When weed came in kilos across the border from Mexico, it was simple. That’s when a kilo was $35-$60. When you most likely bought a lid in a plastic sandwich baggy for $10 from a friend.
When what you bought was smattered with stems and seeds that would pop and burn holes in your clothes or in your davenport or the seat of the car.
When a part of opening the baggy, and before smoking, was performing the ritual of carefully picking through and cleaning out the debris.
When Zig Zag papers were bought at the corner store to roll a joint. When one took pride in knowing how to roll a perfect joint or a giant “doobie,” It was an acquired skill.
We rolled joints by hand that wouldn’t fall apart, clear to the finger burning end. Or maybe someone had a pipe and sometimes a hooka.
When we all had “roach clips”. Making a nice “roach clip,” was a work of art and creativity. Does anyone even know what a roach clip is or use one anymore?
The very last bit of a joint, or roach, was savored by slipping it into a clip and holding it to your lips so as not to burn your fingers. How very handy they were.
PS: Those treasured relics pictured above are more than 50 years old, probably closer to 60. They were made from the bristles of the street cleaners brushes that one could find in the gutters while walking the streets of Portland.
Once upon a time, I had a little scamp. He was lovely. He was the palist of hue yet turned brown as a berry in the summer sun. His eyes were bright and crystal blue. His hair stood on end and was near translucent, so white it was. He was round and soft and yet full of vim and vinegar but smelled of sugar cookies.
We named him Jesse, and as soon as he could move about, he had no fear. I chased him about the house and the yard until he wore himself out. He fell asleep wherever he stood or sat. He might be standing on the couch looking out the window at the sea, and just there, his little knees would bend, and there he slept, little body pressed against the back of the couch. He might fall asleep with his face in a plate of pancakes and syrup. I might find him under a table soundly sleeping. There was no need to coax him into nap time. His little body could move no more.
You might say he was a born adventurer. Once he could crawl and then walk, he was off. Since we lived on an island overlooking the Puget Sound on a 200 ft. cliff, one needed to keep a close eye on this little scamp. Did I ever lose him? Well, one time, I thought I did.
This small little scamp knew what he wanted, and though sweet as honey, he could never accept the word no. When he was still no more than two feet tall, in protest, he would cast himself backward against whatever hard surface with ear splitting and excruciating wailing. I often wondered how this beautiful boy could make such a racket and cause such chaos.
What joy and worry my little scamp caused. Once, while leaving a meeting, I walked out into the busy parking lot. People and their children were milling about. Cars were backing out to leave. I assumed that Jack had Jesse with him. I was not paying attention to my children as I was bidding others goodbye. Across the lot, I saw Jack with our daughter, but I didn’t see Jesse. He was not holding on to Jesse’s hand. Suddenly, I began to panic.
I was frantically looking for him. I called to Jack to ask where he last saw Jesse. I didn’t wait for his answer as I ran wildly around the parking lot. No one said a word as I dashed about, calling his name. I suddenly stopped, realizing that I had Jesse sitting placidly on my left hip, his big blue eyes saying, “Here I am, Mommy.” It was just like someone looking for their lost glasses that were sitting solidly on top of their head, so accustomed was I to this child in my arms.
What madness it is to have a little scamp of one’s own.
And thus began a life of tears and of stitches and broken bones.
Han found an old skein of yarn at a garage sale in a basket labeled , “Everything, $1.00”.
When she brought it home, she asked for socks. No surprise there. “Of course,” I said. I wasn’t sure it would make a pair, but I was willing to give it a shot. So I made some shorties. This yarn was obviously discontinued, and more was nowhere to be found.
The yarn is Coatsand Clark, Red Heart, Knitting Worsted, 100% virgin wool. The colorway is Ancient Gold. It’s actually pretty cool, and I liked working with it, and I love the color. There’s little black fibers running through it.
This was a nice reprieve from larger projects while my damn arthritic thumb healed from overuse or the pain at least subsided a little.
I’ve already given up needlework, weaving and spinning, and book making. Must I give up knitting, as well?
Say it isn’t so. Guess not. A year later, I’m still knitting.
You know, this crosstitch quilt took 40 years and more hours to create than you could ever imagine. I loved every minute of those hours.
There were years when it languished in a closet, partially completed, while my life was filled with family, going to school, traveling, and other obligations. But it was always there, waiting for me to come back to it.
Now that I’m older, crafting is what I do. It’s all that I do. I do it for joy, peace, and the satisfaction of creating something beautiful. While stitching, be it crossstitch, crochet, crewel work, knitting, bookbinding, or tapestry, I forget about the troubles that face me, that face us in this incredible yet troubling world that we live in. Podcasts, audio books, documentaries, travel vlogs, and the like fill my days while I craft.
Beyond the stitching, however, there was the cost of taking the quilt to the “long arm quilter.” By the time I finished the cross stitching, I was not inclined to hand stitch a queen sized quilt. Three hundred dollars was a small price to pay.
For those of you who don’t quilt, you may not know what that is. A long arm quilter is a person who owns a very large, almost room sized machine in which they can feed a quilt of almost any size. That machine is connected to a computer on which many patterns are programmed. A pattern is chosen, and off it goes with the expertise of the long armed quilter. For those of us who quilt, it is a marvel.
At that point is when the long arm quilter saved it from more time sleeping in the trunk or closet. I had started to quilt it by hand, but after months of working on it, I realized that the task was too daunting. I just wanted it to be done. When I got the quilt back a week later, I then hand stitched the binding. It was finally ready to use.
But, by this time, this quilt is so precious that I can’t use it on my bed… Only because I have two cats and a dog that often share my bed. Claws, hair, and dirt would most likely destroy it.
So for now, it’s folded and safely sits on my ottoman with a pillow on top where Fran Ham, the cat, loves to sleep. I can only enjoy the parts of it that peek out from underneath.
Just recently, I found the answer to a mystery I had given up on resolving many years before. I mostly didn’t even know that I was still looking, but the search was hidden away in my heart to emerge only occasionally.
There were few things of value that I even cared about because Mom left so little behind. But there were a few of precious value to the heart only. Nothing she ever owned was embued with monetary value.
But there was one mystery to solve, known only to me as, “The Missing Heart.” I would have found the answer if I had known to ask the right people. Why did the loss of this small charm occur to me again? Oh, yes, I remember! My niece, Sharon, was going through her mother’s (my sister’s) jewelry and came upon a bracelet she didn’t recognize, and neither did I.
I asked if among her things, had she come upon a small silver and marcasite heart with a mother of pearl inset? At first, I couldn’t remember the stones, so it was hard to describe. Her first answer was, “No”, she said, but she would keep an eye out for it.
I looked online to see if I could at least find something similar to help her identify it. Why did I even care, you might ask. Because, as a small child, like all curious children will, I loved to look in my mother’s jewelry boxes and in her top drawer to see her linen hankies and soft gloves of silk, cotton and leather, small veils of soft netting, hat pins, hair barretts and other small pieces and mementos.
On top of her dresser, among the crystal bowls, was her hair brush, a handheld mirror, and containers of face and body powder and fancy glass bottles of perfume and fragrant lotions.
There, also sat my favorite music box. It was a small wooden piano with just enough room to hold a few small pieces of jewelry.
The music box
Mom’s dresser was always dusty with the powders she used liberally. Her favorite perfume was Tweed. The fragrance is strong, with the tiniest bit of floral notes to keep it feminine, but mostly, it is dark, moody and earthy, woody, and resinous. Perfect for Mom, but not for a small child or even a teenager. I was never tempted to use it, but it smelled spectacular on my loving yet stoic mother.
But, back to the heart.
I sent my nephews and neices online images of similar items. Sharon said she would continue to look. She said she would also ask the other girls. My sister had three girls and four boys that she left behind way too early. She also said that there was a story that went with that heart, if the one I was looking for was one that she remembered. I didn’t remember any such story.
Not long after, another of Kristi’s three daughters, Shauna, sent a message with a photo of the heart. “Is this the one you’ve been looking for, Auntie?” she wrote. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
There it was! She explained that her mother had given it to her, before she passed away, to wear at her wedding. Sarah, one of the three daughters, now had it to wear at her upcoming wedding.
She went on to explain the story behind the heart, a story I had never heard: It was a gift from Mom’s first love. If that’s true, why hadn’t I heard it?
I should have been happy just to know that it was still in the family… but. I wasn’t. I was hurt, confused, and frustrated. When did Mom give that to Kristi? Not known to lie nor even to be secretive, could Kristi and Mom have kept this gift giving a secret? When did this even take place?
I couldn’t be upset with the girls, and of what use is it now for me to be angry with Mom and Kristi, now that they passed on years ago. I decided to sit with the feeling. I couldn’t shake it anyway.
Now, after a couple of weeks, I guess I’m happy that the heart is in safe and loving hands. Somethings I’ll never know, like when or why Mom decided to give the heart to Kristi. We were and are a close and loving family. I know also that Mom and Kristi hadn’t between them, an ounce of secretive intent.
Each of the girls wore the necklace at their wedding, and if I had it, it would have been enjoyed and cherished by only me.
“I beg you to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”
–Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet (1929)
This inevitably happens with Yum Yum and me. There was a march of heavy rain storms today with a few cloud breaks. Yum Yum and I dressed in our raincoats and went out to walk, of necessity.
After half a block, the clouds opened and drenched us while Yum took her time carefully, sniffing out a perfect spot to relieve herself. By the time we were back in the house, we were sopping wet.
I had decided to fry some cod for an early dinner. I prepped the fish and decided to make a beer batter. These days,opening cans or bottles is best left to Han or Nori, but the fish I wanted wouldn’t wait.
I held the bottle of IPA in my right hand, as tightly as I could, while I tried to pry off the cap with my left. The cap popped off surprisingly. I could easily predict what happened next…. my hand holding the beer, uncontrollably lurched to the right spilling the beer onto the counter, into the tray holding the toaster and coffee pot, then spreading a river onto the floor.
Fortunately, there was just enough beer to make the batter… but that’s not all. While reaching for a large bottle of oil in which to fry the fish, I misjudged the height in which to clear other objects in front of the bottle. It squarely hit the pour over cone, holding this mornings coffee grounds. Not quite dry, the grounds spilled out onto the counter, then bounced down onto the floor, spreading grounds here and there and everywhere.
By this time, I felt hot and sweaty and had lost my appetite for the fish. I cooked it anyway, but it held little charm. I ate a few pieces and now only want to clear the dishes and go to bed. Maybe that’s the safest place for me.
I’ve been wanting to make the Balvoniee Bonnet by Corinne Tomlinson for a long time. Corrinne says that her inspiration for this hat was Balvonie of Inshes in Inverness, Scotland, where she grew up and spent long school breaks there with her family. The bonnet is “traditional Scottish woolen brimless cap; a bunnet (Sir Walter Scott).”
I ordered the kit from Wooley Thistle this winter. The yarn is by Jamieson and Smith, a 100% Shetland wool from the Shetland Islands. But I’ve been stuck in a place of no motivation for knitting except to finish a pair of socks for Hannah. The socks are out of Arne and Carlos Schachenmeyr sock yarn. They were supposed to be done for Christmas. Then they were supposed to be done in February for her birthday. But I just finished them this past weekend. So now I’ve got time to do the bonnet.
Also, if you look closely, you can see the Cascade 220 yarn in lipstick red in the background. That is going to be a striped sweater with bright pink and this red for Hannah. I’ll post more about that as I get into it. The pattern is called the Compliment Sweater. Hannah has asked me to make her something out of yarns that were not my favorite but turned out to be my favorite in the end after completing the project. I think this will be the same. Lots of summer knitting to do.
I could almost feel the warm midwest winter sunshine on your hair.
Your hair is the colors of burnished bronze, copper, and gold. Some strands are thick and lustrous as if made of spun silver.
Unruly, some with a mind of their own are spiraling away from the rest, up into the air with a strong sense of whimsy in defiance of gravity.
Flecks of dust are flying around your head in a ray of sun, animated by the air, stirred by the swish of wool and cotton.
Beautiful visuals punctuated by laughter.
I loved it all on this cold, wet, dark day in Portland on the west coast.
Wordsmith: Enora Hall
I watch a lot of knitting podcasts because I’m a knitter. I love some, and some I don’t love. The Fat Squittel falls into the former… in my list of top five, she’s hard to beat.
She’s intelligent, well-read, informed, and always filled with abundant humor. There’s beauty that isn’t unfounded in other podcasts, but there’s something rare in the presentation… in the filming, in her talent as a textile artist.
Once, I thought I was writing to her to tell her of my appreciation, but sent it unknowingly to some random poster writing about Mary Todd Lincoln. Thankfully, someone commented on my comment, and the lost poem was found. Here you have it.
eyeamdust 