(Picture taken most of a shark ago.)

Phyl, an experienced diver, looked at this and started naming the striped orange fish.

I looked at her and declared, G_d makes His creations, I make mine.

Well alright then! as we both laughed.

Nina threw herself a birthday party and invited her friends. She told me to bring my knitting so she could work on hers. So I did.

I pulled mine out first, a white lace cowl in Malabrigo Rios at about the 2/3 mark, and then she showed off her much more elaborate project. Gorgeous. Another friend there was also a knitter. And one said with some regret that it had skipped a generation and she didn’t–but she took a picture of what I was working on to send to her (daughter I think? It was loud in there) because she so admired it.

Turns out she was the woman who had translated all those letters Nina had found in her mother’s closet that had been sent back and forth between relatives in concentration camps during the Holocaust.

Pattern repeat #12, done. (Checking the time) it really needs at least one more after that, all I can hope for is she doesn’t leave early. She and someone else got quite into a conversation–good, good, keep talking, guys.

Repeat #13 got done. That’s shorter than I normally  prefer but it was just long enough to look okay to my eyes. I cast off.

Sitting next to me looking the other way as they talked, she didn’t notice at all.

I retrieved my purse, where there’s always a yarn needle in the change pocket of the wallet. I sat down on the floor in the kitchen where I knew her view of me would be blocked and wove those ends in. I should have some folding scissors in there somewhere… No sign of them. I asked Nina. She got hers and snipped those two little umbilical cords to its beginnings off and the thing was born.

The interpreter of those letters was dumbfounded. And ecstatic.

I explained that its nubbly texture would disappear and the lace lie flat and stretch out the moment it touched water, it’s the nature of the thing.

Totally fine by her, and she put it on and hugged me.

She took it off again to stroke the softness of the Rios.

And at last she did leave a little early, like I’d had a feeling she might.

I was a little wistful that I didn’t have one to give to any of the other friends but they all said that for all those hours she’d put into doing that great gift for our Nina and her family she had earned every stitch of it. And she had.

Nina said as we were leaving, That was the right person for that. That was perfect.

My hubby helped overbuy on frozen foods on Thursday, I told C at church, and there was no room for the chocolate torte in there anymore. It got moved to the fridge, where there wasn’t really space for it either; it had to go. Could she take it off our hands?

She couldn’t believe it. She told me if I wanted to cut off a slice for myself/ourselves first she was totally fine with that. Were we sure??

Her kids are home for Christmas break and I knew that getting rid of the whole thing was not going to be a problem and that it’s one of her favorite desserts.

But what I said later as I dropped it off at her door was, My daughter’s in town. She’s allergic to dairy–but she remembers how much she once loved these.

Ah. We were not eating it in front of her. Got it.

She sent me off with some oranges she’d just picked from her tree in happy anticipation of sharing back. They are so good.

You know, I thought to myself yesterday while cleaning out the back of the fridge of stuff that had been ignored while I was sick from Thanksgiving until a week ago, The chances of someone showing up at the door go up astronomically when you wash something really stinky down the sink (turning on the disposal to try to be fully rid of it and debating tossing the washable Rubbermaid containers. Where’s the baking soda.)

Those were pretty bad. The stuff in them should never have been saved over the five days we were going to be out of town at the time, much less since then but were because I had been too flattened to do any kind of a deep dive in there after we got home.

It felt so good to get to it and have a clean fridge at long last–even if the kitchen didn’t quite smell like it yet. Yow.

I stepped out of the room a moment and didn’t hear that doorbell and wasn’t the one who answered.

I am told it was the new next-door neighbor, showing up at our door for the first time, bringing oranges from her tree and not just homemade chocolate chip cookies but ones with grated peel from that tree and man were they good.

There’s a pocket door between the front door and that sink but it’s almost never closed, so we’re talking a few steps apart. First impressions and all that.

I imagine it’ll be a story to laugh over with her and her husband for years to come.

It was a day when friends rallied ’round without any idea how much that meant and how vital their timing would be or even any idea that I needed them.

Debbie had spent some time on her sewing machine and these two beautiful pieces showed up in the mail with a lovely card.

Afton decided out of the blue to text me.

Other friends emailed to say hi.

We were going along having a perfectly normal day when suddenly Richard at work in the other room heard me gasp.

My cousin Kathryn, the oldest of the 29 grandchildren on that side and the cousinly matriarch to us all by her warmth and love and hospitality, died in post-op Christmas day after lung surgery. I was stunned.

Having the later afternoon off, Richard told me that I’d been so wanting to go to Andy’s Orchard before they close at the end of the year: their holiday stuffed figs have long been a favorite. But being sick and then not being sure I was up to doing that drive had kept me away.

Who cares about traffic. Let’s go, he offered.

And so we did.

There was an atmospheric river coming in and the skyscapes were glorious as we came around each bend in the road. It looked as if the ocean had jumped the coastal range to produce tides and lakes and ponds of clouds surrounding the road but clear sailing down the freeway itself.

We got the slab apricots that are so good, fresh persimmons, daisy mandarins (a new variety to me; my own trees aren’t ripe yet), a jar of honey. Sour cherry syrup to whip into some cream and add to almond muffins, or some such to come.

But the apricot- and honey-stuffed figs were sold out. They did have some small plain dried figs. I bought a box as my consolation prize.

The lady who works there carried my stuff to the car, having no way to know how much my back appreciated that, and gave me a fond farewell with a “See you next year!”

The car needed gas.

Richard did a search for a Costco gas station between there and home and somehow, the route that put us on had us turning…south. Ten miles? We live north of there. I was thinking, Stupid Waze tricks. Richard’s response was, Do you want to be on an adventure? Or not?

That suddenly sounded like a really good antidote to the day–more time together meandering through rolling hills greening up from the previous rain–even if it was going to put us in the middle of a big southbound traffic jam for awhile that we would otherwise have dodged. Sure! Why not.

The not-till-midnight rain for our town started up intermittently down there. We were not planning on it nor on it turning cold that soon. It was okay. We were on an adventure.

Filled the car. As long as we were right there, we went into the Costco–and the one thing we were looking for was cheaper than at our own Costco. Lower rent in farm country, surely, and we had insulated bags in the car, so that worked out great.

Waze warned, Do not take 101 through San Jose at rush hour–go around.

Richard marveled, It never tells me to take 85! It’s longer!

We’re on an adventure, I reminded him. It was a prettier route, too. The undeveloped hills to the west–and the skies had spread out to layers of blueness towards lightness above. Paintbrushed.

And so we ran away from home and came back again and started in again on setting it in order for Michelle’s arrival tomorrow.

And so the living continues on.

Beautiful music and readings straight from Luke. More music. Young children lighting each other’s candles (fully and safely electronic, pretend you don’t see them pushing their on buttons.) A light lunch afterwards with time to visit.

A chance to thank Monica and her family in person for those homemade cookies.

Sharing a new-today picture of our son’s kids with those who’d been part of his own village when he was growing up. The oldest is clearly doing what his daddy did at that age: growing half an inch a month, so much so that we’d done a double take, having seen him just three months ago and, wow. You look at the feet of the next oldest where the camera catches him in the act of standing halfway to tiptoe, trying to keep up. Kids. They’re just like all the kids who ever came before them. Forever adorable, as I’m sure we at our best are even now to G_d.

The young parents I gave finger puppets to. Getting to meet the parents of one of them, visiting from far away.

Love and instant community whether we know each other or not.

Every day should aspire to be like today.

The doorbell rang this afternoon.

Scott and his two daughters told me their mom had baked these cookies for us. Merry Christmas!

There were so many and so different. Each was a work of art. If his wife isn’t a professional baker, she certainly could be. Richard and I later cut a few in half so we both could explore among the variations.

My astonishment and stunned delight made their day while they were totally making mine. I had been sick and they had decided to do something about it to help me feel better.

Hours later, I suddenly wondered if their old KitchenAid still worked?

Not that the one has anything to do with the other, but–I’d long forgotten that about twenty years ago, I bought a new beater for my mixer at an outlet store, only to find it didn’t fit my machine. A rookie mistake, but not worth the two-hour round trip to return it. Maybe the next time I go to Gilroy?

I never did. It sat in its little white box in my house taking up space till not long after they moved in half a dozen years later.

Monica, barely knowing anyone yet, offered a baking demo at church. She was good!

And my beater that fit her Kitchenaid perfectly found where it had been waiting to go. A good baker could always use extras for making multiple batches in a row.

1.82″ of rain, way more than expected, while a tornado flipped cars up in the mountains. San Francisco had its first-ever tornado warning but Scotts Valley took the hit. (No one was killed.)

It left me musing over the words of a friend some years ago who’d grown up here and had moved over by the coast. He’d never understood why people from the East Coast said they missed ‘real weather.’ What’s so great about shoveling snow in the cold or hurricanes or storms that take out the power or all of that.

But he told me he got it now: it meant being closer to nature. We all have an innate need to connect to the natural world and weather brings it right up close and personal and humbles us.

I think (and I’m sure the guy would agree) that we can do just fine without the sky throwing a temper tantrum with heavy vehicles, but I quibble.

Meanwhile, down here, most of the rain happened at night and my hero made a grocery run this evening with nothing barring his way nor slowing him down, just a normal, calm, boring northern Californian day.

With the first sprouts of winter’s new green everywhere.

What I need, I thought but did not say, is some classic get-better chicken noodle soup.

The doorbell rang before dark and there on our doorstep was our friend Phyl. I stood nowhere near but managed to at least wave hello and say thank you from the family room as she handed salad, bread, a dessert–and a great big thing of fresh-veggie chicken noodle soup to Richard.

Hold on, one more thing, and she ran back to her car.

A birthday present for me to wait to open.

The talk was amazing. Being able to hear it and read the captions when I knew they normally don’t have that set up there was a vivid example of exactly the things he was saying.

That the things that matter in this life are our relationships. The choices we make. And how we treat others.

And he talked about plants. How watering them allows the roots to access the minerals in the soil and support all that shows above ground; the water offers more than just water, it makes everything the plant needs down there accessible.

While I remembered neurologist Dr. Oliver Sacks’ observation that if you kneel in the dirt with a dementia patient, no matter how far gone their brain is, and hand them a little seedling, they will always, always plant it roots-side down. Never roots up leaves down. It is built into our very beings to know how plants grow.

It is built into our very souls to want to love and be loved.

Our church building is in the middle of its annual five-day creche exhibit, with the whole place turned into a temporary museum, every piece on loan. The people who run it are gifted designers and creatives and the place is always gorgeous. There are concerts every night, a hands-on children’s area, and everything is a gift to the community. They wouldn’t accept payment if you tried. If you’re at all local, I highly recommend a visit.

Which means that for actual church services we double up with another ward in another building.

A friend offered to carpool. I said I’d love to but we’re sick. She said just so you know there’s no Zoom option there.

And then there was a ward email from another friend, proud of his identical twin who was going to be a speaker Sunday, not to miss it!

Oh, I wouldn’t for anything… But there’s no way I’m knowingly exposing anybody else to this.

I told him my dilemma yesterday. He got back to me today. Someone in the background, he didn’t say how much of it was him or his brother or who, managed to work things out so that yes, he then announced to the whole ward, there will indeed be Zoom available for those who are ill or otherwise in need of it.

I cannot begin to tell you how wonderful a Christmas gift it felt to be looked out for and included. Someone chose to go out of their way to do the inconvenient thing and set things up differently for that day so that we wouldn’t have to miss it.

6.7, came the alerts on my phone, with a warning to get away from the coast. Tsunami alert! The quake was later upgraded to a 7, the tsunami alert canceled an hour later, and we are not on the coast and I’ve been told the Bay is not likely to do tsunamis. Hopefully.

My friend Kevin of the late Purlescence grew up in Humboldt County and once told me of eating in a diner there as a young man (I’m thinking around 1990) and some old-timers striking up a conversation with him.

I’m guessing they’d heard on that day in 1964 that there had been not only an earthquake in Alaska but the second largest ever recorded. My son-in-law, who grew up in Anchorage, described someone walking into a bank that held the guy’s mortgage, flipping them his house keys and saying, You own it now. Try to find it.

Now there was an underwater mortgage.

Back at the diner on the bluff, they were scanning the horizon and looking at the people on the beach down below. Suddenly they bolted and drove down there, and I’m picturing it as steep, windy, and narrow.

Tsunami coming! Get in, get in, get out of here! NOW!

The water was coming in as they drove back up that hill. They’d saved so many lives. And now, all those years later, they still scanned that horizon from their favorite diner on that bluff; you never know.

Wishing everybody a very Happy Thanksgiving.

We saw the truck a few days ago: not the classic moving van, but bigger than, say, an Amazon truck, so who knows if it was a washing machine or a household.

Their cars arrived and the lights came on. Hey.

You don’t get in someone’s way on moving day. Or the day after, or after, but, but… A few minutes the Saturday after that might do?

The husband opened the door. I was certainly not expecting blond, and I don’t know what he was expecting but it clearly wasn’t a white-haired woman holding out a bag, but we got past that quickly.

I’d misheard in that brief moment meeting his wife in the dark on the sidewalk last month: the baby is actually two now, and he is adorable. There is no smile that melts a person like a toddler’s who is running towards you.

I told the little guy’s mom that if she’d prefer a shawl I had two more skeins and the dye lot was almostalmostalmost a total match to the baby blanket.

The husband grew up about 150 miles from where we did.

And she’s a knitter! Oh my heart. We DID get the most perfect neighbors!

She was tired. She is maybe three by now. She was on the floor, arms wide, making herself as big as she could. The dinner part of the potluck last night was over and her daddy had her baby brother in his stroller quiet and content, while he sat at a little round table with a small group away from most of the crowd getting some adult in-person time.

Since she was lying there quietly and in view he wasn’t paying the least attention to her, or as far as she was concerned, and I could see her watching him with his face turned half away and her wheels turning and the meltdown that was just about to start. If she was going to be tired enough to lie down it was going to be in her own bed with her own nighttime rituals and this would not do!

I had a new baby and a two year old three times in a row. I remember.

I apologized to her mom this afternoon, saying, I broke my own rule. I always give to the parents, not the child, but I handed that tiger directly to her.

She laughed and said it was great and thank you and that they had several of those finger puppets by now.

Their little girl had LEAPED up in excitement holding it high, running to show it to her daddy.

I love how easily and instantly little kids can cheer up. She helped me be a bit of a one too last night.