I didn’t realize till afterwards that what I’d been waiting for was to see them receive them in person.  I hoped each one would choose and like their own particular hat–but you never know. What is a given, though, is that kids are transparent in their emotional reactions to things and I would know if someone still needed soothing afterwards with something they liked better. I think I needed to know that.  And so I’d hesitated.

Only the baby was having none of it, even when we tried playing peek-a-boo from under the wool, but he was tired and it was something unfamiliar.  Tomorrow he’ll be grinning and cooing and playing happily.

So the story is this: word was that Brian‘s family was here visiting grandparents for a day or two. I knew that grandparent time is precious; I knew that when there is great pain, a family gathered round in the strength of home may feel intruded upon by outsiders who simply can never quite entirely know.  I hesitated for several hours–but at last, I called and asked if I might borrow a moment of their day.

They readily welcomed me on over.

I told them how, several years ago, one good deed begat another good deed till, to my delight, a surprise box full of Blue Moon Fiber Arts yarns from Tina at BMF arrived on my doorstep–and then, I told them, every time I went to go knit the Silkie, trying to honor her gift by making good use of it, that one yarn just kept telling me, No. Not yet. For nearly three years it would not let me knit it. Last year at Stitches I bought two more skeins in the “Love” colorway, and it too resisted my needles.

Until recently.  Now I knew why.

So except for the first hat, before I figured out what I was doing, all the hats had a strand of Silkie; they were all individual, given that I knit in two strands, but all my hats were in the same family.   (Even the non-Silkie had the other strand overlapping.)  I pointed out the one hat that was completely different and described my longtime online friend Karin driving six hours round trip to finally get to meet me in person when we were in Vermont a year and a half ago; she’d wanted to knit a hat, too, for them, to convey her support. I told them how the folks at Purlescence had wanted to offer up their own goodwill towards them and wouldn’t let me pay full price on the matching yarns.

They loved them.  Each child picked one while making sure the others got one they liked, too; I was impressed.

The dad lined everybody up, seated me in the center, hats on all, and I looked around and went, “What, no bunny ears?!” The kids cracked up. (While the baby tried to pull his off.)

Their second-youngest son was whittling away on a stick during most of this, as happy as a knitter with cashmere in hand, and he grinned at me with his turquoise hat on his head.

When I left, he was outside in the garden, whittling away some more, totally immersed in his creation, hat on head, totally happy.  Yes.  Oh, thank you, thank you! I wanted to tell him.

When he gets older and his fine motor skills mature, maybe we’ll get some really cool knitting needles from his woodworking. You never know where a moment will take someone.

Kurt spoke briefly today.  I remember him when.  It was inevitable, but it’s still somehow surprising week after week to see a man who’d been riding his bike dozens of miles a day on into his late 70’s now needing help to walk a few steps; when I asked him recently how his grandkids were doing, he both laughed and sighed and admitted he couldn’t quite keep them all straight anymore.

He is the oldest member of our ward (congregation), he proudly reminded us today, and, he said, he hopes to have many more years to reminisce over.

I found myself wishing I could tell the newer members of the ward a little of the back-in-the-days.  You know that when that happens, I end up inflicting it on you-all.

Kurt’s wife’s brother raised his family in my hometown, and the young woman growing up that Kurt’s older son would later marry was also from my home ward in Maryland; meeting Kurt and his wife when we moved here was like putting a little piece of our hometown puzzle together.  Understand that there are many little stories of surprise and small-world overlappings embedded in that sentence.

His daughter-in-law’s grandparents were the founders of a large international business that, if I told you the name, you would instantly recognize it.

So here’s the story, going back to when my kids were little.  Kurt had a tradition of having his sons and his grandsons fly into town here every summer to go on a big annual Scout camp-out our ward held,  Kurt coming along too.  Just like old times for him and his now-grown kids; there were new memories to be made with his sons as adults now and with grandkids–sometimes granddaughters too–to get to know better, up high in the Sierras with a pack and a tent or two in the clear bright air. (My John adds that Kurt and his older son would race to see who could be first to swim two miles’ distance in forty-degree water, and that Kurt did 200 push-ups a morning.)

There was a young dad in our ward, father of a little girl about a year old when he got called to be ward scoutmaster.  So Steve was in charge of those events.  Now, I have no idea how much camping experience he had, but he was game.  Steve, tall, blond, and gorgeous, had met his Hawaiian wife while surfing in the Islands.

She missed home and he missed Hawaii too, and eventually they moved back there.  He got a job working for a large corporation for the necessary nine-to-five end of life. He was bright and good at what he did, but his boss tended to write him off as something of a beach bum.

Fast forward a few years. People move, people you don’t often see anyway you lose touch with, it happens.

Kurt’s son, who was by now a corporate bigwig in his in-laws’ company, and his wife, were out strolling along the beach on I think it was the Big Island, talking to the head honcho of the local facility.  I’m sure the man was nervous; or rather, at least, I know I would be, if I didn’t know the two he was talking to but only their Names.

And all the sudden Kurt’s son was running! Running, and throwing his arms around one of the manager’s employees, that beach bum dude, going, “STEVE! *STEVE*!!  How ya DOIN’!!!” Thumping each other on the back, thrilled like little kids, the wife joining in, wanting to catch up on old times, talking about back in the day, how are the kids, forgetting business entirely.

While the manager stood there stunned, wondering, What just happened here?! How do they…? How on earth!?

I’ve been told Steve got a nice promotion after that.

Kurt may not remember all his family’s stories in his old age.  But we younger folks can help him write down memories of some of the good he created in others’ lives and remind him and cheer him in his old age.

Not entirely sure about that first one; I like this Silkie-yarn theme of all of the siblings’ hats being connected,  ie same yarn, two colorways being riffed on.  I do know, though, that at least one of the grandmas likes orange. Hmm.

Class, pay attention, now, please.

Yes, ma’am  (gives next desk over a quiet shove with a foot, sneaking in a, Hi Blog!)  The answer is: a hat!

Thank you, dear.  You–Miss Laceweight in the back. I hear you just fine, now, shhh, you’re just going to have to wait your turn. Raise your hand quietly and wait for me to call on you.

It just wasn’t it. I only got a few rows into it but frogged it.  Not soft enough. Didn’t please me.   Colors wrong.  No.

Well, huh.  I grabbed that Blue Moon Silkie Lagoon and began another one for one of the boys instead: one skein of teal-blue Manos Silk with it this time.

Brian’s family shared so many pictures of their older boys and ours camping in the Sierras near Lake Tahoe with the Scouts, and each one of these hats captures the colors in those photos.

I finished the third one, then, tonight at Purlescence, hanging out with my friends while my yarn had a ball.  Mary retrieved the Silkie for me once, but after that I declared it free range yarn and, as long as it wasn’t going to trip anyone up, let it roll with the punches.

It wandered a little down the aisle to my side. A sweet young merino hung a strand down from its perch, Rapunzel style, and they kind of got wrapped up in each other. Hat’s off to the two–I cast off and unleashed the strands.

I’d brought with me some more Silkie, this time in a colorway Blue Moon calls “Love.” (Or called; I don’t see it on their site at the moment.)  I picked out some superwash to match it tonight for Brian’s sisters, some red, some pink, all very soft.

I was almost to my car when Sandi came running after me.  Wait!  I hadn’t gotten a discount!

They insisted. They knew who it was to be knit for.  They asked me to send Brian‘s family their love, too.

I walked back inside; they fiddled with the register and counted out the difference. I looked at it and grinned, “I’ve never been paid for leaving a yarn store before.”

They are such good souls there.  Sandi, Nathania, and Kaye: thank you.

Hey, Dad, look what’s blooming now–thank you!

Twins by a different color… I was already into the green hat today before I realized that oh, right, I was going to use superwash for all these. Misti baby alpaca isn’t, but oh, does it feel wonderful; I decided, well, hey.  One doesn’t always have to be entirely practical.  Meantime, I definitely have enough of the Blue Moon skein left to make a third, although I’m going to do another girl hat while I decide what to put with it.

Thought I’d show the finished fuschia-orange one, ends woven in, so Ellen can let out a sigh of relief. There you go.  Done.

I remembered today what I already knew, that when it comes to knitting ribbing, two by twos knit up so much faster, so much easier on the hands, and in a fair bit less time than one by ones.  Y’know, there’s a parable waiting to leap out of that.

On to the next, after I decide what it’s going to be.  The whether-or-not  report is predicting bright and sunny, with chance of scattered colors.

“I’m trying to get a Taylor family project done a day.”

“Ouch,” winced Michelle. “Break out the icepacks.”

It’s 11:26 pm and I’ll run the ends in tomorrow. I know, slacker…

Yarn: one strand Somoko superwash merino/kid mohair/nylon/silk from Fleece Artist, one strand, Maple Creek Farms superwash merino/bamboo/nylon, sock weights bought at Stitches East Fall ’08, and I never realized till today how well they would go together if I should need, say, a worsted-weight’s worth of superwash treated wool…

(Changed the yoke, though, to make it a one-0f-a-kind. Just because. Original pattern in here.)

This is the Venezia merino/silk yarn Sam picked out at Purlescence last Thursday.  Glass shawl pin by Sheila.

Does it count as knitting it in four days if you totally didn’t touch the needles one of the days in the middle of the five?

Does it count as an FO if you didn’t run the ends in yet? The camera battery died, the bad picture with the running ends stays, I was in a hurry to show it off!

(p.s. Happy Birthday to my sister Carolyn!  She and I used to argue as kids over whether the 12 days of Christmas started 12 days before–ie on my birthday, or that it went to 12 days after–ie, hers. She was right, but I was the obnoxious little sister who refused to concede the point.  Okay, in our old age, now I will,  so, Merry Christmas too!)

I got an email from John.

I’m glad I FedExed that shawl.

That yarn that was so (for me, anyway) heavy and that made such a thick warm shawl? Especially with all that alpaca blended in with the soft wool and silk?

It was delivered to John, and then by him that day to the recipient, on a day in southern Mississippi where it was snowing.

Which happens, he told me, once or twice a decade there.

Perfect.

I’d only had 500 yards, so it had come out a bit short; I mentioned to John I’d been a little concerned about that.  I got told, she’s “little–I mean TINY!”

Perfect.

I’d been a little worried about the colorway–earthy tones, something that would look much better on someone with color to them rather than pale.

John laughed.  The woman was a very dark-complexioned African-American.

Perfect.

He said they didn’t stay to watch her reveling in it; she was ecstatic, she loved it, but could barely stand up long enough to tell him so, and they wished her a happy day and let her be.  But, as you can imagine, he and his missionary companion came away ecstatic themselves at seeing how very happy she was over being thought of (I did, and I prayed for her, even though I had no idea who she might be out there) and knit for and warmth to wrap around her on such a cold day and all these pretty colors and knitted leaves and autumn glory…

That yarn knew what it was doing when it leaped in my hands and demanded to be bought and knit, NOW.

And I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am that I did.  Merry Christmas just cannot get merrier than that.

The Rooster Rock (this one captures the color better) went out of here a few days ago.

I sent my son John an email earlier this week and mentioned about my going to Purlescence and having had that handdyed Blue Moon Peru skein leap into my hands and insist, as loudly as a bluejay defending its nest, that it had found its territory and I was not to argue.  Didn’t matter that it was a heavier weight than I wanted. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t what I was looking for. It had found my hands.  That’s all that mattered to it.

And so I had had to introduce myself to this stranger of an alpaca-blend yarn.  Not knowing why it was so sure of itself, I figured out a pattern that would match the autumn-leaves effect of the colorway and knitted the thing up quickly for–who?  There wasn’t enough yardage to get it as long as I wanted and there was just the one skein, so I kept the stitch count fairly short and left the neck long and wide and open to make sure it would work well for a larger person should it need to. Fling it over the shoulder, tie it in front, whatever, it would do.  It would go well over a winter coat, given its thickness, and then once inside, the wearer could fasten it over their blouse or sweater.

It was done.

John wrote back.  Given that he’d already asked for a shawl once during his two-year mission for the Mormon Church–that silk one (better picture here) I sent him awhile back–he’d felt very hesitant about imposing on me again. But just like the silk went to a woman with MS, he knew, in the city he was now serving in, another woman with severe health problems he was worried about.  He hadn’t been going to ask me again, but…

And it was sitting there in the corner going, Hah!  Toldja so. I answered John, You’re not asking, I’m offering.

That son of mine has a soft spot for people with health issues. I wonder how that happened?

It felt right.  I don’t even know the woman’s name this time, much less her coloring or favorites.  It still felt right.  It’s not bluejaying me anymore–now it’s time for it to bluejay him. He won’t be out there much longer, so I FedExed it to make sure it got there while he could still get it where it needs to go.  The time to do good in this life is short enough as it is.

He’ll do the right thing with it.

And now you know as much as I do.

I got an email the other day: the cardiologist had been wanting to keep tabs on me, post-op and all that, would I come in?

Well, okay, not that I needed to.

It was a tad chilly in his office, so I was just as glad this afternoon that that stole I was working on was long enough now to heap up in my lap and go all the way down to my foot as I worked on it.  I’d rinsed it the other night, still on the needles, to see how the pattern was coming out in real life: it was the first time I’d ever seen the stitches settled into shape in that new pattern, and I was really, really pleased.  That also gave me a much better idea of  what the length was by now.  (Nope–keep going.)

All the better to show the thing off as I work.

I knitted. It’s a given that there are other patients in a bigger hurry in that specialty than I, thank goodness, am in.  I imagined fewer cardiac episodes among calm patients making beautiful things out of soft cashmere and alpaca for their loved ones–how about we set up a knitting class in that waiting room. Yarn samples to fondle, let’s start with that.

And I knitted.

The doctor exclaimed over it as he came in and said, with a grin, “Did you start that after you got here?”

Hey, I didn’t wait THAT long!

I almost added, Go take care of someone else for another hour or so so I can finally get this finished, willya?

I *knitted, I ripped, repeat from* to end of row, and the impatient part of me finally changed to a fingering weight baby alpaca that could take that kind of abuse more easily.  (And it, too, is just SO soft–no complaints.)  All in good time on that laceweight.

I started over.

Richard asked me innocently, “But didn’t you use Frog-Free yarn?”

The thing that made the most sense was to make a very wide swatch and just keep going and keep checking.

I have had a particular lace idea dancing around my head for over a year now.  But since I don’t do charts (it’s a brain injury thing), designing a new lace pattern means figuring out intuitively how many and how and where each stitch should go, and then sitting down and hashing it out till the thing proves itself.   Or not.  (I’ve got some real nots in my yarns in that closet.)  I’d been avoiding the whole hassle for a very long time, a bit frustrated at myself for not having already done it.

But it was exactly the thing, exactly the most perfect thing, for that guy at Safeway and his girlfriend, if I could just make it work.  If nothing else, this gave me the impetus to wrestle the thing into existence.

…And once I got going, really, it wasn’t hard.  I was so excited at my success last night, after it had been delayed so long by my own reticence, that I could hardly sleep.

It is past the idea stage. It is past the notes on paper stage. It is past the fixing the typos stage.

Twenty-five inches and 1.5 oz of melt-in-your-hands done, 3 oz left to go.

I owe that guy. Bigtime.

I knew I should have taken a photo, but I just never got around to it. Okay, squint a little and picture this but with  the colors more intense.

I had a lace scarf–more a stole–that I’d knit out of some of Lisa Souza’s Mardi Gras colorway, as bright and lively and cheerful as the name.  All finished, but tucked away, waiting for its moment. I thought I had plans for it–but it just wouldn’t go.  As usual, my yarn was the boss of me.  I finished it probably a year ago.

Today for the first time, I put it on and wore it to church.

F. was one of the speakers.  F.  was quite new to this whole speaking in front of a large crowd thing, and when he stood up and looked at his audience, he was nervous and a bit overwhelmed at first and soon turned to the bishop, who is bilingual, asking for help.  Though F. speaks English, it doesn’t come as fluently nor as easily as he’d like.

Sure, glad to help, and the bishop stood up next to him–and then grinned, no no, come back up to the mic, you first.

F. spoke from the heart, and we watched the nervousness simply melt away as he did so.  There were a few times where the bishop started to translate and F. went, wait, say (strings of Spanish followed). They laughed and continued.  There was one time F. spoke, the bishop started, F. went wait, this too, and they kind of tripped all over each other verbally, laughing some more.

And in the process, the whole language difficulty thing became simply a means for the Spirit of love to enter in and bless the whole congregation listening and watching them.  An arm went around a shoulder. And again, in delight.  Love speaks in all languages and it speaks without mistranslation.  It simply Is. And it was there.

At the end of the services, I saw F.’s wife and there was no longer any question: I knew.  I went up to her and told her, my friend Lisa dyed this yarn for me, I knitted this, but I just spent the whole time thinking it needs to go where it most belongs…

…As I took it off me and wrapped it around her.  Just her colors, I saw, pleased, just perfect on her–as she gasped in surprise and delight.

I’m half deaf, I don’t speak Spanish, I’ve never really had a conversation with her, or at least not one that I was very successful at participating in, just many a smile and quiet nod shared between us since I met them–but when words are not enough, Love enters in just the same.

Translating perfectly.

Last time I saw the surgeon he got to play Santa. But I missed one nurse from that day: she saw me into the examining room, and we spoke long enough for me to feel she was one who truly cared about her patients too. She just sparkled. I was impressed, and sorry later to have missed her.  I was expecting her to come back in but someone else did instead, the young nurse I surprised with a lace scarf at the end.

Today was my last (oh honey I so hope) post-op at Stanford.  A medical assistant told me they were crazy-busy today, that they had 45 patients to get through. Wow. But when Dr. S. came in, one of the first things he said was how much his wife loved her shawl. The man is a peach. (And so is his wife!)  He was completely focused on me and on taking care of me and on answering my questions; nothing else intruded. I’d been scoped yesterday?  (Thank you Dr. R.!)  We discussed where the bleeding had been and for how long–it finally stopped today; he told me why it was normal there with a blockage, and I came away very reassured.

But he also told me to call him next time there’s any such problem, and he clearly meant it. Having done two blockages now, I needed to hear that. Thank you, Dr. S.

Before I left home, I’d put some of the cuter Peruvian fingerpuppets in my purse, and as he was on his way out the door, I gave him a few for future pediatric patients or for children of patients.  He looked at the fish and laughed.

I saw that missing nurse briefly again in the hallway as I was coming out.  She was talking to another patient, and there was a scale right there with a chair next to it; I commandeered the chair while fishing quickly through my knitting bag for the scarf that had been waiting a month for her.  But by the time I got it out of the ziploc, she was walking briskly away.

I called her name after her. That startled her–Who? as she spun around.  How did you…?

And then she was exclaiming, “These are my favorite colors! Oh wow!” I told her that a friend of mine had dyed the yarn. (Hey, Lisa–the Mardi Gras colorway in merino. Love it.)

I finally got to tell one more person who deserved it how much her kindness and smile meant each and every day to all the people streaming through those doors. Forty-five people is a lot of eased burdens just today.

She was so thrilled. She so much deserved it. She made me so happy.  This is why I do this.

(Typed while wearing Jasmin’s handspun and -knitted socks.)

I met up with Gigi of the Knitmore Girls and some of the Minions of the Pointy Sticks at Le Boulanger down thataway today.

Four years, maybe five, you’d think I’d have taken a picture of it by now.  Sorry for another no show here.

Anyway, the story, and I think I’ve told some of it before, is: I was going to Stitches West one time, and it was the first time I was trying to manage my electric chair by myself which I need for long days out.

Open side door of minivan, pull out unattached ramp, unfold ramp, set it up in doorway, done.

Except the “This side up” sticker happened to have been glued on the wrong side. My husband had never noticed; he just intuitively got the mechanics of the thing, like I would have if it had been something reasonable, like, say, a knitting pattern.

Which is why when I started backing that 250 pound chair down the ramp the hinge was on the wrong side and the whole thing collapsed on my foot.

Annnnndddd, the newly-charged battery hadn’t held the charge.  It was nearly dead. Just enough juice to get it back up in there with the desperately-needed help of some random passersby.

It was not starting out well here.  I IM’d my husband and he offered immediately to leave work, rescue me, and get me in for x-rays.

“I have waited a year for Stitches and I am going to Stitches!”

I made it to my friend Karen’s booth, holding myself together right up till that point, but the moment Karen and Gigi looked at my face and asked, wonderingly, “Are you all right?” I lost it and bawled in pain and frustration and worry.

Gigi’s daughter Jasmin (and Gigi and Karen, for that matter) offered to drop everything and drive me to the doctor; when I said I just couldn’t go yet, not when I’d just gotten here, and besides, they needed to man their booth, Gigi’s then-teenage son Sam came to my rescue. He went out, found someone in charge somewhere there at the Santa Clara Convention Center, came back with a manual wheelchair which by now I really really needed, and proceeded to push me around for the next two hours.  He was very patient with my being interested in random people or yarns going by–oh, look at *that*!  Ooh, that’s pretty! Hey, Alicia!  BARBARA! How ya *doin’*!   Stitches West is a grand reunion as well as a knitter’s Disneyland.  Sam was the soul of gentleness and totally put up with the craziness that is me at those conferences, all while being very mindful of where my foot was going.

He got me to Lisa Souza‘s booth, where I bought some sock merino in her Seafoam colorway and showed it off to Gigi before calling it a day, and Gigi exclaimed over it, telling me she’d bought the same colorway from Lisa too.

Two weeks later, when I’d recovered enough to make the drive, I took Sam one of my chocolate tortes and thanked him for being my hero when I’d so much needed him. Such a nice kid!  I wanted him to know how much his cheerful readiness to help and his patience had meant to me.

Gigi is having heart surgery next week. What she never knew, was, I knitted up that Seafoam all that time ago and set it aside for the right moment: whether it was for her to wear to brag on her son or for Sam’s future bride someday way off in the future, I did not know. But it could not possibly go to any other family. That skein of yarn had too many important memories from those moments to mean as much to anyone else. It was for them.

I told Gigi all that today as I handed it to her for her to wear now.

Heal well, friend. As your family helped me to, too, on many an occasion by now.