I Am This Woman

(28 of 50)
Forgive me for just a moment, for not being fluffy, funny or pointless. This is a particularly important day for me, historically, as an American and as an Air Force brat.

Today is June 6. On a pretty day in summer, 64 years ago, a whole lot of men, young and old, landed in France for an invasion that turned the tide and eventually ended WWII. In the following months, American, British, French, Canadian, German, Italian, Spanish, etc. men and women died. Some survived and told us their stories, lest we forget.

However you feel about war, one cannot forget those hoardes of soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen who were cut down, some even before they were on dry land. Some of them were fathers and have children and grandchildren who remember. Some were childless, some married, some unmarried. There are some men who died, whose loved ones are now also dead 64 years later. They have no one to remember them.

But I remember. I was raised to honor their service and sacrifice, and to support the men and women and families serving in the military currently, regardless of my political and emotional feelings. My parents never missed any news coverage or speeches about this day. They watched with quiet tears in their eyes. They had lost friends, classmates, colleagues, neighbors; nearly everyone in their generation knew someone who had died there. They knew the magnitude of the day and taught us kids its importance. I remember. My brother remembers.

Remember them. Thank them. But really, just remember them.

(27 of 50) (not to be confused with Greta Thragnusdottir’s magnum opus - a much later but fragmented text which is considered to be the first Icelandic historical romance)

I suppose it is time to begin the story about how I discovered these Icelandic texts. I had always meant to reveal them in appropriate academic channels, but since I am no longer an academic, I can perhaps allow myself a little leeway. The problem is, however, the only other person in the Universe who ever expressed any interest in these important works was my father, and he has now passed on. In fact, if you look at the Moultrie (Georgia) High School Library check-out card for 1935-36, you will see only his signature (and one overdue fine).

Thragnussen was lesser known. Ok, he was unknown until his eddas were discovered in the 19th C. by a sheepherder, and documented by a fellow from the British Museum who had traveled to Iceland for the hákari, which he believed to be a cure for toe fungus.

(I’m sorry. I’ve run out of time tonight to finish this truly fascinating and little known story from literary history. More soon.)

(18 of 50)

I am a knitter. I learned from my mother when I was probably about six or seven. I am backdating that to the house I remember knitting in. I can see the bedroom where she had her sewing stuff. There was a little Singer sewing machine for kids there too, and I made little Barbie clothes and horse blankets on the machine that sounded like a mini-tank clanking away.

I did not have a Barbie. I had a Midge. She was Barbie’s darker, more athletic friend. I liked her better. I don’t know if it was an accident or that is what was on sale at the BX, but I had Midge and liked her just fine. And she needed clothes too. So about the same time I remember knitting, I also learned to sew.

Back to knitting: I learned to cast-on but it was so difficult that I knitted one thing and didn’t knit again. That first thing? a doll scarf for Midge. I cast on with some itchy fingering yarn on some red #10 Boye needles. I still have those needles.

There was a summer when Aunt Ella came to us for a few weeks, and that’s when I learned to crochet. We made rag rugs together, and she showed me how to rip and sew the rags together, then how to make the rug. I have several of these rugs which she made and one that she started and I will finish. Eventually.

Early learning in handwork - especially with fibers and textiles - is beneficial for brain development. It really doesn’t take a Rhodes Scholar to figure this out… teaching children anything has the potential to make a lasting impression. But there definitely is something to stimulating fine motor control and intellectual development.

And perhaps this explains the grey-haired old granny stereotype for knitting. Grandma knew best that one of the best ways to keep the kids busy and out of Mom’s hair was to teach them knitting, crochet, tatting. And she was the one available to do this, so that is a possible origin of the stereotype. Children see old people and their grandparents as impossibly old, and since she was the one available for these influential moments of knitting and handwork instruction, the image stuck in the child’s mind. And I guess it doesn’t help that knitting needles are good for putting up your hair into a bun.

We’ve lost a generation or two of knitting Grandmas who were available to mind the kids and teach knitting. Grandma went back to work and expanded her horizons, and didn’t have as much time to knit much less watch the kids. Luckily, knitting and needlework are enjoying a rennaissance, and knitters are as likely to have purple hair, dreads or a shaved head (yes, I’m looking at you Franklin!).

Maybe in 20 years, the stereotype will have shifted to include eye patches, dreads, earrings… and grey hair.

Lap Dog, originally uploaded by tigerwillow.

(17 of 50)
My 40 lb. lap dog, Miss Lucy. She is not allowed on the couch unless in a lap, so it works out for her. Tonight, I held her and scratched her chest until she fell asleep. Then she started snoring and did so for about 15 minutes. She missed most of House.

I wrote some letters today. Here are snippets for public viewing.

1.

February is bittersweet for me. January is a snowplow - all
the leftover pent-up energy and procrastinated chores, the Boy’s
birthday (which of course must be a standalone event, not at all like
Christmas), and then the annual convention for my company. We were in
Reno for a week of snow and cold and passive smoking. I returned with
a lungful and am still coughing.

But February is bittersweet. My dad died on Jan. 30, just a year ago.
I had a renewed concern that he has no shoes. I considered buying a
pair of men’s shoes and putting them in the closet where his coat (an
elegant Harris Tweed overcoat, purchased in Britain in the 50s), scarf
(a Burberry fleece) and safari jacket hang. If he shows up, he’ll be
well-dressed and he’ll have shoes. I can’t even get my mind around
missing him. The loss is still too gaspingly fresh.

And today is my mother’s birthday. I miss her profoundly. A year ago
today, I was driving out of Austin with a truck full of memories and
furniture. I spoke to my brother on the phone, and he brought up our
mother’s birthday to me. I knew it, but I didn’t want to seem
obsessively memorial. But he was. And it was one of the last best
conversations I had with him.

And here comes March and his death. But I have no idea what I would
say to them if they all showed up today for cake. We’d probably cut a
slice, and then watch CNN or the People’s Court. If I were in control
of these ghosts, I’d at least hope we would watch Nova or something on
the Science Channel.

2.

Some days, the grief is like moving through concrete. Not quite set-up
concrete. Some days, I hit patches of molasses, honey, drilling mud.
Some days, I hit chunks and icebergs. Occasionally, I can ski on top
and marvel at the view.

….

Today is Nancy’s birthday. She would be 87. And there’s a
part of me that thinks it would be so cool to have her around at 87,
IF (the longest word in the universe) she were a healthy person. Not
an alcoholic. In my mind, she is becoming more the pistol that I
always knew her to be, not the drunken bitter old lady. There’s a part
of me that likes the fact that my mom was such a character. I told
someone the story about her DUI. “She gave herself a DUI for her 78th
birthday.” Jaws drop. Heh. How many PTA moms claim that? In the south,
it’s called “colorful” when it’s not in your family. I think I will
claim “colorful.”

One of my bloggy friends - a woman I know only because I like her writing - is a walking miracle. And I love a good story.

Read her latest story, in her words, in chronological order, with apologies for perhaps plagiarizing too much of her blog into mine:

Boxes

Frightened

News

Questions

Memo

(more…)

How do you know if your Christmas slippers are indeed a great pair?

I left the house today – in the car and half-way down the alley to the street. Uh oh! I still had my slippers on, so I had to go back, pull into the driveway and go inside to put on shoes.

(And the bargain hunter in me is now cringing… all slippers are now 50% off! If only I could have waited! But perhaps the joy of toasty toes for 12 days so far is worth that other 50%?)

What, you mean you don’t “texturize” your yarn pre-start or midway?

I went to a friend’s house last night, taking my brand spanky new bag of bottle green yarn - three buns of Rowan KidSilk to make the Alterknits Multilayered Shawl ( a tube of knitting through which you pull a fine piece of silk chiffon!). It would be what I bought with the company gift card “bonus.” I stuffed the current project in there too - a bamboo and soy yarn basket weave scarf – thinking that I might be one of the guests in the corner doing some knitting while the party revolved around me.

Fast forward to time to leave the party where I had been a kitchen helper rather than a corner-sitting guest. Where is the bag? Oh dear, I must have left it at home, silly me. Or maybe, just one more look around the house for it? No. Hmm, must be at home 40 miles away. But I got home and nada. Zip. Nichts. (more…)

Today, I wrapped presents. I did eight or nine presents in 26 minutes. I think that was my best time ever, and I attribute it to the kitchen island being cleared away for wrapping, and the deadline of school pick-up to motivate me to wrap rather than stash all the unwrapped things yet again.

My first job was wrapping presents for a department store. I filled in for someone whose full-time seasonal job it was. She needed an afternoon off for some reason. I was the lowly temporary inventory clerk/daughter of the Personal Shopper, who was game to help. It was a wonderful afternoon.

People would come, hand over their sweaters, socks, belts, stemware, and pick a number from the 15 or 18 choices on the wall. The wrapstand had as many rolls of thick, shiny classy paper, in the latest colors and traditional red, gold and green. A cutter was built in so one could roll off the right amount of paper and then give it a satisfying RIP. The coordinating ribbons and the assortment of gift boxes were below in labeled bins. Once carefully tissue-papered and tucked into the right gift box, a present was a perfectly symmetrical object that could get wrapped with precisely creased and triangulated paper. Double-stick tape was hidden in seams. We also had tissue paper with the store logo, foil embossed stickers and other stick-on flourishes that gave it a department store finish.

Et voila! The finished present was good enough to eat or put under a designer tree. Rarely did anything come to Gift Wrap that couldn’t be boxed, wrapped and ribboned. Those dizzy women who swoon at the sight of a jewelry store box, or a Nordstrom’s sticker… that was our audience. We were going for the status and brand-conscious woman (both giver and receiver) with our shiny paper. It was a creative process using precision and pre-fab design, but still it was a triumph to stack up the boxes for customers who waited (im)patiently for their merchandise.

I haven’t ribboned, bowed or labeled any of the packages I did today. I got stopped and now wonder how did I give things from “Santa” all these years, while using the same paper as those packages from “Mom”? How is that not a total tip-off for the Kid? Maybe it’s just more of the Santa mystery. This year, I’ll be a little more cautious. Santa is going to make liberal use of the stocking hung by the chimney with care.

Following suit from Planet Pooks, a drabble is an extremely short work of fiction, exactly 100 words in length. Here goes.

Dale rode his Harley back to the muffler shop to see if there was beer left in the fridge where they kept leftover take-out pizza, raw meat for the dog, brake fluid and more beer.

“Dale! Git that pitbull back to the back because if the constable sees us with any, there’ll be hellfire to pay!” the ancient woman grizzled, jamming her Tiparillo between toothless gums.

“Grandma, I thought you was gonna quit smoking once you got paroled!”

“When reindeers fly, I’ll give it up.”

Dale popped a top to toast her early release, saying, “Hallelujah, Christmas is almost here!”

===

Thanks, Holidailies for the “Best of” tag. I raise my can of Pearl to you!