We interrupt our regularly scheduled knit/crochet blog to bring you this breaking news

Well, okay, so you don’t need the blog to tell you what’s been all over the national papers these past two days: on Tuesday, the Maine State House approved LD1020, and on Wednesday, in a move that had my jaw dropping (but in a really good way) Baldacci quickly signed it into law. Baldacci was quoted in more papers than I can count: "In the past, I opposed gay marriage while supporting the idea of civil unions," [he] said in a statement read in his office. "I have come to believe that this is a question of fairness and of equal protection under the law, and that a civil union is not equal to civil marriage."

Opposition is already gearing up a petition drive for a people’s veto, but I’m hopeful that if that comes about, the courts will do as the Iowa Supreme Court did and say, “Sorry, banning same-sex marriage is constitutionally a wash,” or, in more formal language:

“The court reaffirmed that a statute inconsistent with the Iowa constitution must be declared void even though it may be supported by strong and deep-seated traditional beliefs and popular opinion,” said a summary of the ruling issued by the court.

There are some strong correlations between this issue and what we faced with desegregation. I’ve read opinion write-ins following the Iowa Supreme Court’s decision—I grew up there—and a recurring theme was: how 7 could trump the will of 3,000,000?

Because sometimes it just has to, I guess. That may seem simplistic, but I can guarantee that many of those people who are up in arms about allowing GLBTs the same civil liberties as the rest of us do believe that race should not be a basis of restriction of rights. They will say that to discriminate against any of God’s children is not right, and will point to the behaviors of past generations of whites as heinously wrong, all the while Biblically justifying their GBLT discrimination.

Just as many whites did when it came to African-Americans. Hey, I’m mostly white, despite a few family tree veers in other ethnic directions. I grew up in an all-white community; everyone considered me white because no one knew I wasn't entirely Caucasian. I know that it can play out that way. I’ve watched it happen, and on all sorts of issues. Past battles fought are seen as right in retrospect, but God help anyone who tries to shake current beliefs.

These were the sorts of things I have discussed before, and the sorts of things I expected to continue discussing when the subject of legalization of gay marriage came up.

But I was surprised. My post-signed-into-law-excitement thoughts have been of an entirely different nature than I could have foreseen.

My friends and I were doing the long-distance celebrating of legalizing on Facebook, as Fbers will do, when one of my former play directors posed a thoughtful question. (He’s that sort of person, is L.) Why were so many straight people so involved in discussing this, when his gay friends were being pretty quiet about it? Why did it matter to us? Or more to the point, why did it matter to me, as this was my wall he was posting on.

Good question, that. I gave my reasons: 1) marginalizing any group heightens the chance of marginalization of even more people, and all on as arbitrary a basis as this marginalization (Christians wouldn’t consider themselves bound by Islamic law, after all, so why are we Christians assuming all other faiths and non-faiths should be bound some Christians’ beliefs?) and 2) legislating love, thereby impeding two persons’ desires to make a life-long commitment one to the other, is just plain wrong.

L. read this, I’ll assume, and possibly other wall posts on the subject as well. The next day, he posted this:

L. -- is wondering why people demanding tolerance, aren't very tolerant, if you see things a little different. Why so much anger?

That’s a good question, if you ask me. Because one, yes, I have been angry that it has taken us this long as a country to get it together. Seven other countries, beginning with the Netherlands in 2001, have enacted laws legalizing, not civil unions or partnerships, but same-sex marriages (see About.com's data for more details). And we, the country that has been famous for at least paying lip-service to our democratic ideals, have done nothing, and furthermore our federal government has bowed out of this one, more than happy for once to not try to trump states’ rights. So it’s literally 50 different battles that must be fought.

The cheeky part of me, when looking at how much longer other countries have had such legislation, also dearly wants to point out that if people are poised for lightning-bolt retribution from Above, they shouldn’t worry as we’ve had a seven-country bolt buffer (and for far too many years). Chances are we’ve received the Divine all-clear, you know?

A bit snarky of me, I know. I’ll admit it. And I’m adamant about equal rights in marriage, that’s for sure. I can see why people might perceive that as angry.

And yet, the angry rhetoric of those who oppose same-sex union bothered me so badly that I was unable to stay in the room and watch the video stream of the Senate hearings that my co-workers had up. The person who was speaking is no different than I am in level of conviction, nor was he passively standing by the sidelines. He was vocal about his opinion, just as I am about mine. So, was L. right? Is there no difference between the lack of tolerance?

I hope there is. I do dislike the stand, I don’t understand why love thy neighbor can’t be more prevalent than what an apostle who didn’t even run with Jesus thought, but I hope I haven’t flashed over into the world of hate conviction. There’s a fine line between the two and we do after be careful as we walk that line. But to stand on the sidelines, would be, as Edmund Burke pointed out, allowing evil to flourish, because [we] stood by and did nothing.* They don’t see their behavior as evil, granted, but hate is the true evil in the world. It damages those who hate as much as those who are hated. And that’s sad.

I think I like how E.M. Forester put it best, though. His character, George Emerson, said that we all cast a shadow wherever we stand. The best we can do is to pick a place where we won’t do much harm, and stand in the sun for all we are worth.

He’s right. At this point in life, I just want to keep my shadow print as pale as possible. Maybe I’ll go play with sticks and strings under a tree where the light is still there, warm and brilliant, and yet softly filtered. That sounds about right, don’t you think?

Okay, next blogs will be back on-topic and about dazzlingly controversial issues such as why the Snow Zombie don't melt when frolicking in the dandelions, successfully convincing myself that summer IS the logical time to be knitting hats and mittens and crocheting warm shawls, and the utter asininity of ordering yarn for another project when I’ve already got more than enough on needles and hook. (I'll also catch up the reading and music lists. I've stumbled onto some stellar recording artists of late...)


*The quote I paraphrased was: The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. However, in the course of looking it up today for accuracy’s sake, I discovered that it isn’t an actual quote at all. I ended up paraphrasing a paraphrase. And the geek in me feels duty bound to point that out. What Burke actually said in Thoughts on the Cause of Present Discontents was, “When bad men combine, the good must associate; else they will fall, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.”

I think I see why the paraphrase caught on… ;-)

Think I'm Going to...Cleveland?

Yes, it's the (seriously belated) post about the trip home. Life tends to get like that for me. Things fog over. Especially when I discovered I have moved to the land of the cottonwoods trees. Huge amounts of white fluff in the air.

This wouldn't normally bother me, but I've realized, mostly due to being so stopped up on one side of my head that I can't hear well, that I'm allergic to cottonwoods.

Allergies, like job hunting, rather suck. Both can create hazy fogs. And while I'm trying just to ignore the allergies, I can at least poke fun at adventures while job hunting. (Especially today; won't say why, just trust me on that one, okay? Thanks, dears.)

So a few posts ago, you left me packing for my trip out east. The trip there was uneventful, thank goodness. The trip back was something else.

After leaving Boston (where, yeah, the song Boston by Augustana got stuck in my head) we were behind schedule all the way through New York and beyond. The bus drivers, bless them, drove like bats out of hell and we made our connection in Cleveland with a bare twenty minutes to spare.

"Well," said the young geologist (bound for Boulder, Colorado) whom I queued up behind in an already longish line, "at least we won't have much of a layover!"

I mentioned he was young, right? Well, add naive to that as well. We'll overlook the fact that I agreed with full conviction, shall we? After all, at 3:20 a.m. one must have hope, mustn't one?

After waiting an hour and a half, our bus arrived. They hustled everyone off for cleaning and refueling, which meant that there was a line of reboarders (such a practical name) who got to get back on the bus first.

About a half of a bus worth of reboarders to be exact. The geologist and I glanced ahead of us. Roughly a half a bus worth of new boarders stood in front of us. We glanced at each other. We are both people with advanced degrees in our professions, the glance said. We could handle the math. 1/2 reboarders + 1/2 new boarders =...

"Oh dear," said the expression on the young geologist's face (he looked too polite to swear).

"Oh bloody hell and somebody slap the Gods of Bus Scheduling because no Goddess would be this damn incompetent," mine said in return. He inched away from me and continued conversation from a safe distance.

Finally, the reboarders reboarded. The new boarders' line inched forward. Knowing that we had both already missed our connecting buses, we speculated. Would it be worse to be crammed like a sardine in a bus clear to Chicago, or to be stuck in a bus station and have the chance at a less full bus next go round?

He found out what sardine land was like.

I found out about the wait. This, of course, means I never got to ask him which was better.

Stanley and Stanley tried to console me with the fact that as we were now definitely, without a doubt, first in line due to them cutting off passengers right when they got to me, there was no way we wouldn't make the next bus. I scowled. In desperation, they pointed out that Cleveland is the only major metro area through which I actually enjoy driving in rush hour traffic.

(This is due to the insanely polite Cleveland drivers. Just for fun, I do things like signal when I'm about to lane change. The kids and I, while trekking across the country, have made a game, you see, of trying to figure out which city's drivers will cut us off the fastest when we warn said drivers of our intentions. (Extra aside: Boston has a lot of NASCAR wannabes. Just sayin'.) In Cleveland, if you signal, they let you in. And it wasn't one freakishly aberrant driver who did so. It was all of them. I know. I changed lanes a lot in order to get verifiable evidence.)

I pointed out to the Stanleys that the floor of the Cleveland bus station was something less than immaculate. (If I were in Boston or Chicago, or even some of other stops, I'd have taken the floor. Cleveland? Er, no. In its defense, I must say that 3 something in the morning is hardly the best time for people, let alone floors.)

I further pointed out that they were currently hogging the best seat on top of my practical, tiny luggage and that I had made the catastrophic mistake of changing in a toilet cubicle just moments earlier and that just proved that I was in bus station hell, do not pass limbo, do not collect your connecting bus.

The Stanleys ignored my rant and inquired into why changing was a mistake. I certainly looked fresher, they pointed out (none too diplomatically).

"Because the probability of dropping an article of clothing you rather liked into a toilet bowl due to lack of toilet seat covers means that, while said water was nonetheless clean, you will be forced to stuff the beloved article of clothing into the feminine hygiene trash receptacle by its one centimeter of dry fabric since there's no way on God's green earth you'd want to take it home with you again," I snapped.

The Stanleys promptly feigned sleep. Even flat paper men behave like the real things.

There were a few bright spots in the wait, don't get me wrong. I came up with new lyrics to the tune of Boston, which, while amusing enough (Think I'm stuck in Cleveland/I'm tired of the toilets) are essentially not for younger viewers.

There was a crocheter spotted in the wild. I was too shy to get her picture, let alone talk to her, but she was lightning quick and was creating a beautiful, delicate lacy looking piece of work. I was helping Stanley with his scarf at that time (I promised I'd hook a bit of it for him) and felt large and very not delicate with his bright yarn and jaunty colored but clear plastic hook.

There was also James, the wonderful cook at the station (not that the food was great, but dude could only work with the ingredients given him--like icky fake cheese and miniscule biscuits--and bus lines obviously don't believe in buying four star quality ingredients, you know?). James was wonderful because he fed a hungry waif of a traveler a full hour before he was supposed to be open. Seriously kind man.

The Stanleys, who immediately woke up when they smelled food (did I mention the similarities between paper and real men? Just checkin'.) thought him very kind, and, after finishing my meal for me, begged to be introduced to James so they request one of their Stanley photos.

James willingly agreed to be photographed, but Katrina the cashier fell on us like a category 5 storm and said there was a policy that no photos could be taken in the station due to the threat of terrorists. James and I stared at the Stanleys; he incredulously, I with horror, wondering what vipers I had harbored in my breast when they were purporting to be an innocent schoolchild project. The Stanleys loudly protested their innocence and begged me to not take the photo, lest their camera be confiscated and they be hauled off for questioning. It's hard to hide an escape envelope on your person when you're not a person, after all.

We were sneaky, though. We didn't tell Katrina the cashier that we had already taken these:

of the two Stanleys reveling in their first in line-ness and luckily, we escaped to Chicago before the authorities got wind of our nefarious activities.

And Chicago was where I got into a line that had, at the head of it, some of the people I'd seen ahead of me in the line in Cleveland.

I'm not the type to crow meanly over the fact that they had had to wait as well. I did begrudge them the cleaner floor, though.

But there was one incident that made the whole wait worthwhile. There was an Amish family at the station, waiting to go somewhere. The son, a boy of about 7 with blond hair peeking out from under his black-banded straw hat and mischievous eyes of a deep, bright blue which exactly matched his shirt, had fallen head over heels for a little Hispanic girl of about the same age one bench over. She had ponytails which ran the length of her back and a demure smile. He found her dazzlingly beautiful and spent his time alternating between worshipping stares, shy grins coupled with quick looks away when at last he caught her eye, and feigned cool guy indifference.

The Stanleys were confused by my giggles. They thought the boy's tactics were top notch. (I'm almost certain I've already pointed out the essential sameness of men everywhere, at every age, and in every medium, have I not? Thought so. )

She, I am pleased to say, comported herself in a manner becoming to an adored object and was in general a credit to her sex.

And I got on a bus smiling. Young love does that to me every time.

There's One of You Here

I've an old friend from high school days that I keep more or less in touch with, even though we've not seen each other since our early 20s (And no, I'm not gonna tell you how long that is in years. Let's keep today a happy thought day, shall we? No age reminders necessary.)

Anyway, he travels a great deal and two days ago he pinged me from the airport, via his Blackberry, with the following message:

Subject: There's one of you here

There's a lady with yellow yarn and two big needles making something?? I am trying to visualize you sitting there doing it! Hmmmm??

He's been following the blog (though he never comments--loser) and I may have mentioned to him my...mild interest...in the pursuit of all things woolly here or there. In an email or two. Not more than that. Really.

But it's interesting. I've become a "one of you," i.e. one of them, to him. A part of a larger whole. I find that amusing when I know no crocheters or knitters in the metro area, still. I mean, the one event, the Yarn Harlot signing, at which I ran into large numbers of stick and string people, I was so blown away by the knitters around me that my wee little project and its larger companion stayed safely tucked away.

I was totally intimidated by the talent on display. After all, I'm a small town bistickual, a girl from a place where the lovely Darrin of my then-LYS made me feel like I wasn't a true sticks and strings person unless I'd made the boneheaded mistake that I'd just begged her to correct. ("Don't you know you're not a knitter unless you dropped eight stitches without noticing? And of course everyone crochets a border with a cast on so tight that it makes the rectangle into a lovely semicircle. That's what we all do!") I'm by turns extremely sociable or extremely shy, so things of a groupish nature have always been a bit of an adventure for me.

And yet, I am part of a whole, in a virtual kind of way. I've found other blogging crafters, like Needle Tart, who's offered advice that was blindingly helpful, so obviously practical and so un-thought of by me that it's a wonder she didn't question my I.Q. level and whether or not I should be allowed to handle pointy objects. But the virtual community has not ended with the bloggers.

Thanks to Ravelry, I've found not only fantastic things I'd love to knit or crochet, but also crafters who are stormy weather fanatics and those who are interested in crafts in ancient times. I've joined the Ankh-Morpork Knitters Guild and the Crochet Liberation Front. And though I've been busy, I've still lurked in the Knitting for Peace, Tunisian Crochet and Pen & Needles. (Those are all Rav links, btw, so unless you're a Raveller, you won't be able to view them. Sorry.) I had no idea that there were so many obsessed-with-multiple-subject-areas people out there. Especially not people who were obsessed with so many of my obsessions. Now if there were groups for those who are interested in falconry, kayaking or wanting to train for canine search and rescue... (Then again, knowing Raverly, there might be. I'm almost afraid to check. How much groupiness could one solo crafter take?)

I've also found individualized help from a lady on Rav who knitted up an EZ Baby Surprise Jacket in just the colors I knew the new mother for whom I wanted to knit would like. Said kindly knitter provided me with the exact numbers for the three Punto colors she used. Then, when I could find only one supplier of more than a color or two of Punto in the US, L & B Yarn Co. (and they still did not have the colors I needed), I posted a plea for help in the Yarn forum of Rav and what did I get? This and this from two lovely German Ravellers who offered to help me with the ordering as well, should I have trouble with the German (the Rikes Woolmaus site offers the option to translate to English, and I even figured out the other site well enough to navigate it).

They've welcomed me in, these virtual, global knitters and crocheters. Just like that and with loads of helpful, practical encouragement. And somehow, their finished projects, breathtaking as they are, aren't nearly as intimidating as uberknitters' and ubercrocheters' projects are when viewed in person.

So, I'm a groupie from a distance? Hmmm. I noticed that another new member of the Ankh-Morpork Guild is from the Twin Cities. Perhaps I should say hello. Maybe she's had trouble counting to five on a repeat section of a pattern too? (I know it'd be too much to hope for that she's crocheted through only half of the stitch rather than all of it, or that she's ever knit backwards along a circular project.)

But J, I think you may be right. Crafting klutz though I am, I am "one of you."

Sorry, crafters. Mea culpa.

O, That Way Madness Lies

Okay, so King Lear had child-rearing issues, not crafting ones.

I realize that.

But knitting and crocheting have become my Regan and Goneril. The little ingrates are taking over my life and plotting to use it to further their own agendas.

It started randomly. Little things that were spaced far and few between. Tactical maneuvers that at first made it seem like they were on my side, supporting me.

Examples you ask? I have them aplenty.

After a huge, emotionally-charged move halfway across the continent, leaving what had become home for what used to be home, a friend said that he hoped the move had gone well. This was part of my reply:

Discovered something nifty though. If one takes refuge in a corner with knitting, no one comes near. I think it was because I had strategically tossed the skeins of yarn about me on the floor (four colors) and people were afraid to come too close lest they become entangled in the yarn and fall helplessly onto my double pointed needles (which are very, well, pointy and numerous--four at once to be exact). It was then that I realized my needles had a heretofore unrealized tactical advantage. And, of course, I achieved a nice little eddy of peace in the swirling waters of relations.

Supportive little needles and yarn, weren't they? To help out like that. But they had other views in mind.

My little Regan and Goneril have convinced everyone else that all I do will be yarn impacted and that all my responses will be yarn-related ones. You require proof? Here are some recent offspring comments.

Don't talk to mom for another couple of rows. She hasn't had enough of her morning knitting to be coherent yet. (Thing Two, who has just read the blog, insists that I inform all and sundry that it was she who came up with this--cough--witty observation. There. You happy, kid?)

I can too wear this shirt to school, mom. Just knit me a button quick. (Thing Four's response to being unable to wear his most favorite in the world shirt due to a gaping, button-loss hole on the front of him.)

Mom! Look up from your knitting before you cross the street! (Thing Four can walk to school on his own if this is the way he's going to be. Seriously.)

Er, mom, was part of your crochet project supposed be embedded in our dinner? What have we told you about crocheting near the stove?! (Another note from the increasingly editoral Thing Two. She insists this one should be labeled: All Things Implied, because they've all said it. Har. Har. Har.)

See? Little R & G have made everyone assume that I do these projects so much that I cannot function without yarn and some form of stick, be it pointy or hooked, in my hand.

But worst of all, they're convincing me of it as well. They've infiltrated my mind and distracted my attention.

Again, it was little things at first. Things such as, upon seeing Tony Robbins' 6'7", size-16-shod, ginormously-handed self in Shallow Hal, causing me to have the immediate reaction of, "For the love of everything alpaca, I am so glad I do not have to knit for that man!"

But they weren't content with that little victory. Oh no. They've upped the ante. They've made it seem perfectly logical to knit or crochet not only in lines, but also during morning walks to school (see son comment above), while participating in non-yarn related meetings and in a kayak in the middle of a lake.

They've made it seem normal that with each job posting I consider, I immediately do a web search to see how many, if any, yarn shops are in that area.

They've convinced me to go ahead with the baby blanket after receiving notice that the mommy-to-be was already buried under baby blankets from the last kid (she's getting an EZ Baby Surprise Jacket with matching hat and booties instead) because I simply cannot pass up learning Tunisian crochet, nor could I ever, ever return yarn that I really quite like.

But worst? They've even managed to make me purl without noticing. I mean, knit stitch without paying much attention I can understand. But purling? Since when have I been able to purl every other row as called for without looking down or even noticing that I had switched from knit to purl?

Since never, that's when.

I think the coup is about to occur. Somebody dial up Cordelia for me, would you? She's got to deal with with Regan and Goneril for me, because clearly, I can't.

The Fortune Cookie Never Lies

And good thing, that, because after today's hair trauma I needed to hear

Plan your graduation party with Leeann Chin Delivery.

Oh, wait, wrong side.

Your sparkle never fades.

This is reassuring to know, because I have entered the phase of interviews rather than just resume submissions. My first non-phone interview is this week, and I had decided I'd better get my growing-out hair whipped into shape (It's not been cut in awhile. I've been going through hairdresser withdrawal, as the guy who has cut my hair for years is now half a continent away, damn him.).

So, in I go to the new place, with the same old requirements. Trim off the ends, please don't layer the sides or the back (that's death to me, who has baby fine hair) and cut the front to about cheekbone level.

I got bangs. They're the sort of bangs that fall perfectly into your eyes in a manner that means you'll be constantly blowing them out of the way. Longer bangs, to be sure. But still, bangs. Not exactly the length or look for which I was going.

Now, lots of people look great in bangs. They can wear bangs and a suit and look sleekly competent, or bangs and something slinky and look chic. You know the type of women I mean.Then there are a minuscule few who look like a six-year-old with prematurely wrinkling skin when you whack their hair into a fringe. Especially when one tiny point of hair at the side of the bangs, right near one's glasses arm, wings straight out for no apparent reason whatsoever.

Any guesses as to the group in which I am placed?

Yup. I'm freakin' six.

Add to that fact that I have several cowlicks in the front of my hair (which are only noticeable when said hair is short) and I now resemble one of those sheepdogs from Bugs Bunny cartoons, only I look like I have a bad case of the mange.

It's not really the hairdresser's fault, you know. She did the best anyone could do with the materials at hand. Truly. It was an uphill battle for her from the moment she ticked my name off the list.

So I'm taking a deep breath and reminding myself that even mangy puppies (remember the six is in people years) can sparkle when called upon to explain composition theory and strategies for succeeding with at-risk and LD students.

I'm also reminding myself that, for the first time in what seems forever, I have completed two projects in time for the birthday of a little girl I love in the Dominican Republic. It's a sparkle moment all its own, that. Granted, Carolina's birthday isn't for another two months, but I have to allow for DR mail service and letter translation, as my Spanish is back to non-existent.

Well, okay, the projects are almost completed. The Bloom Shawl is knitted and blocked:

All that remains is sewing on the button on the front. She's a lover of bright colors, our Carolina, so I hope she likes this.And the bookmark is half completed. As it only takes about two to three hours, tops, for this project, I'm on the downhill side:

I'm fervently hoped its gnarled little self will straighten nicely with application of a border, heavy doses of spray starch and merciless T-pinning. The adding of the ribbon should help as well, though I've yet to decide on the ribbon color: blue, or white.

That project is a more than just a sparkle moment, really. It's actually a labor of generational love. I've never attempted to crochet with mercerized cotton and a hook so small it's hard to see the point before this moment. But my Great-Aunt Mary, who was a child's perfect example of unconditional love and patience, used to crochet such tiny things and give them to me as gifts. I loved their fineness and the possibilities for my imagination that each lacy pattern held.

I hope that the project does block out well. If not, I'll redo it. What my hands are recreating isn't just a bookmark. It's a feeling that Mary gave to me and that I carry with me still; a feeling which, through the repetitive movements of my hands, will perhaps be passed on to a quickly growing up girl far from me. Maybe she'll tuck it into the copy of El Principe Caspian that we bought her at the book fair. I hope she does, and I hope it makes her smile in her soon to be twelve-year-oldness, this little bit of tangible, child-like love; just as I smiled at the bookmark made for me.

With this haircut, I don't look twelve yet, but that's okay. Maybe six with sparkle has its merits.

This is the day that the Lord hath made. Let us rejoice and be crafting in it.

I had a very less than minor miracle today, so the borrowing and...adapting of the above biblical quote seemed more than appropriate.

(And for those of you who are about to point out that I previously posted two blogs that were sneakily dated after this blog (at my original site) and therefore I'm not really rejoicing on Sunday as it is in all actuality Saturday a week later, I have only to say that my blog--old and new--lets me put whatever day I want to on the post and that I am still experiencing leftover bliss from last Sunday so it's perfectly legit to still be rejoicing and that I don't need to hear a word about my time management schedule, thank you oh so very much. Do not stomp on a chica's rejoicing.)

It started out innocuously enough. Two of the kids (Thing Two and Thing Three, as they shall here be named—anyone who has read Cat in the Hat will understand this immediately) are in a group called Hands of Praise, which puts on pretty funny puppet shows to some funky music that would have never made it into my church when I was kid.

(I was raised in a German Lutheran church. If you're one, you understand. If you're not, let's just say that German Lutherans of the traditional stripe feel most comfortable with speaking in unison, singing songs at an octave that only a bat could hear, and would never, ever dream of interrupting the minister with a, "Praise God" or even an, "Amen to that," while the minister is speaking. Never. That would be impolite, after all.)

The last song the puppet team performed to was pretty fun, as it pointed out all the womanizing, drinking and other such problems of the major heroes and heroines of the Bible (before some of you fall over from shock due to reading this, the entire point of the song was that God accepts people for what they are and uses them for His purposes, just as He finds them. Imagine. Acceptance and tolerance and grace given, no matter what. No judgment because someone is not like you—and considering He's God and we're not and never can be, that's very compassionate of him, don't you think? Ohhhh, compassion. Perhaps that's a concept we should all mull over for awhile…).

But I digress. I come to these Sunday night practices with plenty to do, for both myself and others, because while Thing Two and Thing Three practice, Thing One and Thing Four are at loose ends. Then Thing One goes to youth group, and the other three are left to entertain (as it seems pointless and wasteful to make four trips back and forth, we only make the two and all go along for the ride.).

Anyway, while youth group was doing group stuff of a youthish nature, and while Things Three and Four played some only slightly loud imaginary game in the large entryway next to the sanctuary (as the minister didn't clutch at his chest and go white, I imagine said game's less than holy origins were still okay for church), I knitted my swatch for the pretty, pretty sock yarn. Thing Two was sitting beside me, getting her reading interrupted by my happiness over my rosewood dpns. I was in share the joy mode, you know?

She responded with a, "Well, I'm glad I remembered them at Christmas for you then," in the slow sort of tone you use with the mentally deranged. Clearly, she was not getting it. I pushed the needles between her nose and her book and said, "But feel them!" She tried, oh so heroically for a 13-year-old gir, to stifle her sigh and randomly stuck out her hand to feel the needles.

That's when it happened. There was a sudden, warm glow of light that could only be from Heaven falling on my daughter and from far away there were beautiful angelic voices that were clearly singing nothing found in the traditional Lutheran hymnal and….

Okay. So not really. But the kid's expression did it all. She looked up. She looked at me (if you're a parent, you understand the significance of that). Then she said it. "Those do feel good. Can I try a few stitches?"

Can I try a few stitches?

Please understand that when mom took up knitting, Thing Two was very excited. Being the only girls in the house (even the dog was a guy), we immediately invented mom and me knit nights, which consisted of kicking out all the guys from my bedroom and holing up with a movie we'd seen a million times, armed with herbal tea and popcorn or chocolate, knitting and giggling on my bed. Only she really couldn't find anything she wanted to knit. Nothing. She's not a girly girl, she gagged at the thought of pink purses, and she wasn't ready for knitting complicated stuffed wolves or penguins or such cool animals (she goes for realism and scoffed at the simpler patterns). The knitting languished on the needles.

Then mom (that would be me) decided, in a perfectly logical way, that since I had two whole granny squares crocheted, not to mention one bird made of the sadistically named "fun fur" (Yes, knitters, I'd crossed over. Please note the name of the blog.) that it was sensible for me to not only crochet this for my best friend in the world's first baby:



but that it was also permissible to change the colors to match the baby's room and oh since they were doing a dinosaur motif that those teddy bears could go too and I could make up my own pattern for the dinos right??? Which produced this:



(That is Thing Three's conception of Flat Stanley next to the blanket. Stanley admired the blanket and wanted to be a part of the pic. Note Stanley's totally cool variegated purple scarf.)

And as my friend produced this:

all those hours spent with white rectangles that were enough to make me leave a large depression in the wall where I banged my head endlessly were worth it. The permanent twitch in my eyelid means nothing, Owyn. Just ignore that about your honorary auntie, there's a pet.

(We'll also ignore that said blanket arrived a tad after Owyn. Good things come to those who wait, right?).

Yes, all this…enthusiasm…mom displayed convinced Thing Two that crochet was the way to go, not knitting. (Forgive her. She was young, and one hook seemed less complicated than two needles). She even found a project she was excited about. A ladybug pot holder for Thing Four's teacher, whose class was called (you guessed it) the ladybugs. (Thing Four had been hoping to be a frog, because the frog teacher wore seriously cool ties that lit up, but he loved his ladybug teacher just as well). We went to our then-LYS and with the help of the wonderful Darrin (scroll down to see her), we bought Dale of Norway wool (who wants a potholder that melts in an acrylic sort of way, after all?) and Thing Two produced this:

(please note that she insisted that she "do this on my own—I'm big enough.")

When it was done, she looked thoughtfully at it. Then she looked at me. Then she expressed her opinion about her work.

"Crochet is evil, mom."

She's banned all hooks from her presence ever since. (Well, except for my cool light up hook. But that's a post for another day.) Die-hard crocheters, don't despair. I'm about to learn Tunisian, so I have one last chance to er, hook her.

Our girls' night title changed. They became craft nights, and she went back to latch hook. I consoled myself that there was still yarn involved even if it had been mercilessly snipped into tiny pieces.

So, can I try a few stitches was big. Earth shaking, I-expected-cracks-to-form-in-the-walls-of-the-sanctuary-from-the-tremors big. I handed over the itty bitty needles and the thin yarn and tried to look calm and collected (note: it didn't work). She tentatively did one stitch. Then another, then another.

"Do you have bigger needles that are rosewoods, mom? I think I'd like to try knitting again."

The sanctuary swam before me. I tried to look nonchalant. Thing Three was having none of it. Thing Three rolled her eyes, laughed and said, "Be a goof and celebrate. I know you want to."

I did. As none of the youths who were grouping noticed, she seemed more bemused then mortified.

Like any good addict (mother. Did I not say mother? I meant mother.), the minute we got home, I proceeded to drag her upstairs to choose from my small but much loved collection of rosewoods.*

She actually picked the pair that were not rosewoods, but some other hardwood. That was ok. That was fine. Then the flu hit her (that's two to get it; two more to go), rending her unwilling to cast on.

But that's okay. I am patient.

There is no such thing as an incomplete miracle, after all.

*small aside. I know that, from an environmental standpoint, from the standpoint of a woman who would freak if she ever put out a trash container that was bigger than her recyclables bin on pick up day and who can't wait to live where she can have a garden and a compost heap, thus reducing trash even more, that rosewoods are not a good idea. That some species of rosewood (hopefully not the ones mine are made of) are endangered. I know that. I feel like Elizabeth Zimmerman with her tortoise shell and ivory needles. They are something to be treasured if you already have them, but not purchased. But I also know I love them to distraction. So if any of you can tell me of anything other hardwoods that have the same, almost oily, feel in the hands as rosewoods (and I can already tell you that bamboo and sustainably harvested Brittanys don't) please tell me.

The Newbie Begins

All right, everyone who knows me but has no interest in this subject can completely ignore it and you're absolved from feeling guilty about hurting my feelings (unless I think you're good for some really excellent dark chocolate. Then I'll guilt trip you to the max.). This blog is just hanging here until it finds some knitterly-crocheterly blogland paradise to which it can transfer its wee little self. *

And on to the real stuff (the rest of you can go listen to a song or something).

Okay, so there are tons of knitting and crocheting blogs out there. Does the world really need one more?

But you know, those blogs are created by knitters and crocheters who know what they are doing.

Oh sure, they make mistakes too, but they're generally not what you'd call beginners. If they make mistakes, it's on complicated stuff that makes your left eyelid twitch when you read about it, and possibly your right eyelid too. They're the type of people who could knit half the piece backward and still have it come out looking right.

They'd never, for example, mix up which is Continental and which is English style knitting. Especially when they could do both with equal ease.

(Okay, so yeah, I can do both types of knitting. I just never remember which one it is I'm doing.)

They never have to stop to puzzle out what the difference between Fair Isle and intarsia is, nor wonder which one they're doing even after they cast on.

(I do that, too. That's what I get for taking a plain pattern and, ahem, tweaking it.)

They've never had to look up trbl three times in a row on the same square because they could not remember how many times to yarn over.

They've never made the mistake of reading about both the UK and US designations for the same crochet stitch. The double in the UK is the single in the US, the UK treble the US double, and so on.

(And yes, that was a contributing factor to the need to re-check the yarn overs. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.)

I mean, I'm sure they did at one time. I'm sure they all began like me, not like Elizabeth Zimmerman's spirit had inhabited their bodies (if someone knows the name of a crochet master, chuck it at me) and thus they could knit or crochet blindfolded with one hand tied behind their backs. Or, like a Veggie Tales cucumber, with no hands.

But then again, seeing their stuff, I could be wrong about the above. Maybe EZ in all her kindness, when granting the gift of inspired knitting, missed the quiet chick in the back left corner of the room. Though from what I hear, she didn't miss much (I'm sorry I missed her).

But me? I'd settle for at least being as good as Gromit, even if he never seems to get past the middle of his row in any given episode.

But I'm not. Gromit's got me beat.

I'm recklessly daring (Think I'll learn color work. Hey, here's a pattern with 5 colors! For my first try at it ever! Once more into the breach, dear friends!), wildly grateful when I discover just how much better something looks blocked when I was ready to weep over its shriveled, lumpy little pre-blocked stitches (more color work), and while I'm at it (I've made a whole crocheted bird with the sadistically named "fun fur" after all), why don't I not only change the colors on the baby blanket kit I purchased, but for a laugh, chuck the teddy bears and design dinosaurs instead, since that's what said baby's room will be decorated in? I mean, dinosaurs must be easy, right?

And, er, I'm also surrounded by non-crafters who keep looking at me a bit askance. (Thanks to Stephanie Pearl-McPhee's books, though, I've found that's not uncommon.)

My kids don't like to listen to knitting and crocheting talk past their bedtime, claiming falling asleep in class gets them in trouble (where are their rebel genes?!?), and though my boyfriend takes an active interest in what I do, I've yet to corrupt him to the point picking up a hook or casting on some socks or some such for me (I'm working on that).

But if there are any of you out there who also belong in the "Hey, yo, I'm a newb here" class of crafters, take heart. Rather than wonder how you can get from where you are to where they are, know that there are knitters out there who are right with you (or in my case, possibly far behind!! :P). And you've just met one who's willing to publish photographic proof of that.

Soon. I promise.

*And this is the new place to which my blog has come to live. Huzzah! The blog is so excited.