So This Is Christmas...

So this is Christmas

And what have you done

Another year over

And a new one just begun

~~ John Lennon

While checking through some of my online friends' blogs, I ran across Lisa and Robb's. They have an amazing story all in themselves, but I particularly admire Lisa for her convictions as well as her ability to take some really amazing photographs.

In one of her most recent posts, she had the image you see to your left, and I have to admit, it struck a really chord with me.

I am one for handmade gifts, have been known to buy brown craft paper and create my own wrapping paper (kids hands are great and FREE!), have given to charities in others names as gifts, and just generally disdain what I often refer to as conspicuous consumerism. Don't get me started about Necropolis' absolutely necessary trip to Hot-lanta last year for Black Friday (I spent most of it in the car). And, this year, I read where a Wal-Mart employee was trampled to death by Black Friday shoppers. Is this really the image we want for Christmas? I definitely know this isn't the value system I want imparted on my children.

So I checked out buynothingchristmas.org. I encourage you to do so as well. Even if you can't do all your gifts in this manner, think about what you can do.

When You're a Jet, You're a Jet

I’ve always known I’m a bit of a geeky nerd. Okay, I’m a LOT of a geeky nerd. And, I’m totally okay with that. My car radio is tuned to NPR. I like to create historic garb. I know what lapidary is, and I enjoy sitting and sweating in the Georgia July sun to take butterfly pictures. I find the gossipy history of musicians totally fascinating (check out Gesualdo) and once considered becoming a musicologist.

In the fibery world, I’m geeky as well. I knit at the pool and the beach. I know the difference between Lord Raglan and Lord Cardigan. I have a spinning wheel and spindle. I even have geeky fibery friends. One of those friends knitted a bicycle helment cover based on this little creature:

It’s a nudibranch, a lovely little sea creature, but I’m just enthralled that someone would knit this.

I also dye fiber and yarn, and have begun the geeky nerdy process of experimenting with my dyeing solutions and processes. No household product is safe. Today, I discovered I am a novice in the world of geeky nerdy fiberhood. On Ravelry, a question was asked about why a particular yellow dye solution wouldn’t stay dissolved, and reverted to a state somewhat consistent to Egg Drop Soup.

All of a sudden, my new friend Brewergnome was possessed. He gave a Chemistry lesson on hydrophobic dye, blah, blah, blah. You can read his ‘findings’ at his blog. It’s actually interesting reading if you’re into it, and has pictures and everything.

All hail, King of the Nerds!

Jolly Goode Tyme

We made our annual pilgrimage to the Carolina Renaissance Festival this weekend. We took a couple of added kiddos, the offspring of long-time friends who are going through some very difficult medical issues. The Contessa and Danielson are just young enough that I've forgotten somewhat it's like to have ones that need help eating/dressing/bathrooming/car-ride entertaining, so there was a small relearning curve of Necropolis and me. After that, the day, while long, went smoothly and a good time was had by all. I took the camera and got a lot of good shots.

Some of the more amusing and/or those with better composition:

Eat, Pray, Love - This Is the Meaning of Life?

First, let me say I consider myself a fairly intelligent individual. It's not that I'm arrogant or superior about my acumen. I don't claim to have any ability equivalent to Stephen Hawking or Einstein. I'm no dummy either.

Secondly, I'm a voracious reader. There are always a few books I'm in the process of reading at any given time. Currently, I'm in the middle of one of the Florence King essay compilations, a biography of Abigail Adams, the letters of Abigail Adams and John Adams (I'm working on those concurrently), as well as a couple of pulp novels that have no particular literary value at all. I just use them as void fillers. In the past two and a half months, I've also read Jane Austen's Emma, three other Florence King books, both The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns (by the same author and I recommed them highly), The Red Tent, a Christopher Moore book (whose title escapes me at the moment), The Count of Monte Christo ( for the innumerable time), Friday Night Knitting Club, a collection of O Henry stories (again), and several others, including the latest Laurell K Hamilton.

I recently read Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat Pray Love, which is unusual for me for a couple of reasons. I don't really care what everyone else is reading, and I don't follow the best sellers as a matter of course. Also, I'm not into the whole self-help, 'here's the way to find yourself' thing. Why I actually picked this book up is a mystery. Maybe it has something to do with WHERE she went as opposed to WHY. Her travels took her to Italy, India and Bali, places I happen to find fascinating, and perhaps that is what lead to my interest. At any rate, I picked it up, plunked down my money and bought it. Once purchased, I slogged my way through it, regardless of whether I liked it or not. Rare is it for me to put a book down in total disgust before reading it through. I gave this book the same courtesy. I read it, and I did enjoy reading it, although it did get a bit tedious at times. It was a nice little book about one woman's personal journey to self-discovery.

Do I find it revolutionary and groundbreaking?

No.

This is where I'm having such difficulty. This book has becoming some sort of textbook on how to discover yourself. The author has been on Oprah where much to-do was made, there are reading group guides, the reviews tend to be over the top and I just don't get it. There's just not that much there. It's not an instruction manual. It's not even really a "how-to". It's more of a "year in the life".

Let me back-track a bit here and say, I do understand, fully, a person's need to search for personal or higher awareness. I totally 'get' what Gilbert was about and what she was doing. I don't necessarily agree with her methodology, but I understand the exercise. But, I (and from what I understand, she, too) feel that the journey for this self discovery, or discovery of a higher power, is so totally personal, there's no way to to emulate her journey. Every journey is unique and must follow a unique path.

Besides, we know the answer is 42. However, if you have any ideas that may enlighten me, feel free to post them.

One more small, totally unrelated note. I received word that two people important to me and mine are very sick. Dr. Lucy, whom I've referred to in this blog before has some bizarre, weird thing that I don't understand at the moment, since I haven't talked to her directly as of yet. All I know is she went to the hospital, where it was discovered there were blood clots in her lungs. She's now at home on bed rest. Secondly, The Things' Assistant Principal gave birth to a baby boy earlier in the week. The baby is healthy and fine. After delivery, something happened, and Parks had a heart attack, necessitating open heart surgery and a triple-bypass. For a while, she was being kept in a drug-induced coma, but the latest I heard just this afternoon was she is to be moved to a private room next week. This is really good news for both of my friends, but they are not out of the woods yet, so to speak. So, if you could keep these people in your thoughts and prayers, it would be much appreciated.

These butterflies are the Gulf Fritillary and the Black Swallowtail, both in my yard over the past week.

Kermit had it right....

It's not that easy being green;

Having to spend each day the color of the leaves.

When I think it could be nicer being red, or yellow or gold...

or something much more colorful like that.

It's not easy being green.

It seems you blend in with so many other ord'nary things.

And people tend to pass you over 'cause

not standing out like flashy sparkles in the water or stars in the sky.

But green's the color of Spring.

And green can be cool and friendly-like.

And green can be big like an ocean, or important like a mountain,

or tall like a tree.

When green is all there is to be

It could make you wonder why, but why wonder why?

Wonder, I am green and it'll do fine, it's beautiful!

And I think it's what I want to be.


Kermit had it right….

It’s not easy being green.

This past weekend, MUC and I got back into the swing of the letterboxing gig. It was really great to get out and see folks at the “It’s Not Easy Being Green” event at Folly Beach, SC. Drgdlg put on a really nice, low key event with plenty of boxes to keep us busy.

Personally, I’m still a bit of a mixed bag regarding my feelings for the whole thing. Not because of the event, but due to my own abilities and performances. It was a real testament to what I *can’t* do right now. My mind was no where near being able to focus enough to sort the boxes by geographical area, much less work on any codes (there were a couple of those). If it weren’t for the very uncharacteristic laidback graces of Eidolon, I don’t know if we’d have boxed at all.

MUC and I have boxed quite a bit with Eidolon, Artemis and the Hitchhiker puppies, and we know what we’re getting into. It usually involves moving at the crack of dawn, hustling all day long, solving issues and clues on the fly, debating and re-debating, no eating (unless it’s along on the trail), and ends with a flashlight at the last boxes. We’re exhausted, filthy, inky messes with lots of stamps to show for our efforts.

This weekend, either Eidolon was in a particularly gracious mood or was ill, because we were practically sedate and leisurely all day long. MUC and I didn’t get there until almost noon, and basically announced to Eidolon we were going to ride his coattails. And we did. After lunch. I think that’s the first time that’s ever happened. We also stopped and let the puppies play at the dog park (which was freakin’ huge, by the way).

We did a little boxing after dark, but it was a guided tour type thing by drgdlg, with Paw Paw and Granny, hawkeye and Jdog, as well as Buttercup and Johnny Quest along for the journey. Other than a brief encounter with an after hours park nazi and MUC’s momentary scary spill, the evening was tame as well.

Most stayed for the weekend, but MUC and I came on home, getting back to Chez McD by about 2 a.m. And, yeah, we were exhausted, inky messes, but not quite so many stamps as I’m used to having at the end of the day.

The day after was rather unpleasant, but Dr. Rheumo finally came over with some pain meds, so it was at least tolerable. It’s also what prompted my late night trip home. We had considered staying the night, but after deciding my pain threshold was just too unpredictable these days, I didn’t want to be away from home if I really needed to medicate myself.

All this, and I forgot my POS camera. So, I’ll leave you with this image instead.

Crossroads

Dion's shawl is washed, blocked and set out to dry. It took two and a piece of a skein (about 330 yards) of Blue Sky Alpaca and silk. The knitting gauge was about 5 stitches per inch on stockinette, but I haven't measured the blocked shawl, except to know it's roughly 65 inches across at the top. Here are some photos of the completed shawl in various stages.


Unblocked.



Wet, and ready for blocking.


Blocked.



If this post seems less than my normal verbose self, you'd be right. There are a couple of reasons for that. The first is, I've had about 4 hours sleep in the last 36 hours. I'm beat. I got the shawl finished, washed, blocked out and completed at about 6 a.m. this morning, just about the time Nec was getting up to go to work.

The second reason for the more somber mood is nostalgia. While knitting madly on the shawl, I sat in our computer room and listened to playlists of songs I created ages ago. These are the tunes that keep me company while painting, sewing, or whatever creative process I might be involved with in our bonus room. While knitting along, "Melissa", by The Allman Brothers started playing. I couldn't help by be swamped with memories of a friend of mine, Ron, who died last October of cancer. Ron was a friend and a musician, and there are certain songs that remind me of him so strongly, at times I can't separate the original version of the song from the version Ron sang. Steppenwolf's "Magic Carpet Ride", Pure Prairie League's "Amie", and several others, including an unlikely but very endearing rendition of "Rainbow Connection", which Ron would segue into Drivin' and Cryin's "Straight to Hell". When Ron sang these songs, he lived them. You believed him while he sang. "Melissa" was also one of those songs, probably in no small part due to his wife being named Melissa as well.

I think I'm going to keep tweaking this shawl. I may even actually make a pattern for it. I plan to name it "Sweet Melissa".

Crossroads, seem to come and go, yeah.
The gypsy flies from coast to coast

Knowing many, loving none,
Bearing sorrow havin fun,
But back home he"ll always run
To sweet Melissa... mmm...

Freight train, each car looks the same, all the same.
And no one knows the gypsy's name
No one hears his lonely sigh,
There are no blankets where he lies.
In all his deepest dreams the gypsy flies
With sweet Melissa... mmm...

Again the mornings come,
Again he's on the run,
Sunbeams shining through his hair,
Appearing not to have a care.
Well, pick up your gear and gypsy roll on, roll on.

Crossroads, will you ever let him go? (lord, lord)
Will you hide the dead man's ghost,
Or will he lie, beneath the clay,
Or will his spirit roll away?

But I know that he won't stay without Melissa.

Yes I know that he won't stay without Melissa.

The Legacy

I come from a long line of fiber crafts females.

My paternal grandmother was a big afghan crochet artist. To my knowledge, she only made them for family, and they all follow the same basic pattern. Memories of huge piles of fugly Red Heart acrylic yarn and my Grandmama sitting in her recliner crocheting while watching Lawrence Welk or Hee Haw are a small part of my childhood fiber memories. At one point, I asked Grandmama to teach me, and she somewhat did. I could make a single crochet like no one's business, and if there were a need for said creation, I could have made a fortune. Ask me to actually crochet through the loops and MAKE something? Abysmal. It didn't take long for me to tire of the failure, and all I have of this part of my childhood are a couple of the afghans and a lone picture of me crocheting on the sofa at Grandmama's house. And the hair? It was Beauty Parlor day, and I got to tag along. I'll spare you the details.

The multi-colored afghan was given to me, personally. It's smaller, but much loved. You can see where some poorly constructed surgery was performed as the yarn gave and started to unravel. This piece of history stays in a Rubbermaid container these days. I can't bring myself to actually use or display it. Things 1 and 2 would have it in a pile of recycled yarn in 4.269 seconds flat.

The brown afghan is more in keeping with what I remember her working on. I have this one as well, but I'm not sure who its intended recipient was. It is in much better shape than the multi, but also spends most of its time in the Rubbermaid.

On the maternal side of my family, the family myths and legends abound. I distinctly remember stories of one of my great-grandmothers crocheting (or knitting) through The Depression. The story goes that she would knit table runners and doilies from string saved from wrapped meats from the local butcher. At this point, it's all hearsay, and there is no one still living to validate it. I do have something from this era though, whether by accident or design. The Mother (that would be mine) has some of this family fiber history, and I have this:

I thought, for a time, that it might be part of the family history, but I'm not so sure any longer. Better knowledge of the construction of fiber crafts as well as the sewn on fringe on this piece lead me to believe that this may be a hand made item, but not of the era I'm thinking. I'll have to confer with The Mother on this at some point.

The Mother, while never learning to crochet or knit, is an accomplished crossstitcher. I have some of her things in my home, and every time she visits, she tells me how poorly they look and I need to have them re-blocked. Never mind. Another topic for another post.

Which brings me to The Legacy. Granny (The Mother's mother) is a crocheter and tatter from WAY back. I don't know that I ever watched her create anything, but there was always something lying around half completed in a mirage of colors. I remember, during the Avocado appliance era (I know...I'm dating myself here), delicate tatting in shades of mint and lemon not found in nature. The Mother probably has some of this as well. I should ask.

Granny, however, is definitely her own person. I could fill this blog with the various stories that include Granny that have nothing to do with fiber. Dr. Lucy's favorite story is Granny arriving at my Bridesmaid luncheon, nearly parking the front of her Toyota in an old pine, Old Fashioned glass filled to the brim on the dash and not spilling a drop. It's Dr. Lucy's favorite because she witnessed it. I couldn't make this stuff up. Granny also worked crossword puzzles in ink. My departed Grandfather used to refer to it as 'the height of conceit'. I could go on, but I think you've probably clued in at this point. Granny does things her way and isn't exactly what I would refer to as maternal or interested in family heritage. Unfortunately, time and arthritis have take away Granny's ability to hold a crochet needle. And, Granny has no interest in passing on the knowledge or doing much of anything these days. Of course, she's older than Iraq (I"m not kidding...check the dates. And we want a sovereign, democratic Iraq?) and has somewhat earned the right to sit in a wheelchair and soil herself in a fit a pique (can't make that one up either).

So, Enter The Legacy. The Legacy is a afghan composed of crocheted granny squares (Hah! I couldn't invent a pun that ironic!) loosely stitched together. I had thought, when The Mother bestowed The Legacy upon me, that it was an incomplete afghan. My original understanding was the afghan needed to be completed. I was a bit intimidated by the whole thing, so The Legacy stayed in its plastic zippered bag that once contained The Mother's Croscill sheets while I worked up the courage determined a potential plan of completion.

Today was the day for the unbagging. I was wrong, oh so wrong, about the needs of The Legacy. It's coming apart, it's filthy, I don't know how to crochet, and it's been given to me.

My initial instinct is to take the thing apart, square by square, and wash the squares carefully. Some of them have 'stuff' on them. (Granny isn't known for her housekeeping abilities) 'Stuff' of a color and consistancy I haven't witnessed since my children were eating strained peas at the table of Gerber. 'Stuff' I couldn't, in good conscience, post a picture of on this page. And, if that were all there were to this, I'd do it. I'd take it apart, hand wash the squares, and stitch it back together. But no, it could not be that simple of a project for me.

Some of the squares are beginning to unravel. I have NO idea how to fix this and there is no spare yarn. Matching yarn, at this point, would very likely be impossible. I have no idea how old the yarn is, but it's very likely to be as old, if not older than me (which would be older than...say....Aerosmith).

Here lies my fiber legacy.

And as you pray in your darkness
For wings to set you free
You are bound to your silent legacy

Silent Legacy by Melissa Etheridge

I’m a Hurdy-Gurdy Girl in a Crab Show World

Apparently, I’ve angered the lace knitting gods. The Stoli**, my knitting, the chart pattern, the mathematics, the placement of the stars, Uranus in retrograde and I are no longer in sync. Okay, forget about my anus. But still, I can’t get past the first 4 lines of the chart for clue 3. I started last night while the kids were playing before bed. I was alone, I was uninterrupted, I was appropriately caffeinated, and I couldn’t make the stitches and numbers work. After 2 and a half hours of knitting, tinking*, knitting, cursing, tinking, counting, cursing some more, recounting, tinking, double-checking my math, taking deep breathing, and knitting, I was only on the third line of the chart, and I was ready to commit hari-kari or throw the knitting at the wall. I opted instead to go read some email.

I’m glad I did.

I received an email from Dr. Lucy, who told me she was reading the blog, but for the life of her couldn’t figure out the hurdy gurdy I made. I about peed my pants from laughing so hard, and woke up Thing 2 (MUC) in the process. The really sad part is I didn’t have to think for an instant what she was talking about. I knew immediately she was referring to this. As I giggled and chuckled my way through some surfing, I started thinking about the language my family and friends use, and the way we process. Maybe everyone does this, and I don’t know it, or maybe me and mine are just a bunch of weirdos. My family and friends have an alarming tendency to use euphemisms that are incomprehensible to the outside world.

Case in point #1: The Chicken Store

My kids have an exceptional gift for understatement. There was a time when I was going through a bad patch, Nec was working at lot, and the kids still required feeding. Enter Zaxby’s, which was ridiculously close to my house. The food is good, you can get extra fries, and I like their honey mustard sauce, so it was a winner all around. So, there was a time when we were eating Zaxby’s two or three times a week. In front of our local store is a sign that looks like this:

My kids have never been inside, since there is a ‘drive-thru’ type feature, but they knew the building and the sign. I knew it was time to find a new place to eat when I hear from the backseat, “But, Mommie, we don’t want Chicken Store tonight.”

After that night, every time we would drive by and the kids would see the sign (or a Zaxs sign anywhere), the kids would yell, “There’s a Chicken Store.”

Thus, it’s been “The Chicken Store” in this house ever since.

Case in point #2: The Crab Show.

Dr Lucy, on some occasion that probably included copious amounts of alcohol, asked Sarge and me if our respective spouses watched “The Crab Show”. Without thinking, blinking or nodding, both of us answered with a resounding, “Hell, yes!” What, you may ask, is “The Crab Show”? It’s a Discovery Channel show whose ‘real’ title is The Deadliest Catch. It’s all about crab fishing off the Alaskan coast. Total man show, and apparently very popular with the husband crowd. Dr. Lucy swears she has witnessed man-tears from Mahcus over The Crab Show, and I can say with all authority that Necropolis can tell you the names of all the boats ships as well as which hairy, unwashed dude captain goes with.

In conversation on the way to the mountains, I relayed Dr. Lucy’s new term to Necropolis, at which he burst out laughing. I really gave it no more thought, since it was more a mention in passing than a discussion and dissection. One evening later in the week, Nec’s playing some computer game, I’m knitting The Stoli (successfully at this point), the kids are all nestled, and the TV is on as background noise. Suddenly, Nec pops up.

“Turn the channel.”

Me: “To what? I’m watching Law and Order, Criminal Intent.”

“You’ve seen this one. I’ve seen this one. Ice Truckers is on.”

“Ice Truckers? You’ve GOT to be kidding me. I’m watching Chris Noth here.”

“Nope, it’s about these truckers who drive over iced-over lakes in Canada. It’s not as good as “The Crab Show” though.”

I about choked when I heard that, and promptly got online to email Dr. Lucy about her influence.

Just to let you know....your influence is far and wide.

Nec now refers to 'that program' as The Crab Show in conversation.

The response I received:

Yay! Don't feel left out - we had The Chicken Store for dinner last week.

* Tinking - Tink is "knit" backwards and also the sound the needles make clicking against each other as you take out your knitting one stitch at a time.

** The Stoli – my MS3 thus christened, since it’s takes a liberal pour in my OJ to keep from throwing the thing in the trash.

Life's A Beach

I love the beach. And, I love Tybee Island. It's weird, quirky, laid back persona fits me perfectly. You've got to love a place where fine dining and flip flops aren't on opposite ends of the spectrum. If I could, I'd be one of those people who sells painted shell art on the roadside to tourists during the season. Since I have children who require regular feedings, I don't think that will happen any time soon, but a girl's got to have a goal.




Early every June, my friends from college and I go to Tybee as part of a girls only R&R weekend. It's a LONG weekend, and we love it. There are generally 6 of us, but this year, life caught up with some of the others, and they weren't able to make it. Even though our numbers were cut in half, we had a great time.

One of my friends, 'Sarge', is a practially a professional sunbather. She's been doing this since before I knew her, and I learned quickly that to hang with her on the beach all day meant me and my fair-skinned Scotch-Irish skin would have to learn some major beach coping skills. As a result, I usually have a huge umbrella, floppy hat, and sunscreen with an SPF of about 75 while Sarge coats herself with spray Pam and flakes out all day. This isn't new...we're used to it. As a matter of fact, I jokingly asked Sarge where the baby oil with iodine was, as she now lives very close to the Redneck Riverea with her husband, The Colonel. I was quickly told that was 'cheating'. Dr. Lucy also attended, and surprised us by deciding to pre-tan this year. Smart chick. Of course, I give her all kinds of grief for not having a 'real' job. She only has to work a couple of days a week at a chi-chi private college, although that's probably going to change to a more normal schedule next year. We're talking college here though, so the schedule is still one of those variable things.


We spent most of our time retelling past stories, solving the world's problems and generally being lazy, rum-soaked (or beer-soaked) sun goddesses. I don't think any of us would have it any other way.