And today is our daughter-in-law’s birthday. Happy Birthday, Kim, and our eternal thanks for how very much you have blessed us all.

My youngest missed the chance his due date gave him to only have to be reminded it’s his birthday at every fourth year.  His missed his chance to have the only date that’s a command. (I’ll give you to the count of four to figure that one out.)

And today we celebrated over the phone. A chocolate torte, safely cut into small, individually-wrapped pieces before freezing, is being gradually consumed in his honor over as many days as it takes. Happy Birthday, John!

We have a shed built by a former owner ages ago with a roof over it covered in many decades’ worth of redwood debris and bright green soft moss, spilling over the edges, quite pretty. The birds and squirrels love it.

Motion caught my eye and I turned just in time to see the Cooper’s hawk swooping up across the edge and over that roof–and the black squirrel sitting up there, startled, saw it just in time too and leaped for the leaves of the twisted old olive tree with zero to spare. Made it!

Just as I was blinking from that little bit of drama, a second Cooper’s swooped right there right at the same spot right in the same way, wings and tail stretched wide to second the motion. That is the first time I’ve ever seen two. It must be spring. Wow.

Still trying to figure out what yesterday’s visitor was. It looked (checking my Sibley guide) somewhat like a Wandering Tattler: a barred black-and-white chest, a heathered brown back, long precise bill coming to a straight point and large size, stabbing delectables in the grass. (Our back yarn isn’t the Bay and those would be shorebirds, but if they Wander…) Except that it had a black bib and, later when it flew, a white spot at the center of the end of the tail as seen from below. Any birders know?

It looked up at me, midstride midmeal, as if to question.

No, thanks, that’s okay, you eat it, go ahead, I’m fine.

And since yesterday, a pleasant smell of toasting nuts has wafted through the house whenever the heater has come on. This beats the heck out of our newly-built first house in New Hampshire in the 80’s: hear the fan. Smell the skunk. Here comes the heat. For a year. Our builder was late finishing, and I’d finally told him firmly that I was going to celebrate Thanksgiving in my house–or his.

I do not think he would have been altogether displeased that the skunk hit the fan. (Or whatever took the brunt of the spray.)

Well now. I knew throwing that thoroughly stale brazil nut to that little fluffytail yesterday was a mistake. I didn’t expect him to play gourmet chef with it. That nut smells quite a bit better now than it did when I gave it to him.

Everybody’s a foodie in northern California. (Maybe Virginia too.)

(p.s. With Bev’s suggestion, I looked more closely at the woodpecker section. Gilded Flicker. Cool! That was it!)

I got just the best thank you note today in the mail. Opened the envelope, a big grin on my face, and read a signed-by-hand note:

Dear Ms. Hyde,

Thank you so much for the very lovely hat knitted by you. Your “Warm Hats, Not Hot Heads” campaign is an extraordinarily creative way to encourage civility in Congress, and I’m so pleased that you and your friends have undertaken it. I will continue to do my best to promote courteous and constructive dialogue in Congress, and I thank you again for your warm and wonderful gift.

Most gratefully,

Anna Eshoo

Member of Congress

———-

I tell you.  She completely made my day.

Ellen has some good ideas here on continuing the campaign, and again, the spreadsheet is here on who’s covered so far/who isn’t in Congress yet as far as we know.

But don’t let that limit you. Anyone else whom you’d like to take the message to by sending them a handknit hat and a note, the more we do, the greater the impact.

I confess to having made one a week ago that I thought was going to go to Congress, but it refused my efforts to pick out a name. It just wouldn’t go. Then a conversation with another knitter led to my sending it to her to give to someone in her statehouse–the person it clearly had been meant for all along, there was no question.

Sometimes it pays to just go with the flow when a thing demands to be knit: it will tell you when it’s ready and you will know.

We paid our kids’ uncovered medical expenses in December. No big deal there, nothing to see, move along, move along.

On a day where more news came following after this day’s, though, I needed some comic relief.

I saw the mail truck and opened a bill that had arrived.

“We are anxious to assist you with arrangements towards the prompt payment of this outstanding obligation, however your immediate cooperation is required.” Etc etc. Balance due of $0.00 must be remitted to them immediately or they will refer it to a collection agency. I am to please send my $0.00 by check or credit card right now. Or else.

Oh, I’m sure the agency would love a piece of that.

Okay, that’s not as good as when the utility tried to charge us $16k+ for that month’s electricity, which is solar anyway, but it’ll do.

The Congressional hats are up to 251. But for the moment I am knitting a chemo cap.

While we were in San Diego:

“Your ring!”

What about my ring?

“Your ring!” she couldn’t get over it.  Then, finally, “Conway had that ring!”

I explained that during one of the times I’d been very ill my more standard wedding ring didn’t fit anymore and I’d started wearing this one, since my husband didn’t mind: four turquoise stones, one for each of our children. (I didn’t add, and the fact that it needs to be polished and paid attention to to keep its shine I find to be a good reminder.)

Conway had had that exact same ring, and clearly he wore it enough that she remembered it.

Wow. I had no idea.

And then my daughter-in-law’s aunt went on to tell me a story to match my own: her father, as a young dad, had been a reporter in the next county and happened to come and take a picture near the university here of an adorable little boy and his daddy; it got published in the paper.

A couple decades later, he found himself telling her, Wait, that name rings a bell…

She married that little boy. And that daddy was Conway.

Merino wool takes up dye more quickly than silk does, making it easy, in the case of my Filatura di Crosa “Wave” yarn, to have a heathered effect come out of the dyebath: two fibers that have been through the mill and share differences and similarities from the experience.

Soft but closely knit and strong and warm. It seemed perfect for her. A braid of a cable around the brim, the stitches picked up and then more braids working their way up: Fisherman’s Wharf and sailors’ ropes, even the yarn itself named to match the power of the ocean reaching halfway around her district. I liked it.

It was Jackie Speier’s hat, and I didn’t get it finished in time to mail with the Senators’ yesterday but I did do those last few rows today. I emailed her office a heads-up as to who I was and what I was up to, said I was going to put it in the mail, and then looked around her site for where to send it.

Hey. I thought it surely would have been San Francisco. It was closer in–a trek, and getting towards 3:00 rush hour soon, but certainly doable.

I called.

I got this male voice stopping me as I tried to introduce myself, going, Wait. Run that by me again? What?

Gradually, I got to hear his voice sounding happier and happier as he heard me explain the Warm Hats Not Hot Heads concept and why it was important to me that Jackie Speier get one of those hats.

He seemed a little more hesitant though when I chirped brightly, Great! Then if you don’t mind I’ll hop in my car in a few minutes and bring it over.

Thick clouds at home became a cloudburst the further north I drove. A slightly soggy-looking (red-tailed?) hawk perched on a signpole over the freeway made me laugh in surprise: always a touch of raptor, isn’t there, waiting to be seen for the noticing. Speaking of which, Clara‘s third new peregrine egg made its appearance on camera today.

Traffic was not too bad yet. The rain caught its breath a moment as I parked the car; a friendly touch, that.

I was screened downstairs and signed in.  I went up. I explained to the buzzer at the door, as before, who/what/why. A woman’s voice seemed to hesitate at first; I imagined her asking and the guy there going, oh yes, her, okay, so she did come, it’s okay.

But that’s just my guess. It’s kind of hard to lipread a doorbell for missing details.

I entered and immediately knew who it was that had been on the phone: the man on his feet now whose smile was all one could ever hope for. The glass between the staff and the waiting room was surely protective, but the woman near him quickly opened the door to the waiting area and came to me, smiling as well.

I’m not quite in Ms. Speier’s district, I quickly acknowledged to her, pulling the hat out, but I feel she represents me. She’s not one who needs the message of one of these hats like some of her colleagues do; rather, it’s that I personally needed to knit her one to thank her so much for what she does and who she is.

She asked if I were following the pipeline hearings. Ohmygoodness yes. Thank you Jackie Speier! Our very lives in this neighborhood may well depend on her firmness in holding PG&E’s feet to the fire they created.

I got to see, in my few minutes there, how much those two staff members clearly love their boss.

Which says to me all over again what a fine leader she is.

The hats. We’re at 245. Not a big jump from yesterday, but still, steady upwards progress.  Thank you, hat knitters! May every one of you come away feeling as blessed by your recipients’ responses as I did with mine today.

It occurs to me (woefully slow, I know) that maybe I should ask those so inclined to offer up a quiet prayer, or to Think Good Thoughts, that the many hats that have now begun to be sent out to Congress might receive a warm reception at their end points.  We’ve done and are doing our part in the cause of civility and respectful speech in the public sphere; from our hearts to our hands to God’s along the way, to, hopefully, the staffers’ and recipients’ willing ones as they open those packages.

Let them know it’s coming. Give them the happy anticipation. State our cause and our hopes upfront.

Meantime, the answer to the earlier blog question is, Senator Ben Cardin of Maryland gets the Malabrigo hat to match Parker’s, with my thanks for his work restoring the Chesapeake Bay, his hat done in the colors of the Bay.

Part of me will always belong to my home state. Whose beaches, mind you, know which end of the day the sun is supposed to come by for a visit. And with ponies! Don’t forget the ponies!

As I write the hat count is at 243.

By the sweet challah pattern on thy brow shalt thou greet thy braid all the days of thy life.

I was looking at the spreadsheet this evening for Warm Hats Not Hot Heads and was dismayed to find that nobody had signed up for Jackie Speier.

Jackie Speier is a hero to me. Until her speech, I had no idea Congress was trying to criminalize a procedure that not only is used on abortions but also when a woman is miscarrying a long-wanted and hoped-for child, as happened in her case, in order to protect her health so that no infection or massive scarring sets in that would keep her from being able to conceive in the future.

Wait. You mean the–wait–I had a miscarriage at nearly four months! And they want doctors not to know how to take care of women who *want* to have their children?! Wherever one may stand on abortion, those complications are what mine told me were a possibility if things were left to fester unattended. My loved, wanted baby had already passed away out of this life, just not out of me.

Speier was shot and left for dead while trying to help rescue her boss’s constituents during the Jim Jones/Guyana massacre. And when she spoke up back when she was in the state legislature about just what these men here were talking about banning, medically, back then too, and what she had endured with the loss of a baby she and her husband had tried so hard to have, one responded with, “Jim Jones should have finished the job.”

Wow.

That, in the commission of a crime, would have qualified as an enhancement under the hate speech laws.

She did manage to get pregnant again; she was expecting when her husband was killed by a driver who had no brakes and thought he could make it to work anyway. She’s been raising her children as a widow. She has persevered.

Speier represents the folks in San Bruno and has been holding PG&E’s feet to the fire more than anyone else. When they say that no, they didn’t know there were any welding flaws in the pipeline that blew up–there were 150 just in that section–and then say with a straight face that there couldn’t possibly be any more anywhere, she tells them, I don’t believe you. Do the work you must do to make these lines safe. Lives are at stake.

That same pipeline runs about 500 feet or less from my house, between two gas stations. Go Jackie go.

If ever there was someone I wanted to stand with, hat in hand, pressing Congress for accountability for their words and respectfulness towards one another’s life experiences in all things, she wins.

I have a lovely, soft yarn that was bought at a store I think in her district. I’m knitting it for her as fast as I can.

A comment by a young mom at church today prompts this post.

Year: 1984, Baby #2. Scene: Toddler #1, a beautiful angel of a child up till then, had become  the instant proverbial Two Year Old (TM) now that she had competition for my attention. These screaming fists-pounding-the-floor temper tantrums? Where on earth had they come from? And of course when she cried the baby cried in sympathy and pretty quickly we were all miserable while I tried to reason with her, hug her, scold her, time her out, anything, please make something work.

I heard from one mom much later that what she had done was to get down on the floor alongside her little kid and throw a no-holds-barred tantrum act herself, fists and feet flailing, making her kid stop and look at her like, Are you crazy? Why are you making this scene? In public!

But that was years in the future.

In tired new-mother desperation one day, I called my Mom.

Mom said, Offer to pour a glass of cold water on her head.

Me: Say what?

Mom: Offer to pour cold water on her head. A little cold water does wonders on tantrums. Trust me.

Note that she didn’t say to just pour it, she said to make it the child’s decision.

So then I was just waiting for my chance, curious to try it, and hoped it would come at a time at home where I had instant access to the tap. It was. She did.

I smiled sweetly, totally knowing I could do this, and in my best loving-Mom voice asked, Sam? Would you like me to pour some cold water on your head?

NO! MILK!

Given who the clean-up crew would have been on that one, thanks, we’ll let that suggestion pass, and I quickly half-filled a cup at the sink. She screamed away and I poured out just a few drops into the top of her blonde curls–just enough to get her attention.

Instant end of tantrum while she assessed this new outcome. (Me: Wow! Magic!)

The next time she threw a major tantrum we were again, thankfully, at home, and I smiled and happily reiterated the offer.

End of screaming fit. Like flipping a switch.

After that I only had to offer I think once more ever.

She learned at the ripe old age of 27 months that she didn’t have to be controlled by rage but could stop. That she could respond instead to my being loving to her. It required I be at my best for it to work, and I wasn’t going to risk losing a foolproof method by fooling with it with a bad mood, but it let her be her best, too.

And I felt like the best Mom ever.

So, with a thousand thanks to my Mom and her wisdom, I pass the idea along.

They had given it a 50% chance of snow for yesterday or today, the last snow here having been in the mid ’70’s. My kids were disbelieving; I was hoping; my very old snow shovel that, it turned out, was not good for digging to China, was waiting with dilapidation; it didn’t happen. (Yet.) Unless you were several hours south of here at the beach.

And in that toasty weather, Clara, the celebrated City Hall peregrine falcon, laid her first red egg yesterday; every single year that first has come earlier than the previous year’s. Eggs, then white fluffballs, then baby birds with enormous feet, hanging over the 18th floor ledge waving a wing at the gawkers, and–okay, I won’t make them grow up too fast. 240 mph is going to be fast enough.

My resident Cooper’s hawk chased a dove and away.

I saw another Cooper’s standing on a light pole near downtown yesterday and  wondered if it’s one of our previous year’s hatchlings. All these magnificent big birds that had all but vanished when I was a kid: and they are back.

At least one of my Bewick’s wrens has her belly full and low and she seems hungrier than usual. Sweet gherkins or sour for you, m’dear?

And with my white wool of a previous Spring now blue yarn and put to needle, a few more stitches wrap happily around my life.

(With proud new-grandparent pictures and captions thrown in, of course.)

My last semester of high school way back when, I took an after-school class in downtown DC, way down there from where I lived in Maryland: it was held in a rehabbed rowhouse near the Duke Ellington Bridge.  Down Connecticut Avenue, for those who know the city. It was a lipreading class for those with new hearing losses and that’s where the agency that ran it happened to be.

It let out at ten to four, because at four, all the one-way streets turned one-way the other way. Connecticut had a chicken lane, a fast lane down the center that changed direction then, too, bouncing up and down over hills that hid daredevil oncomings from each other in heavy traffic. Not for me thankyouverymuch. The Founding Fathers forgot to put in freeways.

It also means the one time I got out late I had no idea how on earth to find my way out of the side street maze to get home. The neighborhood looked nice enough on the surface, but I learned that day why you had to stand in front of the steel-barred doorway every time and verify that you were you before they would buzz you in.

We now have 222 hats’ worth of knitters who have picked up their yarn to say no to the anger driving too much of our public discourse down the chicken lane. To urge yes to civility and respect to those in the public sphere.  Hear us.

So.

I called ahead first today to tell them who I was, what I was doing, and why I was coming. And was that okay?

The guy sounded surprised, and then charmed.

Then I drove to the office of my House Representative, Anna Eshoo, to offer up my letter about Warm Hats Not Hot Heads along with the red royal baby alpaca hat I’d made her.

I recognized his voice as he answered the door and unlocked it from the inside and let me in.  But oh, it so brought back those memories–and in such a different time and place.  It tugged fiercely at me that they would need to do that. But they do.

He invited me further in and I could see someone else at work as I stood there, unsealed manila envelope in hand. Both of them had the biggest smiles on already.

Then I showed the two men the pink and periwinkle hats tucked away in my purse as backups and wondered out loud what colors Ms. Eshoo likes, what colors they might have seen her wearing so that I could give her whichever one she would like best. I’d made the red one for her, but it was more important that she be happy with it.

Ask guys about colors and what do they do? They run for the woman in the office.

Who stepped from around the corner and she was beaming too. She looked at the red and went, Oh, that’s beautiful! And so soft… And pronounced that if that was the one that I’d made specifically for Ms. Eshoo then of course that was the one she should have, and she pronounced it perfect. We talked a little about the hats for Congress idea and they thought it was really cool that knitters would do that.

I tell you. I went home just floating at how happy those three people I’d never laid eyes on before were in their anticipation of seeing their boss made happy. That feeling could carry me forward for a long time.

Just imagine taking that experience and multiplying it by 221 more congresspeople and their staffs. Let’s get the rest of them too! Go knitters go!

Ellen was on TV! They wanted to do an interview about Warm Hats Not Hot Heads! We are at 213, with 99 available for the Senate and hoping that that publicity gives us a good jump forward.

I could have topped it out at an even hundred, but the intarsia on one  came out a tad snug and I’m going to redo it. While the queue marches on: chemo caps for family members, purple for Abby, baby stuff, the qiviut, Stitches stash… You know how it goes. One project at a time, but all projects get done when you work on them.

Our favorite new one took 8 1/4 months.

I got another hat done today, in the same colorway as Parker’s blue one here. We’re now at 208.  I like that he and a member of Congress will match each other; may it charm them as much as it does me.  This whole WHNHH project is for our children’s future as well as trying to set the tone for today.

While Parker wonders dubiously but respectfully whether Grampa remembers how to pull off this carseat idea.

Two hundred. A cool two hundred hats so far for Warm Hats Not Hot Heads. It looks like, from what I understand from Ellen, that eight more hats, especially men’s hats, would get us to having the US Senate covered at 100%.

One hundred percent!

I’ve knitted several other hats of late, too, but they were a tad small to run to Congress…