Yesterday, Parker wanted to go out to see his apple tree. His daddy explained that we have winter up here and what that meant but he wanted to see, and being ever ready to share the joy of my backyard orchard, especially with a grandchild, I went outside with him to inspect how the Fuji was doing.

It did still have a very few leaves left clinging. The other deciduous trees were bare now but one. So we talked about all the fruits and each in their season and all that was fine with him for it to be that way, he wasn’t disappointed like his father had been a little afraid he would be–he was simply learning new things. Winter bare, not from a book but in person. The leaves fall. Spring will come back when it’s time.

There was actually some fruit and greenery over to the left but he knew what those were and they didn’t interest him.

Today seemed like the right day to ask him: “Would you like to pick a lemon?”

His face lit up. “And make lemonade?!”

Me, grinning back: “And make lemonade.”

The Meyer happily had a few right in his reach. I mentioned it had thorns and to watch out for them and he was fine. He walked around the back of a peach (the Tropic Snow) to get to–oh wait, he liked that one next to it even better. It only just now hits me that I had said a lemon, so a single lemon was all he expected or took. Unlike sharing apple slices around the room, this was just going to be between him and me.

It took some pulling and a bit of branch coming with it because the lemon tree wasn’t entirely ready to let it go yet–but this early, they’re closer to pure lemons and less orangey. He skipped a little happy dance all the way back inside to the kitchen in great anticipation.

I found a cup-size strainer and showed him, bringing it down to his eye level again and again, how it caught the seeds and let the juice run through. See? More seeds on this other half of the fruit, too.

I added some water and sugar. Don’t skimp. He’s only just turned five. I poured half the lemonade into a second cup for me, tasted it, and added more sugar to his cup. Mine was sweet enough and very watered down and his definitely sweet and with great enthusiasm he pronounced it wonderful.

Meantime, Hudson was the ever-cheerful, outgoing little boy he always is even when he’s tired. Always ready to laugh. Always willing to wait his turn when I pay attention to his sister a moment. He’s an amazing little two-year-old.

As I sat on the floor, Maddy crawled up to me, patted me on the leg to get my attention, and held out a hand expectantly in clear expectation that I would blow on it. I did. She grinned. A few minutes later she stood up with her mommy holding onto her hands, let Kim let go, and instead of plopping right back down to safety or the highly tentative shifting of her weight onto the next foot forward she actually took two solid steps on her own coming towards me, falling down finally on the third. So close.

And given the sudden wail of frustration out of her that took us by surprise, I think she suddenly realized that she actually wanted to walk. That this was going to happen even if it meant giving up the comfort and safety and speed of the crawl. She needed this.

Soon, little one, so very soon.

Our friends’ range that was supposed to have been replaced was still broken, no oven, no stove, with the new one lost in the shipping mess out there somewhere. We cooked dinner here and brought it there and shared our kids (theirs had grown up with ours) and a marvelous Christmas meal together. I wouldn’t have missed that for anything.

Then off to our aunt’s house in the redwoods for dessert and so that that part of the family could see the kids–with our grandkids and their parents showing up there straight from the airport.

Maddy was sick but I got a grin out of her: I blew noisily on her hand or her foot in term, asking her which one she wanted next. She would say what to her was a word and hold one or the other out and she loved that she was communicating with me and getting to choose what I would do while she happily anticipated it. Bbbtttph!

I pointed to their daddy and said to Hudson, “That’s my little boy.”

He was surprised. In the clearest speech I’ve ever heard from him yet he asked, “He is? Really?!”

Thought I’d gotten that concept down with him previously but I guess not. We made up for it though.

And Parker was already taller than when we saw him almost two months ago.

And their cousin Emmie? She’s three, and I pointed out, That’s my little girl, and my little boy, and my little girl, and my little boy, since three of them were completely new to her. She too had to stop a moment to grok the concept, and she looked at me quizzically, so I said, “They got bigger. Did you ever get bigger?”

She has a baby brother and that was suddenly a question she decided not to answer and she twirled away and played with someone else as I grinned.

No matter how ready you think you are, when house guests are coming you keep seeing one more thing that needs to be done. Oh yeah and that too. And that. And endlessly that.

In the middle of the madness we decided to do what we had decided not to, yesterday–going near Costco? Were we crazy?

Yeah a little bit.

Then when we were just getting back to the car to load it up I suddenly knew exactly why we had needed to come, and not last night but now: she was just arriving and had parked a car or two further down from ours on the same side, same aisle. The choreography of G_d, right there.

It was my kids’ old high school French teacher. (Flipping through old posts…) I guess I didn’t write about it…

About a year and a half ago? After three years of abnormal blood tests, I got sent to the hematologist and that means in the cancer department. Saw him twice, didn’t have to have a bone marrow biopsy after all to rule cancer out (phew!) and I got off lucky.

But as I was coming out from what would be my last appointment with him, there she was in the waiting room. We both did double takes–my hair was gray and a little longer now, and she was the last person I would have expected or wanted to see in that particular space–and then she had me sit down (gladly!) next to her and we caught up until they called her name. And when they did, I said to the nurse, “She was my kids’ favorite teacher!” Which is true. They adored her. Two of my kids scored seventh and eighth in French proficiency in all of northern California and she is the reason why. She totally rocks.

She had already gotten her results when I saw her.

Her tests hadn’t come out as well as mine. I was so glad I got a chance to bring some joy to her day in that place at that time by bearing witness to who she is.

She has quietly been in my prayers every single day since.

She saw me first today, waved hi as I blinked in surprise and ohmygoodness! and we threw our arms around each other. She was still here!!! She looked great!!! And shopping! At Costco! The day before Christmas Eve! Brave woman. It takes a certain level of health, too. Having some experience at being a patient myself those were not the things that actually came out of my mouth, just, How ARE you?!

Our kids and hers are all coming home for Christmas and she was so happy for us that we got to have that joy too!

The parking lot was crazy with a line of cars waiting for me to get in mine and get the heck out of their way and we kept it far too short. Bone marrow transplant in January, she said…

And it wasn’t till after we left that I realized that with my hearing and the freeway running close by I wasn’t totally sure whether she meant last January or the coming one. But I can tell you this: she’s clearly ready for anything now.

The bird feeder was empty and there were no finches nor chickadees trying to get at that one last seed or two nor doves picking up the toss-outs below. I opened the slider, Corning two-cup glass measure in hand, to go scoop and refill. (Metal mini-trash cans are good for keeping the raccoons out–they’ve tried but they have never succeeded.)

The Cooper’s hawk sauntered away, if anything elegantly airborne can be so described, and I went oh oops sorry didn’t see you behind the orange tree there as I went back inside.

No problem. He people-watched awhile, shaking off a bit against the drizzle, preening.

Then he flew half way across my yard to where the sun could be on rather than behind him, showing off every bit of chestnut, white, grays, and those bright yellow feet, well-fluffed above as if there had been no rain.

Here inside, more presents are wrapped and ready, the guest bedrooms are cleared and vacuumed, and the–oh wait, the electric spinning wheel is still in baby-grab range. Right on it.

Perched on the telephone line in the center of an open space between the neighbors’ trees, where it could best be seen, was a Cooper’s hawk this afternoon, celebrating solstice by surveying all that was his.

I saw his tail twitch slightly as he shifted his weight. All tucked together like that it did not give away what it could be in the air.

I watched him awhile, loving this beautiful raptor that let me share the day with him, making sure to blink and turn aside a bit from time to time so I didn’t present in any way as a threat. And once again I wondered if it could feel a human loving him–and I know how anyone with a pet would answer that, except that who can answer for a wild thing?

At that he raised his wings and flew towards me, landing on the closest point in the fence where we had a better view of each other. Was it my old friend Coopernicus or one of his offspring? I’m not quite sure yet.

But clearly, my yard is his in the season to come and I am better off for it.

Over with the politics, on to the military…

You’ve probably heard the story before but it’s one I’d forgotten: the typo in the 1955 Sears ad that had small children thinking they were calling Santa when what they were getting was the red hotline phone at the Continental Air Defense Command at the height of the Cold War.

That phone was not expected to ring. You did not want that phone to ring.

It wasn’t the Pentagon nor the President, it was a small child. “Is this Santa Claus?”

The tension and surprise showed in the officer’s voice and the little one started crying. The colonel stopped himself and reached out like the daddy that he was.

And that is why (there’s an interview with the colonel’s kids in this link) we have NORAD tracking Santa every Christmas Eve, giving updates as the famous sleigh and reindeer travel around the world. For the magic of it.

I wonder if the person who typed up that ad ever knew what they inadvertently made happen for every child of every year since. I like to think that surely they did.

Some mistakes are just plain meant to be.

It took picking up my fifth cookie (good thing we rolled them thin, good thing they’re not too big, good thing breakfast was a good excuse) for me to see it. Richard wasn’t raised a musician but I sure was.

Do you see it?

Blink.

I sent a note off to Tatiana, the woman who had made my rolling pin, with no intent but that she should know, and she had the same surprised reaction–and wrote back quickly that she had caught that effect on other designs and had changed them as needed but had somehow missed it on that one. She would be sending me a new pin straightaway.

I wasn’t expecting that at all! But I’m in happy anticipation all over again, made all the sweeter by gratitude, that I’m going to get a new, really cool rolling pin that this time I can say I know we can and will use a lot.

I found myself flashing back to Mr. Kitto’s fifth grade classroom when he stood at the front making arm motions that we were supposed to copy for reasons I have no memory of, just the fact that his right side corresponded visually to my left side and I kept wanting to turn around in my seat to face the same way he was facing so that I could be completely sure I was echoing him correctly. I was in fifth grade, fer cryin’ out loud, I was supposed to get this by now! But looking at each other, we were opposites to each other and part of my brain knew and part of it refused to. So close.

It’s still a really cool cookie. I wonder how many people would notice? Would they guffaw? Would they be afraid they might cause disappointment if they called attention to it? Would I lay such burdens on my friends?

If the cookies tasted good? (If it’s for Jim and his family? Don’t miss that story if you haven’t seen it yet. Can you believe that kid is a senior now?!) Heck yeah! (Gleefully conspiring.) We could have fun with this before we retire the oops version.

It was a very good day filled with friends and family and food and love (thank you for that dinner, Michelle!) and I suddenly realized with a start that it’s nearly 11:00 and we’re done here.

Leftover creme brûlée, macaroons, and homemade cranberry coffee cake brought to the door still warm from the oven (thank you, Phyllis!) for breakfasts to come.

Had more energy, got more done today.

And on my birthday eve, via the Vox news site, I found this. I think I need to go knit more. Call on the phone more. Visit more. Love more fully.

I had never had a fresh persimmon in my life before I moved here, much less known that there are two types and that if you want the Hachiya kind, you pretty much have to live near a tree. Shipping is not the strong point of a fruit that is ripe when the texture becomes a soft jelly inside.

Last year my neighbor with the persimmon tree let me help her pick and give away several hundred pounds’ worth this time of year and even so I only got to about half; the rest were too high for my telescoping fruit picker.

She sent me a note looking forward to my coming again this year and I considered for about a nanosecond, picturing that quite heavy, awkward pole and prongs swinging well above my head and the way I occasionally managed to crash it down last time, hopefully but not always entirely controlled… No, I argued with myself, just no way, this is not my year for it, concussion-wise, I couldn’t dare. Too much risk.

I offered to find replacement pickers if she needed the help and she had someone else who wanted to, no problem, thanks. And that was that.

I thought. Wistfully.

There was a bag at our door. She wanted to wish me good health and she hadn’t wanted me to miss out–she knew how much I liked them.

Suddenly it’s a harvest year to remember in a good way. I was not expecting that. Verklempt.

Cotton and polyester glide right on by. Add spandex in, though, and the fabric is as grabby as a tired hungry toddler.

Which is how when I got up from the couch my skirt wrapped around one leg and did the rubber-band catch-and-sproing thing and pulled me right over. My head didn’t hit the floor, just my wrist, but it got a good jolt and it sure let me know it.

Dinner? Man, food just did not sound good. I told him he needed to eat and he said *you* need to eat.

Treading very. very. carefully right now. The amazing thing was saying the prayer on the food, somehow turning our attention to G_d for a moment and away from all that and as we got to the amen I felt like, okay, I can handle this now. We’re in His hands. It’s okay.

Who knew a simple thank you for our food and please bless it could be so powerful. But that’s how it felt.

(Edited to add in the morning, after the first three comments came in: I had just finished reading something when I got up. So I guess the moral of the story is, she who lifts by the close, dives by the clothes. And thank you, everybody. Still breathing.)

Yesterday I saw a flash of gray out of the far corner of my eye, heard a bang–and thought, no, please don’t tell me, it couldn’t be, they never… It had seemed too big for a dove.

If it were still there, it would be in the alcove part of the deck just to the left of my desk.

I waited a minute or so and then, seeing no sign of the hawk coming in after its prey (I didn’t want to disrupt it if it were), I stood up to see if anything might be there.

To my great surprise mixed with willful disbelief, crouching down a bit and looking up into my eyes was indeed a Cooper’s hawk–so yes, apparently he had hit it. That or a dove and he’d missed catching it, but then he wouldn’t have stayed put.

Which makes me think this was last year’s juvenile with his adult markings grown in rather than our long-time resident Coopernicus, who had studied every bit of that glass and knew exactly where it was, even coming to check it out after a window washing. Whatever, this one wasn’t comfortable with the combination of my movement and my staring at him from so close and he took off for the trees. Not at hunt speed, but at least now I knew he could fly okay. And hopefully he learned about glass barriers.

Today I kept going back to my new cashmere 4-ply I spun yesterday, willing that thick hank to dry faster, petting it again and again. SO soft.

The other reason I’d put it aside so long? I had gotten it for $10 lb plus shipping because it had been in a warehouse in the humid South where the roof had leaked. It takes some washing to get the (not strong) mildew smell out and I’m always afraid it will reek when wet after being knitted up for someone else. And yet–two rounds of soaking in hot laundry detergent and it seems okay. Or real close.

So did I order Colourmart’s uncontaminated, not-mildewed cobweb weight cashmere, 1100g for $35 ppd? When I can make hanks that feel like this with it and not have to worry when I gift someone after knitting it up? Oh honey you bet.

And then there was a Cooper’s hawk again this afternoon, perched this time on the center of the fence. If it was my old friend he’d grown in quite a few fresh feathers. Dressed in his finest.

He turned to look in every direction while making no effort to hide (and I thought, oh, right, we’re near winter solstice, it’s territory-claiming time.) He proclaimed MINE to the whole world–I couldn’t hear him but I could see him.

The sun was at its highest point for the day, making his feet glow yellow, surrounded by white fluff, his chest a soft orange.

He tucked a foot up and enjoyed his domain.

I silently thanked him for sharing the day with me. He was fine with that, too, my being there didn’t bother him a bit.

At last he took off across the top of the house and not a minute later a junco, then a Bewick’s wren, popped out of the tangle of the tomato cage in relief from just below where he’d been.

Forgot that when you join the knitting ends on the circ to start knitting in the round, you don’t want a mobius strip, much less something with every twist around the needles the little stitches think they can get away with. They were little kids twirling the hulahoop.

Forgot to knit with the yarn from the ball end, not the leftover bit from the long-tail cast-on, for which, by the way, I used far too little on the first try and then far too much just to be sure on the second because my eyeballing the amount like usual wasn’t working so I did that part twice, too.

Then I couldn’t wrap my brain around the very simplest ten-stitch lace pattern that is on my go-to list for brainless carry-arounds–I had to go look it up. Two sets of decreases each side? Is that right? Wait. Okay. Yes (pause) it IS right. And at last I got four rows done and the lace settling into its familiar routine.

My brain is trying to tell me I had a long day yesterday and to give it up and go rest up for tomorrow so it can get better. (The time stamp above is later by an hour than I am.) But at least I got my project started, because beginning anything is the hardest part of all.

Note the distinct lack of ornaments at the-baby’s-standing-up-now height.

A friend of Michelle’s works at Balsam Hill, a maker of highly realistic, exceedingly easy to set up fake Christmas trees, which is how we heard about them. If you ever see a Christmas tree in the background on a TV show, it’s probably one of theirs. They have a warehouse about a half hour north of us that’s open to the public a few times a year and today was one of those days.

Allergies forced a fake tree on us years ago and after fifteen Christmases it was sad, broken-limbed, a total bear to wrestle the heavy, prickly pieces together and it offered very little reward for bothering to do so. The kids finally rebelled and told us flat-out they’d rather we didn’t set up any tree than that we put that thing up again. It looked that bad.

Balsam Hill’s? The hardest part was opening the boxes. Stack, stack, stack, stack, put on the top piece, connect the lights (doing the stacking so their ends are all on the same side), done. Floof out a little if you want. They have some that just you roll out after being stored upside down, flip over with a foot pedal, voila, but we wanted a Scotch pine that didn’t have that feature. Bought it on sale in October (there’s another sale through Monday) and for the first time in my life couldn’t wait to start setting up the Christmas decorations as early as possible because I knew how good this one was going to look and how very long we had waited to be able to say that.

And then, allergies and all, we bought a cheap real wreath at Costco (it stays outside, right?) because the Balsam Hill ones, even at half price, having shot our wad and glad we don’t have to spend that again for a few decades–but I knew which one I wished I had.

Michelle wanted me to see their bird ornaments. I was curious simply to see what this place was like in real life.

I had no intention of spending a dime.

Hah.

Let’s just say floor samples are a wonderful thing. We got the wreath I had so admired for half off the half off and she found a little tree. Four feet tall, came in a pot as if it were growing out of it. Turns out it was a proof-of-concept that didn’t quite make it into production, or rather, clearly, it did, but the production came to include gold grape clusters and gold long leaves and gold holly leaves and gold long needles mixed in with the pine cones and green needles that are a mixture of short and long-and-brushy. Hers has some new-growth-type tips the production model doesn’t. Hers was a floor model that didn’t even work as a floor model and with the branches squished up and not-yet-floofed, nobody else had beaten her to it. But it was absolutely beautiful. Their photos don’t do justice.

Neither her tree nor our wreath came with the box or handling gloves or 3-year warranties that they mail such things with.

But hey. The production version of her tree is listed at $219. Despite some effort they just could not get the lights to work; they shrugged and went eh, and gave it to her for all of $15.

Holy cow.

And then they loved how thrilled she and we were.

She was happy, we were happy, and re the wreath, now, um, we didn’t need the Costco one.

We got home and I called a friend: Do you have, do you want…?

Off to the hardware store. Cheap plastic that tried too hard or a nice-looking, simple, sturdy metal over-the-door wreath hanger, $4, either one. Not a hard decision.

All of which is why I am so very tired (oh and did I mention we stopped by our favorite bakery while we were in Burlingame? And ran a couple of other errands, too?) Such a long day.

And everybody came away happy. It was worth every minute.

I put on a rather tired old outfit today, something warm enough but that I wouldn’t much care what happened to so that the things I wanted to get scrubbed would get scrubbed in anticipation of coming houseguests.

But I needed something to offset the blah fabric and effect.

And so, even if it doesn’t really show here, I pulled out my secret weapon: sparkle socks. See? Even the camera’s trying to be hush hush about them.

What, don’t you have knee socks that glitter? Santas have to have sparkle socks. It’s the rule. (That I just made up.)