Grandma's Bag

A couple weeks ago, I was feeling plagued by projects I had told myself I wanted to do but had never done. Let's pause a moment and recognize what a gift it is that I have a life that can be plagued by my hobbies instead of real problems.

Amen.

So, I emailed some smart friends about it. Lynn asked if maybe I was just tired of making things and needed a break. I sat with that for awhile and decided that I just hadn't been in the mood to do new things. A tenth pair of diagonal rib socks? Yes. A project that I couldn't do while zoned out on the couch? No.

Mysteriously, that was what it took to get unstuck. 

I don't remember my grandma knitting, but she did it a lot before she had Parkinson's. Parkinson's is terrible. 

Grandma's old knitting bag had sat in a garage for years. It was badly, badly torn and frayed, held together in places with safety pins, was disgustingly dirty, and contained some dubious black things that made me shudder. I cut the material off the wooden frame and washed it. It was worth the risk of it falling completely apart in the wash. There was no way I was using it for a template as it was.

Once clean, it sat and stared at me judgmentally for months.

I was off yesterday, and I spent it at home working on one of the bag. It started with a list and some math.

I had already purchased and washed the material I wanted to use for the project, a canvas for the outside and a satin for the inside. In addition to the bottom of the bag, there's another flap that goes under the wooden frame to hold it in place. Since that and the long seams on both sides that go over the handles had to be done with the frame in place, there was a lot of handsewing. 

I tried to be Zen about it. I only sort of succeeded.

I measured my notion bag and made a pocket for it in the lining. It's possible that pocket is wrong side out, but I'm sticking to the story that it depends on your perspective. My perspective says it's fine.

Seven hours, a bobbin refill, a bent sewing machine needle, far more handsewing than I anticipated, only one shouted outburst of, "FOR FUCK'S SAKE," and it was finished.

I learned some things, certainly. I would have done the lining differently if I had it to do over, but thank God I don't have to do it over. No 4-H judges will ever look at it, and it doesn't matter that there are some wonky areas. I'm pleased with it, and I'm thrilled to be able to use something that was grandma's for a hobby we share.

Last night I loaded it with a mostly finished hat that just needs a pompom, a matching, long, worsted weight cowl in progress and the 6 balls of yarn the cowl requires. It all fit, which makes me think this might be related to Mary Poppins' carpet bag. 

Thanks, Grandma. I'll think of you whenever I use it, which will be a lot.

Three Gatekeepers

Let me start by saying this isn't written passive aggressively. I have a nice family. Andrew has a nice family. Nobody is intentionally a jerk to anyone else, and everyone pretty consistently works to get along.

That being said, holidays can be trying. We have expectations of how they should be, and those expectations are unreasonable (or at least mine are). We are spending time with people who we love and yet may think in really different ways than we do. They may have different political views--and holymarymotherofgod I'm praying we can avoid all political conversations over the holidays because it will be very hard to contain my rage if someone says something stupid-- and religious views and views about how we should be living our lives.

So, for you, but mostly as a reminder to me:

from here

Let's practice!

"It is incomprehensible to me that she remains married to that asshole."

True, but not kind or necessary

"I don't mind that there's bacon in those green beans."

Kind, but not true or necessary. 

(I don't have to apologize for being a vegetarian. 
I don't have to make a big deal of it either.)

Here's a tricky one:

"Your sugar-crazed, monstrous, spoiled, banshee children are destroying Mom's house and ruining Christmas."

No. Just no.

However:

"Your children are setting fire to the centerpiece."

True, necessary, and not unkind.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Let's be our best selves out there... 
and forgive ourselves when we fail.

Hankies

I am very fortunate to have a lovely mother-in-law. In fact, Andrew's whole family is delightful. We care enough about one another not to talk about things like politics, which is the mark of a truly caring family.

Last year, my m-i-l had a surgery that went badly. In the days after, she was hopped up on lots of drugs, completely high, and yet she still was delightful. She was caring, asking (admittedly repeatedly) about other people--"Did so-and-so's son find a job? He had an interview."-- and generally not being horrible. I have a fear that if my filters were out of commission I'd become a swearing, vile bag of rudeness. Many of the things I say in my head are not for public consumption. Let's hope it never comes to that, or, if it does, the only people who witness it are those few who would not be shocked.

My m-i-l is nearly completely recovered, but she still has a couple lingering effects. One of them is that one eye waters a lot. She's taken to carrying a handkerchief in her purse for this reason. I see this as a crafting opportunity, and one of her Christmas presents this year are these:

They're a small gift in appreciation of her kindness... and the fact that she gave birth to and provided half the genes for my very favorite person.

The Devil as a Dance Partner

A month or two ago, I started carrying a small notebook in my purse. When I found a quote I felt was important, I wrote it down. My hope is twofold: By writing them, I hope to internalize them more than I would by just reading them; and when I need to be reminded of the Truth, I can read some of the things I've written down. If it's in the notebook, it is true.

Many of the quotes are Buddhist.

We are what our thoughts have made us, so take care what you think. Words are secondary. Thoughts live; they travel far. -Swami Vivekananda

Do what is good and ask not what follows. -Kenko

All paths are paths to God, because, ultimately, there is no other place for the soul to go. Everything has come out of God and must go back to God. -Paramahansa Yogananda

But not all of them.

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be. -Douglas Adams

All things are difficult before they are easy. -Italian proverb

and my latest addition:

I know the devil fancy me. Don't mean the motherfucker get to dance with me. -Macklemore and Ryan Lewis in the song "St. Ides"

At the moment, I'm struggling with my weight.* It is hard for me to keep a positive attitude and harder still to believe that I am not screwing everything up when really I just need to be a little more careful about what I eat and how I exercise to get back on track.

The devil is me, the part of me that says I'm never doing enough, never going to escape the patterns of disease that led to my father having bypass surgery at 43 and killed him at 57.

I acknowledge that devil, and I tell her to fuck off. She cannot dance with me regardless of how much she wants to.

I've got my own dancing to do.

*I know it's a very first world problem to have. Still, it's a problem for me.

Salunga Beret

My mother-in-law requested a red hat to wear at Christmas. I wanted to use fingering weight yarn so it could be worn indoors if she wanted. I spent some time wandering around Ravelry until I found a pattern I liked, and pulled a barely-used skein I had in the stash.

The knitting went smoothly, but I had problems with the bind off. I used a different set of instructions for the tubular bind off than I've used before, and it ended up way too tight. I couldn't get it to easily frog, and I was in a bit of a temper after working at it awhile. I ended up with this:

That hat messed with the wrong girl. 

The next day, I did a bind off using these instructions, and everything went just fine.

Perhaps I am easily amused, but I love seeing the difference in lace before and after blocking. This hat called for blocking over a dinner plate, and it added the helpful instruction to weave a piece of waste yard between the ribbing and the main body of the hat. Once it was on the plate, I pulled on the waste yarn to cinch it a bit, which meant that it dried without the ribbing being all stretched out.

It's cute on my head, but it's more stunning in its blocking form.

I think I'll recommend Karen occasionally carry it around on a plate and show it off that way. I'm sure she'll see the reason in the request.

Salunga Beret (mine ravelled here),

knit in Knitpicks Stroll Tonal, Gypsy colorway

Sparkles for the Five-Year-Old

I was never a big doll fan as a kid. Stuffed animals? Yes. My Little Ponies? DOUBLE YES. Dumping my giant box of crayons out on the floor simply so I could then put them back in organized by color? A THOUSAND YESES. Dolls? Not really.

But my five-year-old niece is, and therefore:

American Girl Lace Dress (mine ravelled here),

knit in Universal Yarn Star Light, color 101

It's knit from the bottom up in a simple lace pattern. You decrease a bunch of stitches for the bodice and knit that in stockinette.

There are two tiny buttons on the back at the neck. The pattern says to crochet loops and sew them on, but I just did simple yarnover buttonholes in the edging. It works great and you know how my crochet skills are.*

The pattern also calls for poofy sleeves knit in the same lace pattern. I chose to do simple short sleeves, edged in garter stitch to match the bottom of the skirt (and hopefully keep it from curling).

Here's a closeup of the lace:

There are tons of patterns written for this size doll, and something in worsted weight would have gone a lot faster than light fingering weight. However, I decided that all dolls need a sparkly, lacy dress (the white has sparkles in it that you can't see in these photos), and I might as well go big if I was going to do it at all. Well, not big-- go small.

You know what I mean.

One Christmas present down!

*Practically nonexistent

Boot Cuffs

Knitting is many things. Instantaneous is not one of them.

This is about as close as it gets though,

Basic Boot Cuffs (mine ravelled here),

knit in stashed Brown Sheep Lamb's Pride Worsted in cream

My niece asked for boot cuffs, and I churned these out in one evening.*

I used scrap yarn, weighing it periodically so I'd get the cuffs to match. These are shorter than the pattern calls for, but they work just fine.

I feel grateful she wants boot cuffs and not kilt hose. I think she's going to want more of these.

*It's hilarious that I think one evening is practically instantaneous. How knitting has altered my perception of normal.

Grandfather's Columbine

Dear Grandfather,

Remember that columbine beside your patio? No, I didn't imagine you would. I don't remember it either. The last day I was at your house, getting the final few things I wanted and wondering how the hell I was supposed to live in a world without you, I saw a beautiful blooming columbine. It wasn't obviously part of a flowerbed, and I don't remember ever seeing it before, but there it was, bright and beautiful, slightly scraggly and wild-looking.

I dug it up, put it in a bucket, and brought it home with me.

This is not its first summer at my house, and it has never bloomed like it is blooming now. Maybe it's happy I moved that boxwood that was crowding it. Maybe the weather's been different in some way from past springs (besides the pollen--you would not believe my allergies this year; it's like nature is trying to kill me). I don't know. I just know that it's full of blooms and it is beautiful and I miss you.

I miss you a lot.

Love,
Bonnie

Grandma's Knitting

When we cleaned out my grandparents' house, I came home with a reusable grocery bag full of Grandma's knitting supplies. I went through them, made a list of everything that was there and sent it to my relatives who knit. No one wanted anything, and the bag sat in the guest room for two years.

Sweaters are fashion news!

There are a lot of '70s patterns. The picture below comes from a sweater with a train along the bottom of it. I want to warn this poor girl. Clearly, immediately after this photo was taken, the puppet came to life and attacked her. I wonder if she survived.

"Mom! Look at this great doll this strange, muttering woman gave me on the street! 

She gave me some extra-crunchy candy, too!"

I decided to look for a small, vintage suitcase that I could leave open and display the supplies. When we were with some friends, I told them my plan. My friend left the room and came back with two small suitcases. They had belonged to her Gram, and I took the larger one home to see if it would work.

Look at those flowers! Gram clearly had awesome fashion sense. 

I'd carry that suitcase in a heartbeat.

I'm happy to have this stuff out where I can see it. I may never knit any of these patterns, but a) I love having my grandma's things in a suitcase that belonged to my friend's grandma; it feels like a nice way to honor them, b) even if I don't use this stuff, I love having Grandma's knitting things displayed among my own, and c) I have a much better chance of using some of these if they're where I can actually get to them easily.

Somebody's Watching You

I was five when my great-grandmother passed away. I remember being in her house in the aftermath while the adults tried to figure out how to handle a house full of stuff. I remember asking if I could have something. The adults asked me what I wanted.

I knew exactly what I wanted. I tore down the hall, picked it up, and struggled back down the hallway show it to the adults.

Looking back, I understand they were probably profoundly relieved. At the time, I couldn't believe that I was being allowed to take something so precious.

Behold.

This is a bowling-pin shaped piece of plastic filled with something heavy, probably sand. I assume my great-grandmother crocheted it, but I don't actually know. I loved it, and it was my doorstop until I went to college. Then it was packed into a box, which found its way into the basement.

Recently, it was unearthed in what I like to call the Wet Basement of Despair. Many, many things went into a dumpster that day, but he did not. He came home with me.

And lo, he smelled terrible. I soaked him for a couple days in a sudsy sink, then sat him outside to dry until his presence drove our dog, Dexter, crazy with rage. When it became clear that Dexter could not be convinced that this wasn't a live animal staring at him--well, not staring, but more about that later--in a taunting manner from the patio, I brought him in again to finish drying in the kitchen.

He still smelled. I soaked him again, rubbing his acrylic self ferociously. That did the trick.

There was still a problem though. My family's beagle, Ralph, had a fondness for the plastic noses on stuffed animals, particularly those of my oldest sister. He would grab one off her bed and have it nose-less before any of us realized what was happening. Apparently at some point he couldn't find a nose in Becky's room, and that was the day the crocheted bowling pin dog doorstop lost both his eyes.

I went button shopping and found almost exactly what I was looking for. They were perhaps a bit smaller than the eyes I remember, and I'm pretty sure the original eyes were gold-accented rather than black, but they're the right shape and have the center crystal I remember. I sewed them on a couple days ago, put him on the floor and stepped back to admire him---

---and realized how truly, profoundly hideous he is.

Doesn't matter. I'm glad he's home with me again.

Socks on a Softball Outing

Last night I went to my niece's softball game. She did really well--three doubles and a well-caught ball in left field. 

My mom went with me, and we sat and watched and knit, me on replacement socks for a friend and Mom on a washcloth. I briefly considered how weird we must look to the other spectators.

Nine-to-Five Socks (mine ravelled here),

knit in Knitpicks Felici, Minty colorway (discontinued)

I quickly decided I didn't care. Everyone who goes to these sorts of events should knit. I don't know how they keep their sanity without it. Softball is pretty fun to watch, but not all sports are, regardless of the delightful child playing.

I was able to finish the heel flap, turn the heel, AND complete the gusset before the game was over. All the other adults had to show for their time were sore bums from the bleachers.

Filling the Shelves

Back in June, I redid a set of shelves that used to be in the parts department of my grandparents' store that I rescued from their garage after my grandfather died. (I chatted about it here.) For over three months, it sat in our bedroom empty.

 

Saturday, I filled it.*

 

The dividers are filled with handknit socks, both mine and Andrew's. (The vast majority are mine, if I'm honest.)

The shelf under the dividers and part of the top shelf houses my knitting books. The magazines, binders with loose patterns, and Vogue Stitchionaries I kept in the guest room where they were. All the other books I moved to this shelf.

On the floor at the very bottom is a stuffed sheep I bought in Israel on a trip in college. I wasn't a knitter then, and I'm not sure what drew me to this stuffed sheep. Maybe a touch of prescience? The basket is one Andrew's aunt helped me make. It was on the gift table at our wedding to hold cards. Now it holds leftover cotton yarn.

On the very top, I put a set of rainbow-colored test tubes given to me by a friend. In the test tubes are knitting needles that belonged to my grandma.

I miss my grandparents a lot. I dreamed about being in their house last night. It's been nearly nine months since Grandfather died. I know it's getting easier, but it's in no way easy yet. Maybe this is as easy as it gets.

*Let's take a moment to recognize how awesome Andrew is for not minding that there's now a set of shelves filled with yarn and knitting related stuff in our bedroom.

Big Four Bridge

Andrew's grandpa worked for the railroad. The Big Four railroad bridge has been remade into a pedestrian/bicycle path across the Ohio River. On Saturday, a chunk of Andrew's family, us included, made the two-hour drive to Louisville, met up with Andrew's great-uncle and new wife, and walked the bridge.

 

It's beautiful.

 

 

The bridge itself is about a mile long, and they've built a long, spirally entrance to it on the Louisville side. (The Jeffersonville, Indiana side isn't quite finished. At the end of the bridge, you come to a fence. Then you turn around and walk back to Louisville.)

 



 

We wondered how many rivets were in the bridge. The answer seems to be "a lot."

 

If you look at Andrew's glasses, you can see the bridge. Plus, he's adorable.

They've done a pretty good job of preserving the history of the bridge. Along the way, there are a few information signs telling about the bridge, the repairs, etc.

The weather was extremely odd for July. It was in the 70s, windy, and slightly rainy. I'll take that over the normal 95 anytime. In Indy, we set a new record low for this time of year. HOORAY!

Looking out over the Ohio River, an Ani DiFranco lyric went through my head.

 

The sky is grey. The sand is grey. And the ocean is grey.

I feel right at home in this stunning monochrome, alone in my way.

Ani DiFranco's "Grey"

 

The weather was perfect for me. It was a nice walk, followed by a nice visit with Andrew's family. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday!

 

Store Shelf

My maternal grandmother's parents owned a hardware and farm implement store in the tiny town near where I grew up.*

In Coatesville, every point in history falls into one of two distinct categories: Before the Tornado and After the Tornado.

On Good Friday in 1948, the Tornado touched down, destroyed half the town and killed fourteen people. The temporary morgue was set up in my great-grandparents' house. The store was leveled, along with everything else in that block of main street.

So they rebuilt.

My grandfather and grandmother owned and worked at the store together until they retired in the late '70s. I'm too young to remember them at the store, but the stories--oh, the stories.

They built two shelves, one at each end of the parts department. After they retired, the shelves lived in their garage.

And I rescued one.

It was filthy. Really, really filthy. The back was not worth saving, so I tore it off.

I cleaned it with soap and water, and I began painting.

I wanted the wood dividers to stay as they were (just a bit cleaner). My mom says the writing on them is my Grandfather's.

I had pinned this picture a long time ago. It seemed like the right inspiration for this shelf.

I am pleased to report that I owned all these paint colors. Our house looks like the love child of Crayola and Ikea. The purple is in an upstairs bathroom, the blue in our entryway, the green in our kitchen, the orange in another bathroom, and the red in an upstairs bedroom. Actually, to be honest, I had to buy more red. I had used the entire gallon painting two walls of that upstairs bedroom.

The shelf is pretty narrow--just over 7"-- so Andrew attached it to the wall. We learned there are no studs in that area. The only thing we can think is that the builder started to put a window there and then realized it wasn't supposed to be there. Hooray for molly bolts!

I can't tell you how much it means to me to have this in my house.

It's far from pristine. The dividers obviously were build from some scrap wood, and the labels for each compartment are written in permanent marker. Any time I accidentally touched the wood, the white paint was there to stay.

But it's perfect.

I think my grandparents would be pleased. 

I miss them.

*I grew up in the country outside the tiny town. Our address was the town, but we were outside "city" limits. Can I even use the word city when describing Coatesville? Probably not.