He was an adorable bald little baby when he first started playing peekaboo with me at church from his mother’s arms.

At eighteen  months he was old enough to go into the nursery and give her a break so I saw a lot less of him. He had thick blond hair now, a little boy of cheerful disposition with the distinctive waddle-walk of that age and as he reached way up to hold his daddy’s hand and walked in there one particular Sunday I marveled at so much change so fast. So very normal. They don’t stay babies, do they.

And he was still always ready to turn and wave hi my way with his whole being lighting up at the sight of me. I really hadn’t done much to earn that, he simply offered the gift of loving for love’s sake.

There are a lot of young families that cycle through this area, landing a good job out of grad school, getting some experience, and then moving on when a job offer somewhere else offers the chance of being able to buy a house with a reasonable cost of living.  (We marveled when we moved here at the old people who could never afford to buy their houses now and now we are those older people. Wait, wait, not *that* old, but still.)

And so his family did just that two years ago.

They were in town, visiting, and so there they were at church today.

He’s past napping stage but I guess all that vacationing took it out of him–he fell asleep during the main meeting with his mommy holding him. At four, he’s a lot bigger now and she admitted her arms were getting tired.

Several of us converged on our old friends at once and he stirred a bit. The first thing he saw was me. And he was in a happy place and snuggled back down with a smile.

After the last meeting, she was catching up some more with some of us who have so missed them and again holding him and I suddenly realized he was playing peekaboo through the back of the chair, eyes on me, waiting for me to notice: bobbing up then down in happy anticipation. Of course I would see, he knew it. That’s what honorary Grandmas do.

I was amazed he remembered me. I mean, he’d been a babe in arms! I was grateful to have meant so much to such a new person that it carried forward, glad that it helped what was a homecoming to his mom and dad feel like one to him too rather than being one more strange new place to get through on their trip away from home.

Every smile matters. Both ways.

Our one-year membership at the Monterey Bay Aquarium has five weeks left on it and we’d wanted to see their Tentacles exhibit while it was still on.

This morning: “Do you want to go?”

“Sure!”

“What time?”

“Let me get this load out of the washer and we need to fill the car.”

And then, wild and crazy young things that we are, we threw a few cans of fruit juice in the car and took off down the coast. Got some serious blankie knitting done while he drove.

The GPS on his phone was misbehaving so we used mine, knowing there had been road construction. But his is the one that has a charger in the car, so I was down to only getting a few pictures once we got there.

Nautilus can naut(tell)ilii.

Sardines are the silver jewelry of the sea.

We watched a cuttlefish that kept pulsing dark purple in waves down its body, S-curving around a lighter almost yellow at its edges and in time to the waves of the water, the darker area matching the (lava rocks?) at the bottom of the display. There was a white anemone nearby and hiding in it another cuttlefish had gone white to match. Put a color or pattern next to them and watch them change to try to vanish into it to prey and not to be prey.

Richard got some pictures I’ll have to share later of the horned and tufted puffins–I was delighted to be within inches of some of the birds that our daughter saw on a recent boat ride in Alaska.

But quite a few people in the crowd around us cracked up when I mentioned that the tufted puffins looked like Donald Trump’s hair, they really  do.

We drove through the artichoke fields of Castroville on the way home and found ourselves a farmstand and came away with the very freshest and a jar of their artichoke marinara sauce. It was clear the place had seen many a tourist, in that there was a large sign showing how to eat their crop–thistle show’em.

We came home too tired to cook. Tomorrow is soon enough.

“You spun? You haven’t spun in a long time.” Then he stopped short with, “Wait–spun? Or plied?”

Busted.

Maybe a dozen years ago I bought the cashmere, I bought it all: cones of 90% undyed brown cashmere 10% wool, single-ply, spun very fine for the garment industry.

But when it arrived from China the importer found a moth in the box. Or maybe several. She debated shipping it back but emailed me, an old customer, saying it would be all the same to her if she simply unloaded it on me at her cost.

Fifteen bucks a pound plus shipping.

!?! YES please!!!

Granted, brown cashmere is cheaper to begin with because you have a far wider range of dyeing options with white. Brown makes for earth tones. I could live with that.

It came from the Southeast with a slight whiff of mildew. A really hot scour of the finished yarns helped greatly and it was all the more incentive to boil it in a dyebath (but that and the lack of superwashing made me hesitate later to use it for the grandbabies.)

I plied pounds and pounds of that thin thread on my wheel into a soft knitting yarn and I knitted and spun and dyed some more until I actually, honestly kinda got (forgive me) bored with it. (I hear you and you and you and you saying hey let ME be bored now!)

I knew all these years later I still had a little somewhere, but two days ago I stumbled across not scraps’ worth but three two-pound cones.

I had this laceweight offwhite silk on a Colourmart cone that had just been sitting there…

I was a little afraid to touch that brown for fear of finding that for having been left alone in their ziplocs for so long they were finally bug-damaged, never actually having had any problems before despite their beginnings, but no, there was no sign. The yarn was fine.

The bigger bobbin was 227 yards and 120g when I got done and when I finish I’ll have more than that again.

It was a distraction from the project at hand, but I felt like when inspiration strikes after a dozen years’ wanting, grab it while it’s there.

Do I dye it or do I leave it?

And I… There were originally fifteen pounds… I think I have another of those cashmere cones in that other closet, too, most of one pound, at least. Might even be two like that. I’d have to open those big awkward boxes that are above my head and I haven’t quite yet looked to confirm.

And family!

Drop off, pick up, oh I forgot my could you get me yes of course I’d be glad to workapartmentphysicaltherapistapartmenttrainstationhomehaircuthometrainstation apartmenthome(onesingle minutebeforethephonerangtogoagain)work–starting at 8 am, grateful for hot cocoa in a travel mug and a family that I love.

And then bacon-wrapped scallops for a quick dinner because, y’know, there they were, just sitting in the freezer waiting for a day that had earned them and today, happy as it was, was definitely the day.

And then finally I got to sit down, hold still, work on the baby blanket, and chat with friends at Purlescence. Good times.

I should have taken pictures–the place looked so different from last week.

They’d been using towering dark brown cubbies inherited from the previous yarn store that I know had had them 25 years ago and very likely a few decades before that, too.

Once the Purlescence crew started taking them down they found out just how past their prime those homemade bins were–the extra bolts they’d put in had held them together just long enough. (To all the Californians thinking earthquake, they’d bolted the sides to the walls, too, as one must.)

There are light wood half-walls now, the yarn hanging on hooks to either side, everything on display and in view.  Wow, the place looks so much better. The airflow in the room is better, the lighting is better, the dark caverns that the aisles were have vanished into history and what they call their living room area no longer feels like an isolated corner. I can’t begin to imagine how much work that was to pull all that off in a few days.

But it’s as welcoming-looking and warm and friendly now as its owners are, and that’s saying a lot.

Sometimes all it takes is starting that first step.

I bought a full bag of Malabrigo Rios skeins several months ago, a very soft superwash wool and what Parker’s blanket was made of, for a matching drag-around-everywhere blankie for Hudson. I made him that vivid blue silk one when he was born, and it was gorgeous and good for thermoregulating in heat or cold, but for doing head-first dives off the couch into the softness and poking holes in and having Gramma fix it? (I know, I know, so I keep convincing myself–wool really is the way to go.)

And a friend having been burned out of her apartment last year by a hot water heater gone bad, you never know; wool self-extinguishes when you remove the source of flame, whereas synthetics melt onto the skin. Wool is definitely safer around small children.

I finished the ribbing tonight and I’ve started in on the pattern part.  The yarn had thrown a tantrum clear from the next room and had demanded to be next. Nothing else would do. Me me me, it loudly bossed my needles.

At long last and such a relief–I’d wanted to want to work on it and now nothing else will do. (Sorry for the delay, kiddo.)

Just saw a note.

My foster-parenting friend told me last week that Andy‘s need for a safe, secure, and loving environment was never being considered by the court–only whether the remaining bio parent would take him on.

Which apparently didn’t happen at even the most basic level of commitment. The foster parents knew that’s how it was; the social workers knew; the system repeatedly did not care.

Until now.  In a complete turnaround that surprised them, the court just opened the way for the adoption process to begin after all. It’s not a done deal yet but it’s far more likely now. I cannot begin to express how grateful I am.

I know there are a whole lot more of you reading this blog than that ever comment, and I just wanted to tell each one of you whoever you may be my thanks for your prayers, for your concern for one  innocent little toddler out there in the world, for Thinking Good Thoughts his way–the latter, I should add, I believe with all my heart that the God of love counts just as seriously as any prayer, since the purpose of our being here is to learn better how to love.

And now Andy will have a much better chance in his life at exactly that.

Another thing that happened at Lee’s birthday celebration: I have long wanted to know whom to ask, someone who really knew, and wow, there he was.

Years ago the local paper did an article on a type of mango so fiberless and fragile and so perfect that it could not be shipped to grocery stores, and expats from India would sign up at an Indian grocer in the area for so many cases and would wait to meet a planeload’s worth coming in: picked and picked up all in a very short time frame, at astronomical prices.

I remembered the story but not the variety.

I’ve talked for two years now about buying a mango tree and about what it would take to have it survive any freezing temps here. One grower’s suggestion led to the classic protest from Richard about how he was not going to be the neighbor with Christmas lights up in March. Which is funny. But he had a point.

There are other ways. Some fairly difficult.

Lee’s friend Dani was from India and he’s done those signups. He grew up with an Alphonso tree in his yard producing one to two hundred a year, and he said it was THE mango, the only mango, the most coveted one in all of India. The perfume! He mimed waving it towards his face in blissful memory. So intense! The flavor! There was nothing like it, nothing.

Mallika was the variety I had thought I wanted. He had not heard of it. He’s been here awhile and it’s a new variety, maybe?

We emailed back and forth a bit afterwards and so he lit a fire under me to find out more.

Mallika: “Among the best.” Alphonso: “The best, the most sought after.” Ah. I had not compared them side by side before because I hadn’t known to.

But here’s the thing: at Lee’s that night, when I told Dani I’d more or less given up on the idea anyway, not quite sure I wanted another container tree (on a platform so that we could wheel it close to the house in winter–good luck with that chore) and not sure I wanted to plant it in the ground either, not sure it would survive without a lot of work–we do get some freezes, even if not many–he, having already found a 3 gallon size available (I want it a 7) via his phone by that point in the conversation, passionately urged me to go ahead and get that tree, emphasizing with each word: “If you don’t try you will never know.”

This just might happen after all and it will be because of him.

I’m now on the waiting list for notification for when the 7-gallon size comes in. Lee’s friend admitted he hopes I give him a few Alphonsos someday when it produces, and I assured him I owed him that thanks, yes. Absolutely.

I think that’s one of the reasons I put the tomato pots where I did last month: to prove there’s enough sun in that spot near the south side of the house for production. Done.

Dinner at Michelle’s, Facetime with Parker and his daddy, old friends showing up at church who’ve moved across the country and across the world and by sheer happenstance getting to see each other as well as us. The world shrank and got all the sweeter.

And I got nearly half a cowl done on just one speakerphone phone call.

Got home at almost bedtime, so, quickly, here goes: my dairy-allergic daughter went to a vegan food fair at Santa Clara Convention Center and stopped by our house with fabulous chocolate she’d found there: the 70% dark chocolate from Earth Circle Organics and everything from Mama Ganache. Not to mention Equal Exchange, with their Panama bar already being a longtime favorite of mine for melting in my daily hot cocoa.

But oh, that Mama Ganache stuff. “Here, Mom–try this, too.”

I had time. I dropped everything and ran out the door and totally lucked out with a parking space eighteen steps from the door and met up with those vendors myself. (Mama Ganache needed a bigger sign–I passed him twice before I found the guy, I thought he was part of the booth next to him.)

Talked to the guy a moment and found out he’s from Maryland, and suddenly, wow, a mutual sense of, someone from home!

I grinned at his raspberry chocolates and told him my husband’s grandfather had had a quarter acre raspberry patch in DC and had turned down a huge sum at the time for it and by whom.

*IN* DC? the guy asked, knowing that area as well as I did.

Yup. Our wedding was an all the raspberries you can eat day.

And with that I bought some of those bars, along with his patties that remind me of some childhood ones like nothing else I have ever found before, and he threw in an extra of the raspberry ones in a hail-fellow-well-met. Really nice guy.

It is our friend Lee’s birthday today and we were going out to the movies, dinner, and then dessert at his and Phyllis’s house afterwards so I had to get going fast.

And a grand time was had by all there, too.

It is a true measure of our devotion to that couple, longtime friends that they are, that I did it: I actually did it.

I gave Lee one of those raspberry chocolate bars.

(And I actually sat through a loud Tom Cruise action movie for his sake, too. I tell you. True friendship. Totally.)

Okay, off to bed with me. Chocolate in the morning.  Happy Father’s Day!

Computer crash (thank goodness for old laptops in the meantime–oh wait, it’s back up now), Friday night plumbing fail in the kitchen; that keeps the snacking down, at least. I think I’ll go work on a nice, soft cowl project while I wait to see if the latest attempt to fix the sink works its way through that pipe. I hope.

As long as it doesn’t back up in the bathrooms I think we’ll be okay through the weekend either way.

Do men ever react to this sort of thing by wanting to go get their hair cut?

Thing the first.

I was delayed getting out the door to knit night: I think this is one of the babies I saw earlier that were still a little iffy at this landing thing.

The little finch had just hit the window and oh goodness I almost stepped on her coming in from watering my tomatoes, not expecting a bird on the mat.  She didn’t move, even when my foot came within a tailfeather.

I didn’t want her to be eaten by squirrels looking for an easy snack so I decided to give her some time and if she was still immobile in ten or fifteen minutes, I would lift her up to the warm wooden bird feeder (not the metal one) for the night; I did that once before for a finch that did finally fly off in the morning. I took her picture, no flash, and the near eye that had been shut tight squinted open just a bit in response.  She’s still with us! Oh I’m so glad.

I waited, I gave her yet a little more time, but she held the same pose.  Well then. I walked around the house to scoop her up from behind as gently as humanly possible and with the least fright, but as I stepped onto the patio she saw me this time and with eyes wide open now stood up at attention. She fluttered just slightly, brushing against that window one last time but in a way that could not cause harm, then veered around the danger that I represented to her and flew off to the safety of the trees. For all that she’d gone through in the last half hour she’d come out okay.

Thing the second.

Someone was at Purlescence tonight whom I haven’t seen in a goodly while. I had no idea she was coming; we threw our arms around each other for joy.

She’s been fostering a toddler since his infancy about a year and a half ago.

His circumstances would hurt anybody’s heart but for the lucky break he got when he was placed in that home. One bio parent will never be in the picture again and the other has spent most of the baby’s lifetime in jail and has changed nothing from what landed them there.

She gave no details other than that there’s been delay after delay while Bio parent has not been conforming to the social workers’ requests and that their supervisors think that’s just peachy. My friend thinks it’s pretty clear that that sweet little boy, so innocent of how his life began, will be given back to that parent, ending his relationship with his big sister and the only parents he’s ever known, who love him and dearly want the best for him, and it is such a wrenching thing that however it turns out they’re giving up fostering after this.

I so hope they succeed at adopting him.

The eye towards the window had squinted but in good time the fledgling saw clearly what she needed to see and she made it to safety.

Somehow, and I can’t quite explain it other than that it’s what I’ve got to go on, that small persevering bird gives me a sense of hope for my friend’s adorable little boy.

But meantime, I’m praying hard.

The squirrels got one of my Yellow Transparents, almost ready to pick but still quite at the sour stage: I found a hollowed-out carcass of pale green skin, utterly deflated.

They actually ate the apple!  Rather than the usual one-bite-and-toss.  Maybe the lack of abundance got to them.

But what I care most about. Something big had climbed it again and bent it bigtime… I went back inside, grabbed the cinnamon, and shook it over my peaches both inside and outside the clamshells (not all fit in), highly aware that I should have thought of that sooner.

Checked back this morning and this evening and there was still a nice even dusting, untouched by so much as a breeze, on top of both plastic and fruit.

One more week, I just ask for one more week on that tree. I wonder if the cinnamonyness will permeate the peaches; with the Meyer lemons next to them, all I need now is a piecrust bush.

Not sure I want to ask how ovenbirds got their name, though.

Just for fun: my cousin Dan, a math teacher, got his puzzle published in the New York Times.

While I marvel at the political puzzle of the day, political junkie that I am. Eric Cantor, the man so close and so desperate to be Speaker of the US House, down in flames, defeated in Virginia’s primary today by an unknown with almost no funding.

One commenter on the Washington Post explained his vote between the two Tea Partiers: his neighbor recently stepped into a local shop and did a doubletake and exclaimed, It’s Eric Cantor! (Surely expecting a handshake, because that’s what politicians do on being recognized by their constituents, right?)

“That’s *Congressman* Cantor.”

Interesting times.

If you’ve got a primary still coming up or a runoff, vote! Eighty-six percent in Virginia did not, and by staying home today they made history. And elected a Brat, perhaps this time in name only. (Edited to add, or maybe they painted themselves a Rep. Brat who’ll become an old master at the fine art of politicking.)

It totally caught me by surprise. I had forgotten all about it.

I was cleaning and organizing and there, hidden away towards the day was the Christmas present. Now, it’s a family joke that I hide them so well that I find the smaller ones especially throughout the year after people were supposed to get them, but this one. Tears leaped into my eyes–I did not expect that. Stop that.

But it staggered me a moment. I had ordered it for Michelle, wondering if she would like it, if it would be too Mom, but it seemed such a useful little thing.

It was, basically, a lunch bag. In the form of a small canvas tote, insulated, offwhite with blue handles, a mini-me of my then-knitting bag (before The Purse that I got for Christmas). She’d had issues with the cafeteria at work via staff who didn’t get that allergic to dairy means butter, cheese, milk, every possible form and that yes just a little bit does matter. The safest thing was for her simply to bring her own, and so, very often she did. An insulated bag would make it easier and I’d thought this one was cute without being cutesy.

It came.

And I think it was the very next day…

I looked at that little tote and it hit me all over again how deeply grateful I am that my daughter is still alive and I once again said a prayer for all the others, the families, the other injured, the dead, the cops and the firemen who had had to see it all.

Last week she finally was able to begin to work again. Part time. From home. The commute would be bad enough, driving home after sitting for hours too much, but oh, at long last, as she’s so much wanted, she has started to begin again.

Hey kiddo it’s yours, you want this thing?

We were out taking a walk this evening and went a square block further over than we have in awhile.

Someone else is living my dream. We had no idea this was there and we wondered how recently it got set up (probably very recently) but, we not only got to see one in person finally, it’s in our own neighborhood!

And it had a steady light inside so one could read the titles in the dark. Well done.

There was a couple inside the house it was in front of and it was pretty clear that, while they were trying not to be seen seeing us and we were trying likewise to respect their privacy, they were enjoying how thrilled we were.

So, so cool. And I’m wondering what titles we have that are good enough to offer up to it. (Hey, any knitters in the neighborhood? I mean, that don’t already have…because I know there are two and they do.)

Meantime, it hit mid-9o’s today and these plums declared themselves done and fell to the bottoms of their clamshells, and oh, the smell of sun-warm newly ripe fruit. I saw a squirrel looking longingly up at that tree, thwarted.

I want a bumper crop and I want to make jam and I want to leave it on a certain doorstep with a thank you note. (Grow tree grow!) Ah well. I might have to settle for something else, like, you know, knitting or something.