at any moment that she was going to blindfold me, give me a pair of knitting needles and hurl yarn balls at me, commanding me to use my mind to deflect them.
By this time, the red lady had stopped talking, I got her name–Mona–and that she had been knitting for about 175 years. Rough estimate. She just kept staring at me, as if she was waiting for me to understand something. Something really, really important.
I stared back.
Nothing.
Then, she suddenly relaxed–as if all the necessary information had been transferred from her to me. I looked at her. I didn\’t buy the layette.
I stiffly told her it was nice to meet her. My husband and I left. Then, wandering as if in a dream, we went to JoAnn\’s and bought the commanded book. My husband picked out the yarn. We didn\’t know how to figure out how much to buy, so we just sort of eyeballed it and bought a few skeins of brown and pink verigated Red Heart Sport acrylic. Probably too much.
I was in a trance, a glorious, blissful trance. Something had happened, something wonderful. Was it so big and life altering that it would surpass my love for my husband, family and friends? Even God? Of course not. But meaning can be found in so many places–it may even poke you with a light saber. Sometimes things happen that can only add to your deepest contentments. Enrich you in ways you never realized.
Joseph Campbell, American philosopher said, \”To find your own way is to follow your bliss. This involves watching yourself and seeing where real deep bliss is–not the quick little excitement, but the real deep, life-filling bliss.\”
Sometimes we just need a little help to get there.
Watch for it. Find your bliss. You never know where it might be. Or if you are missing it all along.
Freckled Girl Knits 