It's All in the Pacing

I nearly stepped on this little guy this morning on the way to the car.  The routine at my sister's house is different to the one I have at home, but strangely familiar.  In the mornings I drive Susie to the ferry instead of letting her walk.  It gives us 10 minutes together to compare notes each morning: 5 while we pour the coffee into travel mugs, and 5 in the car on the way to the boat.  So even though I'm still rushing around in the mornings, its a different kind of rush. 

Returning home, I saw that Gary (not his actual name) had slimed himself 2 whole tulips farther along the driveway than where I'd left him.  And it occurred to me that this small creature, house on back, snail-trail distribution system engaged, had his own morning commute to contend with.  For all I know, he has to be all the way to the mailbox by nine, or all the good bugs will be taken, and then it's nothing but work work work to find something for the little snail-lets to eat for lunch.  And of course, there's the talking to he'll get from Mrs. Gary:  "How hard can it BE, for pity sake?  I bust my shell around here all day to make a nice snail pit (nest? lair?) for you and the little ones, and all I ask is that you get out there and come home with a few lousy grubs, for crying out loud..."  Poor Gary.  And to think he almost never made it to the mailbox at all.  One inch closer and I'd have smashed him into an even slimier mess than he already is.  Funny he didn't stop to thank me, even when I came back to take his picture.

My mom's pace is different, too.  She has this four-wheel drive, walky-wheely thing that she shoves along in front of her as she goes now.  Her cane was no longer helping her as much as she needed, so on doctor's orders (A phrase she LOVES hearing me repeat, by the way), she now has Scooty.  I named her walky thing that in a feeble attempt to help her make friends with it.  Scooty is sometimes her friend (in that she has not fallen down lately), but mostly a pain in her ass.  Mom is not taking lightly to her new, more reserved land speed.  And I feel for her.  Once, while she was napping, I took Scooty out for a spin myself, hoping to better understand what it's like for her now.  I walked at the same speed I've seen her do.  I lifted each foot the same half-inch off the ground that she does.  I sat down and tried to use Scooty to pull myself up, using only the strength in my legs. 

And it Sucked.  All of it.  And it made me mad.  And I silently promised Mom not to use the phrase "Doctor's Orders" anymore.

So Gary, baby, I feel your pain.  Sometimes the destination IS the issue, not the sightseeing along the way.  Here's to all God's creatures getting where we need to, in the time we have to do it.

Godspeed, Gary.

 

No Man is an Island

But some knitters are.  Here at my sister's house, I'm surrounded by Muggles, Mortals, and Misfits:  Not a knitter in the bunch, save yours truly.

The other night I finished a mitten and held it up with pride for those assembled to admire.  I knew better than to do this, but just like a dog turning around three times before laying down, it is flatly impossible for me to finish a knitted item and not hold it up to show those around me "Lookit what I made!".  Postal employees, the gang in line at the pharmacy, and even gas station attendants have been witness to this behavior from me.  And they all manage to say something nice, even if it's because they're afraid of provoking the weirdo with the pointy needles in her fists.

Not so, my family.

My nephew Adam said the mitten looked like a barbecue oven mitt.

My sister Susan, assuming the object she had just stuffed her hand into was some sort of sub-par hand puppet, suggested that Googly-Eyes might help its looks.

My niece Sarah at least liked the color, which was welcome enthusiasm, but had to recommend that more fingers be added, since she was very sure that gloves always have separate compartments for each digit.  I explained that it was a mitten, and as such, has only one separate compartment, for the thumb, so all the others are forced to share.  I should have anticipated her response:

"So how can you knit with these on?"

God I miss Knit Nite.

Mobile Office

The view from my desk has changed somewhat:

The beautiful and mysterious Puget Sound, as seen from the living room of my sister's house, where my Mom lives, and where the international HQ of Mary Scott Huff Hand Knitter is located today.

The accommodations are luxurious, here on the floor of the spare room:
 

That's the trusty pink laptop, stationed on a commandeered occasional table, which is only about 18" high.  That means that I'm working sitting on the floor.  Deluxe Ergonomics notwithstanding, I'm lucky to be able to pack up the whole works and take my show on the road.

My mom has had a bout with some sort of mystery infection which landed her in the hospital (Thank you, God for the availability of health care).  Now that she's back at home, the siblings and I thought we could all rest better if somebody were with her during the day, while she recuperates.  Being the only one whose job is portable, I volunteered to hang with the Mom.  Nice work, if you can get it.  Scenery is kinda nice, even if the weather isn't.  And of course, the company's hard to beat. 

The funny thing about packing up the yarn studio and office gear is the certain knowledge that whatever I did bring, I won't need, and the mathematical certainty that the most important thing I could possibly require has been left behind:

Umbrella Swift and Heavy-Duty Ball-Winder?  Brought 'em.  Archived digital charts from the sweater I designed for Lindsay's fourth birthday that I'm retooling to submit for publication this week?  Whereabouts Unknown.  Probably on some unlabeled USB drive in the bottom of a desk drawer at home.  Bother.  But of course, that's exactly how it had to happen. 

I'm telling myself it's a fun adventure:  What will we do today?  Propped Mom up in front of the laptop with me so she could watch the remote diagnosis while a technician in parts unknown removed a virus.  She was mesmerized while I explained that another person three-quarters of the way around the world was moving my mouse.  Lucky for me, Mom's a good sport, not to mention a cheap date.  Later we have plans for her to watch me knit a mitten.  Somebody stop us before the excitement launches into overdrive.

I thought you'd like to know that the knitting is under control, and the universe remains unchanged, even though the office has relocated.  If you need an update, search the skies for my Bat Signal.  It's a big ball of yarn, silhouetted against the night sky.  Then just check in with me, here at Headquarters.