a simple yarn

Change is the watchword around our house these days.

Warning: Definitional Diversion Ahead
Synonym:  alter, become different, adjust, adapt, amend, modify, revise, refine, refashion, redesign, restyle, revamp, rework, remodel, reorganise, reorder, vary, transform, transfigure, transmute, metamorphose, evolve, tweak, rejig
Antonym:  stay the same

Some people like change in small steps. Reflecting upon the face of change in our family finds it usually coming in great strides…

One year, 14 days and I don’t know how many hours, minutes and seconds ago, I began posting in this space.

Objectively, there have been-

264 posts
More than some, less than others. Not quite as prolific as I once was. The living of life taking precedence over the blogging of it…

791 comments
Yes, I realise heavy-hitting-bloggers reap this with one post…but have to admit I’d rather have one meaningful comment than a myriad of blatherings.

14 categories
Not much to say there. It is what it is.

54 intercepted spam comments
Gotta love Akismet.

Subjectively, it has been-

A wonderful experiment in becoming part of a virtual community. What began as a way to get to know Isobel, Sara, Sharon and the other Dublin knitters has quickly expanded to a lovely network of internet pen-pal-ness and I like that!

So, many thanks to you for making me a part of your virtual neighbourhood and for being a meaningful part of mine.

“There but for the grace of God go I.”  -John Bradford (1510-1555)

Was going to post about knitting.
Seems superfluous now.
That can wait for another day.
This cannot.

Thanks to Julie of Little Cotton Rabbits for the reminder, the button to share, and the link.

A delicious by-product of yet another bank holiday Monday is the unhurried nature of the weekend. And in our household, that means cinnamon rolls.

A recurring childhood memory is of sitting at my grandmother’s table watching her work away at cinnamon rolls. Quick as a flash her hands would fly over the living dough…rolling, spreading, buttering, sugaring; the scent of cinnamon lingering in the toasty kitchen. If I stayed long enough I knew I would be rewarded with one of the doughy end bits and if I was lucky, there’d be a dash of butter and sweet cinnamon in it.

As I anticipated marriage and setting up my own household, I remember asking my grandmother for the recipe of this family favourite. She couldn’t do it. Oh, not that she wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t. This was one of those elusive recipes of bygone days where if the cook thought about what she did to achieve such sweet bliss, the end result would be ruined. The success of the baking was that she didn’t think really think about it. It just happened. A dash here. A smidgeon there. That was how she operated.

So I’ve had to find my own way to ’sweet bliss,’ taking sage wisdom offered by Veteran-Cook-And-Mother-In-Law-Phyllis. ‘Find a bread recipe that you like,’ said she, ‘and stick with it. Use it as the foundation for the all bread baking you do. Alter it, sweeten it, add grains to it, cheese it…whatever you want, but stick with a good base.’ Good advice.

Our customary pan of rolls has the obligatory ‘baker’s dozen number 13′ squished in for good measure. And according to the family, they should never be overbaked…the doughier the better. Coupled with a good cup of coffee…a lovely way to start any day.

An observation of colour in the garden as seen by Husband-Will and me.

It may be the Year of the Pig to Chinese astrologers, but for me it was the Night of the Hen.

Got the invite to Mary’s Hen Night.
A bit of fear and trepidation.

First experience of this kind in this culture.
Have seen other hen parties.
Wild. Raucous. Feathered masks. Fluffy boas. Plastic tiaras.
Oh my.
I’m too old for this.

Flashback 20 years.
My own bridal shower.
Calm. Cakes and tea. Polite chat. A pile of household gifts.
A bit boring perhaps.

Dinner out with Mary and her friends.
Ukiyo on Exchequer St. Yum. Didn’t know Japanese do curry.
Karaoke bar.
Thirteen women jammed into a small room.
Singing every song imaginable. Scooby-Doo included.

Yep, it was the Night of the Hens.
Great craic.

Before moving to Dublin, I read Agnes Browne by Brendan O’Carroll. Following that, I knew I needed to visit Moore Street, where women pushed old prams loaded with fruit and veg, hawking their wares. To me, that seemed the quintessential Dublin of the 1960s.

So when we moved here and I had opportunity to visit Moore Street, I was disappointed. Sure, there were women hawking fruit and veg, but it seemed a bit of a seedy street, shop fronts plastered with graffiti and nightclub adverts. Sigh. Another Irish-culture-icon gone.

Saturday in the city with Daughter-Kate. A shortcut to the bookshop leads us through Moore Street, so lively and bustling with activity. Cigarette-smoking women hoarsely calling out to passersby of produce-deals-and-bargains to be had. Perhaps the spirit of Agnes Browne isn’t dead.

But more than that, another type of bustling. Asian restaurants. Indian shops. Eastern European stores. On the street a veritable melting pot of cultures. Wow. Move over, Agnes.

Perhaps a bit seedy still, but thriving.

So Kate decides she wants Chinese food for lunch. Hmm…..I don’t know of any Chinese restaurants nearby. ‘Why not this one?’ was the question innocently asked as we stood in front of the smudgy window boasting a full Chinese menu. ‘Um…’ I hesitate, not sure if I want to be up that night suffering from stomach upset. Well, I guess it’ll be fairly authentic…seeing as how I can’t read the sign.

A very plain interior, bordering on warehouse-ish-ness. Oilcloth table covers sporting bird dogs and mallard ducks. I am not comforted. Friendly staff, though, give us a menu and tell us to sit anywhere. Anywhere is right, as there are only 2 other customers in this cavernous concrete place. Erm….

Kate chooses sweet-and-sour-chicken-with-fried-rice, her favourite. We’ll split it. And as the jasmine tea begans to relax me, I start to soak up the multi-cultural ethos of the street. It is then we are served the absolute best sweet-and-sour chicken I’ve had since…..well, I can’t remember when.

Lesson to me that a) you can’t judge a street by its appearance and b) Agnes’ spirit is alive and well.

The Moral of the Story-The most obvious from this tale is that I should listen to my own advice…practice what I preach, you know.

Why it was just this past Thursday that I heard myself say to a beginner knitter, ‘Sometimes you have to knit by faith, not by sight.’ Okay, a bit of distortion to the Bible’s encouragement to ‘live by faith, not by sight,’ but still, I think it can be applied to knitting nonetheless.

There are those moments-and mostly on Debbie Bliss patterns-when I just cannot see where I am going. Can’t picture it in my head. Just have to follow the step-by-step-directions in a literal step-by-step-fashion to then look in hindsight seeing where I’ve been. Then comes the ‘Aha-I-get-it!’ realisation. Well….not always, but mostly.

So this week I’ve had a crisis of ‘knitting by faith.’ Working on Kate’s cardigan (still). Slowly moving up the sleeves in tandem. Realise that I’m at the final metres of the final balls of yarn. Hey wait! I thought the pattern called for 14 balls? I bought 14 balls. Gauge was right. What is going on? I don’t think I’m going to have enough to finish the sleeves and seam it up and knit the collar.

Blast.

And so, in a panic, I email Lisa and hurriedly request another 2 balls of yarn…just to be safe. I’m anxious to get this project done and off the needles. Daughter-Kate waits patiently, but I’m sure she’d love to wear it before summer comes. Arg.

Lisa says the yarn will be in presently. In the meantime I decide to go as far as I can with what I’ve got. And so I finish shaping the sleeves…
…seam up the shoulders…
…begin the collar…
…finish the collar…
…set in the sleeves…
…sew up the sides…

…and like biblical accounts of old, I miraculously still have yarn. Not much, mind you, but remnants to be sure. Duh.

Is there another point to this story?
Well the less-obvious-but-more-celebratory-reason for the post is that after countless months of work and obstacles, Kate’s cardigan is finally done.

Postscript and Pictures:

‘Pea Coat’ by Debbie Bliss from Junior Knits
Knit in Debbie Bliss Merino Aran on size 4.5 and 5mm needles

The photographed colour is nothing like the original, which is darker. Couldn’t find the right navy buttons, so black will suffice for now. Couldn’t have Kate wait any longer. Even though I knit up the Size 9-10 and Kate is small by nature, it still resulted in a very narrow cardigan, pulling apart a bit at the bottom, but she doesn’t mind. I may take out some of the side seaming at the bottom for a slit on either side making a better fit.

And no sooner was it off the needles that it took up residence on her. And I say Amen to that…

The images we capture-digital or otherwise-can reveal much about us…what we like…what we value. Hmm…..

So, the last download of pictures to iPhoto contained the following-

No photos of museum exhibits, but then again, cameras are usually prohibited.

No pics of family members, but then again, Husband-Will is the official photographer of the family and has loads of ‘em.

No evidence of knitting projects, but then again, I’m still on the same ones and how many times and ways can I photograph Daughter-Kate’s never-ending-ribbed cardy?

Well I guess, after seeing what was stored in my camera, I have to admit that I enjoy a good cup of coffee…will tolerate a mediocre one….and value simple pleasures.

I find that there is usually a blip of good behaviour from the children in that brief time period between my return from a trip and resumption of ‘normal’ life. And so, we are in that a blip of time…

So it happened that today, we as a family, began to reminisce about the kids when they were small. ‘Remember when…’ started most of our sentences. And being on a roll, we then pulled out old digital tapes and had an impromptu home movie hour, watching our little ones when they were littler still. Pudgy cheeks, unsteady feet, first words.

It is difficult to remember these events as they happened in real life, the memories more often being formed by the images captured on tape, or so said Daughter-Kate. As for Son-Alex, he couldn’t believe that the events were true at all, but rather fictitious, not having any memory of them.

The most interesting memory to be revealed was the excitement and care of Older-Sibling-Kate toward Younger-Sibling-Alex when he came into our family. And so the impression of familial harmony was made on now Barely-Tolerant-Sister-Kate and Bothersome-Pesky-Brother-Alex.

Later in the day, I awoke from afternoon napping to find Kate and Alex in a most extraordinary activity, playing a board game peacefully and contentedly…..together.

The miracle of walking down memory lane.

Perspective, noun…a particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; point of view; true understanding of the relative importance of things; a sense of proportion.

I don’t know what I would do if I met the President of the United States. I’m sure my knees would knock a bit. I’d probably worry about clammy hands. I might find myself battling to keep the butterflies contained in the general stomach area. I’d also be inclined to bump into or trip over a Secret Service agent.

And today, I found myself in a similar….yet very different….situation. For you see, today I met the Prime Minister of Ireland. Head of state. Leader of Irish government. Big kahuna.

Flutterings? No. Sweaty palms? Huh-uh. Stutterings? Nope.

And with a very casual air, An Taoiseach Bertie Ahern, visited our humble school Autumn Fair.

Security detail? No. Bodyguard? None to be found. Protection of any kind? Huh-uh. Entourage? Nope. I can’t imagine that happening in the US. It’s a difference in the Irish perspective.

He mingled among the people. Shook hands. Smiled for cameras. Listened to grass roots lobbying. All hoping to change his perspective.

I heard one mother admonishing her young son that whether or not he appreciated the man himself, the child should at least respect the office. Hmmmm….a parent trying to change her offspring’s perspective.

So, I’ve added a second entry to my few-and-far-between-brush-with-fame-sightings. And as I’ve vacillated back and forth because I determined I’d never publish a photo of myself on this blog, I’ve decided to go ahead….needing to change my perspective.

As a child, I remember the what-seemed-to-me-endless stream of television commercials for furniture polish that cleaned without adding a waxy buildup. Funny I can’t remember the name of the product…was it Pledge? Anyway, I’ve been experiencing a bit of buildup lately…

And due to the slowness and steadiness in building up this ‘life wax’ as it were, it has not been apparent until seeing it in retrospect, that I’ve been burning that candle at both ends.

Too many commitments.
Some were unavoidable and some are of my own doing. Right, time to put back a little more margin in my life. October will probably be hectic, but will work toward a calmer end of the year.

Too much caffeine.
The lovely end-of-the-day cup has had a few unconscious addendums including the morning-before-working cup and the chatting-with-friends cup (or two). No wonder my head throbs.

So, this morning while still in a horizontal position and being served lovely toast and decaffeinated tea by my daughter-who-would-do-well-in-the-hospitality-trade, I
Did not cook.
Did not knit.
Did not weave.
Did not do emails.
Did not get out of bed for quite a while.

And to clean away some of the wax buildup, I
Read.
Pondered.
Prayed.
Napped.
Read some more.
Napped some more.
Had more decaf tea without a cappuccino in sight until this evening when Husband-Will and I will savour one decaf cup.

Oh sure, after one day of real rest, the wax buildup is not entirely gone (contrary to what most TV adverts would lead you to believe!), but still, it’s a step in the right direction…