My Sweet Sebba

This mothering business can be such a hard job. We all do the best we can, but sometimes it seems we can never see the end of things or how it'll all turn out. At times, it all seems like a big crap shoot. Sebba was my first baby. She was always a little head strong and opinionated (I wonder where she got that from?) and despite me, she seems to have turned out OK. She was the one I cut my teeth on as a mother so I'm glad she doesn't seem too scarred from the experience. I was sort of rudderless when raising her, and did it alone for several years to boot. The early teen years were by far, the worst for both of us, but we survived. She has blossomed into a lovely person that I like to think of as a daughter and friend. I hope she feels the same, and if she ends up in therapy, I doubt it'll be because of me and my parenting techniques.

She isn't too fussy. She does enjoy some of the finer things in life, but she works multiple jobs at times to afford them for herself. She doesn't expect someone to do it for her. She isn't spoiled in the least though and can rough it with the best of them. She has walked the Breast Cancer 3 Day-all 60 miles-with never a whine or a whimper. We did cry together on that walk, but it was because of loss. That was the year we suffered multiple and devastating losses. Breast cancer was the cause of one of them.

Sebba has one thing she likes best about herself, and that one single thing now is gone. She lost it today in just a few snips. Soon, it will be part of something that can give another mother's child back her pride and joy. Hair. Her beautiful hair will soon bring something special into a child's life. Today she gave a foot of it to a local Wigs for Kids. Way to go honey. I'm proud of you. I know I'm totally biased, but if you ask me, your hair was and is not your most special asset; your heart is.

I'll knit you another hat to keep your head warm.  I need to knit that sweater just a little bit faster now too.  Thank you Sebba.  That was indeed a most precious gift.

But I'm Not a Liar

This has been a week for finishing projects around here. The garter stitch scarf, done in many shades of brown and charcoal is done. My spruce socks are done. Clapotis is done and waiting for me to take it to the post office. The front of the green sweater is done and awaiting the back hem and sleeves. We had a fitting today which motivated me to finish. It's stunning. The pink socks are not done. I started this pair while on the Breast Cancer 3 Day. I've pondered their existence ever since.

What a mess....

I've figured out the issue: I don't like doing socks on two circular needles. I think they're a pain in the arse. I have a feeling it's because I taught myself to make them on double points and now, nothing else will suffice except my Takumi Velvet needles. I will persevere and finish them and have been working toward that end. This morning, I completed and turned the heel, and picked up the gusset stitches. The mate isn't yet a twinkle in my eye. I have to get through the first one...ugh. Maybe I should just rip it out and start them the right way. Sometimes this old dog cannot be taught a new trick. I'm just glad I wasn't forced to learn math using an abacus.

There is a bathrobe clad woman who comments here, who seems to think that I am not quite forthright and that perhaps, I exaggerate when I write. I guess, that would make me a liar. I don't recall how she and I first began reading one another's blogs, but if you don't read hers, you should. I always leave there laughing. She commented on my last post that she wanted proof I did not go overboard at the yarn store on Monday. While it isn't the best quality, it plainly shows the truth of the matter. This photo is for Flydragon:

Seven buttons and 1 skein of Brown Sheep Bulky

I need to finish Rachelheimer's mittens with my Monday purchase. The beauty of knitting is that something like this can be made to fit. This child has the most delicate bone structure and store bought items seldom fit. Her fingers and hands are long and narrow. These mitts will fit snugly without slipping off her hands. I think all told, they only take a couple of hours per mitt because they're made with bulky wool. Next up for her will be some thrummed mittens but she'll have to wait for the soldier's socks to be knit. He's next on deck. I hear it's freaking freezing in the desert at night.

One down, a bit of one and a thumb to go. The white on the right mitt is scrap yarn that when pulled out, will free up live stitches to knit a thumb. It's magic. I love knitting mittens.

I Am a Thief

I've stolen the avatar of the winner of my blogiversary contest.  It's Brenda from over at Days of my Life.  For the record, she got every question right and was the first to submit her answers.  Many people tried to win and we threw the names into a hat for Rachel to select the winner.  Brenda won.  I'm happy for her, but not a little sad to see the shawl go.  I'll just have to knit another. 

My Ravelry friend Joyce, warned of this Clapotis addiction.  I think she has knit several of them.  I wonder how many total?  I didn't really listen to her warning, thinking instead that I would knit one and that would be it.  I couldn't have been more wrong.  It's a captivating pattern that requires a bit of attention, but not a whole lot.  It's perfect for knitting while watching a movie.

I went to the yarn store yesterday and bought one skein of Lamb's Pride Bulky to finish the last 2 inches and thumb of a pair of mittens for Rachel.  When I started them, I thought there was enough yarn to finish-I was wrong.   I know, I know-only five days into the new year and I've forsaken my resolution.  Does it count though?  I'd hate to see Rachelheimer have cold fingers and I swear, that single skein, and 7 buttons for Sebba's sweater were the only things I bought.  I didn't even look at the sales items.  That has to count for something.  A sales bin of yarn is where I first met the lovely yarn Sisek.  I fell in love with this yarn and was told it's no longer in production.  When I learned this, I bought 25 skeins of it on ebay in a moment of temporary insanity.  This stash is what I made Brenda's Clapotis from.  (For the record, I think it's progress that I can say it's Brenda's Clapotis and not mine anymore).

So Brenda, please email me your address and I'll ship  your prize for playing along!  When you get it, can we have a picture of you snuggled up in Clapotis?

The Dog Always Nose Best

My Dukealicious Dog is going on 9 this year and he isn't doing so well.  Every time I look at him, he has a new lipoma and limps a little more.  The Tramadol I give him for pain gives him the trots-and not in a good way:  the dog isn't trotting, his gut is-all over my house.  I vacillate about giving him his pain medication.  If I do, he has an upset stomach and if I don't, he's in pain.  Maybe we just need a new drug.

This has been the best dog I've ever had in my life.  He is the sweetest beast and I had my concerns about a Doberman.  They have such fierce reputations that I've found are completely undeserved.  Duke has personality with a capital P.  He is fiercely loyal and protective.  At night, he routinely made the rounds of his pack in their rooms.  If the door was closed, he'd knock with his paw or nose to come in and check.  If you didn't let him check, he'd pace and knock until he won the battle.  He wanted to know everyone was safe.  This work ethic must have been part of his genetic code.  When he was young, I couldn't even pee without him in attendance.  Nowadays, he doesn't even get up to greet me when I come home and he no longer makes the rounds of the bedrooms at night.  He has retired.  I think just like my dying hospice patients, he mostly sleeps all day long.  He still likes to eat and like any good girl of Arab descent, I believe eating and appetite are good cardinal signs.   Despite this, he is thin and his legs have atrophied from disuse due to arthritis.  It's so sad to watch his decline.

He has been the most correct judge of human intent and worthiness.  For the most part, this judgement on his part has been toward my daughter's suitors.  If the dog had an inkling that their character was flawed, or wanting, he'd growl and snarl until he intimidated the young men into leaving the house.  Because he batted 1,000 in respect to ferreting out creeps, for years if my daughter found someone she was particularly fond of, she was afraid to bring him around for the final test with Duke.  This dog's opinion was never wrong and he pretty much disliked them all.  The last serious boyfriend she had was the exception.  He never snarled and let the boyfriend pet him.  He didn't just tolerate the young man, he liked him. This relationship went on for a year and we were all comfortable with things.  I had visions of a fabulous wedding and grandchildren dancing in my head and then abruptly, Duke changed his mind about things.  He sensed what the rest of us couldn't see.  Two weeks later, the young man was out of our lives because his feelings had changed.  Duke knew it first and when he first sensed it, he had snapped at him, almost snagging his ear.  This was a rare behavior for my dog.  He never bit anyone, but wanted to this time.  Maybe he was hurt too.

Sometimes, the people he likes surprise me.  He has a thing for Mr. Larger Than Life.  I'm surprised only because MLTL doesn't like my dog.  He barely tolerates Duke.  To the dog, this is a challenge he has never turned down.  He's made it his mission to make my father in law like him.  I don't think it'll ever happen.

I'm feeling badly about my dog's suffering.  When and where should I draw the line?  When he can no longer get up?  When he stops eating?  How can I tell he has had enough and my forcing him to do things satisfies only me and not him?  I've got to tell you, this one hurts.  I know to some, he is just a dog, but to me, he is my companion and a part of my pack. 

Sooner or Later

Clapotis unblocked. About 24 additional inches are hanging down the back of the chair.

Tomorrow is my blogiversary. One year already! If you meant to get around to playing 20 questions but haven't started or finished, you have until midnight tomorrow. Clapotis is finished and while intended to be a scarf, with the yarn and needles I selected to use, it has blocked out to shawl size-74 X 29 inches (188 X 74cm). This shawl is beautiful and soft. Knit with Dalegarn Sisek (about 30% wool, 30% mohair and 30% acrylic-the rest is nylon), the piece is mainly black with flecks of primary colors throughout. It's cozy too. As I've been finishing this piece, I've had it draped over me like a blanket and I can vouch for its warmth.

Clapotis-chilling out after a dip in Soak and water.

My Clapotis isn't without one or two minor flaws where I picked up a stitch (part of the pattern) and think I twisted it. I defy you to find those flaws. In keeping with my New Year's resolution to lighten up on myself, I am letting the flaws be part of the charm-instead of forcing myself to fix the damn things. Additionally, the flaws were unnoticeable until the end when the stitches were dropped. I think after all, the end should be the end. There are two and unless you go looking for them stitch by stitch, you'll not find them-besides, they're hidden in the ripples. You can let the error of my new found ways be a part of the charm for you too.

Flawed but perfect anyways. Vanilla flavored socks in Spruce Bearfoot

Also in the completed but imperfect list are the spruce socks. They are not being given away, they're for me. Amazingly, these have a couple of mistakes I refused to fix too. This is so not like me. Usually, if I can't fix a mistake, I rip it out and restart. Here, I purled some of what I should have knit doing the ribbed cuff and thus, threw the pattern off. That's what I get for knitting while watching TV and not my hands. It's not that mistakes in my knitting aren't usual, what's amazing is that I'm letting them stand. Cudos to me because only 4 days into the new year, I'm keeping a promise to myself. Please remind me of this promise in the days, weeks and months to come, when I'm sure to allow the perfectionist back in and beat myself up over something so trivial.

If you want to be warm by Friday, you need to get busy. There are a few of you who have posted correct entries and Miss Rachel will draw them AFTER her breakfast on Tuesday morning. One of you will be cloaked in warmth for the rest of winter. Send your entries to rudeek45(at)gmail(dot)com. You know to substitute the correct symbols for at and dot. Good luck.

I'm Up Already!!!

Dear Mr. Larger Than Life:

Has it ever occurred to you that when people don't answer your calls bright and early in the morning, that they may still be sleeping?  I didn't think so.  I know everyday is Saturday for you, but it only comes once a week for me.  I was lingering in bed and snoozing my life away.  It felt pretty good until you called.  And called.  And called.  And called.

If you call once and nobody answers, do you think you could leave a message so we know what it is that you wanted, or needed, or maybe just where the fire was?  I think a message would be better than calling, hanging up, and calling back again until someone answers, don't you?  In event of emergency, don't wait for us.  Hang up and call 911.  We'll figure it out-especially if you've left a message.

What exactly is the purpose of driving to a home you've just called when nobody answered?  Are you counting cars in the drive?  Was there a disaster somewhere that you had to tell us about?  Is there a reason behind a drive by honking?  I mean really, it's Saturday for my neighbors too and only Mr. Farmer is up as early as you.  I dare say, though they'd never tell me, the neighbors don't like it when you pull up to my home and lay on the horn.  If we didn't answer the phone, we aren't too likely to answer the horn.  Especially if we are still sleeping.

For the love of God, could you please find a hobby?

Sincerely,

One Exhausted Nurse

How Did You Get Here?

There is no shame in not knowing; the shame lies in not finding out.

Russian Proverb

Is it rude to look at photos in someone's home when they're out there on display? I think if you care enough to put the pictures out, you care enough that someone, even a relative stranger, looks at them.

I love the photos from ages past that link us to our histories. While at one of my visits on New Year's Eve, the woman of the house showed me the pictures of her father, his siblings and their mother from over a hundred years ago. The family was from the deep south. Most of the children in the photo, and there were eight of them, didn't have shoes on their feet because they couldn't afford them. The woman's grandmother had been born a slave. Every child she told me, had a different father and it wasn't by choice. Even though slavery had ended, the treatment these people endured had not. The photo took my breath away, but not as much as the story did. That was a terrible time in the history of our country. This woman told me she is not resentful at all, but if she were, I wouldn't blame her. She considers herself as much a woman of Irish heritage as she is African American.  She is proud of her roots.

I met some people this week who'd immigrated to this country from Russia in the mid 90s. They had no family pictures hanging on their walls and none adorning tables.  I always look.  They had beautiful modern art-but nothing to remind them of the past that was out for all to see. I don't know why. You'd think since I'm nosy, I'd have asked.  I didn't ask why they came here because for most immigrants, the story is the same: for a better life.  Even though this house outwardly showed little of their heritage, the proof that they cling to tradition in that home was strong-beginning with complete devotion to their aging loved ones.  For whatever reason, I bonded with this family.  They kept apologizing for their broken English and I kept telling them their English was better than my Russian.  Though most starts of care are fairly somber, this one wasn't.  They were very accepting of what the outcome would eventually be and quite relaxed about it all.  I will tell you, that was the most fun I've had at a start of care and I was sorry to leave their home to go out in the snow and cold. I was taught a few Russian words, hugged, plied with chocolate and offers of food, vodka and champagne. If it had been the end of my shift, I'd have taken the vodka. I'm not a complete fool, I accepted the chocolate.


My cousin sent this photo of my own grandparents who would have been in their late twenties at the time. It was probably taken in 1918 or 1919. My dad and Aunt Betty weren't there yet and my grandparents were married in 1914. That's Aunt Tina (she of the nut bread recipe) at around the age of 4, and Aunt Edna at the age of 2, is in Grandpa's lap. I think the young man was my Grandpa's cousin. My grandmother was from the south (Peddlar Mills, VA) and my grandfather immigrated from Turkey. What? I always thought he'd immigrated from Lebanon. My cousin sent his citizenship document and it said Turkey was his country of origin. I'm not so certain that's accurate. He may have come here via Turkey but I don't believe that's where he was born.  This is an instance where written and official documents don't line up with the oral history.


Connie and David met at the boarding house where she worked in Richmond. I wonder if their marriage would have been scandalous given the time and place. She was a southerner and he was a handsome immigrant with a "dark complexion" (see top document) who obviously, swept her off her feet. I have stronger memories of my grandmother than I do of my grandfather.  I was pretty young when he passed away and he'd been ill for awhile. I'm sorry I didn't play 1,000 questions when they were both still alive to gather more information about the origins of our family.  I learned more about my grandfather when we cleaned out my mom and dad's home after they passed away.  We found many Masonic items that had belonged to Grandpa.  How does a man who immigrated from Turkey become a Mason?

Connie's father fought in the civil war. He had to be very young during the war, and she was born rather late in his life.  As a northerner, I found it incredible that my great grandfather had been a Confederate soldier.  I don't ever recall discussions of her family owning slaves. Given that she came from a rather poor area of the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, that isn't likely. At least I hope it isn't. One thing is certain, we can't retract the actions of our ancestors, we can only strive to rectify the things from the past that weren't quite right.  I'm glad I don't have to explain away Thomas Jefferson's actions.  How could someone who embraced freedom and wrote so eloquently about it, have maintained a lifestyle afforded only by keeping slaves?  One hundred and eighty seven of them.  How could he have sired children he then kept as slaves?  If you look at the last sentence  of my grandfather's citizenship papers, you'll see it says, "In testimony whereof the seal of said court is hereunto affixed on the 7th day of January in the year of our Lord Nineteen Hundred and Twenty-One and of our Independence the One Hundred and Forty-Fifth."  It took much less time for David to become a full fledged citizen of our country than it did the slaves who were born here.

Tell me, and only because I'm incredibly nosy, what kind of family legacy do you have?  Have you taken the time to query your parents and grandparents?  If not, and you still can, don't let the grass grow under your feet.  You may never get another chance to get at the truth.