Woolly Mutts

Thirty

This is Karl.  Today he is 30.  If we do the math (which I make every attempt NOT to do) that would mean that I had just turned 24 when he was born.  I don't even remember who I was at 24? That was a lifetime ago.  Karl's lifetime, to be precise.

I do remember that I was crazy calm all through the pregnancy.  Karl's older sister is overwhelmingly handicapped so one would think that I would have the good sense to be mildly terrified, but I wasn't.  I was happy.  It was back before the days of ultrasound and gender discovery, but we chose only one name.  Karl August.  I don't know what we would have done if he'd been a girl...but he wasn't.

Every mother should have a boy.  Boys are so special and Karl was/is as special as they come.  Boys are messy, but in a entirely different sort of way than girls.  They are straight forward and funny and incredibly loveable.  I wish you all boys.  Boys like Karl, except not Karl.  He is all mine and I'm just SO proud to say so.  (Santa, I know that he is really all yours, but you know what I mean.)

I realize the picture is kind of grainy; probably taken with a cellphone, but look how happy he is!  It was in Las Vegas and he was going to get married.  Did, in fact, get married.  Good times. Karl is this sort of facinating mix of zen and hilarity.  He is quiet, a little stoic, and then he'll say something just nuts and the place falls apart. He is a wonderful uncle to The Marvelous Miss C. I cannot, can.not wait until he is a father.

So happy birthday, Karl.  Thirty isn't so bad and it honestly just keeps getting better from here. I hope you celebrate well for there are few as worthy of celebration as you. Thanks for picking me to be your Mother.  I could not love you more. 

 

Yesterday I gave a guy ten bucks.

Yesterday a questionable man came into the store.  He spoke with the volunteer for a few minutes and then she came to ask me for help.  He was a youngish man with wisps of black hair and a sad little soul patch.  His coat was down filled (a few escaping feathers here and there) and powder blue.  He shook my hand and introduced himself as Kyle.  His shake was strong, his eyes met mine and were clear.  I could hear his stomach growling.

He explained that he had just been released from the hospital and showed me his bracelet.  Probably bogus.  I've heard this one before.  He pulled out an empty pill bottle and explained that he could not afford his medication.  Again, most likely untrue, but it was the best he had.  Could he borrow $9.  He was working.  He could pay it back next week.  He swore on his mother that it was not for drugs or alcohol.  I was grateful that I was not his mother. I am well aware that an addict will sell out any and all family members and the family dog for a hit or drink. 

I gave him ten dollars.  Please, I asked him, prove me right.  Use it well and pay it back.  Buy food.  If I knew nothing else true about this man, I knew he was hungry.  He thanked me.  Shook my hand again.  Praised me for being so kind.  Blessed my family and loved ones.   Left.   I sent light and protection behind him and went about my work.

The volunteer struggled with this.  She tried to be open, but she was convinced that he was lying and had just taken me for ten dollars.  We could not encourage this behavior.  What if he goes and tells his friends that we are suckers for a sob story? She was aware that I have sent others who came asking away with nothing.  Why him?

The answer is; I don't know. I've heard a lot of stories.  Bus fare, broken down cars, food for the baby, taxi to pick up a sick relative from the hospital (the hospital is close by so it often figures large in "I need money because" stories), job interview...I could go on and on and each one breaks my heart a little.  I cannot even begin to embrace a world where I have fallen to such a place that I must, for whatever reason, go and ask a stranger for money.   Still, I am more likely to send a person to a service provider...shelter, food pantry, etc. than give money.  I send light and pray that somehow their fortunes might turn. 

Kyle needed that money.  I don't know why I know that, but I do.  I hope he pays it back, but I won't think less of him if he doesn't.  I am at peace with it.  I hope he is as well.

A perfect house in a perfect world?

The other day I was chatting with a co-worker and we were talking about houses and where we wanted to live.  Of course my first response was Minnesota, but she stopped me.  What sort of house would I have if there were no limits?  Money, land, space, location...no limits.  The perfect house in a perfect world.  I have thought about this over and over.  My mind has gone down tree lined back roads and along coastal highways.  Up mountains, across oceans and around the corner here at home. I've learned that I am not a particularly good dreamer.  No limits is harder than it sounds.  For me. 

As to location....I really don't know.  Minnesota still has my heart, but there are so many places I haven't experienced that it's possible that my perfect location is somewhere I have never been.  I can say with confidence that near water is a must.   Lots of trees and lots of land. 

The house must be big.  Huge.  Gigantic.

Like Downton Abbey?  Well, maybe not that huge, but I love it just the same. Might be a tad drafty in Winter.

Hearst Castle?  I've visited Hearst several times (all in one week.  It rained a lot that week) I fell for Heart in a big way.  It's certainly big enough and it has the required water.  But no...neither of these.  It has to be warmer, more rustisc, more welcoming, though I would not say no to an indoor pool.

Before you think I'm all snooty pants, I will tell you my dream; that my my children and their families could live with us.  All together in one huge house with private family wings to hide away when privacy was desired and lots of common areas for us to gather.  A viewing room for movie nights.  Game room with a pool table, library filled with books and a fireplace and overstuffed chairs.  A pool is a must with an honest deep end.  A HUGE kitchen with a giant island where the kids could gather after school and share their days and snacks and love.  Lots of love.  Space to dine together if we felt like it, or not...no judgement.  A HUGE craft room with great light, a fireplace (I am quite big on the fireplace), loom, yarn and fabric storage.  Space for art supplies so the kids could paint or draw.  Music room with a big piano. Oh...yoga room!  How cool would that be?

Space.  Space to live and love.  Miss C and all the other grand babies to come could invite their friends over and there would be laughter all through the house. (Remember, this is a dream. ) There would be woods all around and a big tree house.   Tire swings and picnics in the meadow.  There would have to be a meadow.  A meadow by the lake where there would be canoes and loons and swiming any time....except in winter. 

Space to be there for each other.  Baby sitters, chauffers, shoulders to cry on, hands to hold.  Someone there to tell the exciting news or ask that tough question. A house full of cheerleaders and also those to lovingly keep you in check. Space to be together or space to find alone time. 

And, since this is my dream, there is every chance that neither of my children would even be remotely interested in living this communal life.  If that is so, maybe I could still keep the library and craft rooms....and yoga room...maybe the pool..........

Sweet songs

My father was a singer.  That is not to say that he had a wonderful singing voice. He was a deep bass and could carry a tune well enough.  He sang with choirs, men's groups, barbershop choirs and occasionally to us.  The later would happen usually after he had a teeny bit too much to drink, but not always.  Sometimes he sang just to sing.

I chose the photo above not for its quality, it's acutally taken from a newspaper clipping, but because he looks happy.  Happy was not a face that I frequently saw on my father and now, all these years after his death, I better understand why. Still, in those moments when he had a song to sing, I think he was happy.

His choice of song was not always appropriate.  When my oldest child was fretful in the night I would often rise to find her in his arms while he sang "Asleep in the Deep", a war time song written to warn sailors to take care since many of their comrades were "asleep" beneath them.  Grim, but she was responding to the vibrations rather than the lyrics.  Another of his favorites was "The Sons of the Prophets" the  bloody Russian ballad that, frankly, I thought he made up until I found the lyrics in a book one day.  I was trying to explain to it AH one day and he actually knew it! 

He had quite an eclectic mix of songs, or pieces of songs, that pop up here and there for no real reason that I recall.  In fact, before today I filed the fact of my father's singing back in some old mental file.  Then, as I was searching for a video of our friday night concert performers, I came across this video:

 

 

Harvest Moon....and my heart broke just a little.  He sang this song all the time.  As I listened I remembered ever word. Memory is such a funny thing, sometimes careful with what it allows us to recall until we are ready to hold that memory dear.  I have *Andrew and Casey Calhoun to thank for triggering this one. 

My father and I had a complicated relationship.  My birth was intended as a weapon to hurt him and I think it probably did a pretty fine job.  It is frequently difficult to think of him in a sweet and loving way.  Remembering his voice as he sang has done just that.  It has helped open a door to happier memories and that is sweet indeed.

*If you are local, Andrew and Casey will be playing at the JustGoods Listsening Room on Friday night.  Admission is free!

2011..the year I lost my knitting mojo.

Yup.  The knitting mojo - it is caput.  Gone.  Left the building.  Moved on to greener pastures.  Poof!  You may recall back here, a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, I was all fired up over Hawthorne. 

All 314 cast on stitches of her.  Perfect yarn, perfect pattern...what could go wrong?  That question is still without answer, but somewhere around row 15 I realized that it was a big old mess.  Big. Old. Mess.....and I ripped.  I casted on again, this time with special stitch markers and still a fail.  WTF?  I am better than this.  I have faced off lace with multiple charts and departed victorious.  I ripped again.  This time I decided I just needed a little chart break and casted on Lady Eleanor.  I've knitted the Lady before and enjoyed it SO much and guess what?  I screwed it up.  The bell tolleth for me.  I have lost the mojo. Knitting Sisters, you know this is bad. 

So, I decided I needed to clean the cache and go back to knitting 101.  I got out a pair of straights (I can't remember the last time I knitted with straight needles.), some yukky cotton and proceeded to knit myself some dish cloths, and I'm not talking about the really cute patterned ones.  No, oh no, it was garter stitch all the way and by the grace of the knitting goddess I did not screw them up.  So, I moved on to these little washie things...

....the swirly thing shown in the pic, which was fun and also executed without tears. 

I have now moved up to Popblock from the new Knitty.

A few months ago I thought this much garter stitch would send me to the funny farm, but you know what?  It's rather peaceful.  Sure, there isn't much skill or thought involved, but this is not a competition.  It is a hobby, a love, a lifestyle.  I am a knitter.  What I knit does not constitute a knitter, the act of knitting does. Right? 

Has my mojo returned?  I'm not sure.  I'm guessing that my problem has much to do with the fact that my mind was/is constantly going in a hundred different directions.  (Managing a retail store during the holidays is not for the faint of heart.) My lack of concentration kicked the mojo in the behind.  Such is life.  And, the knitting mojo was not the only one to take a hit.  Yoga, meditation, eating right, reading....all of it has fallen to the back burner and it is way past time to change that.

So 2012, all shiny and new, I am not generally one to make resolutions on your first day, or for that matter, any day, but this year I'm gonna get the mojo back. 

So say we all!  (Any Battlestar Galactica fans out there?)

What to get for the man who is everything?

Today is my Amazing Husband's 50th birthday.  I am 4 years older than he is and am somewhat comforted to have us both in the same decade.  Fifty is actually sort of fabulous, or at least it has been for me.  I hope it is that, and more, for him.

I try to blog about everyone on their birthday.  It's my way of letting them know that I think their birth was a big deal.  HUGE deal.  Birthdays are just about the most fantastic things to celebrate that I can think of.  The day the people we love entered this life is a very important day. 

The thing is....for Tom's birthday I am suddenly speechless.  What to say; how to celebrate a man who is everything?  There doesn't seem to be grand enough, passionate enough words to tell the tale effectively.  So, I'm just going to say that 50 years ago in Mexico City, Mexico, a baby boy came into this world who would someday grow up, pack all his worldly belongings in a u-haul and pull it behind his deluxe truck (this is a family joke.  That truck was about as deluxe as a manual can opener.) 2000 miles to become the other half of my whole.   It is as simple and as complex as that.

Many thanks to his lovely parents for providing me with the love of my life.  I can never thank you enough.

Happy birthday, my darling.  My heart is yours now and forever. ♥

A gift of the musical sort.

I experienced something last night that I have to share with you.  I wish I had pictures.  I REALLY, really wish I could show you faces and the general atmosphere of the evening so that maybe I could better articulate all the adjectives going around in my head. 

Some back story.....every Friday night we have live music in the Listening Room of our store.  The fact that we even has a room named "Listening" is kind of extraordinary in itself, but to have the opportunity to fill that space every week is beyond fantastic.  The musical artists we generally have are of the singer-songwriter variety.  They share with us love letters, memoirs, eulogies, all carefully wrapped gifts with the note "I hope you like this".  It takes so much courage to get up in front of a room full of strangers and bare your heart, and yet they come each week and we are entertained, moved, inspired.  I think we sometimes forget what a gift live music really is.

As you may know, our store (JustGoods) is staffed mostly by volunteers.  Three of us are paid managers, but the bulk of the work force are folks who acknowledge the mission and want to be part of it.  One of those people is Hope.  Hope is 15 (I think.  She may be 16 now.).  She works every Friday afternoon and is a very capable (VERY) capable volunteer.  When I was just getting to know her she told me she plays piano.  I'm thinking...cool, she plays piano.  No really, she PLAYS piano.  Classically trained pianist, to be more exact.  Wow.  From that point on I was on a mission to hear this girl play and we were able to schedule a Friday night concert with Hope and some of her friends from the Rockford Music Academy. That concert was last night.

Regrettably, and I mean the word in its strongest sense, Rockford was a busy town last night and very few people came to watch the performance.  I know, life is busy and you have to make a choice, but people, let me just say that I'm sorry you missed it.  If you understood what magic happened last night you would be sorry, also.   Those few of you that attended know what I mean.  Magic.  Wow.

Hope organized the entire concert.  She asked her friends, timed the performances, introduced herself and the Academy.  Each student, I'd guess they were ages 13-17 or so, came dressed concert ready.  They introduced themselves and the pieces they were about to perform, some of which were personal compositions.  There were several pianists, a violin, two cellists, and two angelic voices. Every single performance was just wonderful.

Before I really turn to mush here let me say a bit about a classically trained musician.  I am not a music snob.  I believe all music has merit and a place in every heart.  However, to be classically trained takes a level of discipline that we don't see much of in today's teens.  Hours of practice, lessons, education.  Hours of understanding what music is, how it works, and how to let it into your heart.  How to let it become passion. 

Ok, bring on the mush.  Thanks to the wonder that is Google, I found this picture of Hope and Christiana.  Hope is brunette, Christiana blond.  Hope and Christiana have been friends since they began piano at age 5.  Nearing the end of the second half of the show I was able to close the store and come to sit in the back of the audience and I was blessed out of my shoes.  Hope and Christiana played four hands on the piano duets that rocked my world.  Their friendship connection was so clear as they played in complete sync with the other.  They each sang as the other accompanied.  Hope brought out this high note that was so clear and genuine....breathtaking.  Literally.  Listening to them play I forgot to breathe.  Captivated...I was captivated.  Then...oh gosh then...Christiana brought up her cello and played while Hope accompanied on piano.  I will admit that I have a weakness for the cello.  They bleed with emotion and Christiana was superb.  I sat in my little back row seat and cried.  I was honored to be present.  Gifted.  Blessed.  It was that good. 

I'm sure they thought I was mentally impaired as I tried to explain how much their performance meant to me.  They were go gracious, thanking me for the opportunity to play.  (Good job, Moms.)  Thanking me.  Goodness. 

They made such an impression on those of us present, one of which is our concert organizer, that we are already planning a guest performance from Hope and Christiana in January and then another entire night of just the two of them in the coming months. 

I cannot wait. 

 

Miss C's Little Tree

The first time the Marvelous Miss C saw our Christmas tree was when they came to visit on Thanksgiving.  I was holding her and her reaction to it was so precious I hope I never forget it.  She took in her breath in that universal action of surprise and delight and said, "Nana, what's that?"  For the next several minutes she stood by it, touching ornaments and generally being amazed.  (I love this picture and how the tree lights reflect in the window.)

So, I did what any good Nana does when the light of her life shows interest, I bought her one just for her, along with lots of non-breakable ornaments. (Yay, Target!)

She spent quite a lot of time and thought into where each ornament should be placed.

I lay them all out on a chair and let her pick them at random.  Some ended up sharing the same branch and others moved around a little until the perfect placement was decided upon.  When she was finished there was one ornament left.

One little girl with a big red sweater and Miss C did not care for her at all.  She spent time holding her, trying to remove her socks and hat and then finally rejected her all together.  In the end, her mother put her on the back of the tree which was met with grudging approval.  How I would love to know how that little mind works.  No one can ever say she doesn't know what she wants.

Now the room where the family gathers has a small tree and my Nanas heart has another memory to file away.  There is nothing in the world like being loved by a little person. 

I am, again, alone and lonely.  Amazing Husband is winging his way to New Jersey for a week of training.  Being the busiest time of the year in retail, I couldn't even entertain the idea of going with him, but I'm telling you that if he has to go again I'm going to move mountains to join him.  One week was ok.  Two is just crummy.  I am lucky to have two large, fuzzy buddies to keep me company, though, and lots to keep me busy. 

Hope your holiday preparations are merry and bright.

 

A Missing Piece

This is a piece from a chess board.  I think it is supposed to be the Bishop.  It's partner piece is missing and we are waiting for the distributor to send us another one.  Until it arrives, the little guy sits alone on my desk and waits.  I feel rather like Mr. Bishop; alone and waiting.  AH has gone to Houston to spend Thanksgiving with his family and that is a very good thing.  He needs to spend time with them.  Family is important.  I needed to work and he needed to not have to worry about how I, an introvert who craves quiet, fares in a large family of extroverts.  It is all as it should be, but I miss him.

It's is cold and raining and I am tired.  I slept so little last night that I wish I could lay my head on my desk for just a little bit.  I can't wait to get home to our place and settle in.  Work is good.  Home is better.

People have been so kind to me, knowing I would be alone for Thanksgiving.  Even Sarah, the girl who does my nails, offered the hospitality of her family.  (I was REALLY touched.)  Friend Diana also invited me to join her family.  I will not, however, be alone.  My beautiful children will be stopping by for a bit on the way to other family obligations and honestly, I don't mind being alone.  I mind being without AH.  I mind that a lot.

Even now, missing my most beloved piece, life is still so wonderful.  I don't think I've ever been as happy and content as I am now.  I am so genuinely thankful that I want to dance and sing.  Or, maybe just sit quietly and send my gratitude out into the world.

So, thanks.  Thanks for reading.  Thanks for caring.  Sending love to you all, and maybe a little dancing and singing, too.  Namaste.

Comfort and Joy

(Birdsnow, by Natasha Garnelis)

I turned on Pandora the other day (may I just say that I think Pandora is possibly the best invention since chocolate and Coca-cola) and “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” came on.  I’ve heard/sung that carol a hundred times, but the last line popped out like I’d never heard it before…..’tidings of comfort and joy’.

Comfort and joy.   They seem a bit of an odd couple, these pull-up- a-chair and relax, no wait, HAPPY DANCE, words, though I understand the connection to the baby Jesus salvation scenario.  I guess we could say that his birth was the beginning of the Jesus ‘Comfort and Joy’ tour.  Settle down you crazy dudes; life might suck now, but you have so much to look forward to if you are willing to sign up for the only-one-God salvation plan.   Comfort and joy in knowing your heavenly space in the afterlife is secure.  As insurance policies go, it has its merits.  I’ve opted out, but hey, no harm, no foul.

But, back to comfort and joy.  I find that I am growing more and more fond of these words and their relation to each other. Take comfort for example, as we (ok, I) grow older comfort is a big deal, both of body and spirit.  It’s hard to find a comfortable sleep position that doesn’t have a pain attached to it.  In these menopausal years I am constantly taking a layer off and then putting it back on as my own personal thermostat tortures me with inconsistence.  My neck hurts, as do my shoulder, hip, knees, and arm.  I’m a fine looking wreck. (Sort of fine looking for a 54 year old….kind of fine….a level of fine….oh, nevermind.)  The ’57 Chevy of your dreams on the back lot of the junk yard.   Still, every night I lay down next to my husband in that perfect curve of his arm and I know comfort.  That lovely sigh of letting go of the day and welcoming the sweetness of his safe warmth is both comfort and a quiet joy.  I am comforted by the beauty of snowfall, an evening near the fire.  Hugs from children, kisses from grandchildren, the company of friends and in each of these moments there is also joy.  Maybe they aren’t such a strange mix after all.

I suppose, as is the ying and yang of all life, to truly appreciate the wonder that is comfort and/or joy, you have to have experienced a little bit of the opposite.   Would the fierce fire of honest joy be so bright if I wasn’t acquainted with sadness?   As a child, when I would complain about something, my mother would tell me, “we have to take the good with the bad”.   Wise words that I am grateful for. 

So, I hope the Merry Gentlemen from our hymn found rest in one form or another.  The songs writer seems to be unknown, if we are to believe Wikipedia, but I appreciate his use of words.  Comfort and joy might just be two of the finest gifts this life offers and they are priceless. 

Tidings of comfort and joy, indeed! ♥