How have I never heard of this?!

Okay, back up, back up. We went to a potluck with friends tonight and the hosts had visited Italy during April, and after we were done eating Sue showed us what they’d seen. Florence. Rome.

The Pope speaking.

Randomly running into a fellow Mormon in the crowd whose parents they knew in Germany!

There was a notice that due to the Exploding Cart, the buses would not be running on this date.

Yeah, she hadn’t known what that was either. She showed us a bit of it in video.

Wikipedia gives the history, and, um, the Crusades and stealing flints from a church did not help make those soldiers more righteous and nine hundred years of celebration with the spoils of war (they use them to start all this.)  But whatever.

Five hundred years ago some rich guy discovered fireworks. So they upgraded.

A mechanical dove shoots across the inside of the cathedral along a cable (about 4:20), lights The Cart, which looks a bit like someone saw a drawing of a Japanese tea house and decided that a metal version of that was just the thing, and shoots back into the cathedral while fireworks start to go off out there. The crowd is crazy-close but doesn’t try to come closer. There’s video here from last month that I haven’t found my friends’ faces in yet but they were there.

My favorite (10:21) is the deelie-bopper thingy on the top of this strange contraption twirling in glee.

Then shooting out miniature roll-down flags for the grand finale. Who knew.

They decided to do something a little different for today: so they asked ten people to give two-minute talks on Mother’s Day.

I was second to last. I didn’t mention all the national parks, I didn’t reference Simon and Garfunkel’s “We’ve all gone to look for America,” I kept it short.

I said, When I was ten my family drove from Maryland to Wisconsin, where we rode a boat up the Wisconsin lakes, to the Peace Bridge, across western Canada, then down the West Coast, to Texas, into Juarez, Mexico, and home. Six kids and a camping trailer. Two months on the road. Mom spent it knitting my sister a sweater and I wanted one like that and I would study her hands. She taught me how to knit on that trip.

I said that my brother as an adult had told Mom he didn’t think he could ever have the patience she had to raise a future family like that.

Mom answered in astonishment, How do you think I learned it?!

I said, If you wanted any help, if you needed something done, if you needed a kind word, my mom was–is, at 95–the one to do it. I want to be like my mom when I grow up.

A friend told me afterwards that the two little girls sitting behind her, sisters, had protested in unison out loud in outrage: “But she IS a grownup!”

Like, She KNOWS that, doesn’t she?!!!

66/34 cashmere/cotton. I finished it this morning. The weather is going to be cool through Friday, then start being hot–I wanted her to have it now.

And so I broke my own rule: I did not block and dry it. I figured those were both limp fibers and the pattern wasn’t curling up like it would in wool. Good enough to go.

This was for a friend who looks out for everybody. When Richard was in the hospital for nine days, she brought me a half gallon of homemade soup to eat when I got home from the hospital for the night not wanting to do anything but just sheer survival.

She told me not to worry about bringing that giant Ball jar back.

Today she was talking to her cousin, who is going through a rough patch, and I slipped a small handled bag next to her trying not to interrupt; I got a small nod of acknowledgment and got out of the way.

Richard had watched me with bemusement as I’d pulled a sheet of blank printer paper into a circle, put the ends of it into that jar, stuffed the cowl in the center, and pushed them both on in there. I adjusted the paper so there was no gap to let one see what was inside it and with the lid on top, there you go.

I didn’t have to be there when she pulled the jar out of the small bag to put it away. When she went What? over the paper. When she opened the lid. I got everything I needed just out of anticipating it all and yes when she did she immediately called, deafness or no deafness on my part, to exclaim over it to me.

I told her her husband had told me her favorite color.

And now she needs to tell me her cousin’s.

Immediately after getting home from the hospital yesterday I looked at my phone to see if there were any messages.

There was one.

Since the baby was supposed to be delivered today, we had tentatively planned between my friend who wanted an Anya apricot seedling and the local Mormon missionaries who’d offered to help move the thing for them to pick it up Friday–or else next Monday or Tuesday as things worked out and plant it for her. We hadn’t asked; they’d offered, because lifting that heavy pot with a tree on its third year was beyond us and someone else had clued them in.

They are here to serve, they said, so, cool, let’s go!

So here I was looking at my phone at 4:45 and they’d asked if they could be there at 5:00 and I sent a quick message to the friend who thankfully was paying attention to her phone and got immediately back to me and then there they were.

That tree has grown a lot and a lot sideways these past two months. It took careful maneuvering with the dolly to get it through our gate door without damaging anything. They lifted it in and then strapped it down carefully: it was not going to budge an inch in the back of that pickup they’d arranged for.

The friend is ecstatic.

My backyard feels odd with it gone, but a very happy odd because it is where it was meant to be. My old and dear friend gets to see it flourish in its new digs. We get to race to see whose tree fruits first.

It had been growing robustly and then somehow this past week it didn’t seem to be. I took a closer look.

Then I asked a friend at church and the instant seriousness on her face as she named it made it clear you do not mess with this.

But I thought only pears and apples get fireblight?

Peaches can, too.

I looked it up: those heavy winds we’ve been having can cause small points of damage where the bacteria can get in, and the three days of rain to finish the job, yes, my two-month-old Kit Donnell tree had it.

I put on trashable clothes this morning and followed her instructions.

Hair pulled back out of the way. A small jam jar with about a half cup of straight bleach in it. Heavy latex gloves.

I went out there and took pictures to compare against later. I bleached my pruning shears, took a single cut, walked it straight to the trash can around the house, came back, bleached the shears again, cut, walk over there, do not touch any parts of the tree except to take them away.

It surprised me that it took about twenty-five minutes. I’d thought there were two spots affected. I found six that definitely were; some leaves were a little lighter colored but well away from any blackening–I wasn’t sure and put them on a watch-and-see list. I didn’t quite want to know because I really didn’t want to lose a whole major branch or two. I’m hoping I don’t regret that.

I really, really want it to thrive and live.

When Richard was coming out of the hospital in February, a friend in his eighties had just gone in and as we waited for the obligatory wheelchair attendant at checkout, we debated asking them to push us briefly to George’s room–but didn’t because we knew it wasn’t a fair thing to ask them to add to their schedule while other patients waited.

That was the right thing to do, but I will always be a little wistful over it.

He never recovered from his pulmonary embolism. I asked if I could visit. Was he lucid?

Karen gently let me know it was time for the innermost ring to be the ones present.

She and their children, who came in from all over, kept him company nonstop all these weeks. They assumed George could hear them but past that they really couldn’t say for sure. Hospice got set up at home. They had a big family, there were lots of grandchildren, and every one of them got a chance to tell him they loved him. I can just picture their son who plays in a blues band strumming away softly at his dad’s bedside and his dad wanting to pick up his guitar to play along.

She knew she was going to be a widow.

That doesn’t make it any easier.

It was good to see people hugging her again and again and again and again and again at church after they announced his passing. Everybody wanted to be there for her every second.

Just like she had been for him.

After ten years of trying there was some serious celebrating to do. Saturday morning was the baby shower. Lots of friends, lots of good food, lots of baby gifts.

I found myself sitting next to a woman who introduced herself as the other grandma and she was delighted when I said, You’re S.’s mom!

Yes!

I knew that meant she had flown in for this. This is to be her first grandchild. So excited.

The friend handing the mother-to-be the presents picked mine up almost at the end.

G. opened the card and read who it was from and instantly realized why the wrapping paper was the size and squishiness it was. Her eyes went huge and straight over to mine, as if to ask, Is it?! Is it!?! while absolutely bursting with love.

My eyes loved her right back and I gave her a little nod. Yes!

Her mom’s a knitter. Her sister’s a knitter. She knows.

She leaped to her feet with the Rios baby blanket held nose to knees, wanting everyone to be as thrilled as she was. “It’s so soft!”

Fillory Yarns in San Jose had held a sale-by-mail during Covid lockdown. I knew that yarn would be *the* yarn for–something, that it would tell me what, when. And it did. It instantly did when my friend told me her daughter was expecting and that it was a girl. Even for Rios it was particularly soft. And washable. And a color she wears a lot. That yarn.

I said to the other grandma, I’ve known G. since she was born. When she was three she told us she was going to grow up and marry our John, six months older, and I wanted to hold her to it, but, no (said with a grin.)

Given that her son is the one who did marry her, it took her a split second and then she laughed and laughed at how we were rivals in mother-in-lawing and she’d won.

She was so grateful over that baby blanket.

It and the shower were a message that in this town where she didn’t know anyone except immediate family, she belongs, too.

Great times.

I decided to start a ninth repeat because why not. So the baby blanket isn’t done, but the progress picture is stalled out in the ether. 179 stitches on size 5s and past 40″ square unblocked in 18 days.

Meantime, the next mom-to-be is getting her finished baby afghan on Saturday and I can’t wait.

I have a growing collection of small things knitted during Zoom meetings.

It was about 70 degrees yesterday evening but the sun was nearly gone and the cold comes on fast around here as the night fog rolls in, so when we headed out the door I had on a a vest and a cowl that were maybe just a bit much. But it seemed the right thing to do.

There was a teenage girl there. Her family has moved a lot and it’s got to be hard.

She complimented my cowl and said the color was so pretty. I took it off and handed it to her and she exclaimed over how soft it was. And over the color again.

Did you knit this?

I did! I told her I’d been trying to figure out the right color for her and that if she liked that one it was hers.

NO! she exclaimed in disbelief while clearly hoping I meant it.

And that’s why I had needed to double up on that extra bit of warmth. The vest did me just fine for the rest of the evening.

Her cousin was visiting her and her favorite color is blue.

Every teen needs someone outside of their family who thinks the world of them just because they are.

I can do something about that.

Friends dropped by this afternoon and surprised us with roses to wish us a happy Easter. Made me wish all the more that I’d remembered in my quick note last night to wish one for all of you who celebrate, and I hope all who do–and who don’t–had a wonderful day today.

There was a walk around the church tonight with each of us holding a mini light. There were readings at intervals along our Road to Emmaus and a gathering together on chairs set out on the lawn for the final triumphant reading of our risen Lord.

There were more people than chairs, though, and I saw a couple I didn’t recognize standing a little behind us so I motioned them to come sit by us where there was room.

Turns out they’re in the middle of moving here and are house hunting.

When she said where they were moving from, I asked if they knew Grant and Colleen?

Absolutely! Love them!

He’s my cousin.

She couldn’t wait to tell him she’d met us. And then she told us her husband was the brother of…

Camille?! I love her!

So now I get to hope they find something right around here where they have instant friends.

The ones who dropped the roses by?

The husband said tonight, I didn’t know you lived there! We almost bought the house next door to you when we moved out here.

I said to Richard on the way home, and he thoroughly agreed, That would have been so cool. But then we would never have met the family that did.

A quick question, prompted by a conversation where two of us mentioned using a spatula to lift assembled puzzle pieces over the established edge and into the center once you know where they go and a third person marveling that she’d never heard nor thought of doing that and she could not fathom how she had not.

So.

Do you ever spatula your pieces?

I recounted the bit to Richard, who thinks my puzzle techniques are sacrilege, and he said with a suppressed guffaw betraying his mock indignation, *I* do it right!

How often, when you ask a man what his wife’s favorite color is, can he tell you right away without squirming because he feels like he should be able to tell you but he suddenly realizes he has no idea.

But he did know, with certainty. Cool. I went stash diving and–oh, yes, that one exactly.

So. Doctor’s waiting room for a routine check. I pulled out the just-begun carry-around project and marveled at how finely spun baby alpaca yarn can be as jumpy on the needles as a happy toddler in an ice cream shop, especially old stash from when some mills were new at working with the stuff. But it makes such a soft fabric. (Why did I put needles that big in the bag? Stuck with them now.)

A woman was checking in and as she walked past me, she stopped and introduced herself as a fellow knitter.

Cool! Loved her scarf! I asked her about how she’d gotten started.

Her mom and grandmother were knitters; How about you?

I told her my family had traveled coast to coast and back when I was a kid and my mom had taught me how to knit to keep me from killing my little sister in the back seat. She laughed and asked if it had worked and I said yes, while thinking in my mom’s direction, I think so–I don’t remember any arguments after that. Mom, if you want to chime in?

I told her, Six kids and a camping trailer and she winced a little and yeah I don’t know how my folks did it either but they did it. Mom was knitting my sister an Aran sweater I seriously coveted so I wanted to learn to make my own.

We didn’t have a lot of time to delve in deep but we both would have loved to and I told her the name of my blog. So to her, if you’re reading this, welcome! And hi!

Love for love.

The next door neighbor showed up offering oranges from her tree.

She found herself going home with a baby blanket.

Meantime, the mystery at Grand Central Station is solved. NYC now knows where the five foot heart balloon on the ceiling came from: the elderly couple and their daughter were heading to a Valentine’s party and lots of random people wanted to play with it. Cute video.

A ground squirrel tunnel popped up right under the edge of my sour cherry tree. And another one at the base of my columnar apple.

One is cute. Two is a thousand, fast.

“Did you know it smells like cinnamon out there?”

Uh, that would be a yes. I poured it down the edges of those two holes to make the place inhospitable (and then did a better job of covering the cherry’s roots with an old oven rack, since cherry roots and young trunks are supposed to be a particular favorite.) Pepper and mint they can get used to; cinnamon is both sharp tasting and it gets on their paws and their fur and their noses and they’ll keep avoiding it.

Or at least in my experience so far.

So we’ll see.

I wonder how many neighbors were thinking cinnamon roll thoughts today.

Atelier Yarn Marin, a week ago, my last Yarn Crawl purchase: I found a pair of 40″ Lantern Moon ebony circs in US 5 and told them happily, This is exactly the size and brand I’ve been looking for.

Nina mentioned afterwards that she did not prefer the metal cord they’ve changed to; she liked the old nylon one better. I didn’t have much of an opinion other than that I liked the look of the nylon better. And true, I do not want my needles to flash light and distract from the working yarn.

So where I’m going with this is: I found that I did in fact have an old pair of size 5 (3.75mm) 40″ ones–in that brand and with the nylon cord, no less. So I started the new project on those.

You know that twitchy scritch scritch sensation with each stitch on wooden needles that haven’t aged well? You won’t get that with the pressure-treated Holz and Steins of long ago but they’ve been out of the American market for twenty+ years. On the third row of this I couldn’t wait to get to the end so I could switch to the new pair. Thank goodness for that new pair.

Even the ever so slightly rounder tip shaping was better for the splittable yarn at hand.

I have completely cured myself of wondering why I spent the equivalent of a skein of good yarn on a pair I didn’t need. Now it’s, Man am I glad I bought those!