Resurfacing

I went sub-level there for a while, but I'm happy to report that I'm back on the job, and ready to take over the world.  Or at least organize the sheep.

I've been on vacation, in a place that I used to think had internet and cell signals, but which for some reason didn't this time.  It's okay - turns out the world got along just fine without me.

I did some work:

A knitter in her natural habitat, captured by Phillip.  Those are shade cards from various Dream Yarn Factories, from which I get to shop for the designs in my new book.  I love my job.

I did some spinning:

My first cable-spun yarn!  It's a combination of Abstract Fiber "Mood Ring" and Ashland Bay "English Garden".  Four plies, two at a time. True Love. 

And I even did some knitting:

This piece defies photographing for some reason, but just believe me, it's way cool, and it's my first-ever Rowan pattern.  I made myself wait to start it until I was between "work knitting" projects, so it was the perfect thing to take on vacation. 

It's true what they say about all work and no play making us dull.  The only trouble is that I love my work so much it feels like play.  So not only is it hard to say when I'm done, it's darn hard to tell when I need a break.  Fortunately for me, I'm surrounded by people who aren't shy about telling me to get out of town.  Good thing I don't take it personally.
 

Was That Out Loud?

This is my first summer at home with Phillip and the kids.  It's a small house with no air conditioning, four people, two cats, several guppies and a scottish terrier, all attempting to pursue diverse goals, simultaneously.  We are holding up okay, but I think I'm starting to show signs of surface abrasion.  I keep hearing the most bizarre things coming out of my own mouth.  The others respond, without confusion.  This can only mean one of two things: 

1.  We have devolved as a microsociety into a parallel existence in which we think we are still using language to communicate, but actually are now mostly using clicks and grunts.

2.  Everyone has completely stopped listening to me and it wouldn't matter if I addressed them in Hebrew or Swahili because they react based on the thing I'm pointing at, rather than my words.

Examples of Things I can't Believe I've Heard Myself Say in the last 24 hours:

"Please don't poke a hole in the screen door with the vacuum cleaner."

"Remember to take the dead guppy that's in the freezer with you when you go to the pet store."

"Why is the house filled with flies?"

"I realize they are pretend nunchucks, but they still can hurt people."

"Honey wheat doughnuts are not health food."

"My knitting chair is covered in crumbs.  Which one of you decided it wasn't worth living anymore?"

"There are three bathrooms in this house.  This is only one of them.  You should explore the others."

"Please go find me the tire scrub brush so I can get the cottonwood off the screen door." 

"Isn't there someplace you're supposed to be right now?"

"Yes, but I don't think Tequila will freeze."

Ahh, Togetherness.  If any of you, Gentle Readers, are in need of a visit from a knitting teacher, kindly drop me a line?  Have Yarn.  Will Travel.

The Seat Of Power

Lindsay and I recovered the dining room chair seats.

We settled on a nice bumpy leather this time, tired as we are of trying to remove/keep spills off the old fabric covers.  We have had these chairs only about as long as we have had Lindsay (11 years), but this is already the 5th incarnation of their seats. 

I casually mentioned this to the man who measured out the new covering for us.  Without any prompting, he launched into a history of his family's dining room furniture, and its many maintenance challenges.  Mike, as it turns out, is the oldest of five children, whose mother recovered their dining room chair seats so often that he swore she could do it in her sleep.  It was his job to pull out the old staples each time, so his memories of the process are both clear and deeply etched.  I asked him what kind of dining room chairs he has now:  Molded plastic bar stools.  Lad seems to have retained the lessons of his youth.

Later that same day I was on the phone with a friend and mentioned our chair seat odyssey.  "Oh my gosh!" she said, "I'm doing that same project myself in a couple of days.  My mother visited last week and daintily spread a tea towel over the dining room chair seat before she would sit down." 

Seems to me that both mothers and dining chairs are universal: both purpose-driven, and both prone to getting smeared with gravy. 

I bet every single one of us has at least one memory of the dining room furniture of our youth, and the maintenance thereof.  Even Phillip, who can't remember my middle name, can tell you that the seats used to be blue when he was a kid, until they changed to green, and for some reason he never liked them as well after that.  I happen to know that in reality, the chair seats changed color the same year Phillip's parents divorced, and it was actually the family dining experience that he no longer liked as well.  Funny the way things are.

While we reupholstered, Lindsay and I had a conversation about why chair seats even matter in the first place.  I explained to her that there have been studies which show that children who regularly have dinner with their families get better grades, are healthier and happier than kids who don't.  If sitting down together has that much impact, the room we do it in deserves our special attention every now and then.

What I didn't tell her is that the memories she and her brother form of our daily bread and the time we spend together eating it are as important to me as their first days of school, our family vacations, or any other cherished thing.  Anybody who has had the great blessing of a home in which to live, and a dedicated space within it to share meals can tell you:  The true seat of power is the Dining Room Chair.