Jacqui loved the silk. Jacqui loved the moss green cashmere. (Jacqui was wearing ruffles down the front and so clearly she’ll like the one styled like that as well as the straight rectangle.)

I had decided already that I would offer her her choice and if she showed any sign of loving them both she would get them both because both were made for her anyway. I told her I’d guessed on colors from their engagement pictures.

She loved them. She was surprised when I said there you go. The best part was not only was she thrilled to own them, she was thrilled I’d made them for her.

My nephew picked himself a very lovely bride and I am so very happy for them.

We landed at Salt Lake and drove and drove. Past the Evanston (Wyoming) a hundred miles sign and to the house near where Richard’s mom’s family was from.

Old farm country was clearly rapidly turning into nice homes. I wondered how many were for vacations only. Winter is not gentle above Salt Lake.

I asked my sister-in-law in the kitchen of her new house if there were a lot of people in her neighborhood who lived there year-round vs the snowbirds.

She mentioned in particular that the neighbors straight up the hill were here all the time–and that they used to live in California.

Then she mentioned their names. I was stunned.

I’m sure the story’s on the blog somewhere, but. We had old friends back in New Hampshire who, when layoffs looked imminent there and we had already moved to California, Richard helped V, the dad, land a job with him, and so, they followed us out there.

A few years later, DEC disappeared and the jobs moved on. We had gotten together a few times but not in probably ten years when V and his wife called one day and invited us over–but gave us their new address. They had moved.

It sounded really really familiar.

We pulled in that driveway, knocked on the door, and when V opened it Richard asked, So does it still have the projection room to the left at the end of the hall?

Wait, *what*? He was stunned. How did YOU know?!

It had been the Z’s house. We knew them a little and their kids a lot, who used to entertain in their folks’ big place. The parents had moved to somewhere that sounded like the middle of nowhere in Utah in their retirement; why, we didn’t know. Why age where the weather is heavy and must be lifted and moved out of the way for months every year?

Their new house looked very much like their old one: had you asked me whose house it looked like I would immediately have told you the Z’s. It’s in a beautiful part of the world, very green with a river running nearby; I saw red-winged blackbirds, magpies, swifts, and someone had built a tall wooden pole with a platform next to the road on our way up into the neighborhood and it had clearly become a raptor’s nest. Someone there loves the birds.

As does my sister-in-law.

And now I know the Z’s have good neighbors again.

As the Eagles sang, Thought by now, we’d realize, there ain’t no way to Hyde yer Ryan, aye.

Ie, the kid can’t get off work and he’s not going to his cousin’s wedding with us.

Tomatoes. Water. Yes. He can manage that for me. (Gee, Alison, ya think?)

Yarn, yarn, decisions, decisions. Patterns? Needles?

(Ed. to add, I typed that, looked around, dithered, did my treadmill time, and finally said a prayer: who? With what? And suddenly I knew, absolutely, I knew. It’s all packed now and ready for me to get to it.)

I did not get to see Holly.

I did not make it to Purlescence nor did I get to see the Cascade folks. I’ll send them the photo of Parker’s sweater from the gift of their yarn from the last time.

I did get to drive Gail to one of the two things she’d wanted to do.

And then I waited for a friend who was supposed to stop by briefly.

And she didn’t and she didn’t and she didn’t answer her messages either, but I figured it was just missed signals.

She’s my age. Her brother had died today. No not in Colorado.

And then I managed to get a hold of my own brother. Yes in Colorado. Who did not, as it happens, take his children to the premier at that theater that he goes past, he told me, “all the time. ALL. THE. TIME.”

After that it felt like a good day to sit tight and be glad for my family members right here right now for every moment I have with them.

(Ed. to add Saturday morning: after I posted this last night, I saw an article wherein a young woman recounted that she’d come face to face with the gunman and was suddenly struck by the utterly ridiculous thought of, I can’t die wearing a Twilight t-shirt! And the guy had moved on.

It was funny, it was absurd, it was comic relief, and it was life.

Holly was not only in the States but San Francisco today. Hey!

And so she drove down and we spent the day sitting, knitting, and chatting along with Michelle–who does not quite yet see why what we love is so enticing, not just for us but for her. But the yarn, it calls. She knows what sweater she wants. She knows what fibers she does and does not want it to be. She knows I will not knit argyle. Holly (thank you Holly!) told her how much she was going to love making it herself. (I once did not only argyle, but argyle Kaffe Fassett style. In cotton. Eighty-one, count’em, 81 strands of laceweight cotton *per row* some rows. It was nuts and it never quite got finished.)

And so…

Richard got home and joined us. Dinner was eaten. Holly and I went off to Purlescence.

I had cast on shortly after she’d gotten here; I was a third of the way through my 440 yards by the time she left and she was close to done with her own. It is amazing how much you can get finished when there’s an interesting reason to keep the fingers going while you listen–the best part of course being the time together. Thank you, Holly! And Michelle for joining us.

Meantime, for anybody local: Cascade‘s reps are coming to Purlescence tomorrow, 5-8 pm. There will be new yarns to see. Holly and I are hoping to go, if her schedule works out that way.

A silk shawlette got finished and blocked around noon and it’s dry already. Hoping the bride-to-be I haven’t met yet will like it–I’m about to dive into another, maybe a straight rectangle, just to be sure.

The new defroster part came today and between the three of us we got the job done. Richard was pleased a minute or two later, telling me he could hear the ice on those coils already melting–that means we shouldn’t have to take the freezer wall apart again. Othankyouthankyouthankyou.

And. Esperanza, one of the first of the falcons ever to have fledged from San Jose City Hall, made a nest near the end of the Bay Bridge. Three eggs didn’t hatch, but one, very late in the season, did and got banded today. The video is here, above the water, with gorgeous shots of Espie guarding her little one. Enjoy.

Re the sick person at Purlescence yesterday: I totally understand. Her young daughter was sick the week before, then she caught it; it got so isolating and so old and she was keenly in need of adult facetime mixed with the positive vibes of creativity. So she came.

I get that. Believe me. When my oldest was five, she caught chicken pox, the last day of kindergarten after it had gone around and around the classroom, missing her–till it didn’t.

She’d had it at three months, so I thought she was immune, but no, if you’re under six months old the first time, you can get it again, often much harder the second time. (Yeah, and the youngest later did the same thing.)

At the very end of her being contagious…her brother caught it. At the very end of his, the next kid caught it. And likewise the next, stretching out our period of isolation from the last day of class to a few days before school started up again in September. The entire summer with four kids six and under at home only. No park time. No friends over. No vacations. No day trips. Not even so much as a stop at the grocery store together.

Then the vaccine came out–young families now are so lucky.

An entire summer of at least one kid sick nonstop and our not being allowed in public to spread the contagion. I was about ready to go out of my screaming mind.

So I knew.

But at the same time, the young mom who was there last night has not lived through and could never have known (see Jan 09 posts especially) what I’d gone through since those days, I mean, how many people have immune systems that attack their own organs at the slightest germ?

She came out for a moment to her car for something and saw Anne and me off by my car talking and called over to us, glad to see us. Oh there you are!

Suddenly I saw why it was a wonderful thing that there had been an unusually large number of cars and I’d had to park several shopfronts away: let’s see, a cough goes 20 feet–yeah. I’m safe here.

Anne called over, She doesn’t have an immune system (which was as good a shorthand as any.) The woman was contrite.

Which was all I needed. Anne told her, Let Purlescence know next time so they can call Alison.

Which I thought an uncommonly gracious thing to say. No blaming, no pouting, just a learning experience with no harm done (I fervently hope as I type that that everybody else that was there stays healthy). We all get to be young once. This is how we grow in our understanding of one another.

Meantime, after months and months of searching and I know how lucky we are to be able to say this and how many others so much wish for the day themselves. I want to shout it from the rooftops after all the angst and all the hoops and the crucial reference who flaked and didn’t answer their messages for the longest time: MICHELLE GOT THE JOB TODAY!!!

(Four for four on the sideways-Iphone goof–sorry about that.)

The doorbell rang and I put the project down mid-double decrease, the tip of the needle still in the stitch, hoping briefly the silk wouldn’t jump. Michelle and I got to the door together and opened it, *so* not expecting what we saw that it took us a moment to realize it really was who it was.

He used to be married into our family. He lives on the other coast, where he teaches at a small college.

We have a longtime mutual friend who lives here. She and he were both there, holding out large plastic tubs to us.

We had put some large tubs out for the recycler to pick up today, doubling our doubletake: wait, what?

The mutual friend’s husband left her, emotionally, a long time ago, recently, officially. And so she, too, is divorced.

He had flown out to help her in her move. Her house should get a good price, but still it’s so much work at such a difficult time. There were some reminders of her ex she wanted out and Goodwill seemed just too meager; she wanted them to go to someone who would use them and appreciate what they were, but who?

Then, ALISON! Surely, she thought, my network of fiber artists could…

Handwoven. Handspun. Handknit. From her and her ex’s big trip to Nepal, much of it still in the packaging. More than pictured here. Pretty, thin wrap skirts that would make a great beach half-coverup. Woven vests. More sweaters. The wools are scratchy, as I expect from that part of the world, but hey.

Wow. And yes, I could definitely find appreciative homes for these, starting right here–there were two of those  cotton sun jackets and the small one fits me.

I had not seen him since his own divorce.  Richard and I had asked no questions, just tried our best to be supportive. Caring is not a matter of legal decrees–we love him, period. We had not known if he had known that.

So when it finally got through my thick skull who that somehow actually was on my front porch, I threw my arms around him and he, me.  (I hugged her, too.) And did again when they were leaving. We held each other in our eyes and knew: the caring was still there, would always be there. I was so glad they’d taken the chance I would be home.

I do not know how or when or if I might ever see him again. But the message was received and the message was mutual.  It was such a comfort.

(Ed. to add, I’ll be at Purlescence’s Knit Night tomorrow. Just sayin’.)

Parker didn’t want to try on his new vest and it was warm enough Saturday that I didn’t blame him.

So I did. Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the one it fits best of all?

Meantime, the fridge is back to needing a bowl of ice. And maybe two. Or ten. This time, we have to figure out which part needs replacing.

Let me work on this new silk project while I ignore it…

We bought a cardboard playhouse awhile ago and it stayed in the box, waiting for its day.

Like the refrigerator box my dad carved into a windowed playhouse eons ago, remembered forever, it was a total hit. Parker and his three cousins loved it. (Their moms and other grandmother were here for their cousin’s wedding.)

He called me Gramma. He scrolled through pictures of himself with various family members on his grampa’s lap, taking particular interest in his Great-Grampa Hyde, whom he’d last seen at Christmas around his birthday.

He let me snuggle him to sleep.

Then this morning, again, I got blown kisses goodbye from his carseat.

I cannot wait to see them all again. Oh, and, yes, they were checking luggage so I got to send them off with homemade jam.

We got home about 10:30 pm. I had a choice between writing a post and making a batch of jam to give to Kim and her mom and sister and her family before they go on their way home; Kim said they hope to stop by in the morning.

Family wins.

Pluot raspberry peach. Upside down now, cooling. I had run the jars through the dishwasher before we’d left, just in case.

Parker pictures tomorrow.

No time for a Costco run tomorrow…

A teenager with his parents there tonight pleaded with me to let him help me. I told him it would make my day so much easier if he got that box of milk (2 gallons, 15 pounds) off the bottom of the cart where the clerk had put it and back on up into the thing.

He was glad to be able to do something. His mom was glad I let him. Good people.

Then as I got to my car, having peeled off in a different direction from them, it hit me by surprise that I was tired–who knew. I wished it were easier with this whole funky balance/holding a cane/maneuvering the groceries thing. The moment of regret at the guy who smashed my car 12 years ago snuck up and pounced on me ever so briefly as I swatted the thought away: shut up. It is what it is.

A middle-aged man walking by just then took a step right back and asked, Can I help you get that in there for you?

I was so not expecting that. And so he did. I thanked him profusely and wished I could do something back–and then noticed he was walking with a definite spring in his step now as he waved goodbye. A good man.

And so a chocolate hazelnut torte is in the oven right now just because I wished I could offer them each a piece, whoever they all were.

Our daughter-in-law Kim and her Mom and Parker are in town for Kim’s cousin’s wedding. They stopped by late this afternoon between airport and rehearsal dinner and we got a short visit before they had to run, glad for what time we could have. I confess no pictures yet: I didn’t want a camera between us, I wanted simply to be us.

Parker is even cuter. Even very tired, he is a total charmer. Kim is a sweetheart. Her mother shows where they get their good-natured selves from. We are all so blessed.

And tomorrow we get to see more of them and I can’t wait. Chocolate hazelnut torte was, again, the best food celebration I could think of.  (I know, I know, they have a whole wedding, foodwise. I’ll take whatever excuse I can get. I just plain wanted to make one.)

Parker, 18 months+, blew me a kiss goodbye from his carseat on their way out as his mom and grandma exclaimed in delight with me. The Granny who lives close to him had called me a Granny too. Worked for him.

I was sorting through old papers and suddenly knew why I’d kept this sixth grade report card.

Nooo!

Yes, I grinned. ‘A true fibre artist,’ says so right there!

Not missing a chance at a good tease, her cousin told her at the dinner table, Well, you do have a fiber-artist mother, you do come by it naturally.

And her turtle had detailed turtliness. What knitter doesn’t love a good turtle?  Sorry, kiddo, it’s in your genes.

You don’t have to knit yet. I can wait.

Fire up the works! Happy Fourth of July!

The whole thing took less than an hour.

Richard was being too busy.

You need to go in the kitchen and (I made a dramatic gesture) say Wow, those are gorgeous!

He looked at me the way long-married people do, okay, then, got up, walked in the kitchen, made an exaggeration of my drama moment and pronounced, Wow. Those are gorgeous!

And then we both cracked up. Because hey, we both knew they really are.

Note: DebbieR gave me her favorite recipe; I had never thought of putting plum and raspberries together before. Cool! I was hoping for a little less sugar, though, and found this. Skipped the spices. Debated adding pectin. Didn’t. Should have, maybe half a packet. (Nobody’s going to mind, though.)

The flip side of yesterday’s story. My great-grandfather had ten daughters and no sons who made it past childhood to carry on his name.

My freshman year of college, my roommate was dating a guy I really didn’t care for.

I was, for the first time in my life, within accessible distance of the annual reunion of that great-grandfather’s descendents, held around his November birthday.  He was born in 1856. Gram, born in 1899, was his last surviving child and I wanted to meet all these people I’d heard about all my life and see the cousins I knew, too.

I don’t remember how I got a ride an hour north; I just remember walking into the warm light of the building from the cold dark outside, and, two steps right there behind me, the door opening up again…

That “We’re all each others’ brothers and sisters” line? I learned to start reminding myself that on that night. Kay’s boyfriend and I stared a moment and then said to each other in unison, “You’re not a Grant, are you?”