Trying not to be too glued to the election returns. The utterly incompetent judge is behind but not by enough. Etc. The few people I really badly wanted to win, it looks like they probably will, and I’ll just have to wait like everybody else to find out the rest.

And in the middle of that came an email from a church member: a seven-year-old child, vanished, this is what she was wearing, and they said what busy public area she’d disappeared suddenly out of with a fervent plea for searchers and prayers.

Every parent knows that heart-stopping brief moment and this was so much more.

It was a quick walk from our house much less via the car (turn the corner and there you are) and who would know the area better?

Seven ten pm. UV would be about 2 out of 16. My safety vs a child’s, no contest. My sweetie had an intense migraine just then and could only offer the best of intentions and prayers but I could go.

But I had promised an errand with Michelle and I stopped a moment to try to reach her and somehow, as she didn’t respond right away, it became a long five minutes later.

Enough, go!, and I stopped to check the computer for any last updates as I headed out the door–

–just as they hit send on the message that she’d been found. Safe and sound.

Our community knows how lucky we are. And that she is.

A wistful, I didn’t get to show him my grandsons.

So many old memories today after getting the note from my mom that Alan Moorehead, my old Sunday School teacher, had died this past week. All I could think in the first stunned moment was, but I didn’t get to say goodbye!

And then the memories started flooding in.

The group of teenage boys my age who had been so defiantly obnoxious that two teachers (and we’re all volunteers in the Mormon Church) had quit in three weeks–they didn’t have to put up with this.

Alan said, surely with a grin, Lemme at’em.

He totally turned that group around.

He told us his first memory was of being taken to a house of strangers and watching, glued to the window and sobbing inconsolably, as his mother drove away: he was three years old and in his world suddenly bereft and alone and stunned while she hoped she could get back on her feet for him. Foster care.

He had a rough teenagerhood.

He joined the Mormon Church as an adult.

He married Kathleen and raised a family with love and appreciation for his fine blessings and taught us all just exactly how important that was. He still marveled at her for choosing him and putting up with him. He said, frequently, “If the Lord didn’t want His children spoiled He wouldn’t have given me any.” They had five little ones. I used to swing toddler and then preschooler Katie around and around till “We all fall DOWN!” I don’t know if she remembers, but I do; their kids weren’t spoiled, they were a joy and it’s hard to put yourself down when a small child squeals with delight on seeing you.

And he understood why some young men would swagger and treat themselves and others cynically and he helped them see their future selves beyond that false front. He was his own Exhibit A.

I remember a particular Sunday, standing in the doorway talking to him after class was over, the others dispersed and I almost was, when he thought I needed a moment (and I desperately did, close to tears for reasons I do not remember.) What I thought were my failings he told me, No, those are your strengths: “Yes, you’re emotional. You wear your heart on your sleeve” (that was  the first time I’d heard that phrase, and with the literal thinking of the young I mentally imaged a little pink cartoon of a heart dancing to the beat at the end of my wrist and tried to parse just what he meant so I wouldn’t miss a thing.) But he told me it was a power for good that I was capable of blessing others with and he made it sound like not everybody else was so lucky to be that way. God would be able to use me well because of it, he encouraged me.

That unshakeable belief in each of us–in me personally–from someone who wasn’t my parent and didn’t have to spend the time of day worrying nor caring but simply chose to because that’s who he was–made all the difference.

We were supposed to get a new teacher with the new year after that, but he asked permission, got it, and stayed with us. And the next year too, till we graduated from high school. They asked him to do other callings and he said, Only if I can keep my kids. Meaning us.

He told us how important it was to keep a journal, and as a history buff and particularly a Civil War history buff he said it was the journals that brought people to life and gave perspective to their times when we in our own day are in utterly different surroundings. Our grandkids (and yes there would be grandkids, believe it, think ahead) would want to know who we are now at each stage as they themselves went through them, too. We all do. It’s just the circumstances around us that change from generation to generation. Write.

And he challenged us to bring him blank paper for him to make into journals for us to do that writing in. He asked us several Sundays in a row, with a deadline. How much? He wouldn’t give us a number, it was up to us.

Three of us did. (I remember asking my folks quick at the last minute for some printing paper–for the mimeograph?–out of the basement, almost forgot, phew.) Quite a few didn’t.

It wasn’t till some time later that I found out what he’d done: he’d handed the pages we’d given him to his kids to doodle on and he and Kathleen had packed everybody in the car and had driven to Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia–we’re talking two and a half hours each way with small children!– where they bought acid-free, archival-quality paper and paid for the bookbinding process on their antique press and made the three of us beautiful journals at a time when you could not buy one of such materials. He wanted to teach us how important it was that these things last–and he took the three of us out to dinner to thank us for living up to what he’d hoped we would do.

He accepted no payment on any of that.

Writing this, I realize that by going to such great effort without telling us just how great a gift he was going to create he was also teaching the others in the most benign way that if they passed up a chance to do something good because they didn’t see the need for it or didn’t get around to it the moment would be gone forever. And it could never be quite the same.

I filled that journal. I looked for acid-free paper when I went to start the next one. And eventually…mindful of all that he taught me, I started writing here.

Just about every day. So that my grandchildren and theirs would know who I was. Brother Moorehead taught me this.

Till we meet again, dear friend. I owe you so much. Thank you.

Got a message from a friend. There is a teenage member of her family who is giving her mother a very hard time, the father has left the picture, and there was a reaching out for support.

I asked re favorite colors….

And as I sat knitting tonight, trying to get that silk shawl out of the way because there’s a few more people now that I need to get to work for after this, I remembered. I would likely not have remembered that my sister said it but I will never forget that my daughter did.

My mom always said that my oldest sister was an easy teenager to raise. I mentioned that to Marian once and she said that when she got too mad at the world or at Mom she would retreat into the bathroom and soak in a long, hot, luxurious bath.  Time alone. (As the fourth kid of six, I could add, hogging the bathroom, making the rest of us go to the one downstairs, silently ruling the roost. Except that I don’t remember it at all so clearly I wasn’t too traumatized.)

I can just picture the whimsy of the occasional splash, observing the droplets as they fell, adding more hot as the water gradually cooled, keeping it going. She would always come out feeling all was well with the world now.

My girls were teens when she told me that and I just, y’know, happened to mention it to them.

You never know if your kids are listening, but there was this one day that my daughter emerged from the bathroom (good thing we’d added on a spare one by then), hair soaked, fingers wrinkled, and exclaimed, “Your sister is a GENIUS!”

I once read a Dave Barry essay on how women are far braver than men: as proof he offered the fact of his wife sticking her hand down into the kitchen disposal to get something out that was gumming up the works. *He* would never put *his* hand down in that smelly thing, he said; she was his hero.

Totally topping that tonight.

Note to the resident ileostomy patient: you never, never, ever hit that thing before you’ve finished closing the clip. Ever. (I knew that.)

But I did. I’ve been dropping things a lot lately, and that 3.5″-each-way hinged piece of plastic was suddenly the latest, and yelling NOOoooOOO! at it did nothing to dissuade it from washing out of sight.

I don’t even want to touch that horrid snake thing in the garage, but he was willing to. And so we don’t have to spend $150+ on a plumber after all. (It worked. Phew.) And not once did he say the slightest negative thing to me over any of it.

The Barrys ain’t got nuthin’ on my guy.

I mentioned last month my cousin admitting to secretly fervently wishing for a purple hat and scarf from me and I’ve been keeping an eye out ever since for just the right yarn.

And not finding it. Nope, not in my stash. Not that variegated. Purlescence had one that was tempting but was split into two dye lots, no–but I had these other projects that had to get done first anyway and that silk still has easily another week on it, so, no hurry.

But having finished a hat for someone else I no longer had a carry-around project. Just the silk. I was driving friends to San Francisco Airport this afternoon, and just before we got there I finally mused out loud to them that Cottage Yarns in South San Francisco was a whole lot closer right now than it would ever be from home and they carry the Malabrigo that would likely include exactly what I wanted that purple to be: the shade, the superwash, the softness; the wow factor, basically.

(Making that link it just finally dawned on me after all these years that the background is pale orange because they’re on Orange Avenue. My, I’m quick.)

Would the owner recognize you? Lee wondered out loud. (I guess because of the distance from home.)

Phyllis and I guffawed at her husband and I told him, Even Kathryn’s husband knows me!

And so. The Borraja. When I said no, that Rios Purpuras was just a little too gray, Kathryn pulled out exactly the right purple in the Arroyo–and thank you, Malabrigo, too, it’s perfect.

At the wheel again, I tossed various pattern thoughts around as to what I would do next with my time.

One stooped, elderly man stood alone with his memories at the foot of the Army-built Golden Gate Cemetery, a world away from the seven lanes of cars streaming past on the other side of the fence. The light turned and he didn’t see me stopped alongside him, wishing suddenly I could get out of my car so that he wouldn’t have to stay alone. I turned onto a quieter street and up the hill running alongside the place as I continued towards the freeway.  A small American flag had been planted at each grave marker, with large flags flapping vigorously in the Bay breeze around the small steep hill overlooking them all. Families were getting out of their cars near the entryway for the the Memorial Day weekend, and I silently wished the old man way down the hill company and camaraderie, too.

And I wanted to ask them, too, to tell me their stories. To see their loved ones come back to life in their eyes.

But I did not interrupt what was so intensely personal but continued on to my own place, knowing I would never forget the sight.

Suddenly realizing I don’t have a picture of it. Which is fine, I certainly have the pattern.

She admired that scarf the couple of times I wore it to knit night–a lot. Really liked it. As in, told me to finish that book, willya, because she wanted to make that one, and ooh, that colorway!

I knew her dad was sick and with a mental nod in her direction, I put on a dark-coral sweater tonight because she passionately loves orange and that was the closest I had to it to wear in solidarity. (Stephanie, I thought of your post, too, and thought how much the two of you could swap orange stories if you ever met.)

That scarf went okay with it so on impulse I put that on too just before I walked out the door.

She admired it again, a welcome diversion to the news that her dad had just been found to have not only cancer but he’s Stage Four. All the family had been asked to come and she will be flying overseas in the morning to be by his side.

And as she was telling me the news, she turned her head to catch something someone behind her said, giving me a moment when she wasn’t looking.

Wait, what?! She was stunned to feel that scarf going around her.

Honey. Even if I didn’t know it at the time, what else on earth did I make it for?

There’s an old family tease as the siblings in both our families moved around early in their careers of, “I don’t see how you can live in such a dangerous place…”

Drab dry California-summer hills nearby, birds that blend into them… and every now and then something with color pops up. The chest on this one is bright orange in the sun.

I only get to see black headed grosbeaks a few times a year and it’s been a treat to have this one hanging around under the olive tree the last three days.

The plums and Yellow Transparent apples are growing fast with harvest next month. Then come the peaches, more apples, and the blueberries seem to just be nonstop…

Meantime, I stumbled across a pair of photos someone took today near where my brother lives–I was checking the Denver weather reports after his county had a tornado warning. Click on the one on the left to get the full effect of those tennis-ball-sized hailstones. Yow.

I’d smirk, because, you know, little sisters do that sort of thing, but you know I’d get thwacked with an earthquake if I did.

Church was different today.

Jim’s friend Craig Jessop was in town, and Jim (my son’s old organ teacher) introduced him to the congregation.

Brother Jessop is the former conductor of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and I wrote about him once here, a great story, don’t miss it if you haven’t seen it yet. (And I’m sorry to add that this time Richard was the one who was home sick with a fever and had to miss out on the experience.)

He sang a solo with just the most glorious voice and then he had us all sing a few hymns.

Just the first verse of Now Let Us Rejoice–and suddenly I had tears streaming freely. One friend had no idea why but she reached an arm around me. It’s okay, it’s cool.

Brother Jessop talked some more about the power of music in connecting us with God, and then said, I’m going to ask you: if you have a favorite hymn, if one has a particular meaning to you, would you come up here, maybe 30 seconds (and then he smiled and kind of laughed and said, okay, a minute) and tell us why it’s important to you.

Collette talked about the schizophrenia that had betrayed her grandson, (the answer to the last line on that post? It was true. None of our children has been lost since that day) and at his funeral we had sung Lead Kindly Light. It had brought her so much comfort.

We sang Lead Kindly Light for her, for Brian, for God.

Others spoke too and we learned things about each other we had never known. Music is an intimate art.

I had a sister-in-law who was diagnosed with cancer when her youngest was in middle school. Her husband…acted out his pain in ways unfathomable to those who loved them. Their marriage ended and still he wrought destruction. He threw away so much that he could have been.

Eight years after her diagnosis, our phone rang very early one morning when we knew what that would mean.

It was a Sunday morning. There was certainly no going back to sleep and I walked quietly towards the kitchen to start the day with a moment to myself to take it in before the kids would wake up and be told.

And as I walked down that hallway I had this growing sense of music being sung, as if a whole crowd of happy people were giving praise to God in every note shared together.

Now let us rejoice in the day of salvation.  Just the first two phrases. I was in the kitchen by this point; the last note seemed to shine with light in the still air.

And with that, at long last after such a struggle she’d endured, peace was given to me.

A modest proposal ahead:

We as a society provide childhood vaccinations to rich and poor alike, without charge when need be for the good of everyone simply because it’s the right thing to do. Our grandparents suffered greatly but by the grace of God, our children don’t need to.

The old DPT shot is now the DTaP: diptheria, tetanus and acellular rather than whole-virus pertussis, just as effective but with no side effects, whereas the pertussis part was the biggest source of fevers and aches in the old version.

I chose to be a part of that change. My son was a newborn at Stanford when a researcher came to my bedside and told me that two million Japanese two-year-olds had been given a new DTaP vaccine with not. one. single. case. of reaction, and they hoped to be able to replace the old DPT entirely with this improved version that was so much easier on the children but that still clearly worked. It might require an extra booster later; they did not know yet. She offered me access to any information I might want about her team’s work.

But to be able to get that version in the US at any age would require finding parents willing to have their babies given this shot while it was still in study, Level III, if I remember right. It had not been given to anyone younger than those two-year-0lds. She explained the level of monitoring they would do and the care they would take to make sure my baby was okay and they would immediately discontinue it across the board if any problems surfaced whatsoever among the infants.

Of which there would be none. And so the FDA would later approve it and it would become the standard.

My oldest is allergic to the old DPT and, having reacted, cannot be fully immunized even with the new shot for all the wishing in the world.

So there was that, and, I pictured possibly millions of people spared a long night awake with a crying, unhappy baby in pain–my husband and I signed those papers. Which is why our youngest is part of why your children and my grandchildren have a safer, easier version of their shots now. There’s definitely an amount of pride in that.

Some don’t want vaccines for their kids. They haven’t seen their baby struggling for breath from pertussis or deaf from measles or paralyzed by tetanus so they don’t believe it could ever happen, and they put every immunocompromised person at risk too and don’t see it and don’t think it matters. They don’t know or they don’t want to know that the man who started the anti-vaccination fad had, by very many accounts, a huge financial stake in doing so.

I have an elegant, simple solution. A conservative solution, even.

Pass a law.  Aim it at any parent whose child does not have a valid medical reason and yet who knowingly outright refuses to immunize their child with the DTaP and MMR shots–the basic childhood shots, I’m not talking about Gardasil–any parent who cannot empathize with nor want to protect their own child from the harm these diseases could do to them, well, okay then, that’s their choice, even if I would want to argue with them that my real-world worst-case scenario, that their child dies, beats their imagined worst-case scenario, that their child becomes autistic.

But they should then be on the hook financially for the outcome of that choice. Hospitalizations, medications, therapies, hearing aids, doctors, nursing care, we can’t make them not risk their children’s suffering life-threatening or simply life-crummying illnesses but we can choose not to take the burden off those parents of the financial costs they expect to impose across the rest of us for it. Society already offered, they refused, they need to own it.

All we have to do to make this happen is to say that the insurance companies are, as of some date in the near future, not required to cover any costs incurred by a child’s illness of these specific and preventable types if this is why they were left susceptible and got sick.

The insurance companies will quite gleefully do the rest.

(Edited 5/18 to add: No, I certainly don’t think children should go without medical care. I do think we must speak out more about the costs, of every kind, of this terrible fad. See my comment below about friends of mine who dealt with a major medical debt and how it got worked out; another thought might be to, rather than withhold all coverage, impose a huge co-pay with, if needed, long payoff terms.)

My favorite little boys again…

After last month’s lupus meeting there was no way I was going to miss today’s. I wanted to see her, to be there for her. I came with a hat I’d knit in bright navy and royal blues done in two strands of merino and cashmere/mink, with a second hat still on the needles in purples and pinks in a machine washable merino/silk for her to choose from. (I’m dangling those descriptions out there in case she wants me to email her photos or if she’d rather have how they look be a surprise.) I hoped things had gotten easier in her life, but in the meantime, being a knitter, I did for her what I knew how to offer love and support.

Okay, granted, it was 97F today and nobody would even want to think about wearing a warm hat, but the ocean breezes and cool evenings will be back by the end of the week.

Turns out she’d injured her foot and stayed home.

The parking at that hospital is always terrible and our group meets at 12:30–a difficult time to take a long walk across the brightness for the very sun sensitive.

And yet the parking lot is where the hospital chose to throw their staff appreciation barbecue today.  I don’t think someone thought through that they have this nice inner courtyard with doors right there to the blessed air conditioning for people to escape from the record-breaking heat wave, and one can only imagine what it was like for the people manning those grills I saw smoking away.

Oh wait now I get it they didn’t want the walls of the hospital to spontaneously combust. A little distance, a little asphalt. Gotcha.

I circled through the handicapped area. As if. I circled a wider area. Finally, I lucked out as someone pulled out and I put the placard up (so they wouldn’t ticket me if the meeting went over the two-hour limit) and pulled in.

There was an electric cart with a driver watching me as I turned my car off and I mentally apologized to him for getting it before he could as I grabbed my cane and opened my door.

But no:  he was an old retiree volunteering and cruising the parking lot for people who might be stranded by that party and need a lift to the front doors. Really?! He had spotted my placard and stopped. He offered me a ride and suddenly I had a roof between me and the worst of the UV and less time outside than if I’d gotten the very best spot. Sweet.

During the usual how-you-doing part of the meeting, where we’re expected to actually answer that question, I admitted that summer UV is hard: it kicks up my brainstem inflammation and makes it hard to breathe at night. Y’know, the autonomic nervous system thing–not so autonomic. Not, I hastened to add, anything at all like a dozen years ago when it first hit where I didn’t know from night to night whether I would get to wake up in the morning. Only enough to make it a struggle to breathe deep enough to fall asleep, a far better problem to have.

And it didn’t even occur to me till writing that just now that I could have handed that finished blue hat to one of them for safekeeping, just in case. Because I simply took it utterly for granted that there was no need.

Which is so much better of a place to be in. And, but for that question, I’d almost missed seeing it.

Life is good.

Yesterday being Mother’s Day, I did what I always do, with only the item in hand being the thing that changes: I clipped an amaryllis stalk that had opened that very morning, right on cue, put it in a vase and headed over to Edie’s house.

I rang the doorbell, waited, knocked, no answer, and thought my timing was off this year and she must be at dinner with her kids.

Turns out her kids and grandkids were there, actually, and in the “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord” department, nobody heard me. I put the vase there on the step, knowing it would be expected and found and of course it was.

Which is why I got asked if I could come back over tonight. Before I headed out, I watered the tomatoes and saw that in today’s high heat we had half a dozen or so blueberries ripe now that weren’t before; I reached through the netting and they fell into my hands. Definitely ready. Wished there were more, but there will be in time to come as the yearling plants grow.

I put my small sun-warm offering into as small a jar as I could find.

They were cute and she loved them. Blueberries and apricots are her two most favorite fruits, she told me as she offered me roses and a couple-sized box of chocolate-dipped strawberries (all of which Richard and I ate within a half hour of my getting home–they were good.)

We pulled up chairs and caught up on each other’s lives. Praised good surgeons that cared and had saved our lives, hers, last year and recently. We rejoiced in each other’s presence.

And she said, And we have come together and become such good friends all because of Adrian.

Ohhhh, Edie… My heart broke. Again. And it was true. Her teenage son. Fourteen years ago.

She comforted me, then. She told me he is the first thing she thinks of when she wakes up every morning and the last thing she thinks of when she goes to sleep. The pain never goes away. You never get over losing a child. And yet, you find out how to cope, and life does go on, she said.

I having nearly lost a child this past December to that accident, and when people ask me how many children I have part of me still wants to say five: three girls and two boys–a miscarriage is nothing, nothing at all like what you’ve gone through, I told her. And yet–that other daughter is part of me. I struggled to say, losing her is part of what shaped me.

But Edie understood, better than I could ever ask for. There was no judgmentalism, there was no comparing in this, it simply was and we took it in together and we are enough in the face of these things. These are our lives.

And we have children that are growing and thriving and grandchildren to bounce on our knees and sing to and we know how lucky we are.

I exclaimed over the yellow roses and we came away blessed and loved and the world a better place.

(And now I want to plant an apricot tree.)

Happy Mother’s Day to all!

An old friend. A message today out of the blue with a request for a copy of my book  for a friend of hers. A new address–wait. Katie! You’ve moved back to the area?!

Turns out an old friend of hers who lives across the country had inherited a house here and Katie is house-sitting for her while managing the fixing up of the place.

She showed me the sweater her friend had once made her and was pleased I wanted to show it off to you all: she knew I would understand why that friend needed to have my book in thanks.

Katie’s husband died some time ago and I planned to quietly tear up her widow’s mite of a check, but darn it, she insisted on paying me and she insisted on handing me cash and she allowed me to give her no discounts.  I tried.

The quick visit turned into several hours as she offered us homemade ginger molasses cookies and her little dog decided we were harmless and took a nap in front of the hearth. It was so good to see her.

And we got to see that magnificent old house. Eighty years ago, it was a spacious barn for drying a farmer’s apricots in: an open loft towered in view above most of the lower level, hemmed in at the edge only by sheets of added-on lucite maybe 18″ high. Not a place for a child and certainly not up to code. Yet. Add a barrier to falling there and at the stairs and call it good. Maybe divide that massive first-floor wall of a window across at waist level like we had to do years ago, but the contractor will let her know. We talked about how to do what needed doing without disrupting its sense of history.

The hanging lights were ornately crafted, from a very different era. Ironwork?

There were ancient willow trees out the windows, streams of small leaves dancing gracefully in the breeze. The furnishings, including a grand piano, spoke to Katie’s descriptions of the now-gone owners’ love of a good party dressed in one’s finery. In a valley full of the tear-down and the so-modern and the crowded, this was space and slow pace, a glorious home.

And it brought our Katie back near us for now.

Dropped Richard off at work took something to Michelle’s forgot something went home took a brief nap to catch my breath got up went back to Michelle’s went to the post office mailed off a copy of Wrapped in Comfort: Knitted Lace Shawls for someone who donated to Stephanie’s bike marathon went to Costco bought fruit went home hulled and de-stemmed fruit made coconut chocolate ganache and then caramel sauce to dunk giant strawberries grapes blackberries in. Arranged artfully (more or less). Answered a bit of mail in between.

Then I picked up Richard, threw some dinner at us (more or less) and got back in the car with the fruit and the sauces.

And sat down in the chapel with him and took a deep breath and let the music, finally, begin.

Our friend Jim the organist grew up with Sue (Keith of yesterday’s video’s mom) and today was Sue’s birthday, so he rounded up half a dozen mutual friends who were musicians too and threw her a concert in celebration, at church, of course, where there just happened to be this pipe organ and grand piano near each other. So handy.

Katie came with her flute, and Katie hasn’t lived in this state since our kids were in high school together. She and Russ played some of Mary’s compositions. (Note that there are scores there. Note that they are freely available to the public for non-commercial use) and Mary herself came with her husband and got to hear her work performed.

The first Sunday we were here 27 years ago they announced in church that (insert name I did not know) was in a coma and would everyone please pray for her recovery.

I figured it was some old person, having no idea it was the wife of an old college classmate of mine, all of us then in our twenties. She had had a pregnancy turn molar with preeclampsia and had stroked.

Katie had been a gifted flute player and when she came back to us she no longer knew how to play. She has long since fully regained that ability and is fine. She knew me when all seemed lost when I was later in the hospital, too, and I too came back. So did Russ’s wife (I will be grateful forever that Karen and Amy told me I had to buy that cashmere.) We are survivors.

Sue’s husband was recording the concert and I might be able to link to it later; I hope so. Anyway, afterward, Katie asked after me and I explained the new hearing aids. She immediately thought of who could most be helped with that information and got very excited, saying, we have to tell Hank about those! His aren’t very good and he needs better ones. When I warned her on the price she said, But being able to hear the best you possibly can, it’s worth it!

Exactly.

It’s all worth it. Every experience we go through to get us to where we need to become and that teaches us to take nothing for granted, it’s worth every step of the way.

There was so much love tonight.

Happy Birthday, Sue!

Bought a house as young parents, watched our kids grow up and our friends’ kids grow up. One family moved away eleven years ago but their boys stayed best friends with Keith of just-over-thataway; we visited them a few years ago in their not so new anymore place up in the Rocky Mountains–the one where we saw the herd of elk doing the fishy dance as we came back down from there.

They left California about the time I was in the hospital the first time and their youngest daughter took the time out of packing to make me a paper crane. I have it right over there.

The mom can make costumes like I can knit–and she thinks it’s simple and easy to do, too, to which I guffaw, and then think oh. right. in the direction of people who think that what I do is hard. So. One notable Halloween party when our kids were young, she and her family showed up with all of them done up as  Star Wars characters: the oldest girl had the dark hair and braids to totally pull off the Princess Leia look, the dad was Obi-Wan Kanobe, etc, and everybody else just kind of stopped right there and gaped when they saw them–WOW! So much detail, so much work (so much not a chance that you could talk her into letting you pay her to make anything like that for you or your family, too–requests that will sound familiar to knitters everywhere.)

And now three of their kids are in a video, and their sons’ best friend Keith–oh, wait, didn’t I ever blog about Keith? About going to church in Ft Worth when we were visiting my in-laws, and when the meeting ended we stood up at one end of the chapel and Keith stood up at the other end of the chapel and he and I both stood there frozen in disbelief, jaws hanging quite open: what are YOU doing here!

Small world!

So now he lives near where they do, and Keith has the Obi-Wan role. Etc. This video went past my Facebook feed again and again yesterday and I finally clicked today after my daughter said something.

Ohmygosh. It IS them! The maker of my crane is the female star. Her sister does a cameo. Their mom’s costumes rise again.

One of the great things about getting older is watching the world shrink before your very eyes.

Two blueberries a day. It’s early in the season and the plants are only a year old. On this one variety they definitely turn color fast once they’re ready to go and suddenly they completely stand out from behind the bird netting, begging, pick me, pick me: two perfect, big, blue, berries, as if the canes know to pair them off like that for us, and so for the third or fourth time now, Richard smiled tonight as I proudly handed him his portion from the garden. With a fair amount of bemusement on his part as he held the tiny thing between his much-larger-than-mine finger and thumb.

There was never such a perfect little snack.

He would agree on that description.