I’ve been off-line for a bit.  Some woman (I know her name, but won’t post it, of course) ran a red light and t-boned my husband’s car on the 29th.   She was going at least 45 miles per hour, ran a red light, and didn’t even bother to touch the brakes.  She is about five feet tall, and she was driving a Ford Expedition, one of the biggest SUVs on the road.  She didn’t even touch her brakes.  She didn’t even touch her brakes. She walked away.  Scott was rushed to the hospital in an ambulance.  He was unconscious for a while, and then he was awake, in a lot of pain, and totally lacking short-term memory.  He received a terrible concussion, temporarily lost much of his peripheral vision in his right eye, and had serious speech problems for several hours.  It was absolutely terrifying.

Thankfully, he had an excellent trauma team and great care at the hospital.  Scott’s vision and speech have recovered.  He doesn’t remember most of Thursday, he has a lot of pain in his neck, and will need physical therapy and massage therapy for a while so that he can return to his normal active self.  I still can’t get the police officer who was on the scene to return my phone calls, but I hope the woman who did this gets more than a ticket for running a light.  Had she hit him a few inches further back on the car, he could have been killed or maimed.  The car actually looks much worse in person.  The engine is off its mounts and several inches away from where it belongs.  The whole front end is shifted several inches to the right.

I fretted and cried and couldn’t sleep.  I cursed the woman who did this.  I knit until I wore a blister into my middle finger, where my active sock needle rests.  i knit so tightly that the sock I was making for my husband is actually a bit snug on me.  When I couldn’t help Scott, I helped the elderly man in the next bed, who didn’t have anyone with him at the hospital.  He called me dearie and I thought it was sweet.  I watched all night to make sure that IV tubes stayed straight so the pumps wouldn’t beep, and to make sure that everyone was breathing more evenly than I was.  Realizing that Scott remembered a nurse he hadn’t seen for half an hour was one of the most wonderful experiences of my life.

When we got home, I talked to one person after another who called to wish Scott a speedy recovery, and I was buoyed to remember how many people agree that Scott is a wonderful man, and that we all love and need him in our lives.  I baked.  I cleaned.  I talked to insurance agents and doctors and to the pets, who were both perplexed.  I managed not to track down the other driver and wring her neck, for which I think I deserve a gold star.

We’re tired, and we have a long fight ahead of us, but Scott and I both feel very fortunate.  I’ve already heard from several of you folks, and I am very thankful to know you are thinking of us.  Please stay safe.  And get side-curtain airbags.  And don’t run red lights.

The holidays and their attendent madness kept us all away from Nuala for a bit, but I meant to talk about Aubade, and now I have to talk about it.  Some jerk ran into my husband’s car last week.  He’ll be ok, and this poem will rattle about in my brain-pan for a while.  I am making do with today’s happenings, and I’m immensely grateful.

I love poetry because I love language and rhythm.  But I love particular poems for the same reason that I love particular stories or paintings or people–because they connect to some particular part of me and mine.  The first time I read this poem, I knew that the writer knew what it was like to mother children and care for family and self when life is hard.  That matters to me.  I had a tough kidhood.  I have a tough adulthood sometimes.  The truth of getting by, of making do, of patching up broken things and broken days is what keeps us here, and what helps us live when tragedy strikes, whether it’s the tragedy of lost love or poverty or broken bones or death. 

Aubade
translated by Michael Longley

It’s all the same to morning what it dawns on —
On the bickering of jackdaws in leafy trees;
On that dandy from the wetlands, the green mallard’s
Stylish glissando among reeds; on the moorhen
Whose white petticoat flickers around the boghole;
On the oystercatcher on tiptoe at low tide.

It’s all the same to the sun what it rises on —
On the windows in houses in Georgian squares;
On bees swarming to blitz suburban gardens;
On young couples yawning in unison before
They do it again; on dew like sweat or tears
On lilies and roses; on your bare shoulders.

But it isn’t all the same to us that night-time
Runs out; that we must make do with today’s
Happenings, and stoop and somehow glue together
The silly little shards of our lives, so that
Our children can drink water from broken bowls,
Not from cupped hands. It isn’t the same at all.

Nuala says it better than I can.  Our hawk was in the yard when we came home from the hospital.  I was glad to see him, and to know that he wasn’t as frightened as I was. 

Scath:

is still alive and purring, though terribly noncommittal about his plans for January.  He’s thinner than I would prefer; a bit too interested in my sock yarns and their new handmade Virginia Jenkins basket; quite sick of having pills shoved down his throat; and has been well and truly photographed by my Step-Dad: he of the many lenses and the great skill:

You may think this expression is peaceful.  What you don’t know is that Scath is busily hypnotizing my Mom into giving him her wallet.  Me has mad skillzzz.

My sis-in-law’s Christmas socks:


Are soft, warm, and well-fitted according to her feet and lovely according to her eyes.  All is well.

My nieces’ ballet-slippers . . . are making me bat-shit crazy.  I won’t even reward them with photographs.  If they don’t shape up tomorrow afternoon, I’m going to have to find another use for lots of pastel mohair.   I have met better-written patterns.  I don’t have the strength necessary to snap the size 13 bamboo circs in my bare hands but–slippers, you listening?–I have accelerants, a lighter, and an abiding interest in the transformative power of flame.

The linen quilt:


has decided that blocks of this leaf print are much better than sashing.  It also wants you to know that it is much bluer and greener and not so gray.  And that some will receive the treatment above, and some will become joined with a different leaf print with a white background, and probably become a baby-quilt or two. 

And my family:


procured the kind of present that makes a crazy girl even crazier.  See how jealous the Ashford looks . . .

I love the way she is tilted forward, as if a bit drunk.  She spins very smoothly, and she brought some lovely muddy brown Coriedale along for the party. 
I think her name is Holda. 

And Scott . . . Scott got me a present that is too good for words.  I haven’t photographed it yet because I’m afraid some of the crazier Crows may come try to take it from me.  He called up some folks I tracked down a while back, and what they made is breathtaking.  So the word of the day is "lunikeit."  Mmmmmm, silver. 

Here we are on the shortest day of the year.  I, for one, am ready for some longer days and some brightness.  Keep warm, do something kind for someone you love, and welcome the sun tomorrow morning.  Here’s a little snippet from a lovely revision from Aes and Etaine, two of my favorite women:

The Wheel keeps on turning, through dark and through light,
and we sing to its honor, on this longest night.
Green branches in the winter promise life to be,
and the first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly.

If you want to hear the whole song, well, come find some assortment of us when we’re in a singing mood. 

We’re all Scath all the time here.  Scath rhymes with "goth" by the way, and it’s the Irish for Shadow.  Scathach was a warrior woman who trained CuChulainn, but, well, Scathach is a girl’s name. 

Here he is in his little tree, which is in my studio, right behind my sewing machine.  We hang out in here a lot.  Damn, he’s pretty, even with catnip all over his coat.  He’s just so pretty.  And, you can’t tell from this picture . . . he’s really high.  Eat the nip, kitty, eat the nip. 

Good kitty.  Doesn’t that feel nice?  He loves the new catnip, Dee.  Thank you. 

Scath eats the catnip, and then he’s sweet and playful for a couple of minutes, like this:


I actually had to lift him down from his perch, because he was trying to roll like this on the top of it, and I knew he would fall off if I didn’t intercede.   Take my word for it–he’s purring like a jet engine. For now.  (That’s one of his big shaved spots–I think that’s where they drained the fluid.  He does not want it to be touched–trust me on that). 

And then he turns into a mighty hunter!  MIGHTY!  HUNTER!

First he goes after the leather goods. 

And then he turns on his family.  Eeeeeeeeeeviilllllllllll. (You can see the depression where the other shaved spot is there, on his side above his shoulder–you’re allowed to touch that.  Unless he’s been eating the nip–then there’s a 50/50 chance you will pay with blood). 

The trickiest thing is that Scath is a very vocal cat, and he’ll sing and purr and beg you to pet him, and it’s so hard to resist.  And sometimes when he’s on the nip and he does his little routine, he really just wants you to pet him.  And sometimes when he’s on the nip and he does his little routine, he immediately changes his mind about loving the love and decides to try out eating people.  And dogs.  Thankfully, he’s one of those cats who can only do fake vicious.  He play bites and play scratches, but rarely breaks skin–it’s like he has a little chip in his head that prevents him from fully acting out his evil thoughts.  Nine times out of ten, you can see the little war raging in his head–hurt the Lanea–no, wait, love the Lanea!  Nonono eat the Lanea!  Lanea’s are delicious!  But Lanea has all the food and the catnip!

The steroids are working very well.  He does not seem to have any ‘roid rages–just nip rages.  He has stopped having those terrifying coughing fits, and he still seems to be breathing well.  And, best news of all, Kayo is not circling the cat and smelling his chest and then running from the cat to us and back to the cat.  So, apparently, Nurse Kayo things his patient is doing well.  Fingers crossed that we get to keep this beast through the holidays. 

I’ve only been knitting presents, so no pictures of them for now.  And I’ve been knitting very little.  Because I am treasuring my roll as cat furniture, cat prey, and cat servant.  When I’m not appeasing his black Majesty, I’m hanging out with Kayo so he doesn’t feel too left out. 

In the meantime, some baking has occurred.  First: Monday’s experiment.


Those are like peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, but they’re made with Nutella instead of peanut butter, and with chunks of good chocolate cut from a bar I had on hand.  I think they would be better with fresher Nutella (my jar had been open for a while), a touch more salt, a bit less sugar, and some extra cinnamon.  I forgot to photograph them when I made them, so I was only able to photograph the few I saved from my co-workers. 

Tuesday’s sure thing:


I will not be able to rescue any of these.  They are, of course, the ultimate cookie of childhood.  Peanut butter Blossoms.  I think the first time I had one of these I cried because I couldn’t have two.  Ms. Kurtz–if you’re out there–you should demand that the parents of your students bring enough cookies for each kid to have two.  Sheesh.

While mixing the dough, Scott asked what I was making.  And then he asked again, because he had never heard of such a cookie.  I almost cried again.  What the heck was wrong with his elementary school?  The horrors. 

And then . . . I almost cried again . . . he got one fresh out of the oven and said . . .
"It would be better without the chocolate." 
WITHOUT THE CHOCOLATE?
Really, I think he’s just not a fan of Hershey’s, which I absolutely understand.  It’s not great, Hershey’s.  It’s just what we’re used to.  So I made him some cookies without the chocolate. 

Next week: Peanut Butter Blossoms made with . . . well . . . some really good chocolate in place of the Hershey’s kiss.  Less pretty, perhaps, but more delicious. 

The lovely Dane and the tall Dunn have produced a lovely son, Asger, or "God-spear" in Danish.  He was born sometime on Saturday, but we haven’t gotten the details yet. 

(Edited–I just got the details.  Apparently I had the dates wrong, and Asger Matias was actually two weeks early and not two weeks late, which is actually a blessing because he was . . . wait for it . . . a hair shy of NINE POUNDS.  According to his Papa, "he has the lungs of a lion.   His new hobbies include crying, eating and diaper blowouts. Someone should have warned me of those. "  He’s a handsome boy, too.   What is even more impressive though is how gorgeous his Mom looks during labor.  I have too much of an instinct towards self-preservation to show you the pictures, but suffice it to say that Christine looks better in labor than most human women look on their wedding days.  She’s clearly a Valkyrie. End Edit)

I can’t remember whether it was Odin or Thor who owned the original spear named Asger, but either way, I’m expecting this baby boy to be mighty.  I want evidence of his adorable feet in some adorable felted booties.  And I want to finish present number two, but, well, Scath has other plans. 

I got some sad news this week.  My cat Scath has cancer.  He was clearly in respiratory distress, so we rushed him to the vet, and then from the vet to the emergency animal hospital, where he had some fluid drained from his chest cavity and hung out in an oxygen tent between tests, wooing all of the vet techs into petting him and discussing his Little Red Book (he’s a Maoist, you know, and very vocal about it).  I already hated cancer.  Now I hate it even more. 

Thankfully, Scath is feeling great and the vets have plans to keep him as healthy and comfortable as possible for as long as they can.  I know he used up one life as a kitten when he got horrendously sick (Ellery, I’m still sorry for the, er, incident in the kitchen).  He probably used another when he jumped from our third story balcony to the ground in Falls Church.  And maybe this weekend cost a third.  I hope he’s able to stretch those other six lives out for a long time.  Meanwhile, we’re spoiling him rotten.  If you’re not willing to participate in the Great Yarniversal Black Cat Worship Scheme, move on to another burg, buddy.  Here, we’re going to be all Scath, all the time.  Lots of catnip, lots of his favorite foods, lots of ear scratching, an abiding willingness to be cat-furniture whenever called upon–we aim to please.

I’m taking it so seriously that I’m letting his silken Majesty interrupt my knitting whenever he feels like it.  That’s big.  Huge.  And that’s really slowing down the Christmas knitting.  So, those of you who are wishing for lovely woolens from this particular wool-witch . . . patience is a virtue.  If you want knitting finished faster, come to my house and do Scath’s bidding.  Perhaps if he had more minions, he would deign to hang around a bit longer.  Perhaps. 

Men With Brooms  The Yarn Harlot and Juno both spoke highly of this film, so I felt it my knitterly, Canada loving duty to check it out.  I loved it.  I loved the beavers at the opening of the film. I loved Molly Parker, because I always love Molly Parker.  I loved Leslie Nielsen.  I loved the curling.  It’s not a great film, by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s a great film to watch while knitting.  Sometimes, that’s all I ask.  And I really did like the beavers.  What’s not to like about a film with herds of beavers and some good curling?

Walk the Line.   I love Johnny Cash with the burning white intensity of a thousand suns.  So I had to see this film.  Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon each did quite well in their roles and with the music.  The plot stayed close enough to the truth but still managed to be watchable.  T-Bone Burnett did  a great job with the music, but I knew he would.   It’s worth seeing twice.   

Lords of Dogtown.  Sokay. I like skateboarding movies.  And surfing movies.  And I liked Thirteen a lot, so I had to watch this.  It’s watchable, but not particularly engaging or well-written,  But the skating is good, and it’s well-filmed.  There is a particularly annoying anachronism involving a Black Flag t-shirt worn in a scene that’s supposed to be set in the mid-70s, but, whatever.  Watch the extra footage–it’s cool to see how all of the stunts were filmed, and it’s a riot to see the director at her spacey best.  Catherine Catherine Catherine . . . please don’t act stoned when you’re on camera.  It will not get you money to make your next film.  It will not make you one of the guys.  Pull it together, you kooky Betty you. 

Bill Bryson: I’m a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America After Twenty Years Away. 

This is a book of newspaper columns  Bryson wrote for a British paper after moving back to the States.  It’s a little slip of a book–good for whiling away break-time while knitting.  It isn’t on the whole as funny as A Walk in the Woods or as informative as A Short History of Nearly Everything, but how could it have been.  A few of the columns are particularly funny,  and a few offer great screeds on the failures of American drug policy, environmental policy, and tax policy.  It’s a nice way to kill time at the dentist’s office. 

the way the crow flies by Ann-Marie MacDonald.

MacDonald wrote another scorcher.  Set in Canada during the Cold War, the novel follows the family of  a Royal Canadian Air Force officer named Jack, who becomes wrapped up in military intelligence supporting the US in the space race.  The most engaging character in the novel is Madeline, the eight year old daughter of Jack and his Acadian wife Mimi.  We follow Madeline, her brother Mike, and the kids on living in Centralia, the Canadian airbase where their families are stationed.  The book is very well researched, veers from the local to the international and back again with great ease, and is a gorgeous read.  And it will break your heart.

And now I’m going to spoil something about the plot, because I wish I had known a bit more about what to expect.  The book jacket won’t tell you this.  So keep reading if you want the warning I wish I had had.

Continue Reading »

I kinda got. . . distracted.  (Some of you heard Ani DiFranco in your head just now, didn’t you?  Gosh I hope so.  If not, go listen to Living in Clip.  Trust me. It’s good for you. )

I’ve been eating poetry.  And boy is my plate full.  I am now juggling a fiction-less reading list. 

I’ve been learning all about XML cross-platform applications.  Which is nowhere near as enjoyable as knitting or eating poetry.  But it may pay the bills a bit better than my current phony-baloney job one day, so I’m-a keep going.   And, not for nothing, I am knitting a fair amount during class.  That doesn’t suck. 

I’ve been sending lovely little packages off to California and Pennsylvania.  And fighting like mad to get the title to my truck, which I paid off, already.  So gimme my title, man. 

I’ve been marching in parades.  It was surprisingly fun this time around.  In the past, most of my parade time has been, well, painful.  Clogging on blacktop leads to shin-splints, and sometimes to stress fractures.  Ask me how I know!  But this weekend, I just walked around with my friends and gave out Potomac Celtic Festival flyers and encouraged people to attend our Burns Dinner.  I got to pet many dogs, too, which adds something to the experience for me.  Much nicer.  Much less painful.  And, well, let’s just say the Scottish Walk was followed by lunch and adult beverages, so that put a nice shine on the apple. 

And I’ve been reading and watching and cooking and such.  More on that in dribs and drabs.

The sign-up period for Socksgiving is fast approaching its end, so get on the stick if you want to play.