The front page of the San Jose Mercury News yesterday, and today at the Washington Post–alright, it was time. 23&Me has filed for bankruptcy. Your genetics, the questionnaires you’ve answered, your lineage, your relatives, all your personal data and by some extension theirs through you could be put up for sale to anyone with any agenda.

The Merc buried the lede, which should have come first instead of as a postscript:

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“On the website, customers can also direct the company to destroy stored saliva samples and DNA, as well as revoke permission for their genetic data to be used for research.”

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I imagine it probably helps a whole lot to do that before you go in there and delete your account first like I did. For which the instructions from the Merc are:

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“To delete their 23andMe account and personal information, customers can follow these steps:

— Log in to their 23andMe account on the company’s website.
— Navigate to the “settings” section of their profile.
— Scroll down to the “23andMe data” section at the bottom of the page.
— Click “view” next to “23andMe data.”
— Download their data.
— Scroll to the “delete data” section.
— Click “permanently delete data.”
— Confirm their request — an email from 23andMe will follow, containing a link to finalize the deletion.”

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That it did.

Would you want the people currently raiding Medicare and Social Security data to get ahold of this? This was the only such company that cared about privacy and data protection and now they’re not going to be able to.

The first talk at church today was by a young man whose American family had lived in Eastern Europe for part of his childhood.

He was talking about the life of Jesus.

How his parents had fled their country under the violence of an edict to kill all baby boys under the age of two. How, when that leader died, they had at last returned home to their own country.

But how much did he ever really feel it was, and how much did the people there ever regard him as theirs, and as the speaker said that I suddenly saw how he could see that question in a way the rest of us would not have. Then he asked: Wouldn’t that have made it easier for him to willingly thwart oppressive leaders himself.

I had never thought of that.

The second speaker, someone I’ve known for years, kind of interrupted herself to make an aside re something that had been weighing heavily on her: how people–good people–people she’d loved and known and respected–had come to show a, a, (she searched for words, not wanting to tear down and knowing that people only truly change when they feel loved, not dissed) a… mean streak… that was so unexpected.

She said it near tears with so much love for them, in pain and wanting better for them, that they could not have denied the gift her words were offering them. There was a way out from that.

She is a lawyer and loves the rule of law and holding all people equal before God and man.

There were a very few in that audience who needed to hear that message and many more who were intensely relieved to hear Love Thy Neighbor given voice and attention. Intention. Towards all.

Because if we don’t have that what is left to us? But we do have it, we do, and we must.

I’m heading out with Nina in the morning to play first day of the Bay Area Yarn Crawl. (Had I ever been to this LYS in Morgan Hill? No. This other one in San Carlos? Never heard of it somehow. Well then we will discover them.)

But first I wound the skein of green Manos Silk Blend that she brought me back from Uruguay last month as, y’know, kind of a yarn vaccine–and because I owe it to her to have it ready to cast on. Pretty stuff.

But I promise you we will succumb to the wool fumes just the same.

I took photos of two dye lot numbers to see if I can match them–you know how doubtful that is, but it has happened before and hey, you never know.

As I sit here remembering back in the days of random phone calls from investor types dialing into our area code and not having the least clue that it was in a time zone three hours off from theirs. …The email I’d sent off to a LYS, including my number. To make it easier for them? To make the inquiry feel more legitimate a reason for them to spend their time looking at all those little yarn tags? I can only guess now.

And my husband waking groggily up at dark o’clock, shoving the phone across that I had not in my sleep heard ringing, and going, “It’s your boiler-room yarn pushers in New York City. They want you to know they don’t have your dye lot.”

It’s been a running joke here ever since.

They were calling before opening the store in order to catch me before I might head off to work. It was very kind of them. They could simply have ignored me, but they were trying to be as helpful as they could as fast as they could and get that info to me so I would know to keep trying.

So let me see what I can do tomorrow.

If I don’t find it, maybe they have more of that Rios in New York City.

They haven’t had one in a long time that I can think of but there was a craft night at church tonight: bring whatever and get together.

I asked the organizer to text me the night of because I wanted to go but I knew I would forget. Which I did. And she did. I thanked her. I wore a mask: I knew she’d just had her last cancer treatment.

A few card tables were pulled out for watercoloring on. Two people were crocheting large afghans. I had my fish. One woman was sewing some appliqué, the project mostly folded up so you couldn’t really see anything but the flower at hand.

I asked to see it.

The whole thing laid out was revelatory–it was a stunning work of art.

She’d had no idea I knit. I know, right?

One friend asked me to spread my afghan out so she could see the whole thing. She knew me enough to say, And you just knit it, right, no pattern? Art is like that: it tells you where it wants to go.

It’s the boss of us, I affirmed. She grinned.

The things we take for granted about ourselves that others have no way to know. Seeing each other’s creativity was what the evening was all about, and a good time was had by all.

Even if I forgot to bring my turtle chart and had to put that off for several more rows.

Although, she would have heard mine, come to think of it.

So.

Dental follow-up appointment. They called yesterday to reschedule me. Got there early because parking’s a bear. Brought just a hat project in a ziploc, since it looked like it would start raining again any second.

I sat there and sat there and sat there. I could hear the folks at work in the adjoining rooms but no one was manning the check-in and nobody had any clue I was there.

After half an hour, another patient came in.

She was elderly. She looked smashing. Her hair had been done, her dress perfect, her makeup demanded you notice her eyes.

Those warm and smiling eyes. And an accent I couldn’t quite place other than to think she’d been here a long time now.

She exclaimed over my very simple turquoise stockinette stitch beanie that had the bottom folded up and the decreasing happening at the top of my needles and told me how pretty it was.

(I thought, Honey, I can brag on a better one than that), and pulled out my phone and showed the latest.

Her mouth hung open in surprise at that afghan. She embiggened the details for a better look, chasing the screen around with her finger.

Then she started to tell me she could knit, even if not a lot and that she doesn’t anymore. “We all could; we were invaded,” as if that should tell me everything.

I was suddenly glad I was wearing a gerdan, but she didn’t mention it so who knows. Either way, Eastern Europe was my guess.

But just then someone appeared who worked there but whom I’d never seen before nor she me. Her own accent was thick and clearly of Slavic origin. She wanted to know who I was and why I was there? Caught herself and backtracked a bit and asked if I had an appointment? But I wasn’t on the books…

She took my name to doublecheck that. Nope–I was off by a week.

I wondered what her experiences had been, too.

I explained that I’m pretty deaf and that I’d handed the phone to my husband when they’d called to make the appointment and I was sorry we’d gotten it wrong. She said that was her on the phone,  now realizing who I was, and she apologized–to which I said No, no, I got to meet you (turning to the woman I’d been talking to) because of this–thank you!

I went home chuckling over the effort life had gone to to get me to finally start to finish that silly hat (typing that knowing it still needs nine more ever-smaller rows. If you’re going to be so close you might as well be so much closer.)

Richard told me a few minutes later, They said today!

Meant to be, then, I told him.

My only regret is that I never got to ask that woman about the country she’d come from and how she’d managed to make it here. All those stories she’d lived through and how she’d come out of it a warm, loving person: I wanted to hear them!

Me, walking almost in the door from Trader Joe’s: I found it!!

Him, meeting me at the door to open it for me (but that’s not where I was heading yet.) You found it!

Last Monday I did some grocery shopping. Wednesday something in the car seemed…off. I remembered a news story some years back of someone who bought a new car, had some raw chicken roll under a seat, didn’t use the car for two weeks and when they found it their insurance company paid for all kinds of remedies before giving up and totaling out the car. Brand new. Replaced. For a chicken.

Thursday I opened the hood and cleared out all kinds of stray leaves, trying to find just where this stupid dead mouse or whatever it was was. Friday I searched the inside of the car yet again. Saturday I gave my friend who’s blind in one eye–oh wait, I thought I wrote about that here, guess I didn’t–a ride home but first apologized that the car had this, uh, problem, and we’d been trying, and I was so sorry.

Well if you don’t find it come back to me and I’ll find it for you guys! he promised.

Sunday parking the car at church we hoped nobody could smell it from outside the car.

Monday we didn’t go anywhere probably because we really didn’t want to. We promised ourselves we would finally find it once the sun got low enough for me to help in the search again. We forgot. And then you don’t go looking for decaying squishy things in the dark, I mean…

He never was sure it smelled mousy, though. I wasn’t either but it was definitely dead.

The next thing I said to him this evening at that doorway was, Remember that bag of greens in cream and garlic sauce that fell out of the freezer in the garage and didn’t get found for two days?

Yeah?

I bought another to replace it so we could finally try that stuff once, at least. I only discovered where it landed because I had a bag break just now and the trajectories led me to this–where I know I looked again and again and again. But there it was. I found it!

Clearly we are not meant to touch that dish, he said as I held it at arm’s length heading towards the garbage bin past the gate, exit, stage right.

He didn’t have to add, So please don’t ever buy it again.

…I went to go title this “At least it didn’t explode” and suddenly…

I told Richard, “As far as I know”…

And put on a jacket, was glad to see it’s not raining yet, and opened the car just to be sure.

It is much, much, much, much better.

I wrote about wearing the huge sunflower gerdan in protest and solidarity the Sunday after the election.

What I didn’t mention was ABT coming up to me, wanting to know if that meant what she thought it did.

Support for Ukraine and made in Ukraine, yes, and I’d promised the woman who’d made it that I would wear it in celebration the day her country wins the war.

That meant a lot to ABT.

Two weeks ago I motioned her over at church. I asked her, Do you remember? and she went Oh, yeah!

I told her, I ordered something and this artist gifted me with the extra of a small gerdan–one that I already have one quite like. Is blue a good color, and would you like it? I pulled it out of its bag, its beads sparkling. (Not all do, but that one does.)

I knew, but didn’t say, how insane rents are in this area and how they can leave a young couple without a dime to spare. One of the perks of being older is getting to share. She got a little emotional at the sight as she took it in her hands.

I didn’t run into her last week so she made a point of finding me today. It matched her blue dress perfectly. It matched her and what she so hoped for for the sake of good people fighting for their freedom, and in the face of what our terrible leaders did to Zelensky this past week, wearing her support out loud felt imperative. And now she could.

And there I was, doing the same: that large loud sunflower was back on me.

I go in every six months to see if it’s time for that retina surgery yet and today was the day.

Look at the blue dot, the tech said. Not the red line moving up and down. Look at the blue dot.

It took concentration not to let the red distract me–the blue held still and had a touch of a halo to it that was charming but that line, if you can call it that, wiggled and wobbled and threw its edges around like a spider’s legs on a wall while looking like it had been cut lengthwise with pinking shears.

Then they did the other eye. Now there was just a plain line going slowly up and down. No drama, just round and blue, straight and red, each conveying their information.

Looks great! said the retina specialist a few minutes later, pleased. It’s stable. That’s very good. Come in every six months and we’ll keep tabs on it, but we don’t have to do surgery for now.

Then this doctor, a man of color, asked me about my experience of how I was seeing, though, and I told him frankly, That (nodding towards the computer) surprises me.But then, in a flash of truth as I realized how it had been affecting me more than I thought–

–and what followed was one of those moments where you know you said just the right thing and that the person wasn’t expecting it but was so relieved and gratified to hear it–

I said, But maybe that’s just because of all the political noise going on right now.

One blue dot connected with another and we saw each other clearly. He seemed a little lighter of step walking out of there.

I finally decided to spend the $600, I finally made the appointment, I finally went in.

The ear molds on my hearing aids aren’t just a chunk of plastic–they have microphones to back up the mics in the upper pieces behind the ears.

You clean them with a fine wire threaded through–but it almost never went through anymore. Too many pock marks to catch on after three years, I guess.

If your weight changes, the ear molds don’t fit anymore: gain weight, they can start to hurt, lose weight, they get loose and don’t transmit sound as well. But also, with my connective tissue disease, my ear canals are easily irritated and last time they cut the things down and short so they wouldn’t, literally, make my ears bleed.

But maybe a little too much. And seven pounds I lost with the flu in December somehow never came back.

It all adds up.

So, said the audiologist on Tuesday, what made you decide you need new molds?

I looked at her. I said, You’ll have to repeat that because I didn’t get it at all.

Aaaaah. Got it. And we discussed details from there.

(And also because she’s retiring and it was my last chance to see her for sure and I’ll miss her dearly. Nothing like a deadline.)

The hearing aids needed a software updating so they did that. The ears needed wax out to make the proper mold, so, yeah, that, too. She injected pink foam into my ears, waited for it to solidify, and then off it went to Oticon.

I did it, I finally did it.

Except that now I have to sit here and wait and not have my new improved hearing yet that I’m suddenly allowing myself to want so much and it’s been two days already. Gee, what could I do with my hands to keep them busy and me distracted in the meantime.

They called out a special truck, clearly; I’ve never seen that one here before. It was the length of a semi with a flat bed with planks along the sides like an old gardener’s truck, painted in the cheerful white and green of the city’s recycling contractor.

The toddler next door would have loved this: the guy wheeled the treadmill over to the back of it, where a lift brought it up to the height of that bed. Then he wheeled it further down towards the front–and as far as I could tell my treadmill was the only thing on there.

I took a picture and waved hello in thanks. The guy waved back.

Later when I went to bring the bins in, I found it: Ruth had made the key to turn on the treadmill easy to find and hard to lose by beading a bright piece to attach to it. And then a second section that clipped onto that, just to really be sure. Primary color beads, then the pink and turquoise plaited plastic.

That second part was easy to get off if you wanted to (while keeping the key, just in case.)

And there it was, lying in front of the empty recycling bin, waiting where he knew I would find it. Kind of like half a friendship bracelet. I’m sure he assumed I had put a fair bit of time into making it.

It completely made my day. Such a small thing, but a thoughtful thing, and that’s everything. Hey, RUTH! (Since she’s the one who did make it.)

That truck left just barely in time for the neighbor’s contractor to pull in. More potential two-year-old-boy thrills: it was a cement truck, twirlywhirly in back and all, ready to pour the not-new neighbors’ new walkway. Last week’s weather was too rainy for it but the forecast said we had ten dry days ahead.

Two hours after they arrived, it rained for half an hour.

I don’t know when the actual pouring happened, but two hours after the skies cleared, I left for an errand. Passing that house, with echoes of the returned chaining hovering in my thoughts, I stopped, rolled down the car window, and said to the tired guy closest by, “It looks great!”

His face lit up. He thanked me. He looked at it: it did, didn’t it. He turned to go tell his buddies and I headed out and on my way, suddenly hoping those four men and their families would have a brighter day all from the actions of that recycling employee, too.

It was on their back patio right by the sliding door, protected by the awning, but still: relegated to outside and out of the way because they just were not using it any more at all. That’s when I knew it really was okay to accept it from them.

Ruth traded me that treadmill for a chocolate torte. Which I baked and then froze before we made the roughly two hour drive to her house near UC Davis so that it would be safe on arrival. She fed us lunch, we had a great visit, her puppy was cute, and then we used a wheelchair ramp to roll the treadmill into our minivan and drove it home.

I used it pretty much every single day for eleven years.

Then the belt jammed. Richard tested it recently and said the motor was slow now, too.

I was used to my walking time and I was going to get my walking time and since I can’t be in the sun I started simply pacing around the house for it–and doubled my time because now I wasn’t afraid of falling off that thing (once was enough.)

Maybe we could get a new belt.

Belts cost $99 for that old model, and quite possibly it still wouldn’t work.

Our city has twice a year Clean Up Days, where the usual one-tiny-can garbage restriction is lifted and you can put up to so much of things of this size, this size, this type and/or that.

Tomorrow is that day. We had talked about this for awhile, reluctantly.

But it took up so much space.

We both have temperamental backs and neither of us wanted to have to deal with it.

Yeah but I also had determination, so it started with me trying and failing and then him helping and then me wheeling it down the walkway once he got it past that doorway rise thingamagummy down there.

Gone. (Wait, I probably shouldn’t say that till the morning’s truck leaves.)

A little icing of the back, a bit of time doing stretches, and a whole lot of hope that tomorrow we’ll be fine, but man, it feels good to see that space empty. I expect the garbage folks will lift it with the truck’s mechanical arm, and wouldn’t the two year old next door have fun watching that?

It was a great gift and greatly appreciated and always will be and was much used. But it was its time. It is good to see its metals and plastics sent back into the recycle stream.

It’s not anywhere near as hard as when the childhood home in Maryland was sold.

Mom and Dad were visiting Salt Lake, where Mom grew up, when an old and dear friend told them they had to come see this unit in her building that was on the market. They had no intention of moving after 40 years, but to make her happy they said okay–and walked out of there going, Heyyy. Never shovel snow again. (Where’s that ambulance story around here.) The light rail line a block away to get to the grocery store without driving, free concerts every week just down the hill, grandkids an hour away, a master suite at each end so live-in help when we get really old could have their privacy and space…

No furniture. The previous owner’s kitchen wallpaper that Mom and Dad were always going to get rid of is finally gone. (Yay!) So different. Wiped of any sign of memories and ready for new ones.

The walkway between the kitchen to the back door is set up for a small laundry area, but each floor has its own laundry room so the folks took theirs out and put in a freezer instead. Not sure what the agent was thinking when they snapped a picture of that freezer in that narrow space and labeled it the kitchen! But anyway.

Mom’s place went on the market today. All those closets are a knitter’s stash’s dream.

There was a grandchild on the way at the time and I went to Cottage Yarns to get some Malabrigo Rios for a baby blanket.

What leaped out at me was a bag of the thicker Mecha in their Anniversario colorway. It demanded to be bought, it demanded to be knit, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it because it wasn’t what I was planning on at all. Meantime, the Rios got bought and the baby blanket happened–but this did, too.

It was really too heavy for a future toddler to drag around as their blankie, and the thick loosely spun yarn wasn’t really made for what a baby would do to it anyway.

So it went into a ziplock bag and waited its turn. Every now and then I pulled it out and tried to get it to tell me who it was for. I wondered/expected that the day would probably come suddenly all at once.

That it did.

As I wrote to my sister’s son and daughter-in-law: Malabrigo began when Antonio, whom I’ve met a number of times at Stitches, had a flock of very fine-haired sheep but felt, Can’t anyone make something pretty out of my wool?

So he started dyeing it himself. He grew a business that was just starting to really take off–and then his mill burned down.

I told them, my local LYS was upset with them because suddenly their orders were unfilled and there was no response to their emails. They had no idea.

Antonio and his sister and brother-in-law, good, good people, not only rebuilt the mill, they went solar, and they’ve done so well that they’ve revived the sheepherding industry in their part of the world. For awhile there it cost more to pay the shearer than what the farmers could get for their wool; Malabrigo’s promise was, sell us the good stuff and you’ll get a good price for it. Not by the pound (coarser hairs weigh more) but by the micron count.

SO soft.

At their tenth anniversary they celebrated by throwing all the colors at once into a new colorway: Anniversario.

I told them, my son-in-law drove us up a mountain above Anchorage a few years ago in hopes of showing us the northern lights. We didn’t get to see them–but I knitted this to make my own version.

And at last I know why it needed to come to be.

This is the niece and nephew whose house in Pacific Palisades burned to the ground, her childhood home and entire neighborhood gone, my nephew and sister and her husband visiting to fix up the place barely escaping with their lives.

I grieved their loss. I wanted them to have a hug from me always.

Wool has a natural tendency to extinguish flames.

The forecast had said an inch and a half, then suddenly jumped that by an inch last night as it was starting to come down.

We got 3.22″ of rain. It was a good day for not going anywhere out there.

So.

My ear molds no longer fit (changing the size of your ear canals is the weirdest part of changing weight), I’m going in next week to get new ones made, but meantime it makes every bit of wax a problem and sound isn’t getting through well enough anyway.

I forgot I was holding one hearing aid in my hands to clean it when I heard…

What on earth was that? I listened intently. Screech. Another skunk vs raccoon fight? A little early in the season for that, isn’t it? Although, I guess, food, anytime, though I didn’t know what the source might be. Neighbors talking loud enough to hear across the yard and through the glass? I mean, no, but, what?

I finally got up and walked in the kitchen, asking, Do you hear that?

Hear what?

Just then I looked at the screen behind him and instantly remembered what was in my hands and not in my ear.

‘Pink Floyd: Wish You Were Here.’

Well, I was now!

My friend Ellen sent me this picture some time ago and I’ve had the tab open ever since. Any time mine are bothering me I want to say to the ophthalmologist, yeah, feels kinda like that.

It’s a honeybee.

I would say waiting for a good meal to catch its eye.