I got to see the wonderful Ann and Kay of Mason Dixon Knitting  fame on Tuesday at Politics and Prose, and to hear their lovely voices and have them sign my copy of their awesome new book.   And I also learned to love my neighbors even more than I already did.  And I met a woman with my name, which almost made both of our heads explode even with the different spellings.  And I had cake and a latte almost as big as my head.  It was quite an adventure.  Lemme ‘splain.  Be prepared to sit a spell.

I’ve lived near D.C. for most of my life (call me a city goat and I may break your nose.  I’m not sayin’, I’m just sayin’).  My Mom worked at Children’s hospital when I was a kid, and she took us to the Smithsonian every month or so.  The museums are free, astronaut ice-cream is practically free, and cheap and free are each very important to single moms.  I think the Smithsonian also figured in my Mom’s diabolical plan to make us obsessed with reading and learning so that, one day, she could borrow books from us, and also maybe describe her progeny while using words and phrases like "cum laude" and "engineer" and "my daughter translated this."  I grew up in that golden age when children could clamber all over a steaming-hot fiberglass Triceratops sculpture in front of the Natural History Museum, picturing ourselves as dinosaur rustlers, or something.  We got to scale the Awakening too.    You don’t know victory until you’ve beaten your much-larger brother up the arm into that raised hand.  JOY!  I’m pretty sure lawyers ruined both of those treats for you whipper-snappers. (I get to call people youngsters now because I am an Aunt, and it is my prerogative to act old if and when I feel like it.)

But not everything was astronaut ice-cream and dino-rustling.  D.C. has had some really bad times.  My Mom’s years at Children’s coincided with that ugly time when both crack-cocaine and HIV/AIDS turned on D.C.’s babies.  The federal government unloaded St. Elizabeth’s on the city without also handing over a decent operating budget, and suddenly hundreds of mentally ill veterans were homeless in the capital, sleeping on heating grates, and then freezing to death when the grates were blocked off by some misguided federales who thought it looked bad to have homeless anywhere people near the Capitol.  And then the mayor had some legal problems.  Maybe D.C.’s designation as the "murder capital" of the U.S. in 1991 was the nadir. Who knows.   Anyway, things started to look up as crime rates began to fall across the country in the mid-90s, but even when I decided to transfer from AU to CUA during grad school things still looked bleak for D.C.  My folks worried about me walking around Brookland at the end of the millennium.  They worried a lot. 

Now I’m back in D.C. on a daily basis, and the change is astounding.  I was at CUA for a reading last week, and the campus is well lit, the Metro stop has an obvious but apparently friendly police presence.  The crime rate in the city has declined drastically. 

I’m coming to a point.  I promise. 

Politics and Prose is about an eight block walk uphill from the closest Metro stop.  Now, I love a good walk, and I love a good bookstore, and the weather was gorgeous, so I knew I was in for a great afternoon.  But eight blocks uphill at the very beginning of sandal season here-abouts leads to blisters on the little toes, you know, especially for we delicate flowers.  (Please scream "I AM A DELICATE FLOWER, DAMMMIT!" with me.  Thanks)  So there was some Newskin purchasing, and Newskin application thereafter, which required me to be messing with my feet while Ann and Kay were arriving, and my attempts to keep these lovely ladies from noticing me playing with my feet, cuz, you know, that’s no way to make a good first impression.  And maybe some clumsiness ensued, and somehow my wallet disappeared. 

)*&#&)%#Q#+)!()@&*$#_*&$_!#*V (And maybe some near-crying, and a little spontaneous prayer typical to we folks from Catholic families, no matter how far we’ve fallen, and then the fretting about losing my Metro pass and elevator card, not to mention cash and cards and ohgodohgodwe’regonnalosethehouseandstarveohgod.  Oh, the lamentations!)

And then it came back, entirely whole, not a dollar or a card missing.  Some nice man saw me drop my wallet on the sidewalk and raced across the street, followed me into the bookstore, and gave it to a clerk there when he couldn’t find me.  I had it back about 20 minutes after I noticed it was missing. 

Nice man, I owe you a beer.  And a big hug.  And maybe even some socks.  I wish you’d left your card or something. 

So after the drama there was the relaxing with the cake and latte, and the sock-knitting while listening to our wonderful knit-blogging stars.

And then, while waiting to have my book signed.  A woman ahead of me in the line instructed Ann and Kay to sign the book to ‘Nea, short for Linnea.  And Ann said, "Oh Lanea, wow, you comment."  And Linnea looked bemused, and I piped up and said "No, that’s me."  And then I found out that Linnea’s first name is Amy, just like mine.  And we compared notes, and tried to keep out heads from exploding with the coincidence of it all.

And then I walked back to the Metro stop, downhill this time, and in the dark, all the while safe and warm and with my wallet and books and everything.  Life is good, and our capital is healing.

And all of that storytelling should have distracted you enough that you didn’t notice my complete failure to take any pictures at the signing.  What can I say–the wallet incident made me forget that I had my camera.  But if you scroll down to the picture of the girl in the lovely lace shawl, you can see my orange-clad arm: http://www.masondixonknitting.com/   

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