Seduced by more yarn

I fell off the wagon.

It was this. I love peonies. The notion of knitting and felting them sent me to the yarn store in a frenzy. I have pattern. I have yarn. I have 5 things to knit for Christmas and not a chance of finishing any of them. But I have the pattern.

I want a month off from work to finish the house and sit and knit for a while without the alarm going off and catapulting me into another workday.

Of all the things that wealth gives people, I think the sheer luxury of time might be the greatest, although I suspect it's not the first or third or tenth thing that people think of if they fantasize about suddenly having money.

Speaking of time - I must wrap presents tonight and ship tomorrow; get the car smogged and registered; finish the socks I started for my mother; order the kit for what I plan to knit for Dad.

50 is the new 30

The Hell it is.

I don't care what my brother and sister Boomers want to try to deceive and delude themselves with. We aren't 30. We are't hip. We aren't even middle-aged anymore, because darned few of us are going to make it to the century mark and beyond.

Having just marked a birthday, I'm cranky. I'm tired of seeing women my age and older trotting around in skirts shorter than what they probably wore in high school. GROW UP, folks. Enjoy this stage of life for what it is, instead of trying to be what you were.

Of course, ever since the fibromyalgia hit, a decade and a half ago, I've gotten periodic opportunities to try on old age. It's not for the weak of heart. But there are upsides. I walk more slowly when things hurt and pull - and sometimes, as a result, I see things that I would have zoomed past 20 years ago. It's certainly not enough to compensate for the pain, but it's nice to realize that there are some plusses to a slower life. The other thing that it's given me is a lot more compassion for older relatives and friends. I know what waking up stiff in every fiber is like.

And then there's this that someone sent me a week or two ago — "Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, totally worn out and screaming, "WOO HOO what a ride!" Make mine a Manhattan, with sweet vermouth, straight up. On second thought, make it a double. And pass the chocolate.

Tink ... Tink ... Tink ...

I love the brioche stitch. I do, truly. It makes the loveliest plushy sort-of ribbed fabric. And it's easy.

But OHMYGOD is it a pain in the posterior when you make a mistake. You *cannot* frog it - the YOs, the slipped stitches and the K2togs create an unholy mess if you try to frog back a couple of rows to correct an error; nor do I have the brainpower or expertise to drop stitches back down to an error and go back up. So it's either rip out to the garter border (which happened twice before I got on a roll) or TINK, TINK, TINK .... (for the non-knitter, that's unknitting back - one stitch at a time until you reach the mistake - and, yes, it's BORING).

This is a nice piece though - a co-worker just got married and it is the start of an afghan for her. I got tired of buying disposables for wedding presents and most people don't get silver or china anymore, so I've just instituted a policy of knitting something for them.

A funny note, when I was working on an afghan 2 years ago for another couple, someone commented that I was smart to "save money" by making my present. I said "Really?" and asked them if they thought $50 in wool and 100+ hours of my time was "saving money". It really would be so much easier just to go buy them the damned electric can opener, you know?

This one will use up 8-9 200 yard+ skeins of a deep chocolate brown merino wool before I'm done. Not cheap and 8+ feet of afghan isn't exactly something you can whip out in an hour or two. Non-knitters who think a> that yarn is cheap and b> that knitting an afghan is an evening or two's work amaze me. Good heavens, even Wal-mart acrylic isn't inexpensive (it is cheap, but the other sort, you know).

OK, back to TINKing - I think I have about another 3/4s of a row to knit back before I reach the root of the problem, then I can turn around and reknit the 5 or so rows I undid.

Other WIPs .... a teal silk oh-so-shimmery feather and fan scarf; a pair of cotton and wool socks for Mother; a pair of felted clogs for Tobye; a toddler blanket for former manager's middle child. I need to frog the partially completed dog sweater that a> I never could understand the pattern and b> I lost the pattern to. I have wool for 3 other sets of clogs, 4 more pair of socks and some other little lovelies, but not enough weeks left in the year.

The problem is, of course, that Ms. Packratty could quite easily fill all of the hours of the day doing things she is interested in - without ever going near a paying job. In my 20s and 30s, I lived to work - now that I'm almost 52, I would, finances permitting, quite happily stay at home, do volunteer stuff, putter around, knit, read, walk the dog, etc. Not that work isn't interesting - just that left to my own devices, I can amuse myself quite well without the necessity of dealing with some of the morons one encounters either in the workplace or on one's commute to and from said workplace.

Now if Ms. Packratty could just find someone who wished to pay her adequately for reading, knitting etc. ... The blessing at this job being that I slid knitting between calls right in under the manager's radar simply taking it for granted that no sane boss would have a problem with a quiet, productive activity. The new manager doesn't seem to see it as an issue either. I recall working as a contractor for the tech support department of Large Soft Drink Corporation where the manager was so anti-knitting that I could not even knit at my desk during my dinner break. Of couse, the co-workers watching movies, reading, wandering around the office visiting one another and just plain screwing around were OK. Funny, that. Always liked what manager at one job said to corporate suit. "Of course knitting isn't an issue. They're in their seats, quiet and available to take calls." I'd managed to subvert 2 other women and one guy (who had learned to knit as a child) into joining me in playing with sticks and string at work.

The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord

Grey Huntingford Wyman Jr. joined his wife, Merle Howell Wyman in life eternal with God this day, leaving the rest of us richer for having known him and poorer for losing his presence in our lives.

Grey was born in 1922; graduated from Mercersburg Academy (where his father taught) and went to Brown University at the age of 16. Four years later, as World War II raged, he joined his older brother, Austin, in the Army Air Corps. When the war was over, Austin had been lost somewhere in the Pacific, his remains never found and his fate not known — while Grey had won the Distinguished Flying Cross.

Grey returned to Brown and graduated and went to work for Merrill Lynch, Pierce Fenner and Beane (at the time). He retired from that same company close to 40 years later.

Grey met Merle in Charleston, South Carolina. Raised on Johns Island, Merle was the antithesis of Grey's Yankee background — they married in 1963 in Tampa, Florida and were devoted to each other and their daughters - Pamela and Patricia - until Merle's untimely death of amyloidosis in 1985. They became part of our lives in 1967, shortly before Pamela's birth.

When I entered the ECUSA in college, I named Grey and Merle my godparents, as they had honored my mother and I in naming us as godmothers to Pamela and Patricia respectively. They filled an uncommon role in my life - they were my parents' peers, but they were always also friends to me.

Grey underwent triple bypass surgery in the early 1980s, making a full recovery just as Merle began to suffer from the disease that would kill her shortly. It was close to 20 years after his bypass before he reluctantly (at the age of 80+) gave up his annual skiing trips to Colorado and Utah with a group of other Merrill Lynchers self-titled "The Over The Hill Gang".

Suffering from congestive heart failure that gradually whittled his life down to the end, Grey fought valiantly with the faithful love and support of Pamela and Patricia and died peacefully today.

Another member of this country's Greatest Generation has left the battlefield of life.


Our Lord Jesus Christ, who by thy death didst take away the sting of death; Grant unto us thy servants so to follow in faith where thou hast led the way, that we at length may fall asleep peacefully in thee, and awake up after thy likeness; through thy mercy, who livest with the Father and the Holy Ghost, one God, world without end. Amen

Oddities

Odd things happening. I have a Jerusalem cross in silver that was a gift from my true love. It's one of the few things from those days that I still have ... 30 years pass and no matter how much you treasure an object, things will attrit.

Anyway, about 18 months ago I came home from work and as I was getting ready for bed, discovered the chain around my neck was no longer clasped and it was hanging free and my cross was *gone*.

I searched the house and the car and the parking lot at home and at work, nada. I was sad. Just a thing, but a thing that had a fair bit of meaning. Months passed and one day I picked up my toolbox (which had been moved any number of times in the intervening months) and my cross was on the floor under it. I looked at it, said "Huh" and put it aside against the purchase of a more secure chain.

Once I had a stronger chain and clasp, I put it back on. Then last Friday evening after I came in from work, I noticed chain and cross were both gone. My heart sunk - and I launched a new search of house, car and environs. Nothing. This time I was sure it was gone forever, especially since the chain was missing too. But I still checked over the house, inside the clothing I'd worn to work, etc. Still nothing.

Then, this morning, I got up and dressed in my dog walking clothing to walk Charlie. Came back in and since it was only 6 a.m., went to go back to bed. Shucked off the dog walking garb and grabbed my nightgown and turned around to go out of the guest room and there on the floor in the doorway that I'd stepped through at least 4 dozen times over the weekend - yup - cross and still clasped chain.

That does it. I promised a copy of the cross for a confirmation ... I'm taking it in and having it copied - one for her and one for me to wear. The one that likes to go wandering, the gift, can live in my jewelry box . . .

For those who don't know, a Jerusalem cross is a square cross with a small square cross in between each arm.

Hobbies of Acquisition

Of course, if Ms. Packratty is going to have hobbies, they will be hobbies that require getting things.
Like the 2,000 or so books that dominate Ms. Packratty's home.
Or knitting. Yes, indeed, knitting is a truly deadly hobby for packrat people - one can always buy more yarn with the self-delusion that you'll find the perfect pattern for it someday and it's too affordable or too pretty and won't be available when said perfect pattern becomes available.
When Ms. Packratty first learned to knit, her stash acquisition was hampered by living in small towns without good yarn stores and her miserable reporter's salary, not to mention the fact that the Internet wasn't even a gleam in Al Gore's eye ....
But then, settled down in Atlanta with several excellent yarn shops even a decade ago, the packrat impulse started setting in. But it was really the yarn outlet that started it. What I thought I was going to do with that spaghetti thin lavender chenille, I can't imagine. Oh, yes, I can imagine - all I need to do is look at the $2 price tag on the cone to tell me what I was imagining. 10 years later, it's in one of the many folding top totes stacked in one of the Chez Packrat closets.
Unfortunately for the Packratty budget, fiber snobbery set in quickly and many of the totes are full of silk, laceweight cashmere and the like.
However, Ms. Packratty occasionally dips into the stash and depletes in a worthy cause, to wit:

A baby blanket done for former manager's third child - no, it's not sucking up - 3rd children are lucky if they get a baby picture, let alone a hand-knit blanket This used up most of a wad of Debbie Bliss Cashcotton that had attached itself to me - I bought some white for the edging and then changed my mind and edged it in the same color.

However, that still leaves me 5 pair of felted clogs, three pair of socks and two sweaters behind for the year .....

Now if I could just figure out what to do with those 10 skeins of hideously expensive Noro silk .... not enough for the cardigan or jacket of Ms. Packratty's dreams, but far too beautiful and pricey for anything minor.

Political Orthodoxy

I read people who write about Republicans and conservatives as though we were some monolithic, consistent group; yet it is the liberals and Democrats who seem to demand much more political orthodoxy from their members. For example, a Republican can admit to being pro-choice — and many are ... but for a Democrat to admit the slightest qualms about abortion at any stage of pregnancy is unthinkable.

Perhaps it is a matter of not being able to see any nuance. For example, as a former reporter, I am hardly in favor of censorship — yet the liberals say that anything done to stem the tidal wave of pornography and filth inundating us would be tantamount to destroying freedom of the press. Excuse me, but I just don't see it.

Our intellectual freedom doesn't depend on having porn piped into our houses, completely unregulated, on radio and television - airways that, in fact, do belong to "we the people". Does that mean they should be open to all manner of vileness just because one tenth of one percent of the population practises a certain perversion?

Oh, yes, I can hear it now. "Blue nose. Puritan." Hardly. I suspect that many of those who might come up with such epithets probably think that most of the porn that's flooding into homes and offices and even schools is like Playboy, maybe a little racier. Have I got news for you .... At the risk of disgusting yourself, you should do a little research before you call me a blue nose - what you may see may cause you to toss your cookies.