My doorbell just rang. Ever gotten a yarn where you just want to pet it for awhile before actually diving in and knitting it up? I know the deadlines, I know I need to go through every line and every comma, and I’ll get right into that. But first, I need to get my mind bent around the fact that I actually did write an actual book. That it actually has pictures, that they’re glorious (here, can I tug at that edge on the cover, just a smidge, there you go, thanks), that Martingale did a great job, and that this really all is happening and it’s actually right here in front of me. And then I get to pick up my author’s proofs and go, Wow! LOOK AT THIS!!!!

(oh, right, um, yeah, I know, I can’t show it to you yet. details.)

I meant to get a picture. But I blocked it last night, ran the last end in this morning (I had a sudden moment of, aagh! I forgot the end!) while standing at the front door waiting for my husband to come dashing through late, and the camera just didn’t make it into the picture. But I got it done.

I knitted shawls and scarves for a number of friends in my congregation at church. It, um, kind of snowballed, till finally I decided I couldn’t leave anybody out, I was simply going to have to knit a scarf for every woman there who hadn’t gotten something yet. A large lace shawl, no, but a scarf apiece, 3-6 hours worth of knitting, that, I could manage. I’ve been at it for months now.

Back when we lived in New Hampshire as a young couple, 20 years ago, there was a family we knew well; Dora, the mom, was the Relief Society president, ie, the head of the women’s organization there. Two of their three sons were still in high school. Then we moved here, and their middle son eventually met and married Jenni, whose family lives here. Small world. Cool.

Now Dora has started commuting coast to coast, and we get to see her at church when she’s in town. So I asked her what color scarf she would like. Black, she said, emphatically. I don’t love trying to see black stitches on the needles, so I asked her if she was sure, or would she…

Black. She’d really like one in black. Okay, I thought, so, black it would be. Except, I had a harder time than I wanted making myself get around to it. I found a skein of Frog Tree black sportweight alpaca in the stash, and knew Dora would love that it had come from a women’s cooperative in South America. That was just the right yarn. So why did I keep putting it off, fer cryin’ out loud?

This past week, three weeks after I’d asked her, I finally sat myself down, and went, look. Just knit it till it’s done. Don’t go to bed, don’t let it hang over you another day, Just. Get. It. Done. And of course, as soon as I started knitting, the softness of the yarn running through my hands called out to me, making up for any color quibbling; ooh, this is so soft. This is so nice. I love this. Perfect.

It was 10:45 when I looked at the clock, then down at the work in my hands, thinking of Dora. Her son, who had been one of those who had come and visited and been there for me when I was in critical condition in the hospital three and a half years ago. Jenni, due to have a baby any moment. I don’t remember for absolute sure if that was the moment I finished binding off or not, but I do know I felt this intense sense of connection with them right at that moment.

We got an email from the proud new dad the next morning. A baby boy! Born at 10:45 pm, 9 lbs, 3 oz.

Black is not the traditional color for welcoming new life into the world, but it was definitely the right color to welcome the new grandma into knowing she was celebrated and loved. She loved it. Perfect.

When I was in college, we used to tease the kids from California who wore Birkenstocks in the snow; c’mon, guys, get a clue!

Now we live in California ourselves, and right now, we’re having quite the cold snap. The Red Cross called my husband last night: they were discussing opening an emergency shelter, since he’s helped run one before for them.

We got up this morning to find our pipes frozen. Such a Birkenstockian installation up there on our roof–I guess the pipes needed some long handknit tube socks?

If you haven’t seen Stephanie Pearl-McPhee’s post at yarnharlot.ca, I recommend you go read the details of what prompted this picture. The big blue sock to the left is of a pair I knit; the rest are each from a pair that someone else knit for me, out of the goodness of their needles: Kathleen, Bonnie, Judy, Kristine. Except for Bonnie’s white ones, they are all from hand-painted yarns. Yes, Bank Whatever Wherever you may be that declared Blue Moon’s “Socks That Rock” club as being clearly a scam, that shut down the credit card processing for it, that refunded customers their money they didn’t want back, that wreaked havoc on a small business that didn’t see this coming, and all because you think nobody is interested in knitting socks, Knitters. DO. Knit. Socks. Especially from handpaint yarns, where you get to finish discovering what they’ll look like only when you’re done.

Honestly, how much effort would it have taken to google Socks That Rock Club and discover it gets you 2.4 million hits.

And kudos to Blue Moon for handling it all with class. They deserve every bit of the good karma pouring in right now.

I’ve gone to lupus support group meetings for nearly 17 years now. At first, it was because I was newly diagnosed with a disease that scared the bejabors out of me; gradually, it became because I wanted to comfort the newly diagnosed who were having the bejabors scared out of them, and to help them find the information they needed that I’d already sought out. You can handle anything if you know what it is, if you know others who have already dealt with it, and if they’re willing to be there for you. If you know you’re not alone.

Over the years, the membership has been fairly fluid, with a few old hands like me that keep coming. A number of others–well, it’s not very supportive to die off on us, you know? Stop it! And then there was the woman who came to one meeting (and thankfully one only) armed with glossy brochures with herbal remedies to sell us that she guaranteed would cure us. Cure us! She had lupus, so she knew what we were going through, she said. But if we placed sprigs of this particular expensively concocted green leafy thing with its pretty picture on this page, right between this particular toe and that toe for so many days, just so…

It was all I could do not to guffaw out loud, “And how many times has it cured *you*, lady!?” When the sales pitch got high pressured–where none of us had expected to be subjected to one at all in the first place–I simply changed the subject on her and told her that I cope with my illness by spinning and knitting for others. I quoted Norman Cousins about needing a creative outlet. There’s nothing like anticipating making someone happy, followed by the absolute high when they’re thrilled at finding out that you thought they were worth that effort of your time and thoughts and skills. And wow, look at this! (Scarf, sweater, hat, etc.) Cool!

Today’s was the first regular meeting I’d gotten to go to since my hospitalization in October. The tales I had to tell, to an audience that would appreciate it! The one young doctor who had decided I didn’t have lupus, that that part was all in my head. What the–Goodness, sir! Here, (I thought but didn’t say), let me teach you how to boot up a computer so you can access my longstanding records on the subject. There is a standard set of 11 criteria, of which having four can land you a positive diagnosis; I’ve had nine, ten depending on how you count it. After all these years, to still have a doctor doubt not only me but every doctor who’s seen me these last 17 years…

So. The meeting was about to start, and someone I didn’t quite recognize walked in and exclaimed, “Hi, Alison!” Pam?!! Her face changed by steroids, I hadn’t recognized my former neighbor.

We listened to a dentist who’d volunteered his time to talk to the group on dental issues. A good man. He finished, he left, and it was time for each of us to tell how we’d been doing. My chance was coming.

Pam had a lot to talk about; her lupus was new and a very raw experience in her life. She reminded us old hands of ourselves, back in the day; I do think we were able to help her a lot. Good. Then an Asian woman talked about her reliance on Chinese medicine and how important her herbs were to her…and yet I felt strongly that she was really asking permission or even for pressure to try Western medicine now, maybe to counteract pressure she was feeling from her family to keep with what they knew. Afterwards, out of her earshot, two of us were shaking our heads, with me going, that sounds like me when I had congestive heart failure! The friend I was talking to said, She sounded like me when I had kidney failure! We worried about her. We hoped she’d felt a good enough sense of connection to feel comfortable calling for support. I do believe we need to learn more about what her culture has to offer; I also believe in the Scientific Method, in studying and tracking results, and that when you need a doctor, go to the doctor!

I never did get my time to kvetch. I’m so glad; what earthly good would it have done? I’d arrived forgetting the whole point of my being there: to listen. To comfort. Not to badmouth overworked residents. To help and hope others get the care they need, without making them feel they’d failed along the way. (So, no, I didn’t criticize those Chinese herbs.)

I cast on this scarf at the beginning of the meeting, and got this far along before it ended. As most knitters will relate to, I kept up the eye contact with the speakers, asked more pertinent questions, stayed more engaged, as my hands kept busy instead of my getting antsy sitting there so long…

As for the glossy-brochure lady: after that one meeting, she learned how to spin and she joined my old spinning guild. Not only that, but she immediately ran for president of the guild, which nobody else wanted to be, so, hey! Be our guest, the members told her. While I was going, she took my advice about taking up a creative hobby? Really?!? MY hobby??!!!

Totally nonpsychodegradeable. Good for her. I still ain’t buyin’ no stinkin’ green sprigs for my toes.

It was impossible to shine the silver rope around the stones, till I thought of using a size 1 dpn to push the silver cloth down in there on my Zuni ring. Anybody got any other weird uses for their needles?

This needs a soundtrack: cue Sandra Boynton’s DogTrain album, the very funny Penguin’s Lament track. “We’re all a little too cute…”

My son Richard had a friend flying into town for a visit over the break, and we took her to the Monterey Bay Aquarium to show her the sights. We’ve been there many a time, but it’s always evolving and never the same twice. And: they had a Great White shark to go see. The first one that ever survived captivity was the first one they had, till it outgrew the place and they let it go into the outer bay.

Let me tell you about that new shark. It’s huge. I have never before seen the cleaning crew at work on the huge Outer Banks exhibit. Picture two large people swimming on the floor of the tank, sweeping it with giant squeegees. Now picture a third, swimming above them, occasionally waving hi to the crowd but mostly looking out for that Great White: he’s holding a long pole with a large loop at one end and a giant rubber Q-tip thing at the other end. All three swimmers are wearing chain mail.

A sunfish comes a little too close to the guy. Sunfish are these truly strange creatures where God forgot to add on the rest of the body after the head: just behind the bulging bug eyes, there’s this sort-of-a tail–more like a downward arc with giant silver beads attached. The thing wasn’t the 5000 pounds they can get to be, but it was big enough, and it actually leaned into the window a bit right above our heads. Showoff. Keep an eye on that Great White…

It being a Saturday, there was a large crowd, and all the sudden a collective loud gasp and breathcatching happened; I didn’t see it. But I saw that pole in return midswing and the shark swimming off.

The penguin exhibit: there were two keepers in there, and one had a shivering bird in her lap–shivering, or, it looked like me when I was having my seizures. She stroked it, and gradually it relaxed and held still. Another penguin was going, me? Me?? She handed the first to the next keeper, who stroked it under its chin like a kitten, and then the back of its neck. The bird was clearly feeling, ooh aah. Right there–yeah, you got it. Yessss. Bliss. Meantime, the second penguin waddled right up into the first keeper’s lap to be stroked. My turn!

The giant kelp forest tank had a diver coming in to feed the fish just as we were about to leave, so we watched. The leopard sharks–scratch that, I just looked at their site, I guess it was wolf eels, which makes more sense–did an elaborate, lithe, figure-8 dance, curving and curling around each other, the diver, each other again, the diver, and he held out his hand with a good-sized morsel to one: chomp! Kevlar. No chain mail here, but he had to have had kevlar gloves on. He did it for the next one; again, right out of his hand.

I snapped a photo on our way out of that tall kid again…

This didn’t get delivered yet; we’ve had a busy householdfull. But I thought I’d snap a quick photo of the finished project before the wonderfully random-chance pink ribbon scarf ends up with its rightful recipient–a breast cancer patient, as I mentioned not long ago. The two sides are fairly perfect mirror images in real life, away from the camera.

It was Wednesday when the phone rang rather early; my oldest sister wanted to talk to the folks before any of us might happen on any breaking news stories. Her daughter was safe. And, it was mentioned, she didn’t really know the victim.

Carole goes to Foss High School in Tacoma, Washington.

I’ve been thinking since then, it doesn’t really matter how close we are personally to the one who was hit. An act of hatred hates all of us, hurts all of us.

But an act of great grace, of love and of unwavering compassion regardless of what was done, heals us all far more. Will anyone ever forget how the Amish lived what they believed, for as long as any of us will live? Will we not hand that story down to our children’s children in our personal families’ histories as well as in the textbooks to come?

Which our children’s children’s children will learn about in school. And our humanity will go on.

I learned so much when I lost my ring. I’d quit wearing my original wedding ring when I’d been in critical condition and on megadoses of steroids and it absolutely didn’t fit, and I never got back in the habit. The blood diamond thing had bothered me ever since I learned about it a few years ago; the idea of wearing something that would contribute to the societal pressure to wear a diamond to declare you’re married… When, to me, the ring my grandfather had watched being made for my grandmother on an Indian reservation, something like 80 years ago, held a stone that was symbol enough to me of their love. So. I wore my simple silver band with the four small turquoise stones, one for each of my children, and that was fine with my husband.

Till it disappeared one cold day when my hands got too thin, the day after Thanksgiving. I always wondered if it went down the sink and clogged the plumbing at my husband’s boss’s house, and if he was just too nice to say so.

I looked around, and Richard got me a new turquoise ring, but meantime, I learned:

That the major American turquoise mines got tapped out in the big Native American jewelry fad of my growing up years. That, and, the way they mine gold these days has changed, so that instead of revealing turquoise veins as a secondary part of the process, the stuff is crushed and lost instead. (What a waste.) The better American stones now are often still produced by the old-fashioned pick and shovel it out method (with maybe a compressor helping). Hard work.

That turquoise rarely has crystals, so it can be fairly fragile.

That turquoise can change and turn greener over time if it’s exposed to a lot of lotions and chemicals and various things which people tend to come in contact with. (I like green, so I kind of shrug at that one.)

That a lot of turquoise these days is stabilized so as not to change color and to be stronger, but those stones, although shinier, are less valuable, being less natural.

I learned about a few individual Navajo and Zuni artists and to see their work online. I actually bought a few more pieces, which is the first time I can think of in all my married life that I’ve gone out and bought jewelry; I’m not a big jewelry person. But I loved their work, I wanted to honor the artists, and, frankly, I was horrified at how little they were getting for it these days. Maybe that’s partly from my experiences as a knitter–like the woman who demanded that I make her a handspun handknit angora shawl for her just like mine, and that she was going to pay me: twenty-five dollars. That’s a lot of money, you know! She said it in a tone to make clear I should be grateful for the opportunity. I offered to teach her to knit, by way of shrugging her off nicely. She, clueless, demanded to know when hers would be done by. (Excuse me?) I just laughed it off, while quite mindful that I live in a time and place where, financially, shrugging her off was an option available to me.

This morning, five minutes before leaving to take my parents to the airport to fly home, I happened to glance at something shiny down at the piano bench’s leg. I had vacuumed there umpteen times. It must have fallen right at the leg, and gotten bumped back out into view when my son Richard moved the bench one of the times he played the piano recently.

The stones a light turquoise and not shiny, although the silver is. Perfect.

Lookee there.

Once upon a time, I bought some cashmere roving from Kate Painter, not long after she’d opened her Paradise Fibers store. About eighteen months later, I called her back on a long shot: I had finally spun it up and started a sweater, but I was running short, something I never do (I highly disbelieve in starting knitting a project you’re not sure you have enough yarn for.) By any wild chance?…

Turns out she knew exactly what batch I’d ordered from, and she did indeed have more; she would check to see how much she had and get back to me.

What I didn’t know then was that she had some because she’d put it aside for her own private stash, and that she spent hours going through her basement looking for that cashmere that she knew, just knew, she had. She so much empathized with that helpless feeling of a beautiful project, almost done, which can’t quite come to be, unless… She found the rest of that roving.

Rather than leave her with too small an amount herself to do much with, we talked, and I ended up buying the pound and a half or so that she had down there, and she reordered however much she wanted from her supplier. I had enough for my project, and then some, so.

…come Stitches West the next February, I gave her a lace scarf out of it as a thank you. The funny thing is, I was the second very happy customer to surprise her with a scarf that day, and she happily put mine on over the other one, knowing people would ask, knowing she’d get to brag on her friends all day long that way. Kate is so cool. She has since sold her store, and I missed seeing her this last year’s Stitches. A lot.

Meantime, I still have plenty, some of it spun up, some of it not yet. Stash yarn is wonderful stuff: you can get an idea and be able to just jump in and run with it. Knit it up fast when you need it.

And in the case of this thing I started last night, beat the plane coming in at ten pm here.

My 22-year-old hamming it up. Handspun, white cashmere plied with a golden baby alpaca/silk mix. It may go down to MY knees, but I should know by now that doesn’t mean it’s long enough (and yes, he is taller than that doorframe). Good thing I spun that third ball!

Seventeen and a half years ago–and you’ll see in a moment why I can tell you that’s when it was–I was newly diagnosed with lupus and none too happy about it. Turns out my mother’s cousin had died of it–that’s bad enough–a week before her wedding date. Add that to your pathos and stir a bit.

So I was feeling none too happy; I had four small children, my youngest being two, and I wanted to see them grow up.

My husband decided I needed some cheering up, so he recruited a friend of ours to the task: they were going to throw me a surprise party. Only trouble is, it was early June and my birthday was in December. Not a problem–they would throw me a half-birthday party.

Which is how I came to be standing in her living room, surrounded by friends, totally stunned, as I was presented with a glorious cake that had inscribed on it in frosting,

Hap
Birt
Ali!

So. I found out when it was her birthday, and later that year made her a chocolate torte, my specialty then and now, made with bittersweet chocolate and manufacturing cream (what they dilute with milk to make heavy whipping cream. Rich stuff.) I surprised her back with it with a card that said, ” ‘Hap Birt Ali!’ Happy birthday to you, too, she re-torted.”

Fast forward. I didn’t get a birthday cake this year. Mom is here, and she didn’t get one either. And Richard and I just had our 26-and-a-half-year anniversary. So, finally, I made an almond cake (Dad’s allergic to chocolate) in the shape of a castle. I was hoping to snap a picture of it half eaten to go along with the theme, but my sons woke up this morning before I did. And can you think of a better breakfast than leftover cake? Six eggs in there, just like scrambled only with a little extra stuff thrown in, right?

Happy New Year, everybody!

Quite the windstorm today. The power, thus the server and blog, were out for hours, I think the second power failure (not counting from the quake) that we’ve had in almost 20 years of living in California. The funny thing is how much having real weather made the place feel like home.

Postscript 12/28: Turns out some of those gusts made it to hurricane level. A bit of an irony to have that storm right after writing about the effects of Florida’s hurricanes: Californians have it so easy. But I am extremely grateful right now to my neighbor who had already cut down her towering and dying (and very expensive to remove) huge pine that had loomed over my house.