At My Table

I’m in a contemplative mood today.

I found a book at a thrift store called At Grandmother’s Table, edited by Ellen Perry Berkeley.  It’s not a terribly old book.  It was published in 2000.  It’s a collection of stories written by granddaughters as they remember their grandmothers.  Each contributor wrote a memory/story and ended with a fond recipe from her grandmother.

I probably don’t need any more recipes, but I’m open to things that have provided fond memories for a generation that remains behind after two prior are gone.

It brings me to Goodnight.  What would she write about her grandmother’s table?  What would her fondest recipe be?  Will her resilience ever even allow her a moment, softened by tenderness, to find something good in our time together.

I suspect so.  I don’t live my days with her hoping for that.  We just live.  I cook, I clean, I work, I help her with her homework, I take care of her when she’s sick, wake up in the middle of the night to knit, and I don’t bake cookies often enough (according to her.)

She recently asked me, “Gram, do you ever wish you could be just a normal Gram?”

Gram:  Nah.  That kind of wish is like planting a potato seed and expecting a sunflower to grow.  I like potatoes and I like sunflowers, but we can’t mix up their purposes.  Do you ever wish I was a normal Gram?

GN:  Ya-ah!  All the time.  That would mean that you would bake me cookies and spoil me and Mama would still be here.

Of course.  But in the meantime, we take one day at a time at our table.  She does her homework there.  I correct her math there.  We play ping-pong at the table once in a while.  We have a regular Sunday meeting there to review our schedule for each new week.  We have ‘Grandma Summer School at the table – except on Field Trip Fridays.  I set her lunchbox there, ready for her to take to school.  On winter evenings, our table is softly lit with candle light as we try to cozy into a season that can drag on and on.  Sometimes I even serve a meal that she may wish to remember after she’s tip-toed on a few more stepping-stones in her life.

I can only write about my table from my vantage point, not hers.  I know that I use my good dishes plenty often for just the two of us because she’s special to me – not company as it would be if her mother was still with us – but special nonetheless.  I know that I love to look at her as we sit across the table from one another.  Her eyes sparkle as she tells me about her day at school.  I know that at my table, she has my undivided attention as I listen.  I know that at my table, an evening bowl of soup can feel like a feast after a long hard day at work or school.  I know that at my table she will beat me at King’s Corner and I will beat her at Bananagrams.  At my table, she gets the Sunday comics while I sort through the rest of the paper and as we spread out our sections, we tease each other by letting our section slightly cover the other’s.  I braid her hair for school as she sits at my table.  We unload our groceries from that table.  We fold our laundry there, too.  Socks and life can be sorted out at my table.  I’m better at sorting socks than life, but I try.

Will she remember my table as the place where I pay my bills and reconcile my checkbook and ask her to be quiet while to do those tasks uninterrupted?  Or will she notice that the ding she left in the wood has been rotated so it’s not staring her in the face to remind her of her mishap?  Will she remember my table for what wasn’t there?  Will she remember that she learned to knit there? 

I don’t know.  I care, but I don’t want to live for memories down the road. I want to live for today.   She needs to pick and choose her own memories and they don’t solidify at thirteen.  That’s good.  It means we both have more time just to be ourselves.

I’ve learned something from my thrift shop book:  we’re headed in the right direction for Goodnight to have fond memories of my table.  The stories are sweet but in an everyday sort of way.  And the recipes I’ve seen so far are that way too.

I have to keep reading though.  I haven’t read any memories about gram getting off work early so she could wait an hour and a half in the school parking lot, to be the first one to pick her granddaughter up after school and head through rush hour traffic clear across the metro area to a track meet that was cancelled sometime while the gram was waiting in the car line.  (Sorry, that’s my memory from today.)

I haven’t actually found any cookie recipes yet either. . . . . . 

 

“D-Fence” – Super Scarf #29

It’s time for another Super Scarf for the Indianapolis 2012 Super Bowl Host Committee’s Super Scarf Project.

I knit a fence!!!!    Not just any fence, though.  It’s the D-Fence.  Someone brings one to virtually every football game.  They even show up on the televised coverage of the games.  They mean DEFENSE, of course, but the sign is clever and fun.  I snagged one from the internet for you to have a look at:

                                                   Image Source:  http://www.populationstatistic.com/archives/2005/01/09/o-that-fence/

One of the volunteers for the 2012 Indianapolis Super Bowl will get to wear a Super Scarf that resembles the D-Fence sign.  They can wrap up in it, or hold it up for the camera as they see fit.

I decided to keep one edge of the fence smooth so as to keep the appearance of a scarf.  The Fence is knit from one end to the other, binding on and casting off stitches as I arrived at each picket.  There were a fair number of ends to weave in, but I like the finishing work.  Left and right increases and decreases shape the pointed end of the pickets.

The capital D has a classy look to it.  I knit that separately and sideways, then appliquéd it to the end of the fence.

The pickets are just the right width for the official Super Bowl patch to be sewn.  I placed it on the end opposite the D for this photo.  Those who sew it on can decide if they like it there.  I have it facing the same way as the D, but it might look better turned to face the end so it looks right when the scarf hangs around the volunteer’s neck.  Decisions, decisions . . .

I just checked the Super Scarf Project website and their online tally shows 4,200 of 8,000 scarves have been completed so far.

If you’re still on the ‘fence’ about knitting a Super Scarf, maybe this would be a good time to start one.  Join the fun, grab some yarn and needles and click away.  Check the link to get the instructions and specifications and while you’re there, take a peek at the scarf photos.  Keeps me smiling just to look at all the designs that have landed in Indy.

Way to go, knitters!

“SWING, BATTER BATTER!!!”

Okay .  . . maybe I don’t stand on the sidelines and YELL at Goodnight, but my heart beats faster, my smile gets bigger, I find myself holding my breath with every pitch she stares at as it comes at her and I clap real hard no matter what the outcome is.

I think that’s what it says in my Grandmothers Who Attend Softball Games handbook.

The day of Goodnight’s first softball game, my camcorder died.  OH NO!!!!  It was my handy-dandy little pocket camcorder.  Died, dead, never to be used again.  Not low on battery, just – tired, I suppose.  I have used it a lot since I bought it.

What to do?  I dropped Goodnight off at the field in time for pre-game warm-ups, went to buy a new camcorder and made it back to the field in time for the first pitch. 

New camcorders have no charge, so I had to tear into the packaging, get the camcorder out and plug it in so it could start charging as I drove back to the softball game.  I got it charged enough to film Goodnight’s first at-bat.

This is a new experience for Goodnight.  She’s been shooting hoops and running track, but hasn’t stared down a fast pitch before.  So it’s taking a while to get the timing right on her swing.  She’ll get there.  The footage of her first at-bat will help.  I slowed it down for her so she could see that she was consistently swinging a tad high.

Goodnight has another game this evening – after track practice.  My new camcorder has a full charge now and we’re ready to go.  I have my chair packed in the car.  There won’t be much time for knitting today.  I tried to knit at her last game, but had accidentally dropped one needle in the house.  I’m still working on Super Scarves, but there’s a time and a place for Gram to put down the needles and join the background chatter with the parents attending the game:

Good eye!  Take your time!  Slide!  SWING BATTER, BATTER!!!

The only problem is that today, Goodnight won’t be dressed like she is in the photo above.  It’s 39 degrees and overcast right now.  Over the course of the afternoon, we are expecting rain turning to snow with no significant accumulation.  Pshaw!  We’ve had a total accumulation of 86.6 inches this snow season, as of April 20, making it the 4th snowiest season on record.  What’s a little more? 

I think I better find my box of handwarmers before I head to the ball park.

Heart is Where the Home is – Easter in Smalltownville

It wouldn’t matter, holiday or not, there’s just something peaceful about pulling into Smalltownville.  I actually feel my spirits lift as I get off the interstate and take the “blue highways” * for the last part of my journey to the small town where I grew up.

I took Goodnight to Smalltownville so we could spend the Easter weekend with my mother, Goodnight’s great-grandmother (Gr8).  It was the three of us spending time together, preparing meals and washing the dishes together and then sitting around the table for games and chatting.  We let the radio run in the background, or the baseball game on TV, but mostly it’s that unassuming time together that families can give each other as a gift.

Goodnight read aloud to me for part of our trip, but once we got closer to Smalltownville, she was not allowed to read or play video games.  I always want her to look out the window and see the open spaces and look for things that we don’t get to see on a daily basis: pheasants, wild turkeys, eagles, deer, horses, cattle, sheep, barren fields waiting for spring planting - all lovely and wonderful in their own way. 

Ten miles away from Smalltownville, we passed through the little burg where ’Crush’ was born and raised.  RIP, Crush. (on my home page search for Crush and read my post about him if you’re curious.)  Many of my other high school friends came from that little burg, too.  They have a traffic light now.  I don’t think it’s for the benefit of those of us passing through, so much as it is for those going down main street, so they don’t have to wait so long for traffic to get from the bank to the hardware store.  You know how traffic can be an intrusion that way.

Six miles from Smalltownville we passed the farm where one of my school mates grew up.  It’s on the last corner before heading straight to Gr8′s house: around the little twin lakes, past the country garden that makes me envious for the space they have and the wonderful sense of design they put into planning their garden.

Around the last bend in the road, we spotted the Smalltownville water tower.  A giant exhale allowed both Goodnight and me to let go of everything for a few days: work, school, chores, homework.  Gr8 always watches at the window to spot us as we drive up the hill – one block from her house, my childhood home.

We all attended an Easter service early Sunday morning.  The father of one of my grade school play buddies was there.  He’s a recent widower and going through a difficult time.  I used to play with his daughter at his house.  He and his wife let us play in big appliance boxes and make houses from them.  That was ages ago, of course, and now he’s sad, but he knows that I’m not that little kid any longer and he was able to let his tears fall as we spoke.

My 7th grade science teacher was there too.  I hugged him and got a chance to catch up with him, and introduce him to Goodnight, who is in 7th grade now.  She’s getting good grades in science, but doesn’t love it as much as I did.  He was a great teacher.

We’re never really alone at Gr8′s house when we’re there for a holiday.  My siblings, though far away, take full advantage of technology and text me so I can read their ‘presence’ to Gr8 and Goodnight.  And they call, too.  With cell phone plans that include unlimited weekend minutes, we all can chat for a long time and make it seems as though we are all together.

Though I’ve grown up and away from Smalltownville, I always appreciate a chance to return.  The neighborhood has changed dramatically – not only the hair color of folks I used to know, but who lives in the houses where my friends used to live.  It didn’t happen overnight, of course.  I moved out decades ago, so I can’t claim surprise at this stage.  And yet . . . Smalltownville has had a stability to offer that doesn’t match the suburban life.

It’s still home.  There’s a piece of my heart reserved for Smalltownville.  Naturally, it has a lot to do with the white house were Gr8 lives, but it’s not only that.  It’s the lifestyle, the closeness of things.  I never needed to drive a car while I was growing up.  I could bike from one end of town to the other in the same amount of time it took to go slowly around my block.  I know this for a fact because when I was learning how to ride my bike, I was only allowed to ride around the block and I had to call to my mother each time I came around.  Then I graduated to two consecutive blocks because my best friend lived on the next block.   That got old, so I would take off in different directions, but keep coming past the house to call to my mother.

Smalltownville hasn’t spread out too much since those days – some – but not much.  After our Sunday church service, I took Gr8 and Goodnight for a drive around town.  It started out as a quest for Bath Tub Mary – the outdoor shrines people made inside old bath tubs.  If you tip one on end, an old porcelain tub can look like a little alcove in an old church where statues stand their silent watch.  People want them in their front yards or gardens . . . . so we hunted for Bath Tub Mary.  (Google it if you want to see one.)

But . . . there was a Smalltownville street I had never been on.  Apparently there still isn’t enough traffic after all these year either, because it isn’t paved.  I turned onto the street and followed it as far as we can go.  Gr8 said, “Oh that’s where that is!”  It was the slaughter-house for the local meat market.  The dad of one of my school mates owned the meat market and I never knew there was a slaughterhouse in Smalltownville.  Now I know where it is.

It’s not the glamour of the city life, but . . . I’m still a Smalltownville girl at heart.  My mother had never been on that street, either. 

I supposed by reading this post, one couldn’t necessarily know it was an Easter visit, but, like I said at the beginning of my post, it wouldn’t matter, holiday or not, it’s still home.  I know there is the expression that “Home is Where the Heart is.”  How true!  But I also think Heart is Where the Home is.  And part of mine is still in Smalltownville: five blocks wide, twelve blocks long, two churches, seven bars, two banks, a library, two schools, two parks, one really good roller skating hill, a familiar corner house where photographs of me and my siblings hang like museum pieces of bygone days, a slaughterhouse hidden out-of-the-way, and lots of good memories.

I took an extra day off work so I could stay with Gr8 a day longer.  It’s gets more and more difficult for me to say good-bye and leave her standing on the stoop waving until my car disappears from view.  When I head out of Smalltownville, I wave at her for the full block down the hill and watch her in my mirror.  Good-bye Gr8.  Goodbye house.  Thanks Smalltownville for being so good to my mother and for keeping watch over my memories.

On our trip back home, Goodnight helped me watch for eagles and other creatures again.  Less than a mile out of town, I nearly had two wild turkeys to take home for dinner.  Luckily I spotted them on the side of the road and saw them try to get airborne.  Their girth slowed their take-off and I had to step on the brakes.  Both stayed so low that I would have hit them if I had maintained my speed.  It’s not the kind of excitement I hope for on any given trip, but that’s life when the countryside reaches the doorstep of Smalltownville.

Twelve eagles later and a detour (over the Spring countryside), a stop at a used book store, and no wild turkeys for dinner, Goodnight and I arrived back home ready to face the coming days.  The first thing we did was call Gr8 and let her know we got back safely, told the wild turkey story, and itemized the books we found on the way.  It was like we hadn’t left Smalltownville at all . . . . . . . . .  almost.

*Blue Highways refers to the book of the same name written by William Least Heat Moon, in which her reffered to the blue lines on a roadmap representing smaller highways off the beaten path

“Big Rigs” – Winter Scarf

I just finished knitting a winter scarf.  It’s not a Super Scarf, but it’s still destined for Indiana.  Just to get it out of my system, let’s get to the photo of the “Big Rigs Winter Scarf” and then we can chat about the reason for the design.

Yes . . . I knit two 18-wheelers back to back and if you’re interested in that sort of thing, they both have vertical bull horn exhaust stacks behind the cab.    It’s a little tough to see in the photo below because of the carpet color, but the exhaust stack behind the cab is not straight, it bends toward the back.  The other cab has the same thing.  I knit the stacks in an I-cord and then ran pipe cleaners through each I-cord to hold the bull horn bends.

I was recently contacted by an event coordinator for a fundraiser happening in Indiana on April 30, 2011.  The event is called “Night Moves Celebrity Dinner/Fundraiser” and it’s a dinner with celebrity waiters.  The event is a fundraiser for another event that will be held in conjunction with the Indianapolis Super Bowl: Z-Bowl 2012.  The Night Moves Celebrity Dinner/Fundraiser includes a Silent Auction, which is where I came into the picture.  The person who contacted me wondered if I would knit a scarf to donate.  I was even given a link to their promotional video to get more information about the event.

I watched the video and immediately got my fun 18-wheeler idea for a scarf design.  I contacted my Indy brother with the information, told him to watch the video and see if he could guess the idea I came up with for a scarf.

He replied that he didn’t even have to watch the video to know what would make a great scarf.  He even sent an image rendering of his idea.  It was exactly what I had come up with, too.

‘Night Moves Celebrity Dinner” gets its name from the 1984 move of the Colts from Baltimore to Indianapolis.  Twelve moving trucks drove into the Colts’ compound, packed them up and moved them in the middle of the night, in March 1984.

The obvious images that came out of this story were the moving vans themselves.  They were Mayflower trucks.  Mayflower was established in Indianapolis by Conrad Gentry, a grocer, and his truck salesman friend, Donald Kenworthy.  Mayflower trucks have had several designs over the years,  but I chose one of the color schemes as suggested by the following:

 Moving vans usually project a sense of success-a new home or a new job. And the movers always arrive early in the morning. But these movers resembled kidnappers or burglars using darkness to avoid detection. The yellow Mayflower vans had been gathered yesterday afternoon from as far north as New Jersey and as far south as Virginia, along with a busload of 45 movers and a truckload of packing material. The vans arrived at the Colts’ complex about 10 that evening. Shortly before dawn today, the vans had been loaded and were on their way to Indianapolis.

New York Times, March 29, 1984                  

I knit the Big Rigs from one end of their trailers to the other, then added the tractor units, wheels, and exhaust stacks separately.  Instead of knitting the Mayflower logo onto the trucks, I knitted the ‘Night Moves’ logo for the fundraiser.

 

I knitted the scarf using the garter stitch for everything except the logos on the trailers.  It’s a reversible stitch and so the scarf looks good from the back side, too.  I wouldn’t call the scarf reversible because I only attached wheels, logos, and exhaust stacks on one side.  Reducing the bulk kept the scarf useable.  It’s a scarf, after all. 

If you want to read the full article from which I took the portion about the Mayflower vans, click on the link to the New York Times article.

If you would like to see the promotional video for the Night Moves Celebrity Dinner/Fundraiser,  click on the link to their You Tube video. It looks like a fun event.

If you would like to learn more about Z-Bowl 2012, the reason behind the fundraising event, click on the link to read about the grassroots effort.

If you are interested in seeing images of Mayflower trucks, from which I selected my color scheme, Google images and then type “Mayflower trucks.”

To Kathy, the event coordinator who contacted me about donating a scarf:  You told me to surprise you.  I hope you are surprised. 

And for my Indy brother, I’d just like to sing:  “Ohhhhhhhhhh, there’s 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 wheels on a big rig!”

Happy knitting! 

“Gram? Can I go outside and look for my homework?”

I believe I got into the story at the best part.  Goodnight’s teacher got the boring and predictable. 

Goodnight didn’t have any homework to turn in yesterday because it blew away in the wind while she waited for the bus and the bus was coming down the street so she didn’t have time to chase it.  The previous run-on sentence was intentional because that’s how Goodnight talks sometimes. . . . most times.  Her teacher replied, “Uh-huh.  That’s the most interesting excuse I’ve ever heard.”

Goodnight took it on the chin, because no homework is still no homework, but she was determined to prove that she didn’t make up the story.  This is where I came in.

Last night, before dinner, Goodnight asked me if she could go outside and look for her homework.  The puzzled look on my face must have been enough language for her because she continued, “The wind just took it while I was at the bus stop and I didn’t have time to chase it because the bus was already coming.

I was curious, so I asked: Why wasn’t your homework inside your backpack?

GN:  Cuz I was looking for something in my backpack.

I wondered if Goodnight had any idea what the weather was ALL DAY LONG yesterday, so I asked her: Do you have any idea how far that stuff could have gone in the wind we’ve had all day?  Some kid in Colorado will probably turn it in today.

GN:  Gram, can I just try?  It went over by the creek.

Great.  If it’s over there, I’ll be pulling a wet Goodnight out of the mud . . .

Gram:  Ok.  But don’t go too far and come back in ten minutes.

Out the door she scooted.  I just smiled at my interesting evening.

The house was silent and the living room clock ticked away ten minutes sooner that I realized.  I got concerned because there is a fair amount of water where she wanted to look.  I grabbed my jacket and headed outside fully hoping she hadn’t gotten into danger.

I started walking down the driveway only to see her heading home.  She saw me and waved.  There was something in her hand.  Something white-ish, though a closer inspection later revealed white-ish and dirty-ish, too.  “I found ‘em all!!!”

I couldn’t believe it.  She had found all the homework pieces that had blown away.  There were three.  What are the odds that all three would have been close enough to find in the same area after a day’s worth of wind?  I was dumbfounded.  Goodnight was thrilled.

GN:  I almost didn’t make it when I tried to jump across the creek.  My foot got stuck in the mud!

Gram:  I can see that.  You’re lucky you made it then.

GN:  Yup.

Gram:  Looks like you got into enough mud, anyway.

Goodnight handed me the papers.  The three assignments were in three different states of . . . messy.  I handed them back to her and had her sort it out on the counter for drying overnight.

Each assignment is now in its own ziplock bag, ready to be taken to school.  Goodnight will likely still have to eat her 20% deduction for late homework, but her dignity at having done it and not lying about what happened to it will remain intact.

Here’s where she found the papers . . . kinda where the white spot is on the far side of the water.  I’m sending photos to her teacher.  She should have as much fun as I did.

I could turn on the TV and watch some drama show, but most of the time it’s not as much fun as just hanging out with Goodnight.

NEARLY ALMOST PRACTICALLY HALF-WAY!!!!!!!!

The Indianapolis Super Bowl Super Scarf Project has collected nearly half of their goal of 8000 scarves.  The tally on their website says 3968 scarves have been received at the Host Committee Offices.

Way to go, knitters!!!!  That’s a lot of knitting.

If each of the 3968 scarves have met the minimum length requirement of 76 inches, then there are at least 301,568 inches of Super Scarves hanging out in Indy so far.  That’s upwards of 22 million inches of yarn, using the minimum width for the math and the minimum yardage I used for one of my scarves.

Now stitches?  That’s another set of numbers.  Hard to guess exactly, but for example:  using the minimum width and minimum length in the Super Scarf parameters and using my gauge for the garter stitch alone, the number of collected Super Scarves, to date, represents over 50,663,000.  I have a loose gauge, so those who knit more tightly will have more stitches per inch, raising the total number of stitches donated to the Indianapolis Super Bowl.

That doesn’t include the labor.  Labor can be charged out at a flat rate per hour, a flat rate per piece, or a flat rate per 1000 stitches (as in machine embroidery).  Let’s figure the labor at a flat rate using the federal minimum wage of $7.25 per hour. 

I’m a fast knitter, so I can probably produce a garter stitch in let’s say eight hours (give or take, with fringe and finishing.)  At the federal minimum wages, that would make the scarf cost $58 dollars in labor.  Multiply that by the number of scarves donated to date and we would get a conservative number of over $230,000 that knitters have donated to the Indianapolis Super Bowl in knitting labor.  It’s much more, of course, because I have seen some photos of very beautiful knitting and those scarves are taking way more than eight hours.

Interestingly enough, applying the machine embroidery standard pricing per 1000 stitches, the cost of labor is in the same ball park (or should I say ball field since we’re talking football?)

To the over $230,000+ of labor and the over 50 million stitches produced, we need to add the cost of the yarn itself and postage for mailing and/or gas to deliver in person.  Yarn prices vary from store to store and from acrylic to wool, but if everyone used an acrylic yarn purchased on sale or with a coupon and knit a scarf to the minimum length and width measurements, the minimum cost of yarn donated would be nearly $12,ooo.  Just by looking at a small portion of the Super Scarf photos, I can tell that many knitters purchased wool, so that only raises the value of yarn donated. 

Knitters have stats, too, and it all adds up to a very large “Super-donation” – collectively.

Note:  I based my math on the average amount of yarn I used for my own Super Scarves.

Silence, Music, Applause, Cough . . . repeat . . . and a lump in my throat.

Goodnight had a piano recital this week.  Everyone in the seventh grade is required to take a keyboard class for the year and must pick a piece to perform at the Spring recital.

For many of the students, it is the first time they have been exposed to a keyboard, so they begin at the very beginning.

I loved it!  All of it.  (well, not the coughing part.)

I’m sensitive to protocol for performances and wouldn’t want to mess up anyone’s ‘place in the sun, ‘ with my indelicate bark during someone’s time at the piano.  I was largely successful in only coughing during the applause after a student had finished playing.

Silence, music, applause, cough.  Timing is everything.

Of thirty-four students, Goodnight was number twenty-nine to perform, but it went smoothly and swiftly.  The pieces were short enough to fit everyone into an hour.

On behalf of the newer players, I recognized all the pieces as being the ones listed in the program!!

One young man’s performance brought a tear to my eye.  I could get by with blaming it on my raging cold/bronchitis/pneumonia/diagnosis-of-the-week, but it would just be a cover-up of the sentimental sap that I have become.

He was one of those who just started playing, so he only performed his piece with his right hand, no accompaniment in the bass, and no chords with the right hand:  only one note at a time.

This young man lives down the street from us by about two blocks.  When he and Goodnight were much younger, they were playground buddies.  I can’t tell you how many times I called his mother and asked if Goodnight could meet him at the city playground which is directly behind their house.  That boy, girl thing didn’t matter back then when all they wanted to do was swing, slide, and dig in the sand.  He used to bring a piece of fabric with him, pin it to his shoulders for a cape and let it fly behind him on the swing.  They haven’t played together like that for a long while.

As the young man stood up to walk to the piano yesterday, I saw how tall he had grown.  He was much taller than I am.  Where did the time go?

His skill was easily recognizable as a beginner . . . but . . . he did not make a single mistake.  He had the correct tempo, and each note was perfect.

He did not follow the trend to play a contemporary piece.  He chose to play something sentimental – between himself and his grandfather, who always attends his school functions.

He played the Marine’s Hymn.

As he finished, he stood tall, took a dignified bow, not the timid, hurried bow of his male peers.  He did the Marines proud.  He did his grandfather proud.

Our children (and our children’s friends) can surprise us if we let them.

101.3 . . . . but no music.

I just Googled “101.3″.  I was curious.

I found a hit music station in Minneapolis and Saint Paul, Minnesota:  KDWB.

It’s also the Fox that Rocks, listening out of Grand Rapids, Michigan.

There is a 101.3 from Rochester New York, WARM, that plays continuous Soft Rock.

KC 101.3 is Southern Connecticut’s #1 Hit Music station.

Anchorage, Alaska has ‘all the hits, one station”at KGOT 101.3.

Southern Pennsylvania has “The Rose”,  WROZ 101.3.  and Wichita has country favorites on KDFI 101.3

And so it goes with Coast, Cool, KUUL, The Mix, etc., each station using 101.3 and each having wonderful music, I’m sure.

But . . . . . the only music I’m hearing with my 101.3 is the ringing in my ears, the chattering of my teeth from the chills, the loud barking cough that is on day 18,  and the beeping of my thermometer when it hits three figures before the decimal.

What’s up with that, eh?  I’m sure the neighbors think I now own a dog . . . .  . . . . .a very large dog.

I’m not complaining.  I’m just saying . . . . 101.3 isn’t always playing one’s favorite tunes.

What Knitters Cherish

Goodnight and I took a drive to Smalltownville yesterday.  Oh!  We packed some knitting, some table games, and a wonderful feast to share with Gr8.  I had done the cooking on Friday evening so we didn’t have to do much work while we visited – more time for games that way!

I’m glad I brought the food because Gr8 has been spending a lot of time knitting lately.  She’s now finished her second Super Scarf for the Indianapolis Super Bowl Super Scarf Project.  (I’ll be giving her scarf its own post – and showing the photo in that post.)

As we gathered to chat for a while, Gr8 (my mother) handed me a bag – a gift bag.  Inside were three objects, gently tucked in some tissue paper.  I had no idea what was inside, but as it unfolded, the tears welled up in my eyes from sentiment as perfect as it can get.

Inside the first tissue paper was a red scarf that I recognized immediately.  It belonged to my mother, but had been knit by her mother, my maternal Gram.  I could hardly speak.  Mom has told me the story from time to time and it’s what happens to most of us knitters as we knit gifts for our loved ones.  “This is the scarf I caught my mother knitting for me.  I wanted you to have it.”

 . . . . little lump began to form in my throat.

Inside the second piece of tissue paper was something black.  It was another scarf and I recognized that one, too.  My mother had knit it for my dad.  “He always wore it under his coat.  Some men prefer to wear their winter scarves that way.  I thought you would like it, because you’re the third.”  I knew exactly what she meant. I am the third generation of knitting women (that we can document and for which there are any remaining pieces.)

 . . . . little lump grew and our silence spoke more than a mere thank-you could justify.

Inside the third piece of tissue was a skein of yarn.

“That’s for Goodnight so she can knit a scarf to add to the collection.”

Gram:  Mother?  Do you know I have two scarves that Angel knit?

She did not.  She looked surprised, but with a look of endearment that showed what had just registered in her heart.

Gram:  I’ve been saving them for Goodnight – so she would have something her mother knit, one to wear and one to keep.

Gr8:  I knew she could knit, but I didn’t know you had any scarves she made.  Do you have any other pieces?

Gram:  Yes.  She had knit a sweater for herself and I have that.  I wear it from time to time, but not to often.  And Goodnight has the dolls her mother made for her.

Gr8:  So . . . . then we are five generations of knitters.  Goodnight?  Will you knit a scarf for your Gram?  I didn’t want to give up the one you knit for me.”  (When Goodnight learned to knit, she gave the first scarf to Gr8.)

GN:  Sure, Gr8.  I will.

Goodnight really doesn’t care to knit and she’s not quite to the age where this type of sentiment affects her the way it can as we age.  She will in time, but she rose to the occasion nonetheless.  I’m sure I will have the fifth scarf – maybe by summer’s end.  She’s really pretty busy with school work right now.

In the meantime, I have the touching moment with my mother tucked in my heart and the scarves came home with me: bookmarks in the stories of family knitters.  In the photo below, from left to right, are the scarves from four generations.  The colors are actually more vivid than the photo depicts.  The scarf my grandmother knitted is a pretty red.  Next to it, is the black scarf my mother had knit for my dad.  The third scarf is one that I’ve kept from my own knitting.  It was Officer Friendly’s.  I knitted it (and a stocking cap) to match a sweater that he liked to wear.  The fourth scarf was knit by my Angel.  My Gram and my Mom used the the garter stitch for their scarves.  Their stitches are very consistent and beautiful.  The scarf I made for Officer Friendly was done in a 2×2 rib.  Angel knitted her tri-color scarf in the seed stitch.  The skein of yarn at the top of the photo will become Goodnight’s donation to the collection.

Thanks, Mom!