Life's a Stitch

Famous last words of a parent-to-be upon spying in public a droopy diapered shoeless child. I've learned never to say never. I think I even have a picture of my firstborn that fits that description. I'll do her the favour of not scanning and posting it.

There are blog nevers that I have, in fact, done. As in personifying my knitting. "Oh that Marina, she requires too much luggage to be a travel companion." Or using the dog as a model. It happened to be my favourite post: How to tie one on. So, in that vein, given its success in terms of blog popularity, and to prove that my fingers still engage in endeavours of the wooly kind, here is Gracee modeling my middle child's hoody cowl:

Excuse the lighting, she was only going to give me one chance. 

Once again, much like my wedding anniversary, I realized quite accidentally that I have missed the day of my blog anniversary. This time it's the 6th. I remember the first time. Ms.Sandy left the first comment. Of the original five blogging commenters, three are sill publishing. I find that encouraging despite the introduction of other time suckers like Ravelry, Facebook and that noisy sounding Twitter.

I've met wonderful people through this blog, online and in person. When you meet a knitting blogger up front and personally, you know immediately it's going to work. Right Sandy, Maureen, Angie, Dorothy, and Nadia? If I've left anyone out, please forgive me. And I'd need a separate posts to list all the wonderful Ravelers that I've met through this blog as well as the hundreds of people who have requested my scarf pattern.

More than following their knitting, I've read as bloggers have babies, miscarry, gain grandchildren, retire, get married, divorced, change jobs, move far away, and even die. And how about those theme posts – Saturday Skies, Eye Candy Fridays, Poetry on February 1st, and the memes? The joy, grieving, the slogging over similar projects, home renovations, watching the kids grow, the stories of those four legged or two winged family members, sharing of creativity, feelings of accomplishment – that's why, six years later, it remains my social media choice. Thanks to all of you.

Coming up on six years of blogging. Lots of life happened during that time – two and a half kids through college, three spousal hospitalizations, many tons of new paving stones and blocks surrounding our house and a total turnover of appliances. They don't make them like they used to, referring to the appliances, not the spouse.

Since the inception of this knitting blog, we've replaced the fridge, dishwasher, washer and dryer, and now, the stove. Granted we've given them a run for their money with three now grown teenagers and 40 or so overseas students. Not to mention Doug, our good friend and boarder for the past two years.Trying to think of a blog name for Doug. Maybe SD (Significant Doug). I'll be writing about SD in the future as he has done his best to turn us into accidental vegetarians. Just so you know, when you're reading about him, SD = Significant Doug.I think that's better than VD – Vegetarian Doug.

Figuring that my major cooking days are behind me, I didn't succumb to my unrealistic dreams of a commercial type cook stove in aqua or British racing car green enamel; one requiring an additional mortgage. Besides we only had room and budget for 30" of range. Pity. So here it is, awaiting installation:

What's with the blue interior? There must have been a manufacturer's sale on cobalt blue porcelain enamel. And does anyone know what might be the difference, in how the stove functions, between the roast and bake settings? Can't find it in the instruction book. One of the stoves I looked at had a chicken nugget setting. Can you imaging cooking enough chicken nuggets to warrant their own setting?

And what is is about a new stove that makes you want to cook turkey?

That's my Gracee, she seems to love people and hate dogs. I blame it on a poor start in life, having been rescued, so to speak, when she was six months old. Our Gracee Mae never received early doggy socialization skills. No matter how hard we tried, her rough beginnings defeated our efforts.

During her first months with us, she paid regular visits to a doggie daycare in hopes of developing her social skills. This facility had two large rooms, the big dog room and the small dog room. George, a gigundous Mastiff, who belonged to one of my co-workers, was placed in the small dog room. Poor Georgie, only weeks old while in his brief small dog phase, was attacked by a larger dog at the park, leaving him a 160 pound chicken into his adult years. The staff respected his differences and permitted him to sit all day by the window, waiting for his mistress, shaking amongst the shihtzus and chihuahuas. Our Gracee, on the other hand, a 22 pound Scottswoman with a large personality, was placed in the big dog room. Probably not a good idea, but these were the experts. She grew up thinking she was a Great Dane in a Scottie body.

We loved her just the same, but we were cautious. On walks, when approached by other dogs, we'd politely inform the accompanying owner that she is "a does not get along well with others" creature. She has never hurt another dog, but her idea of four legged friendship involves snapping the air, teeth audibly clacking. When approached by humans, however, she turns to whimpering mush "Oh pet me, pet me," her wagging tail begs. Two legs = good. Four legs = watch out.

Eventually Amazin' Grace exhibited some semblance of obedience. While in our yard she was allowed to roam free until a growl indicated an approaching unleashed dog. She could sense them from half a block away, enough time to sternly warn her to stay. It worked, sort of, until Saturday night. Poor Ms. Grace, defied her orders of our friend who was watching her and antagonized an unleashed dog twice her size. She lost the fight.

Dog bites are nasty injuries and she has a matched set, one on each side. It causes difficulty laying down, so she nods off sleepily while sitting and jerks awake when she rolls onto her side in exhaustion. Poor girl, we think in sympathy. I hear the other dog's owner had apologized, but the truth is she brought it on herself.

Love that title, which it the slogan for Fire Island, NY. Hadn't been on the Island since grade school maybe, but not much has changed. No cars allowed, 8 mph speed limit for bikes. We stayed in Lonelyville, where the streets are boardwalks:

The view from the rooftop deck of the house where we stayed:

We walked to the lighthouse:

The island's essential services:

More Fire Island later. I needed some ".calm" when I accidentally pulled the needles out of my project, 80% done:

I did the same thing two East Coast trips ago, almost to the day. You think I would've learned.

My date with blogland, that is. Apologies for my tardiness.

Judging from the upswing in feedback, either more of you have returned from holidays or eating OCD struck a chord. I have more:

When I eat cherries, I inspect the bowl for a good one and save that one for last. In this house we call it ending on a good cherry. This habit has extended to other areas of life, going down a water slide or a ski run, for example. Not that I've been on skis since my ACL graft, give or take 10 years. I quit after a good run so I can end on a good cherry, so to speak.

This would be a knitting blog and that's the perfect activity for obsessively compulsive habits. I can think of a few. Ending after a complete row. Tough when you have 1000 stitches or so, as in a ruffled shawl. Weaving in ends as you go… Others?

I have this thing about serving lasagna, for example, or brownies. I cut them in neat straight lines. God help you if you cut on the diagonal or jaggedly in my kitchen. Is it my need for orderliness in a disorganized world? An excuse to eat just a little more to make it even? My family has quietly accepted this quirk.

Sitting at the dinner table the other night, eating corn on the cob, C says, "You know your thing about cutting in straight lines? I would never eat corn on the cob the way you do." I look at my corn, a couple of random bites taken out of the center. I look at his, neatly eaten like a typewriter, left to right. I'm surprised he doesn't say ding at the end of the row. He has a defined method of salting and buttering as well.

I view my husband as sort of a corn expert, growing up on a farm where it was grown. One of his family's stories involving his inviting a girl over to dinner and eating a dozen ears of corn. I wonder what she thought, this young man gnawing out a thesis of corn, typewriter style. And how have I lived with this man for nearly thirty years and not been aware of our fundamental corn differences?

So my question is simply, how do you eat your corn?

I have no corn pictures but this works well with corn. From my recent East Coast trip:

Mmm, mmm, mmm, I forgot how sweet Long Island steamers are. I'm sure there's some eating OCD associated with steamers. What parts don't you eat? How long do you swish them in the water to get the sand out? Lemon in the butter or squirted on top of the clams? I'll stop.

1975:

2010:

I don't know what it is about these pictures makes me so emotional. Rosie and I have known each other since 3rd grade and a lot of life has happened in the 35 years between these photos. Maybe that's it. All that potential, all that life experience. It's a bit overwhelming and I'm thankful we're friends. 

Holy St. Christopher, Batman, the plane only had 18 seats. Every seat an aisle seat and every seat had a window. Even the seaplane I've taken to Vancouver Island is twice the size.
That's what you get when you buy cash plus miles tickets. I figure the cash went to the real jet we had from Vancouver to Toronto and the miles were applied to the propellor job we took the rest of the way to a family East Coast trip. I momentarily considered a sitting meditative stance but I didn't want to unclench my intertwined hands or doubly crossed legs.
Half way into it, flying through yellow grey tinged storm clouds, the captain makes an announcement. Over the din of the engines I caught the gist. "Bad luck, folks……..bumps……..fasten seat belts." How do fluffy clouds produce such big bumps? I observe the pilot utilizing his "oh shit" handles. Comforting.
I've obviously lived to tell the tale, vowing different future travel arrangements, nerves assuaged by an astute sibling serving wine. Good times ahead. Stay tuned for
further vacation adventures. Apologies for IPad formatting difficulties.

I think I insulted the guys at my dinner table tonight when I commented that the sky was the best entertainment all evening:

Those were all in the same evening. It drove me crazy once, visiting Phoenix, where there were walls around single story homes. I need my distant orientation. My mountains and my sky.