One week left! By this time next week we will be in the zone; following a routine of carefully laid plans that will transform Dave and I from parents into “in-laws”.
September seemed so far away when Maggie and Jan announced their engagement last November and yet tomorrow, the calendar page will be turned once again and it will be September and there will be seven short days left until “the big day”.
Today I’m heading down to Richmond for Maggie’s bridal shower and “girls’ night out”. I’ll be taking the necessities: pj’s, toiletries, a change of clothes, a gluten-free chocolate cake and lots of wine. My only fear is that I won’t be able to “hang” with the younger gals and won’t make it past my usual ten o’clock bedtime. I don’t want them to regret that they invited “Mom” to tag along.
It’s difficult to describe how I feel right now. In many ways I’m much more nervous about this wedding than I was about my own! I don’t remember all the details, but then, like Maggie, I let my mother handle most of them. I know the day will be beautiful and the party great fun and, as always there will be something that won’t quite go as planned that will give us a good laugh in the future, like when Dave and Mike, his best man, got their tuxes mixed up and Dave ended up with shorter than usual sleeves and trousers while Mike’s were unusually long. Nobody even noticed until we looked at the pictures!
So, today, as with the next few days to come, I will do my best to take a deep cleansing breath and as the Brits say, “Keep Calm and Carry On”.
When I walked in through the kitchen door a couple of weeks ago after our eight-hour ride back from Hiawassee I was greeted by two things; the cries of a hungry cat and an error message on the control panel display of my almost new Kenmore refrigerator that read “Er IF”. Since I am semi-literate in things technical, I did the obvious; I removed the plug from the socket and after waiting about thirty seconds, plugged it back in again. (Thank you Roy and Moss!)
When the power returned, the control panel resumed its usual display of red and blue lights and numbers. All seemed back to normal until a few hours later when, after hearing some unusual groaning sounds coming from the kitchen the dreaded “Er IF” had returned. It was time to check the manual.
Generally I keep all of my owners’ manuals in three-ring binders, sorted by type of machine, appliances, and room the item is used in. Since I’ve been a domestic engineer, I have set myself on reorganizing our paper stuff and somehow I have managed to reorganize my kitchen stuff off to parts unknown. Frustrated by my inability to find something I should have been able to put my hands on in a micro sec, I downloaded a copy off the internet and took a look at the Troubleshooting section. As usual, the troubleshooting pages in this manual were the same as in others; the trouble isn’t really with the appliance but with the operator who, in order to have any of the “troubles” listed, must be a complete moron. (i.e. if the lights aren’t on, make sure it’s plugged in. dah.)
My next step was to Google the error message. Finally I found some useful information! The error indicated that my “trouble” was a wonky ice fan. I could try to take the back off the frig and check the fan for frost build up and “if I felt confident” order a new one and switch it out. My other choice, which seemed much more reasonable was to call a repairman. Resigned to the fact there was nothing I could do until the next morning, I returned to my seat on the couch and watched some TV.
First thing the next morning, I called the Sears Service Center. I was lucky enough to get an amiable guy called Steve to help me with my problem. The first thing he asked me was ” Did you try unplugging it and plugging it back in?” Why yes, I told him, I had. (More nods to Roy and Moss!) OK. My next step was to push a series of buttons on my control panel and then to hold the phone up to the upper right corner of the frig where there was actually a speaker located! After a few seconds of blips and beeps which sounded a lot like the sound our old dial-up modem used to make, Steve was ready with a report of all the information the frig had sent him. He told me that the temps were a little warmer than they should have been and asked if the doors were shut tight. I examined the freezer door and discovered that although the top was tight, the bottom was ajar about half an inch. Steve suggested I give the middle freezer shelf a push and voila, the door shut snug. Since this could have caused over frosting in the ice fan, he suggested giving it a few more runs through the defrost cycle to see if it would reset itself. He seemed to really know his way around my appliance, so I took his advice and said I’d call back the next day if I needed to.
As it turns out, the very next day I did have to call back. This time however, I think I was speaking to someone overseas. Carl didn’t have the same working knowledge of my refrigerator and asked if I would like to set up a service appointment. I said yes and after confirming my contact information, said a dispatcher would be calling me to set up a repair appointment with a local service man. So I hung up and waited for my call.
I waited all the next day but decided to try a few things. I pulled everything out of the stupid thing and loaded the garage frig and a few coolers up. I unplugged the kitchen frig for about eight hours and then plugged it back in again. Again, at first, it looked like I had fixed the thing. Then, the next morning, when I went down to let Izzie out and make the coffee, there it was again: “Er IF”. Grrrr.
Ticked off that Sears hadn’t called me and I was heading toward the weekend with no ice-maker, I went to Angie’s List and found the name of a local appliance repair guy with straight “A’s”. I gave him a call and set up an appointment for the following Tuesday.
Early Tuesday morning Darren arrived, opened the doors, felt around, checked the ice-maker and declared, “You need a new ice fan.” He said he’d do some research on ordering the part and would call me back.
The next afternoon, while I was in the ER with Dave, Darren called me back. (Talk about multi-tasking!) After hearing his price quote, I gave the okay to proceed. Just yesterday morning he called back to tell me the part is in. The earliest he can install the new fan is next Tuesday.
So, that’s my sad little tale. I realize have a broken ice-maker isn’t a crisis by any stretch of the imagination. My emptied freezer holds a big bag of store-bought ice quite nicely and my cold water dispenser still works, as long as I keep unplugging the refrigerator when “Er IF” appears. (I’m still not convinced that all these restarts aren’t harmful to the motherboard.)
I am still a bit miffed with Sears. It seems like every time I try to give them a second chance to prove to me that they should still be “Where America Shops”, they let me down. After all, my first job was on a Sears’ sales floor and I tend to be overly loyal. I think this may have been their last chance with me.
Lastly, if you’re wondering who Roy and Moss are and you like zany comedies, check out The IT Crowd on Netflix; you’ll be glad you did.
Update: Yesterday morning I received an automated call from the Sears repair center informing me that a technician would be stopping by to repair my frig between 8 am and 5 pm. Since I never actually made an appointment with them I returned the call to not only cancel the appointment but to let someone know there was a problem with their system. The customer service representative who answered my call politely listened to my story and then asked if I wanted to cancel the service call. Apparently listening to problems and directing them to the correct channels were not in his job description. Frustrated, I cancelled the appointment. He thanked me for calling Sears and trusting them to handle my service needs before hanging up. Gee, that was satisfying. Sorry Sears, that was the last straw.
Yesterday Dave and I spent the entire day together – in the Emergency Room. He’d been experiencing some discomfort in his chest along with fatigue and decided to give his doctor a call when he got to the office. Having been around the block more than once, I wasn’t at all surprised when he called me later in the morning and to tell me that he was down in the Emergency Room hooked up to a bunch of monitors. It was only appropriate procedure to follow when a 58 year old smoker walks in complaining of chest pain.
When I asked him if he wanted me to come join him, he said he was resting comfortably in a bed with wires attached to him and they told him he’d be there for several hours; I could stop by and say hello if I wanted. So, I unplugged the iron, put on a little makeup, grabbed a large Vera Bradley tote bag and gathered his reading glasses, IPad, the latest editions of National Geographic and Consumer Reports, my IPad and knitting and headed off to the ER.
Thankfully, I was very calm. Having grown up watching a slew of Soap Operas and medical shows, my mother’s favorites, I have a better than average working knowledge of things medical. As I said, I was reasonable sure the tests they were running on Dave were routine. As I drove I said a few prayers and gathered my female relatives who had passed around me for support and guidance. Call me silly, but I fully believe in the communion of saints and know that my grandmothers, aunts, mother-in-law and female friends who have passed are with me, ready to help in any way they can. Yesterday I they surrounded me with peace and confidence, lifting me up in love to help me get through whatever I would encounter.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I found a space near the entrance right next to a minivan with an advertisement for a company called “Affairs d’Amour” with a big heart logo on it. Seeing it made me smile. Earlier I received a series of text messages from Maggie alerting me that Jan wanted to make a couple of changes to the wedding plans. With their wedding is just a little more than two weeks away and I was initially a little annoyed, but then decided to let them handle the changes to their “affair of the heart” while I dealt with mine.
I was greeted at the door by a really nice guy who directed me to Dave’s room. I have to admit he looked kind of silly in his suit pants, dress shoes and hospital gown. I asked if I could take a photo of him to use in my blog but emphatically declined the request.
Soon I was comfortably seated at his side, playing solitaire on my IPad as he rested. Tiring of that, I pulled a hank of yarn out of my bag and to my delight, discovered that a hospital bed side table works extremely well to hang yarn on when rolling it into a ball. Once my yarn was ready, I grabbed my needles and cast on a the stitches for a sock.
During the course of the next several hours I took a trip to McDonalds for lunch, chatted with the doctors and nurses, let Maggie and Andy know what was going on and continued work on my sock. By two o’clock, Dave was fully rested and getting restless in the bed. Fortunately Martha Jefferson offers a guest Wi-Fi and we were able to tune into our Netflix account. We spent the next two hours watching an interesting documentary by Ken Burns called “Death and the Civil War”. Again, maybe not the average choice to watch in the ER, but it was engaging and helped the time go by.
Finally, after eight hours, and half a sock later, with all troponin tests coming back as normal, Dave was released with an appointment for a follow-up stress test set for next week. He was both relieved he hadn’t suffered a heart attack and a bit disappointed that they hadn’t told him what was wrong with him. Ah men, so unaccustomed to the working of the medical world, assuming there is always an exact answer for every ache and pain. Thank God he doesn’t have to go through menopause with all it’s quirks!
This morning, after a good night’s rest, and an extra hour of sleep, Dave awoke refreshed and feeling a lot like himself. Still bewildered about his undiagnosed discomfort, I suggested he give his primary physician a call to help him sort it out. As for me, I also slept well, feeling relatively secure that we are not facing a medical crisis in our lives, but glad that we did have this little exercise. Out of this little dark cloud came one very shiny silver lining; it provided that little oomph necessary to get Dave to finally quit smoking again! It was his equivalent of my falling in the shower a couple of months ago; a reminder that life is fragile and we have to take care of what we have.
We still have the stress test next Tuesday to see if there is anything else going on with Dave’s heart. I’m more inclined to point a finger at his gall bladder. We’ll see. Until then as the saying goes, I will Stay Calm and Carry On, with the help of my friends and family, here and passed.
PS. To clarify my position on calling on my relatives that have passed, I also call on my grandfathers and uncles, but mostly for assistance when I am handling power tools, etc. In many ways I remain a traditionalist.
Since April, I have four trips on the interstates through the Blue Ridge, Appalachian and Smokey Mountains. My companions and vehicles have varied on these drives, but the road and scenery remains much the same. Sounds boring doesn’t it? Surprisingly, it isn’t.
I have discovered that I am a mountain woman.
Don’t get me wrong, my dream is not to live in a rustic cabin miles away from my nearest neighbor, nor do I have any desire to dress in camo, roaming the hills to snap, trap or shoot woodland creatures for food. Simply said, I feel a deep connection to the vast waves of rolling greenery and peaks wrapped in clouds. To me, mountains are beautiful, challenging, and even holy.
The roots of my connection to vertical landscape may be in the rolling hills of Western New York where I was born and spent my early childhood, between the foothills of the Alleghenies and Lake Erie. The hills seemed pretty high to me, but I was little. Sometimes, as we approached the top of a hill in the car Dad, or “Daddy” as he was called then, would say, “we’re going to fall over the edge!” Playing along we’d all let out a feigned frightened “ah” as we “plummeted” over the rise. No matter how many times we did it, it was always fun.
Going for rides on Sundays after dinner were a popular summertime activity. Many times my Grandma and Grandpa Farner would join us as we retraced the rural roads passing the farms where they had lived while my Dad was growing up. We would take our station wagon, so there was enough room for all seven of us. (My youngest brother, Mark, hadn’t arrived yet.) Dad drove with Grandpa in the front seat and usually one of my brothers between them. Mom and Grandma sat in the back seat with my youngest sister Barb, while the rest of us were relegated to the “way-back’.
We kids did our best to stay quietly “under the radar”. My parents had a zero tolerance for naughty behavior or in your face crankiness. Whining was a sure-fire way to abruptly end the ride and dash any hopes we had for a small Tastee Freeze cone before we went home. The promise of soft-serve went a long way to keep five little kids under control. Grandma always came prepared to squelch the minor disturbances with a box of Chiclets in her purse, and sometimes bright pink Canada Mints.
The adult conversation was a travelogue of stories of the people who lived along those roads, past and present and memories of funny and sometimes sad stories. Names of people we didn’t know became familiar to us as did their stories I loved the stories best of all. Sometimes we passed the house where my father was born or the one-room school-house Grandma attended. There were lines of trees my dad planted and fields they worked season after season. Each time we drove, more details of days gone by were planted in me; grounding me in who I was and where I came from. Tones we kept just loud enough to be heard over the crunching gravel under the tires. Those days most of the back roads hadn’t been paved yet. Combine that with a lack of air conditioning and open windows the result was often Dad having to pull over to go to the back of the car to crank up the back window to protect us from the rolls of dust that would choke us in the way-back.
How different my rides now are from those of my childhood. I am driving with a purpose, a destination and a time limit in mind. Protected in my air-conditioned bubble I’ve driven without a cough. No longer am I siting in the furthest reaches of the vehicle, but instead, I sit in the front with plenty of space and sometimes even drive myself! I don’t know any of the stories of the people who live in the homes I see from the road, but I try to imagine that they are happy in such beautiful surroundings.
This morning I am sitting on my parent’s front porch aside a mountain in Hiawassee, Georgia. I was the first to stir, so after turning on the coffee maker, I headed out the door to enjoy the peace of the day.
Before I sat down, I took a little walk around the garage to bid a good day to my dad’s “girls”; six of the sweetest little hens who greeted me with soft clucks and head bobs. I’m sure they were expected some feed associated with the early morning visit but as a visitor, I’m not about to upset the routine, so after a few moments of women to hen conversation, I moved on.
Our trip down here yesterday was beautiful. If you’ve never driven down I81 through the Blue Ridge in Virginia and into Tennessee, you should add it to your bucket list. The vistas through those mountains are sublime. I would have taken a few pictures, but it seemed as though every time I had a good view, a semi would pull into view. It was I81 after all.
I can hear someone moving around in the kitchen, my alone time is over. Some coffee would surely taste good. For now, I’ll have to say goodbye to the quiet of the morning until tomorrow.
There are times when being a modern woman in the Catholic church seems so infuriating that I just want to march out the door and never look back. Given my beliefs in the equality of the sexes, the whole idea of subordination of women in the Roman Catholic church seems unjust at best and un-Christian at worst.
Recently when asked in an interview about the possibility of ordaining women into the priesthood, Pope Francis stated that the Church had already spoken on that issue and the answer was “no”. Women, he said, had a special role in the church above priests and Bishops, just as Mary, the mother of Jesus, is held above the Apostles. HHHmmm. Sounds nice, but what does it really mean? Most of what we are taught about Mary; the peaceful, chaste, ever-loving mother, sets a bar so high, she should be held above all men, and women too. Contrast that against the Apostles; squabbling about who would ride “shot-gun” in heaven, making plans to build a theme park atop Mount Tabor, and locking themselves inside the upper room after the crucifixion. It is clear who we should want to emulate and who we actually see ourselves reflected in.
So, back to my original thought; why do I stick around? Why would I willingly subject myself to an institution that so stiffly holds to decisions made centuries ago. After all, even Abraham was able to change God’s mind about destroying Sodom. The answer is simple; the Catholic Church is my Christian faith family.
As much as I am conflicted by the struggle between the desert of reality in the Church and my thirst for the divine, every now and then, I receive such a clear reminder of who I am and where I belong. Last Friday I had one of those reminders.
My Cursillo buddies, Kay and Peggy and I planned a trip to Our Lady of the Angels Monastery in Crozet to attend their morning Mass. Mass is at 7:30 and Crozet is about 45 minutes from here so we were in for an early morning trip along some of the back roads labeled “Virginia By-Ways” on the map.
There was a beautiful sunrise as I headed out that morning; like a herald of the angels to lead my way. I drove to Kay’s and then on to Peggy’s and soon we were off into the morning first light with the help of our celestial guide, Garmin.
Our Lady of the Angels Monastery, Crozet, VA.
Kay only missed one turn and after getting back on track we were driving up a winding dirt road up the side of a mountain, passing a small herd of milk cows grazing in the grass. Soon we heard “Arriving at Destination, on right” and we were in the small gravel parking lot of the monastery. Looking out the passenger side window, taking it all in, I spied a bright blue indigo bunting sitting on the post and rail fence right in front of me. What a welcome! Like all ethereal things, he flitted off before I could snap a picture of him.
The sign reads “DOOR IS OPEN, YOU ARE WELCOME”.
There was only one other car in the lot, and it was very quiet all around us, except for the usual country sounds of birds singing in the trees. Slowly and a little unsure we approached the door. On the right of the door was a small white sign that read in big blue letters, “Door Is Open, You Are Welcome”.
As we quietly opened the door, we entered a long hallway and the soft sound of women’s voices chanting morning prayers lilted in from the far right. Not knowing what lay behind the door nor wishing to disturb the sisters, we waited until the singing was finished before entering the chapel’s public sitting area.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in a convent and never in a monastery, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. The sitting area consisted of a small cubicle to the left of the altar, roped off from the sisters’ sitting area. We were welcome, but we were not invited to enter their space, which seemed only right.
Soon, the sisters entered and took their places in seats lining both walls in front of the altar, with a wide aisle between them. It was a small group, of about ten or twelve ranging in age from early twenties to perhaps early nineties. Most were middle-aged. Two of the younger nuns went to the back of the room and began to pull on long ropes hanging from the ceiling and bells began to ring. The priest took his place on the altar, and Mass began.
As daily Mass celebrations go, this one was very long. It is the sister’s practice to enunciate each word of every prayer slowly and distinctively. There was nothing close to rushing through the rote prayers; each was said as if for the first time. At first it seemed peculiar but soon I found myself purposefully putting on the brakes to slow down to the sisters’ pace. It was pleasant to take my time, to not rush in my time just being with God.
A glimpse of the green space surrounding the Monastery of Our Lady of the Angels
A couple of weeks ago the Gospel at Sunday’s Mass was the story of Martha and Mary. For most of my life, I have to admit that I’ve felt a kinship with Martha; trying my best to take care of the details, making others more comfortable but also criticizing those who chose to not participate. It seemed to me that praying was all well and good, but sometimes you needed to live out your prayers, sacrificing your own wants for other’s needs.
Last Friday I realized more clearly that through their thoughtful and deliberate prayer life, these sisters were doing just that. Through their prayer life, they carry the balance for folks like myself who find it difficult to sit quietly and center myself into a meditative prayer experience. Their choosing to be “Marys” allows others, like me to be “Marthas”.
Despite its history of human frailties, the Catholic Church, dysfunctional as it is at times, with all its warts is my faith home and my branch of the Christian family. Yes, we have the crazy uncles who spout off at parties and think they know what’s best for the rest of us and we have the occasional squabble about who should do what. Sometimes there are harsh words, fierce disagreements and sadly, the kind of deep, everlasting hurt one can only receive from family. Thankfully our family also includes the loving aunts who with open arms welcome the broken into God’s loving embrace, wipe away the tears and provide healing for the soul.
It’s not perfect, but it is what I know. At least for now, I’m sticking around.
Like many people in America, I have become increasingly aware that this country is going to the birds! For instance, just this past June, the Richmond, Virginia city council voted to allow residents to keep up to four chickens (hens only) in their backyards! What a coop coup! Maggie and Jan have even discussed getting a few hens to complete their back garden. Is it a passing feathered fad or is it in the blood; like a genetic bird flu?
Growing up I always knew that my father’s career goal after graduating high school was to become a poultry farmer. Dad attended Alfred State University for one year and then dropped out. I was told the reason he didn’t continue on he was that he was allergic to chicken feathers. I always assumed that to be the only reason for leaving because in my child’s mind it made sense. I’m certain there were other reasons including the burden of cost of higher education as well as a desire to move ahead with his life. Not long after he left school he enlisted in the Army and joined the working world.
For a time when I was really little, my folks raised chickens in a shed in our backyard. I have little recollection of them except for “dressing” time. Mom says I sat on a little step watching the chickens get their necks wrung, asking if they were “ready to get dressed”. I have a vague mental picture of the experience which believe it or not was a pleasant one and not traumatic in any way. Chickens were food. Dressing them was just part of the deal. As the years passed, and our family grew and both my parents found themselves occupied with various aspects of raising a brood of children, the chicken rearing fell to the wayside, for a while.
Mark and his first egg from the suburban hens.
Flash forward fifteen or sixteen years. The Farner clan was living in the New Jersey suburbs just outside of Philadelphia on a quarter acre lot; not really where you’d expect to find a chicken coop. Yet, my freshman year in college, Santa brought my youngest brother Mark an incubator and some eggs to hatch. It wasn’t long before we had a pair of Banties and an Easter Hen living in a coop hung on the stockade fence of our backyard.
I learned two things living with these chickens. First, roosters don’t just crow at the break of day; they crow whenever they feel like it. The first time Dave came to meet the family, I warned him that if he heard anything strange, it would probably just be rooster. He laughed and say, “sure” until I took him out back and showed him our feathered friends. I often wondered how our neighbors felt about our rooster, but I don’t recall any complaints.
Secondly I learned that you can easily entertain party guests by hypnotizing a chicken. For fun, Dad would take the Easter hen out of the coop and set her on the lawn. Then, he would hold her head down in the grass with one hand and begin to make lines away from her beak, one after another. After a while he would stop and let go. The hen would stay put for several minutes before shaking all over and walking away. The little kids loved it but I would wager that the roots of this trick lie in getting a chicken to stay still in order to chop off its head without endangering your own fingers.
I’m not sure what happened to those chickens, after all, I was away at school and just a couple of years later my parents moved.
All was quiet on the poultry front until this past April when Barb and I took our road trip to Hiawassee to visit Mom and Dad. One afternoon Barb, Debbie and I decided to take a look at a nearby antique store. There Debbie found a chicken waterer and thought it would make a good birthday gift for Dad who had been talking about getting some chicks. Dad liked the gift but said he didn’t think he wanted to start raising chickens after all. But, the seed was sown; or more properly, the egg was laid.
New home for pullets.
Just a couple of weeks later, Dad set about up-cycling an old display shelf unit from a local shop into a chicken coop and then populating it with six little pullets he procured from a friend at the town’s feed store. At first the chicks were too little to be outside, for fear of fox and frost so they stayed in the garage in a big cardboard box for a time. Eventually, with the remodel completed, the chicks were moved into their new home just behind the garage.
I asked for updates on the pullets when I had the opportunity to chat with Dad. A couple of times when we were Facetiming, he’d take his I Pad out to the coop so I could see for myself how his girls were doing.
Dad’s first dozen pullet eggs
This week, his hens began to lay. First there was one little egg. Then another day there were three. On Friday there were five eggs in the cage! Finally on Saturday, Dad sent us this picture; a full dozen! Not bad progress to go from a maybe to a dozen eggs in four short months.
I have to admit, even I am envious. Fresh eggs at my threshold would be wonderful. I don’t know if my HOA will allow raising chickens in our backyard. I know Izzie would certainly enjoy it!
My brother Scott has also been inspired by Dad’s fowl success. He recently built a new, portable coup that would be perfect for urban poultry farmers. If you are interested in finding out how to get one for yourself, you can contact him at: scott.farner.9@facebook.com
I’ve been a knitter for a very long time. My mother taught me how to do the simple garter stitch when I was only eight or nine years old. One time, when I was recovering from dental surgery, she bought me a 2 oz. skein of denim ombre worsted weight yarn that I thought was just wonderful. Mom would cast on the stitches for me and I would knit them until I reached the end of my ball. Then I would rip the whole thing out and Mom would cast a new set onto my needles. I delighted in the variety of patterns the colors produced with the different number of stitches.
My addiction to sock knitting started innocently enough as one small project to prepare myself emotionally for my daughter, Maggie’s departure for college back in 2000. I reckoned that since I spent a good deal of time crocheting little toys for her before she came into my world, I would knit socks for her as I sent her off into the world.
I bought an instructional booklet, some double point needles and a couple skeins of sock yarn. My first pair of socks was completed in just a couple of days. So, I bought more yearn and made another pair, and then another and then another. In no time I was cranking out a pair of socks every week or so. By the time Maggie left for school, I’d knit at least a dozen pairs of socks which she shared with her friends.
Sock in progress.
With Maggie successfully launched, you’d think I would have moved on to other projects but I was unable to stop. Instead, I stepped up my game, searching for ever more complicated patterns and luxurious yarns. For a time I was totally hooked on self-patterning yarns, mesmerized by the way colorful designs appeared on my sock cuffs with relatively no effort on my part.
To justify my lust for yarn and feed my habit, I decided to begin giving my creations away as gifts. Over the next several years, almost all of my coworkers, relatives and friends received at least one pair of handmade socks for a birthday or Christmas gift. I know it sounds like the kind of present you’d receive from an elderly aunt that you accept kindly and then toss in the back of a drawer, but people actually liked them and began to expect a new pair when their birthday rolled around. Believe me, I didn’t complain; the reinforcement was great!
Since sock knitting materials are so compact and portable, I began to take my habit with me where ever I went, riding in cars and planes, doctors’ waiting rooms, the movies, and even webinars. In short, anywhere I’d be sitting for at least five minutes was a good a place as any to knit. If you were ever stuck in traffic on Witchduck Road in Virginia Beach at rush hour in the early 2000’s and you think you may have seen a woman knitting in the driver’s seat of a red CRV, you weren’t dreaming; it was me!
My friends Carol and Connie knitting squares for our Warm Up America project.
Then, after years of watching me knit a lunchtime, my coworkers expressed an interest in learning how to knit. I had lots of scraps of worsted weight yarn at home as well as extra needles. (Over the years I have become a repository for unwanted knitting supplies.) So, we started a lunchtime knitting class in our office supply room/kitchen. For several months we met every day from 12:00 to 1:00, producing simple garter stitch squares to make a blanket for Warm Up America. We eventually finished and donated it to a local organization helping the homeless at the oceanfront.
With the blanket completed, some of my students moved onto socks. Connie was the first to complete a pair, then Sarah, while the rest continued making squares. But, regardless of what we were making with our hands, we were forging strong friendships with our hearts. Our discussions became so intimate and at times bawdy that we eventually posted a sign on the door to the kitchen which read, “No Boys Allowed 12-1” to avoid the occasional red-faced embarrassment many of the guys experienced when the opened the door to our “Ladies’ Hour”. I guess you could say it was our version of locker room dialogue with the distinct exception that we were more apt to be discussing how lame the opposite sex is rather than how hot they are. (I apologize for the man bashing, but there you go.)
A brief glimpse of my stash.
Although for the most part, my habit has not been harmful to me, the one major downside of all this sock knitting is that no matter how carefully planned a pattern is, there is always some yarn left after a pair of socks is completed. Over the years I have tried my best to keep up with my stash so that it accumulates to the point that Dave actually notices. Aside from the bags and baskets I have strategically tucked behind the sofa and chair in the family room, I have more than a few bags stashed away in the closet in my office. I call it my “craft closet” but if truth be told, it is really a huge pile of yarn, carefully sorted by weight and sometimes color stowed away in recycled plastic comforter and bed sheet zipper bags. I guess you could call it controlled chaos.
The first month after moving into our house here in Ruckersville, I knit about a dozen pair of socks. I had lots of time on my hands and not a whole lot of activity in my life. Nowadays I deviate from time to time, cranking out the odd baby sweater or cap as well as the prayer shawls I make with my ladies at Peace Lutheran in Charlottesville, but I aways have at least one pair of socks in progress. I can’t really explain the attraction except that with a project so small, I can afford to buy nicer yarns and savor the tactile joy of working with fine natural fibers. Because they make up so quickly, I rarely have the opportunity to get bored with a pair, even when I’m in the midst of the dreaded second sock.
If you’re not a knitter, this still might not make much sense. It took Dave many years to accept and appreciate what I do. For a long time when I’d excitedly show him my yarn and pattern, he’d merely say, “show me when it’s done.” Recently though, even he admitted how impressed he is that I can take a bunch of “string” and creat a fine garment. And oh yes, even he loves his handmade socks!
This morning when I let Izzie outside I was greeted by the most refreshing wave of cool fresh air I’ve experienced in many weeks. A cold front came through last night and we have been blessed by one of those rarities of mid-summer; a good hair day!
Dave just doesn’t seem to understand why I spend so much time worrying about and tending to my hair. Having resolved my dilemma of “to grow or not to grow” and decided on the non-committal “bob” as my default cut, I am becoming more and more dedicated to finding the right combination of shampoos, conditioners and styling products to achieve the desired amount of poof, body, shine and curl in my locks without overdoing it and suffering flat, limp dull, frizzy hair. And let’s not even begin to discuss color; that’s for another conversation involving professionals.
My side of the shower has become a wasteland of paired shampoo and conditioner bottles. I try to keep a limit of three kinds at a time, just to save space, but every once in a while, a fourth set will sneak in. There are more bottles in the back of the linen closet, waiting until atmospheric conditions may change and they maybe recalled to the shower. On the other side, Dave’s side, sit two lonely bottles; a body wash and a shampoo, not even a matching pair. His hair always looks perfect, perpetually thick, neat and wavy. It just doesn’t seem fair.
Every time I step into the shower I become a hair product alchemist; attempting to determine the correct shampoo and conditioner combination to use based a complicated algorithm involving how dirty and sweaty my scalp may be, the relative humidity, the season, what my plans are for the upcoming day and my general mood. It isn’t easy. Left to its own devices, my hair is limp and yields to an unattractive wave in the front and cowlick in the back. No way could I leave the house with my hair in such a state!
After it is washed, I wrap my hair in a terry towel and let it dry a bit before pulling out the blow dryer. Timing is of the essence. If I try to dry it too wet, it will take forever; if it is too dry, I may not achieve the lift I desire. Again, the weather can play a major role in how successful I am. Low humidity and cool days are the best, but hot, muggy summer days are the worst! On those days over ambitious hair drying can trigger a dreaded hot flash and result in a sweaty scalp rendering my do and dud. Products do help a bit, but again, it requires experience and a steady hand to insure the appropriate amount is used; too much and my hair becomes gunky and weighed down, too little and it becomes wispy and unruly. Hairspray can be a useful tool as well, but the same precautions apply.
Most of the work is mental, all the ciphering and risk assessment. Eventually, usually, I will achieve a result I feel confident I can put down my dryer and clear off the counter, satisfied I have done my best. In the end, most people won’t notice. If I ask him, Dave, like the well-trained husband he is, will answer, “You always look good”, which lulls me into a false sense of security. Then, on the days that I maybe don’t put forth the effort I am asked, “Do you feel okay?”
I know I’m not alone in the quest for perfect hair. This desire for great hair is pimped by Madison Avenue and perpetuated in fairy tales. Disney may have created princesses who can live without a prince, but not one of them has short hair and even Ariel, despite the fact she lives underwater, still has puffy hair! The need for good hair cuts across all races, cultures and income levels; the only difference is the dollar limit placed on the purchase.
Like it or not, I am a slave to my locks. And for at least today, after I’ve attempted to turn my straw into gold, the summer heat isn’t going to get me as soon as I step outside.
Like many other people, I too was caught up in the “Great Kate Wait.” What really touches my heart about seeing the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and their new little one really has nothing to do with them as much as it has to do with me, and the fact that they are young and living through such an incredible event in anyone’s life and we are privy to watching it. Since I don’t have any movies of getting in the car with my own children, seeing them reminds me of what it was like for me so many years ago when my babies were coming along.
The day my daughter Maggie was born started gray and drizzling. Dave was away; four weeks into a seven month Indian Ocean cruise aboard the USS John F. Kennedy. Except for my kitty companions, Punkin and Blossom, I was alone when I woke up about five that morning with mild contractions. The misery I’d been feeling about the unfairness of life putting twelve thousand miles between Dave and me at this important time was quickly replaced by a sense of excitement that the moment I’d been waiting for was about to arrive. Soon, after only twenty or so hours of labor, I had a beautiful baby girl and I was somebody’s Mommy.
Maggie and I at the NAS Oceana O’Club Pool two weeks before Andy was born.
Luckily, Navy wives are never really alone so I had a “village” all primed and ready to help me with everything and anything I needed in Dave’s absence. My neighbors provided me with meals, picked up my mother at the airport, showered me with gifts and checked in on me. One of them even came to the hospital with me as my birthing coach. They were so open and happy to help, and I was happy to let them.
When Andy was born seventeen months later, we were lucky enough to have Dave home, ever so briefly. When I announced it was time to go to the hospital he was in the middle of watching a Buddy Hackett special on HBO and wasn’t too keen on leaving. When I insisted, he got up, went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich to take along. Of all the helpful literature he’d read about coaching a birth, the one thing he remembered was to bring a snack because he might get hungry during a long labor. As it turned out, I don’t think he had a chance to eat the sandwich, but at least he was prepared. It’s not that Dave is insensitive, only practical.
We brought Andy home in our first brand new car, a 1983 Nissan Sentra four door sedan in a deep burgundy. Our previous auto, a Volkswagen Sirocco was a two door coupe. It had been hard enough to climb into the back to buckle one baby over a bucket seat, two was out of the question. So, on that very hot day in July, we drove our new baby home in our new car in the heady fragrance of commingling new baby and new car smells.
Maggie meets Andy for the first time.
Our first night home as a family was a little rocky. We started our night with Andy sleeping in a roll-away crib in our room but all his little noises kept us awake so it wasn’t long before Dave rolled him away into his own room. Hearing him when he awoke wasn’t an issue, the house wasn’t that big. The first time he cried he woke us all up. I remember sitting in my chair, nursing him while Dave held Maggie who when she heard Andy cry, starting crying herself. I was so torn, feeling tethered to this infant, who I really didn’t know, while my baby sat on her father’s lap, her little arms outstretched to me. I suppose I probably started crying too.
Eventually, Andy was fed and asleep, Maggie was comforted and back in her bed and I in mine. After that the nights were easier. Dave was soon back to sea for another seven month cruise and I was a more than full time Mommy. As I look back on those days now, despite the frequently interrupted sleep, poopy diapers and car seat buckling, those days of early motherhood were some of the happiest days of my life. My days had a natural rhythm, a cadence set by the day-to-day routine of feedings, naps, diaper changes, walks, hugs, and endless book reading. I never set an alarm, there was just no need. Most mornings I woke refreshed and most nights I fell asleep hard and fast. As a better writer than I once said, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
Fast forward thirty years and here I am, a nostalgic middle-aged woman, delighting in the sights of another young family taking their first “baby steps” together; remembering the days when I was in their shoes with great warmth and joy.
Since April, I have four trips on the interstates through the Blue Ridge, Appalachian and Smokey Mountains. My companions and vehicles have varied on these drives, but the road and scenery remains much the same. Sounds boring doesn’t it? Surprisingly, it isn’t.
