He had never owned a sweater long enough in the arms to be able to fold the cuffs back, and that sounded to him like the most exotic luxury. Which was a little funny to his wife, whose arms are short for her size, who would like not to ever have to fold hers back again.

I was newly back at this knitting thing after a half dozen years’ break or so, and I wanted to knit him an aran–one that fit. I spent a lot of time going to various yarn stores (internet? What’s an internet? He used Darpa net, but the Dept of Defense didn’t stock knitting patterns) looking for anything big enough, and finally decided the only way to do it was just hash it out as I went along. I did find a pattern and follow the stitch counts for guidance, just, I used a heavier wool and substituted my own stitch patterns and…oh goodness, I didn’t know a thing about needing to swatch each stitch to get the gauge right. Eyeballing wasn’t good enough. Which means I ripped out the first eight inches three times before I got it right. But I got it right. It took six months, altogether, to knit.

It was supposed to be for Christmas. Then his birthday. He got it for Father’s Day, and there’s a picture somewhere of it in glorious motion as he pulled it out of the wrapping paper, lifting it up high in glee with the very biggest grin on his face. And look–the cuffs folded back just so. It fit perfectly! Success! Surprised? Honey, I saw you sneaking those needles away when I came home from work.

Eighty-six inch wingspan on that baby. Four and a half pounds of wool. He teases me, eighteen years later, that he’s only allowed to wear it by permission and where there isn’t going to be any food (but ain’t that the truth.) This picture was snapped fast as it collapsed downward on the chair.

Happy birthday, honey. Half a century. Maybe I’ll knit you another in your second half century, a little lighter weight (but that is SO not a promise). Dude–you sure you don’t want a shawl?

I’m writing this post as a message hopefully long into the future for two of my sister’s sons. This blog is, in many ways, my version of Randy Pausch’s book, having had an it-could-kill-me-tomorrow-and-nearly-did-yesterday disease for 18 years now. A friend of mine once remarked to me that the best gift a person could be given is a life-threatening disease and then to keep on living, and I would add, and to do so quite happily at that.

Speaking of Randy, I was watching his video about a month ago and my Richard came home from work, looked over my shoulder, and marvelled, “I know that guy! I sponsored some research at Carnegie Mellon, back at DEC…” Small world. Randy, if you see this, our prayers go out for you, your family, and your doctors, and I’m grateful for how you live your life.

Okay, back to the nephews. My sister and her family were visiting here from Atlanta back when those boys were four and a half, ten years ago. They are identical twins. I, being the doting aunt type, took lots of pictures of all her kids and gave Anne copies.

Anne looked them over–Chinatown, the redwoods at Muir, Stinson Beach, you know, got to get all the good touristy spots done–and she got this big wicked grin on her face, went over to the twins, and asked them, “Which one of you is in this picture?”

“Spencer,” said Spencer, in a tone of, like you even have to ask, Mom?

“TREVOR,” said Trevor, in a brotherly tone of, boy am I going to set YOU straight, dude.

“See! *YOU* can’t tell you apart! Now you can’t get mad at anybody else!”

And now, since I tend to see the world in wool or amaryllis, I want to show you guys: someday, one of you is going to get sick. It happens. It’s an ordinary part of the process called living. And the other one of you will wonder when that same Mack truck is going to smack you broadside too.

See these flowers in these two pictures? Born on the same stem, on the same plant. Identical twins. Do they have the same number of petals? Do they curl the same way? Are they even the same color? Do their stems bend the same degree? (Notice that I had to get under the first one to shoot it, while I could stay above the other.)

Trevor. Spencer. You have identical genes. Not outcomes.

(p.s. See those azaleas in the background? The nursery promised me they were all the same purple variety, cloned from the same original stock. I think rather those were fraternal twins at best, what would you say?)

(Side note: Ostrich Plumes pattern on the afghan, kid mohair and baby alpaca doubled together.)

When our oldest was three, we found our house there in New Hampshire was mosquito central in the spring, there being a wetlands area nearby. We got to watch mallard ducks arrive in our back yard for awhile, eating the larvae, just, I guess there needed to have been a few more quacking back there.

She went out to play on the swingset one late afternoon and came back inside after fifteen minutes. One look at her and I was horrified. I stopped and counted, trying to wrap my mind around it: 64 little red welts growing–it was that fast. “Oh, my poor Jennie!” I exclaimed, very sorry I hadn’t bought bug repellent before I’d let her go out there, especially at that time of day.

She looked at me, and with the wisdom of a three-year-old that spoke of so many times to come when she would be able to shrug off bad things as something she could handle on her own just fine, more worried about upsetting me than about herself, offered thoughtfully, consolingly, “I’d be more poor if I got eaten by tigers.” I laughed and cried just a tear and scooped her into my arms to try to make it all better, knowing that only time would make the bites go away but a mom’s hugs helped both of us. Just amazed. Out of the mouths of babes.

And then our kids grow up…

Nina from my book and her daughter Amy just stopped by for a visit while Amy’s in town. Amy’s a young veterinarian, and her new home and job happen to be near a wildlife rescue center.

Which is why she was just telling my husband and me about one of her most memorable recent patients brought in, carried in in a cage; when I asked, she told me sure, I could blog it.

Cats are one thing. Um. The sick patient that came in their door was a three hundred pound lion. Well, let’s see, so many cc per pound of weight… An assistant drew up and delivered the dose after Amy calculated it, to knock it out so Amy could intubate it.

Sweet dreams. Okay, ready. So there’s Amy, at the lion’s head just about to go put the tube down its throat…

…and the lion roared. I guess it didn’t like that mosquito bite in its backside.

Note that there were no windows in that surgery room and no escape except, as she put it, “through the lion.”

Obviously, they got a second dose into that thing fast and everybody came out okay. But it makes a great story.

Besides, you’re not supposed to eat when you’re going to be under anesthesia.

First, a quick bit re knitting: finished last night, church scarf of the week. One strand Geisha kid mohair/silk/nylon by Blue Moon Fiber Arts, and one strand of laceweight Zephyr silk/merino in I think Ruby, stretching some leftovers by knitting them together and using a larger needle.

Now, on to the rest:

Travel. See the world through the eyes of others.

I’m writing this down for the sake of the old friend from very way back that I talked to yesterday; you know who you are.

My cousin’s daughter was in India on a trip, and along the way had a host family that was naturally curious about this young foreign woman and asked her personal questions.

And then couldn’t bend their minds around the concept of being single: “You’re *twenty-six*? Don’t your parents know any nice young men?!”

She was, I’m sure, caught off guard, and tried to explain the concept of marrying for love: you know, you meet someone, you find you like them, they like you back, you find you have things in common, you come to like each other in that way… She described herself as blathering on, I’m sure feeling very awkward in the face of their stunned disbelief.

“Don’t you have friends?”

“Sure I have friends! I like lots of people! It’s just…”

They threw a feast, invited their friends, and the host introduced her to all: “I now understand why it is so hard to get married in America. This is F. In America, she likes lots of people, but nobody likes her back.”

To L. May I say in the greatest of innocence, lots of people like you back. Always did, friend.

Yeah, I double checked the batteries. Nope, not them.

I have often thought my camera, for all its funky fanciness, had a suspiciously flimsy-looking hinge in the bit of plastic covering the camera card. It was only a matter of time. Yup. I handed it to the hubby, going, a thousandth of a cent’s worth of plastic, but… The card’s staying in just fine anyway, I can just ignore it pretty much, right?

My sweetie with the electrical engineering/computer science background who can fix anything looked it over for me and handed it back a few hours later.

And now that camera’s fainted dead away like roadkill opossum. Dad, you still got that broom?

Saturday, on Ann’s way back out the door the second time, I grabbed my camera, got in her way for just one quick shot, not giving her time to straighten her shawl out, and then let her go. I knew she needed to be in a hurry to get back.

At one point not long after they had all arrived the first time, she said something to which I responded, “Oh good. You were nervous too?”

And that was the end of any possible shyness whatsoever: we’d both opened up and that was that. She was a kindred spirit, and I can’t wait to get to know her better.

I heard the car and sprang our front door open to greet them. We got to meet our son’s future mother-, father-, and brother-in-law. You know how, some people, you meet them and you instantly love them? There was an intense and immediate sense of belonging that only grew better as we talked. They didn’t have very long, though, with a family celebration to get to, so I brought over two things.

First, I showed Ann the Camelspin project I was working on and told her she had her choice, I wanted to make sure I got the color right, sorry I hadn’t gotten this one very far along yet. She went “Oooh!” at it.

Then she opened the bag with the shawl. And that was the end of that question. That one. Wow. And Ann, if everybody reacted as speechless and thrilled as you did when you put that on, there would be more knitters knitting for more people in this world. THANK you!!

And then, with it wrapped around her, she forgot her coat and had to come back awhile later to retrieve it. I wondered about what else I could quietly snatch so I’d get to see her yet again before they flew home, but I behaved myself and didn’t.

My son is one very lucky man.

She won’t see this between the airport and here, and I’m not sure I’ll get a chance to photograph it later, so I’m sneaking a moment in to post this: this is the shawl for Ann, after finally blocking it last night. It’s not a new pattern, it’s my Peace shawl, but as two families prepare to come together, I really think it’s the right one.

She and her husband live in a warm climate, so it had to be lightweight. My daughter-in-law-to-be, when I asked her at Christmas what her mom’s favorite color was, said light blue, and I went all over Stitches West looking for just the right shade of light blue I wanted in silk. I didn’t find it. (The bulkiness and bother of my scooter while trying to get into booths may have played a part there, dunno.) But I did find this baby alpaca/silk wisp of a yarn at Ellen’s Halfpint Farm, and it leaped out at me. I turned away and left it there, came back later, and it was still calling out, Me! ME!

And so here it is. For Conway’s daughter-in-law and Kim’s mom. As I wait for the doorbell to ring.

There was a bit of a buzz on the Knitlist about things to knit to donate for a silent auction, and someone said, make a felted bag; handbags are always in demand, and a one-of-a-kind one would be doubly so.

Ah, yes… (Cue to Back In The Day.)

It’s worn out and a bit flea bitten and I don’t know where it is at the moment, although I know it’s safely inside a plastic bag somewhere, but I have it. In its honor, here’s a photo of a handwoven wool-and-wood plant hanger I bought at a craft fair, the planks having been the roof of a circa-1800’s barn falling in on itself and recycled, that I fell in love with when I was 18. I used it for many years, and looking at it here, I think maybe I should bring it out of retirement. Anyway.

My husband was in his first post-grad-school job in New Hampshire. We had bought our first house at the very best interest rate then available in several years: 12.5% fixed. (It still makes me shudder. But we had neighbors with an ARM that hit 19%.) We had small babies and not a spare dime anywhere.

My folks, meantime, went to a craft fair in southern Virginia. Dad being an art dealer, they always love to see what people are creating, and they came across someone selling handbags from wool that I believe was handspun from their own sheep (right, Dad?) and handwoven, with a twisted-cord strap, done in the natural colors of the sheep. Dad bought Mom one; Mom had once tried handweaving herself when they were newlyweds and had made herself a couple of handbags, but had long since worn them out. Dad bought me one, too, in a slightly different pattern, probably thinking of my plant hanger and knowing I would like it; they sent it to me for my birthday.

I was thrilled. I was inordinately proud of the thing. Something made so much by hand, something nobody else in the world owned anything like, something that spoke to my upbringing in a household that valued the artist, and I took it with me quietly proudly to church and tried not to hold it up in the face of every person I encountered, demanding that they admire it too. (Joyce, do you remember this?)

The second week I had it, our Mormon bishop’s wife happened to walk into the chapel and one look at her stopped me dead in my tracks. I got her attention, church not having started yet, and barely able to speak the words for disbelief, asked her, “Where…did you get that?”

“Oh, isn’t this nice? My husband and I were on vacation and we were driving through southern Virginia, and we stumbled on this craft fair.”

She’d picked one in I think it was the same weaving pattern as mine, with a slight variation in the coloring; probably done on the same warp at the same time as mine, I’d guess. Out of all the people in all the places on all the planet, and all the choices at that craft fair, for that matter, what were the chances…

One could say God definitely has a sense of humor. And a tendency, like any good parent, to tell me not to get too full of myself. It still makes me laugh, all these years later.

Today is the day. There was one year where all four of my kids were teenagers. Adolescence is officially over here.

Twenty years ago, both my daughters needed surgery, and both the doctors involved wanted to schedule it for the day of or the day after my due date. Um, this doesn’t work. Picture a small child under anesthesia at the outclinic surgery center, the mom going into labor, and the dad stuck, torn between the two, not being able to just leave his child, but his wife needing to go to the hospital–especially since my labor time had been halved each successive pregnancy and this was my fifth pregnancy, the fourth to survive to fullterm.

What do you do?

So I did what I do. I prayed hard. God, You know, and I have not a clue.

I woke up in the middle of that night from a vivid dream of having just had the baby and looking at the clock. I knew in that moment what day John was going to be born and what time. He was not going to come on his due date and get to be a Feb 29th baby after all.

I called the girls’ doctors and was able to move one surgery up a week, the one that just couldn’t wait; the other, I moved back. I told them I was having the baby on the 7th (nobody asked; let them assume a planned C-section or inducement if they wanted, had they asked me I’d have told them straight out why I was saying that.)

And then at 1:05 pm on March 6th I started labor. Hey! According to past history, this one was supposed to last less than an hour! Okay, whatever. There was a concert at church that evening, and I went. Someone asked me how I was doing, and I cheerfully chirped, “I’m three minutes apart.”

“What are you DOING here!?” they demanded.

I sat down, the music began, the labor stopped, I enjoyed the concert, I stood up at the end, and boom, I was in labor again. I guess John wanted to take some time off and listen to that piano too before he really got to work.

He arrived forty-seven minutes after midnight, exactly on time and exactly as I’d dreamed it. The biopsy on his two-year-old sister’s cells had come back precancerous but they’d caught it in time and she was okay; her doctor told me he was glad we hadn’t waited.

And I’m glad John waited until we could get her squared away. But then, he’s always been a considerate and very kind child.

Happy birthday, big guy. And if any of my readers are in Texarkana, Texas at the moment, (he’ll probably spend some time in Louisiana and Mississippi later) and you see some of those Mormon missionaries go by in their dark suits and white shirts on their bikes, wave hi to Elder Hyde for me and tell him his momma loves him.

Amaryllises are exquisitely sensitive to where the light is strongest, and especially when they are in full bloom, they will reach within hours in that direction. Sometimes, where they lean to seems counterintuitive at first glance: I have one spot where they’ll go for the white wall rather than the window at certain times of the day.  They perceive what I cannot.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for the brown clumps of possibilities and promises, and look at these now (with more on the way up!) And thank you, most of all, for teaching me in my life to perceive what really matters and to reach for that which brings in the light.

I posted that and then took off to do the errand I had been going to do when he was getting out of his car and I was about to get in mine: I went to Nordstrom’s and bought him some chocolate truffles (shhh, don’t tell on me yet).

And came home to find out he’d gone to See’s and bought *me* some chocolate truffles and, somewhere else, some Valrhona cocoa for my morning mugs. They were sitting on the table waiting for me when I got home–he’d beaten me back.

I love that man.

(Edited to add up here: I used to tell my husband he didn’t need to do the big-bunch-of-roses-on-Valentine’s thing, I’m not so much a roses person anyway. His reaction was that he was being a good example to his sons of how they ought to treat their future wives.

So I said to him a couple of weeks ago, this will be the first Valentine’s with no kids around; you don’t have to do me the big roses thing.

So he brought me a small roses thing. Knowing I would instantly crack up. And I did.)

Ten minutes later, whom should I happen to cross paths with in the driveway..

With no skunks.

I gave him marshmallows this morning, saying we could toast them over an open fire, ie the gas stove. He laughed.

Twenty-seven years.  Have s’more.

My husband and I went camping in the Shenandoah Mountains in Virginia on our honeymoon. Borrowed his folks’ trailer for it; we did it civilized style, y’all. Even if his grandmother got his little sisters to sneak open the camper and throw rice inside the sheets beforehand.

We were toasting marshmallows over a campfire one night–I mean, isn’t that one of the reasons people go camping? The marshmallows? You’ve got to find just the right stick for it, you’ve got to get the fire burning down to just so. There’s an art to it. Besides, when you’re learning all about this new person you’re now married to “for time and all eternity,” and he’s 22 and you’re 21 (and a half–don’t forget that half) and you’re just starting your way into life in the first place, really, who knew that he had the patience to hold that stick there like that, waiting and holding his high, turning it slowly like a spit till the entire marshmallow was (for him) just the right shade of medium brown all over and an even temp throughout? But why would you want to do it that way anyway? Isn’t the glory of a campfired marshmallow having it burn to a satisfying crunch on the outside while totally melting on the inside? Heh. I could not only cook but also get to eat half a dozen of mine to the time of his one, easily.

It’s all about the marshmallows.

Yeah, the skunk agreed with that assessment. And also Richard’s way of cooking the things. It sauntered out of the woods, came up between us while we sat there frozen in place in disbelief–reached over, grabbed his perfect marshmallow off his stick from right over that fire , and sat back to savor every last slow bit of it. Taking its time. The way a marshmallow ought to be enjoyed.

With its tail caressing my new husband’s arm.

He had this look on his face, turned towards me, pleading with me with every molecule in his being, Please don’t laugh. PLEASE don’t laugh.

It was all I could do, but I managed not to laugh. Or move, either.

It finished up, it ambled off happily, then it called its friends and threw a party. Bunch of gate crashers. By the time the four skunks we could see were dividing up the rest of the bag on our picnic table, we were well out of range, following their antics with our flashlights.

I’m sure nobody sells skunk-shaped chocolates; I may have to get my sweetie a bag of Campfire marshmallows for Valentine’s. He’ll know why.