(Great Blue Heron, Coronado Island, and Parker, rocking the kelly green, courtesy of my son Richard.)

My friend Kelli is the prime culprit in a particularly nice anonymous favor once done me via Purlescence.

Kelli of late has had to give up knitting: she’s a handcycle racer, with a custom-fitted set of wheels–but autoimmuned hands sometimes have limits and I haven’t seen much of her for awhile. It’s hard to not be able to do the other thing you love to do.

And yet. When Penny in our knit night group had to go on chemo, Kelli is the one who pulled the hand-dyed merino out of her stash and started knitting Penny a super-soft hat.

She couldn’t finish it. She had to ask for help (I knew nothing at the time.) And so Penny showed up one night wearing it, needing to avoid germ exposure but needing to be around friends after months of isolation and needing to show off what those two, a friend helping a friend helping a friend, had created for her to be comforted by.

So. Much. Joy. For all of us.

I recently got some (more) yarn from China, 95/5 cashmere/mink this time; when it came, the green was not quite what I’d expected. I like blueish greens.

This was a kelly green.

Guess how long it took me to figure out who that would be perfect for?

So that’s what I was working on this past week in between baking and packing to help move Richard’s office. That’s what I finally cast off and blocked last night.

And that’s what came out, despite my expectations and all my inspections as I doodled with my needles, to be quite…ruffly.

I was stumped. I said to Richard, But…but…Kelly’s a biker! And then quickly had to explain that that was a joke, son, a joke, biker chick as in that kind of bike, as in trying out for the paralympics. How someone with Crohn’s disease does what she does I have absolutely no idea whatsoever, and I have been in awe of her for a very long time.

But I just don’t see her as the girly-girl type. And this is ruffly!

He considered a moment. Got the biggest impish grin spreading across his face.

“Camo!”

I totally lost it. Laughing so hard I could hardly breathe. Richard saves the day! It was suddenly okay to give her what had been for her all along, silly me, and I instantly quit second-guessing both of us.

Kelli, hon, your girly-girl biker camo awaits you at Purlescence. Love from us.

And it is almost 11:00 pm and we just walked in the door.

Richard just read that sentence and closed his eyes. Yeah. That about sums it up. But: at least, given that we got it down to Decisions Must Be Made, all but the cast-off got done on my project as I coached: Stay or go? Or sometimes, Toss or go?

Boxes closed up and we packed it in.

I was working on a project I badly wanted to finish and block tonight when the phone rang.

Help Cecil help!

It took longer than it should have to get myself to respond, I’m a-comin’, Beanie Boy; I really wanted to…but I instantly knew: so much for that.

My car’s in the shop, he came home to get me, I had dinner ready, we bit into it and threw it out. So much for the quick prefab Costco dinner–I wonder what aisle it got moved to and then put back in their freezer. Or something. We scrounged and scrammed.

His office was being moved and the building was being vacated and everything had to be packed or tossed, and having someone there with zero emotional attachment to anything really speeds an awful job along–not to mention simply having someone else there pitching in. Call it a date night.

Tuesday’s picture of our grandson holding his lion tail was the screensaver on the monitor. Love it.

We’d done a lot, we were tired and slowing down, when he opened a bottom drawer.

Wait. What is this thing?

Oh, he told me, pulling it out and handing it to me, that’s a laptop.

Really?! (Opening it up. Or trying to. Fumble. There’s a latch like that? On an electronic…?) But, I asked him in confusion, it says Digital. (You know, DEC, the big computer company that went blooey before laptops were invented. The folks that moved us to California 24 years ago. Good people there back in the day, we miss them.)

No, they were invented already, and yes, they did call them notebooks, he assured me. (The thing says HiNote Ultra II.)  But they were nothing like today’s. Still. This was really cutting edge, he told me. (Well, yeah!) It was way lighter than anything else out there. It had a floppy drive you could take off, and it had an internal hard drive.

Did you work on this project?

Nah, not that machine…

Dang this thing is cute. (No emotional attachment, eh?)

(Here at home, I just weighed it: both pieces come to 4.4 lbs–we’d guessed five at least. The darker gray piece is the floppy drive.)

Does it still work?

Yeah, probably.  There’s that battery pack I just had you throw in the electronics trash down the hall.

I ran back down there. Irretrievable.  So much for that.

He pulled out a weird-looking plug: there you go.

I’ll probably take it back to that electronics bin tomorrow, but I just have to play with it a little first.  It was like a lost puppy (and I’ve lived in Silicon Valley too long, clearly). As someone who remembers watching the original Apple IIe in action, I had to see what this one looks like when it’s all lit up.

So far, given how wiped we both feel, I’ve only gotten to blogging about it. I keep wondering what its appeal was: maybe it was all in the pretty packaging. So ugly it’s cute. Note that I photographed it on the chair I inherited from my grandmother; gray and gray and age on age, it fit.

I know, give me a day and the novelty will wear off.

Who knew that a doctor’s shoes could connect me with my grandmother?

He was wearing a pair of Wallabys today, new-looking ones; I knew exactly how comfortable those were. Back when they were a huge fad in the ’70’s, my father was on a business trip to Spain and knowing my odd-size feet and how much I’d wanted a pair, and finding some at a good price, took a chance–and they were perfect. It was my first-ever experience at being so thrilled at the most perfect shoe purchase (with the love of my Dad to top it off.) I had never owned a shoe that fit well and was comfortable and was perfectly, totally in style. 6.5EE is never in style, but look at these! Authentic Wallabys!

I wore those through high school, I wore those in college, where I was walking in snow at I forget how many thousand feet up high in the Rockies. The salted soaking sidewalks ate at the suede. I wore them till they looked like Harry Potter’s sorting hat in the middle of a sentence.

My grandparents had recently retired and were living an hour north of BYU campus.

My grandmother was a very gracious woman who would never say a disparaging word to or about anybody. She once said that she’d listened to enough of her friends whine about old age that she’d decided that she, for one, was going to be a sweet old lady. And so she was.

So there I was at Gram’s, cousins gathered around for a Sunday evening get-together, when she notices my feet.

I knew I had this coming. I waited to hear what she would say.

She searched for the right words of–well, encouragement or something somehow, and finally just chuckled: “Alison. Your shoes!”

“I know, Gram. But they’re so comfortable!”

She laughed warmly. There wasn’t much left to constrict my feet anymore anyway–nor my heart. I felt so loved.

I gave up and let them be after that school year; there wasn’t enough left of them anymore.

My grandmother had been a concert pianist.

I said to the doctor today, “How did your concerts go?”

“You remembered! You have a sharp memory!” (Oh goodness if only that were true.)

But how could one forget–and then there were his shoes…

Not to mention the waiting piano hat I pulled out of my knitting bag at the end of the visit, to his astonished delight: I’d knitted this? For him? I’d designed this? “I think that’s maybe one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever received!” and he went out into the hall grinning hugely to model it at the nurses’ station.

I offered, and I’m writing it here just so they know I meant it, to knit something for his wife too. I asked what her favorite colors were?

How many men do you know that can answer that question right off the bat? He’ll get back to me on that.

The yarn is at the ready.

(Oh, yeah, and, my 20% hip bone loss in two years is now 29% in (correction–four), despite chugging the milk and trudging the treadmill. My grandmother went from 5’9″, very tall  for a woman born in 1899, to a tiny little thing. I want to walk in her footsteps and be gentle to all to the best of my ability, but I’m trying to keep my own shoes on along the way.)

I want to celebrate Parker’s first Halloween and the best daughter-in-law ever. We are so blessed.

On the knitting front, I was going to write about the yarn that arrived from China with a label saying plane unfold arid and 95% 5% 15%–of what, exactly, it seems I don’t know, but still: bistro mathematics?

And then.

All linguistic silliness got scooped up and put down gently over there for a moment. I got a thank you note when the mail finally arrived at five that needed its own thank you back.

For the picture of a certain hat being worn and loved and appreciated, and for the words that–I found myself wiping a tear. You know who you are. People like you make it all worthwhile, and many more to come who can’t find the words will be knitted for too: because yours make me never want to miss out. Thank you.

(Pardon me while I marvel at how much Parker has grown since last December. I know. They do that. Still.)

Saw a hawk. Then a second.

Now, typically a raptor in the sky will have its wings stretched wide, the very tips splayed a bit, floating high while they watch over their part of the planet, making it look like the easiest thing in the world–no flapflapflap here, that’s crow stuff.

This afternoon, though, we had a good stiff wind straight out of Alaska and plummeting temperatures to match. Brrr. There’d been a flurry of birds at my feeders this morning, clearly aware of what was coming, all trying to get a good meal fast before it got bad; then as Alaska came in, the feathers on one dove were blowing backwards and she was pushed nearly off her feet.

Needing to run to the post office, I sat at a long light. I looked up and watched the scene in the sky.

The hawks both had their wings wide, but then the wind turned sharp; as the trees danced, they didn’t retreat to the branches below but pulled their shoulders up and into a V and rocked sideways, rock, rock, rock like me without my balance trying to walk a tight straight line without my cane–a stagger effect going on there, definitely. The wind inhaled and counted to ten, wings soared wide for the ride, then, blow! Rock, rock, rock in that tight V again.

It suddenly hit me what they looked like: the surfers at the annual Mavericks competition, looking for the biggest waves to ride to shore, as if they were having the times of their lives.  And then it occurred to me that if these were young ones, (too far to tell), it was probably their first time experiencing real weather.

The currents events of the day. Rocky or smooth, it was all part of their territory.

(Parker and his cousin four months younger.)

My daughter Sam, as a young teenager about fifteen years ago, (come to think of it, back before I had Crohn’s too) asked me if, if I had the chance, would I choose to cure my lupus, or ask for my hearing back?

That was an easy one–she was surprised when I instantly said, My hearing back. The lupus is just background noise. The hearing loss isolates me more from other people.

It was about a year ago that I was sitting in Relief Society at church, the women’s meeting, when the teacher announced we were going to break up into small groups to discuss the topic of the moment.

Groan. The acoustics in that room are bad to begin with, and scenarios like that totally make me want to bail: all I can do, usually, is sit and watch other people having engaging, interesting conversations, getting to know each other better amidst the blare of what to me is just loud white noise.

I got put in a group with Jennifer. I didn’t know her from Adam; she had just moved here. But she has a nice, deep voice, easier for me to *hear, and she was totally understanding about the whole thing as soon as she knew. I remember saying to her, I don’t know you yet but I want to.

The grateful smile on her face made me remember what it’s like to move to a strange town and not know anybody.

I too felt instantly like I was in the presence of a friend, and, by how she handled things, she changed my longstanding attitude towards those small group scenarios–and frankly, I’d needed that. That inner poor-little-me pop-up gets old, fast.

I’ve wanted for a long time to figure out just the most right thing…

She likes purple. I couldn’t figure out what the perfect purple would be to the eyes of someone whose ancestors most assuredly didn’t (or surely didn’t mostly) come from Scandinavia and the British Isles like mine did. I guessed, but just couldn’t get past that sense of uncertainty; I wanted it to be perfect. And I wanted to actually get around to it and get it done, whatever the it might come to be, but nothing… what I could find just didn’t grab me.

Remember that mink/cashmere yarn I recently discovered? Laceweight, one strand of white, one the very softest beige, knitted together for a heathered effect: after I saw the beige, advertised as cream, I ordered the white specifically to put them together like that specifically for her–I finally had my answer. I used two balls and I used them all up down to the last couple of yards and they were perfect.

And then I waited all week long for the moment to come.

But then this morning, searching the crowd before the main meeting started, I didn’t see her. After all that work and all that happy anticipation? No Jennifer? (Earth to Alison: just because you knew and came early doesn’t mean she knew or did.)

But then, at Relief Society, there she was at the back. Yay!

After the meeting was over, I pulled her away from the crowd; I didn’t want to make anyone else feel left out or hurt in any way, ever. And I said to her: “Do you like–” (shifty eyes) –“weasels?”

That was such an utter disconnect that she had no words to respond with.

I repeated it.

Okay, now she threw back her head, laughing: “I’ve never met any weasels.”

I explained about the bad translation describing weasel wool, and that no, I didn’t buy from those guys. I said it was sheared–I watched her face–mink: 70%, and cashmere, 30%, as I pulled the ruffly lace scarf out of my knitting bag. Her eyes got huge with disbelief.

Kim had stepped aside by us as if to talk to Jennifer next, and told her that I’d knit her a scarf too. Jennifer held that supreme softness against her face, just speechless. She put it on, then held the edge out to see the lace pattern.

That’s it. That’s all I need. Any time I might ever again need to prod myself  to go spend the hours knitting to make someone else happy rather than wasting my time doing something of zero impact in this life, I will have that moment to remember to push me forward to do that which brings joy into this world. Thank you, Jennifer; you made it easier for the next time.

Again.

———-

*Consonants are much higher pitched than vowels. By far the majority of people with hearing loss lose the highest frequencies first, then gradually lower and lower ones, and so, they can hear someone talking–the music of a speaker’s voice, is how I think of it–but they can’t figure out what they’re saying. They accuse others of mumbling, but it’s their own ears  that are. That last sentence would be, a uh-oo uh-eh uh uh uh uh i eh o ee ah aw. And if I can see your face and know the context of the conversation, with my hearing aids in in good lighting I can usually follow that.

I felt like I’d rejoined the human race when I got my first pair at 27.

My brother-in-law was in town on business being crazy busy, and with the weekend coming we knew at some random point we’d get our time… and so this morning he called to say he was on his way.

After a visit here awhile, we all headed up to their aunt’s house in the mountains, where we were joined by their cousin and his family coming up from Santa Cruz.

We caught up, hour after hour: one had only recently moved home to the States after four years doing the ex-pat life–in a part of the world where we’re glad to have him and his family back safe now. One who had a wife and small children who had somehow, all on their own, become four and seven years old already, hard to fathom. The aunt who quilts, her nephew whose wife does.

The four year old barked and was the doggy under the table during dessert. I meowed. He grinned.  I aarfed back. He loved it. I (after most of the others had retired to the living room and were far enough away) did my fair imitation of a horse whinny, to his exceeding delight–while Aunt Mary Lynn, startled, looked up from way over thataway, going, Who–was that you…?!

(I can just HEAR my little sister reading this and going, You didn’t. You still do that?)

We created an early mini Thanksgiving celebration, salmon, salad, and my chocolate torte sub’ing in for the turkey and cranberries and pie.

And a good time was had by all.

The walkway up to the front steps was being rebuilt, so at the end, we had to leave going a less familiar way down the steps in the semi-dark of the garage that, like the house, had been built into the hillside.

Where the stair turns, I missed one and tumbled towards Richard’s legs.

My brother-in-law allowed as how I had given him a scare. My aunt-in-law firmly declared I was to hold onto her arm from here on out. I tried to assure them it was no big deal (while inwardly exulting, Look! No breaks! Cool!)

My BIL would brush off any hints of our worrying while he was overseas. I will brush off any worrying over me. We’re fine.

Family solidarity, all around. Good stuff.

Parker’s getting ready to walk. Not quite there yet, but working on it. The next couple of pictures were of his small cousin trying to encourage him up and him going plop, but those came out blurry–moving too fast.

I’m reminded of a time I was in a store with my hands full, trying to keep my then-three-under-five entertained and obedient while trying to browse: get in get out be done.

The store actually had a small children’s alcove with toys and a TV; I don’t even remember what kind of store it was (fabric, probably? I think so.) But I do remember that alcove and my gratitude at the thoughtfulness behind it.

The cartoon that was on was almost over at the point that I finished my purchase and said, It’s time to go, kids; Sam did the typical whine of, Can’t we watch the rest of our show?

I considered that very briefly and, unable to see any reasonable reason why not, answered, Sure. And I sat down on the floor so we could all watch it together.

An older woman took all that in and pulled me aside when it was over and told me that she had never thought of reacting that way back when her grown kids were little, and she regretted it so much that she hadn’t given them a moment to have their own time like that, to show them that they mattered, too. She was proud of me.

When you are a mother of small children out in public, unexpected words of praise make all the difference, every time, and the moment is never forgotten.

As soon as it was clear to him that we were headed to the door, my son Richard, Parker’s daddy, happily took off like a shot to get there first: it’s always fun to beat slow old Mommy.

Another older woman stopped him mid-dash and scolded him soundly: “Little boy, you don’t run like that in my store! WALK!”

I looked at her, astonished–this is the woman who put out the toys and entertainment?

All I could do was tell the truth. “He doesn’t know how to walk. He only runs.”

The gift that that second woman gave me was the story of her words to tell to young moms now, who worry when they see me unsteady on a cane when their little ones are being perfectly normal little people. And occasionally, I have been known to sit down on the floor and hand them my lightweight sassafras-wood cane for them to run explore with. Shepherd’s crook. Little Bo Peep.

Ya gotta start’em on the sheep thing early.

Got a specialist I don’t see too often.

Got a note that he wanted to see me, okay, so, I went in. Got the standard questions. How’s the lupus. BP steady? Weight?

“Well, actually, the weight’s been down a little. My Crohn’s did a flare up last month…”  (Cool diseases! Shiny! New! Colect them all!)

He sat down at the computer and pulled up a graph showing my weight across who knows how long, and looking at one point about midway, he said, “Well actually, your weight’s up a bit from two years ago.”

I looked at him, trying to see if he was serious. He was. Stunned, thinking, Don’t…you…rememmm…. I burst out laughing because, my stars, there was no other possible response to that. “Yes, 104 pounds on steroids!” As in, at least ten of those pounds were water weight on that obscene IV dose. As in…!

But I said no more than that.

To his credit, he laughed at himself along with me.

This one’s for Susan Schutz: Parker in his Dr. Seuss-green socks, handknit by Susan, whom I owe a big thank you to. She loves to knit socks. I love that other people love to knit socks.

Meantime, I read this. I want one. I want one at church, I want one at Stanford Memorial Church where we attend the occasional convocation on campus, I want one at Menlo College where we attend the occasional concert, I want one at the theater, I’d install one… I simply want one everywhere I go. I read that article and wondered how it could be that I had never known much about nor appreciated such loops before.

(Quick: John! Do my hearing aids have telecoils? I don’t think they do… Can we do them as an add-on?)

And that’s right after I come up with the six thousand bucks to get the hearing-aid necklace that a Stanford professor individually makes to order, with a half dozen or so microphones in it and background sounds screened out by the body. I met him when he spoke to a local group, I’ve seen it demonstrated, I’ve been gobsmacked by what could be.  I. Want.

But eh, it’s fine, I do okay with what I’ve got and I’m really glad I’ve got aids with really great sound quality. Just knowing these other possibilities are out there makes me a very happy hearing-impaired musician.

Thought about all this, cranked up the stereo today and knitted most of the small shawl I started last night for a friend. A sheared-mink/cashmere blend, and looking forward to her surprise, it was hard to put it down and call it a night.

With a cute Parker picture thrown in for fun.

Four hours of knitting today and my daughter’s phlebotomist‘s cashmere is done. I can’t wait for her to get it! It was a doodle as I went along, which means it got ripped back a few times, but worth every stitch and re-stitch–I am very pleased with it.

Which means that, switching to larger needles and different yarn to go easy on my hands, knowing just who I wanted the next one to be for, I cast on another one right away: so, let’s see, how would this pattern come out if I tried it this way…

Meantime, the female Cooper’s hawk put in an appearance. She watched me watching her for quite some time, gorgeous, and I was glad I hadn’t missed the moment–but then clearly she decided, enough of that; she did a strong hop to a higher branch where she would be out of my line of sight.

It’s a smart bird that can tell I can’t see her when she can still see part of me, but those Cooper’s are amazing. I will never forget the time her mate was walking around the patio, looking for the finch he knew he’d heard hit the window but not finding it.

He looked at me, he looked at where I was pointing at the backside of a box blocking his view, he turned and hopped towards me and around the box, and there you go, dinner is served! ‘Kthanksbye!

But I thwarted his more antsy mate today, getting down on the floor so I could see further up with the awning less in the way now.

Well all right then. She stayed put while keeping note of a family of crows flying in single file two backyards away; one crow is no match for a big hawk, but. I noted that they stayed just outside, as far as I can tell, her defended territory.

Then finally she saw what she wanted, and clearly, it was on the roof: she swooped silently down so as not to tip off the prey, then, tilting around in a tight circle that reminded this new grandma of a little kid playing airplane, swooped back up again and shot across the roof and out of sight.

Till next time!

After an antsy-busy week, I finally felt today like I could do some serious knitting time, relaxing and watching in delight as something new has been coming to be. You can visualize but you can’t know till it actually becomes real, and I have to tell you, yarns-in-waiting are nice but real is wonderful.

Someone, meantime, is looking just like the cheerful imp his daddy was. Is he offering his sock for that camera lens? Teasing? We don’t know anybody like that…! 

(Actually, handknit kneepads at this stage sounds like a good idea, come to think of it.)

Note to San Francisco Airport: having cellphone signals work in your cellphone lot is a good idea. Thanks.

I got his “Landed” message while in that lot but he didn’t get my response in time to tell me he and his co-worker had checked their bags after all and that I should stay there.

Three times round the airport, cut off once and forced to go through the paid parking–the sympathetic attendant let me off–it is intense night driving, and with the construction they’ve had, it’s never entirely familiar.

But my Richard is home from his trip. I’d sprout wings and fly to the moon for that.

Parker would love to see that. If he could just stay awake long enough…

It started with a blood draw.

My daughter Sam has ITP, idiopathic thrombocytopenia purpura: the autoimmune version of hemophilia. Catch a cold or even athlete’s foot, crash the platelets as the immune system fires up in scattershot mode. (If you follow that link, she was at 10; normal is 150-400.)

And so when she arrived at the university to begin her PhD program five years ago, she needed a doctor and she needed a blood test, fast.

She got sent to the lab. The phlebotomist chatted as she set her up, and on hearing why she was there, immediately told her exactly which doctor at that clinic she should see and why, in very specific terms that had to do with how his personality would react to her history as well as his particular medical skills. He would take good care of her in a way the others would not.

And so he has. That was the doctor who, when her chart came in, I believe before he’d even met her, declared she was to be his patient, period.

That was the doctor who, this past summer, ignored her protests of that spot on her arm having been biopsied five years earlier and having come up benign; he just didn’t like the looks of it. Her ITP had gotten her sent to him just two weeks previously as well as this time, and though they hadn’t even discussed the spot nor had she thought of it, he had, and he thought it looked different this time; he was going to biopsy it again.

She saw no reason to.

No, it just felt… Now. And so he did.

A particularly aggressive melanoma but caught at the very earliest stage. Early enough that she didn’t even have to go through radiation or chemo–though they did have to take four inches out of her arm and she will have to be screened every three months for recurrences from here on out.

Hey. Beats the alternative.

We were on the phone tonight, the three of us, and Sam rather apologized to me for something she’d done.

Then she gave me the context. She told us about that phlebotomist. She told us she’s been going to that specific one ever since that first time they met, that they’ve become almost like family to each other.

I had made Sam an ethereally fine wedding-ring shawl in the softest merino, and she confessed she’d tested it once just to be sure: yup, it really did go through her ring! It was wide and beautiful and lovely and she got many compliments on every one of the rare occasions when she dared take the fragile-looking cloud of lace out to wear.

The phlebotomist had mentioned to her recently that she was to attend a wedding in the family, and that she was to wear a bright orange dress that was just too much for her; she had been wondering how on earth to tone it down, but had no ideas and no time to shop.

Sam asked: would a wide, slightly offwhite lace shawl help? A rectangle. It was certainly formal enough for a wedding. (She did not remember till I said it on the phone that I had knitted it while we drove 13 hours and back to take her to her freshman year at BYU, finishing it after the trip. Stealth knitting, right in front of her–I’d made it to tuck away for her for someday.)

As she was admitting to me she’d offered up the loan of that shawl, hoping I wouldn’t mind, to whom and why, I exclaimed, “She saved your life!”

Steps into a future that neither knew then, but still.

Sam considered the thought and, a sense of awe in her voice, answered, Yes–yes, she did.

I mentioned someone who had wanted to clean white wool with bleach; Sam shuddered, No, no, you don’t do that!

Right. They hadn’t yet and it was okay, and I taught them in time about how bleach dissolves wool and what to use safely.

Sam: I don’t think this lady would…

Me, affirming: Probably not. But if she does, I will knit you a new one.

And she knew I was saying what she’d felt too, that this woman had earned everything we could give her without reservation and together, then, we freely offered her friend all of the love that is in that shawl.

I went on to offer to knit the woman her own, for that matter.

I could hear Sam’s grateful smile across the thousands of miles.