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By the Seat of My Pants

Posted on November 24, 2010 by K

A long but, you know, fascinating and timely argument:

On the way out to Santa Fe, I went through the usual security checks – I took off my coat and shoes and put them in a tray. I removed my computer from my bag and put that in a tray. I also removed my ziplock bag of less than 6 ounce semi-liquids and put them in a tray – and I sent all of these trays and my carry-on bags down a moving belt, through an x-ray machine (x-rays? Really? How Buck Rogers of them) to make sure I had no life-threatening devices about me. Then I walked through a metal detector, collected my things, reassembled them and went on my merry way.

When I checked my other bag, full of unnatural autumn leaves, berries, birds and small pumpkins and fruit (for the making of wreaths) – along with a small bit of floral wire, a wrapped present or two and a load of new baby clothes—all very carefully packed because some of these things were fragile, I warned the bag checkers that I had weird stuff in there. They assured me the bag would be fine, so I left it with them.

When I got to the other end of that trip, I found that the bag had been searched, the things inside shifted, sifted through. The largest present, which I had put on the very bottom because its weight might crush all the autumn things, had evidently been opened, paper torn and crumpled. And they had put it right on top of the fragile stuff when they were finished. So all my care in packing was undone.

I was pretty ticked when I figured out what had happened.

On the way back home a week later, I had a different experience with TSA, the U.S. group responsible for airport security. Instead of having me go through the metal detector, this time they made me stand in this glass cubical, my feet on a set of white footprints, painted on the floor. The position they asked me to take was unnatural and weirdly disturbing.

“Is this that scan?” I asked, because I truly didn’t know. It could have been just another odd New Mexico thing, an artistic version of the metal detector. “Yes,” the man told me. But by that time, they were finished. And I came out the other side, all before I’d even had time to consider how I felt about going through it.

But here’s the thing: each and every inconvenience I had gone through—and it’s all very inconvenient—had a purpose: these people were trying to make sure I made it to my daughter’s house without being blown up.

Simple as that.

A couple of pretty outrageous stories about the TSA have been circulating in the last couple of weeks, fomenting some kind of grass-roots rebellion: US citizens are being subject to outrageous indignities by an overbearing government. Yeah, well. Every time you accept protection from harm – whether it be at the hands of parents, police, church leaders or God himself—it’s going to chafe a little, isn’t it?

All of these stories are about the body scanner. One of them has the added feature of a little boy with a metal safety pin in his clothing. In the story, the TSA agent announces, after the metal detector has gone off, that he has to search the child—picks him up, and immediately carries him away while the mother is restrained and left behind. I will go on record as saying that the unacceptable element in that procedure was not in the searching of the child, but in the separation of child from mother. Absolutely, seriously, violently unforgivable.

A person I am interested in protecting.

But I am wondering this: can there really be a single person living on this planet naïve enough to believe that the enemy who has put us all in this awkward and distressing position would not, in fact, blow up a little child just to make a point? Or that the enemy cannot be any race, dress in the conventional clothes of any country at all—that he or she can be recognized by sight alone?

Call me crazy, but I don’t want to be traumatized or atomized when I travel. Paying for the ticket, and then for a bad sandwich, and knowing they don’t clean the seats between trips anymore is trauma enough. Being personally assaulted and then blown up is kind of at the top of my unacceptable list.

First, may I say that the scan thing—while it’s personally uncomfortable to have to stand in their prescribed manner, and while I do worry about the radiation involved—is really no big deal. It’s not like somebody is going to be sitting in some secret office, getting jollied up over pin-up-poster images of me. (pin ups of me – LOTFRWL.) The images they see are hardly personal. And I just don’t care that they see the outline of my body.

Again, remember—there are people out there who want to blow me up. People who are crazy, violent, full of hatred and ingenuity. People who don’t even know me personally.

I don’t want them to do it.

I want somebody to check us all for hidden explosives and weapons. I think, considering the past few years’ world experience, that checking carefully for these things is a really good idea.

Other lives that deserve to be protected.

I place the blame on this: a perverted sense of religious duty, and behind that, a sick and evil obsession with power. And I’m not talking about the US government or the French government or any other that insists on airport security measures in this world.

Let me say that I truly believe what I believe about the universe, and that I’m pretty certain that, even if you share my particular general belief system, you and I do NOT believe the exact same thing.

I will submit this: I believe that there are as many concepts of God out there as there are people who believe in God at all. That concepts of God are complex things—a mixture of scriptural reports (mostly fuzzy at best), our own needs and fears and hopes, our experiences with authority (starting with our own fathers), our cultural contexts, and well-meaning paintings done by people who have never actually seen God.

I believe that there is a God. A real one. And he knows exactly who he is. But that we can only guess, through a life-time’s experience, at his true nature and face. Which hardly makes any one of us a total expert.

I also believe that every single person has to deal with this guessing, and is entitled to think what he or she will during the process of guessing—which could, and probably should, take your whole life long. Entitled—but only up to a point; if your belief includes a God who will cheerfully slap you on the back and hand out sexual partners (willing ones??) and real estate as a reward for your murder of any and all people who don’t believe what you believe, then I pretty much consider you criminally insane.

Period.

And how about this one?

The ridiculous part of all of this:

The God I believe in doesn’t need the help of a bunch of fanatics to clean out the gene pool for him. He is perfectly capable of dropping a mountain on your head if he finds your presence on the planet too annoying to ignore. And he’s very good at floods and earthquakes and planetary fire-storms when he wants to be.

Which seems to be hardly ever.

The important part of all of this:

The God I believe in seems content to allow all of his children to blunder through their lives, making mistakes, trying to discover the meaningful truth, even when the mistakes end up hurting other people. He allows us to police ourselves as we learn and grow to limit harm. Because the learning process is the point of our being here.

Do these fanatic murderers, then, believe in a helpless, limp-wristed God? Which is interesting because they don’t seem to believe in a loving God who is crippled and bound by his sense of mercy, either.

Like I say, I believe that none of this is actually about religion—except that religion is the pawn here. It’s about power. World domination. Greed. And manipulation. From what we’ve seen, the actual people used to terrorize the rest of us seem to be people who don’t really understand the religion they are being asked to serve. Because they don’t seem to have read their entire cannon of scripture—only the exciting parts. And if 9/11 is any indication, these people don’t even live their own religion, really. If they did—avoiding alcohol, staying sexually honest—maybe they’d be too busy to run around killing the rest of us.

No. I don’t think this is about belief. And the puppet masters must chuckle to themselves at night, so pleased to think of how much power they have over their fellow creatures.

This is my religion: life has meaning. I believe that we were once elemental beings, dedicated to what we were in the way that an atom of silver is dedicated to be an atom of silver. It always behaves like silver. It doesn’t have a choice. It is what it was created to be. And we, being creations of God, (called: His children), were what we were, stuck in the eternal nature in which we had been framed.

But for our Father, this was not enough for us. He wanted us to be more.

And this one?

He made a planet for us, and designed eco-systems and laws of physics: a sort of campus for us, complete with entrance requirements and rules of engagement. And sent us here, where we wear the suits that suit the environment, with computers in our heads outfitted with a basic operating system. But the computers are self-programming (not artificial intelligence. Real intelligence in its highest and purest form).

(By the way, these are not the words and images typical of my own religious philosophy—I’m rendering that philosophy in my own odd way, here.)

Because he wanted us to be Real Boys. So the point of all of this planetary experience is our growth and self-discovery. He takes off the obligations of our elemental nature and says, “Find out what you really are. Make choices. Choose your behavior.” (Can you imagine the chaos in the universe if all atoms were allowed to decide how many electrons they wanted to carry?) “But make sure,” he adds with serious firmness, “that you respect each other and take care of each other. Cause no harm as you make your choices during your time here. And don’t waste your time. Love me, so that you will learn to love each other. Because only in doing this will you become real.”

And with that, he set us free to scurry around on the planet, creating chaos.

Because only in freedom can each man discover his own true nature.

If someone forces you to pray, tells you who to worship, threatens you with pain and death for failure in these things—will your “religion” be real? I can’t see how. Only in choosing it. Choosing one set of behavioral rules over another—generosity in place of the basic greed of the operating system, for instance—sacrifice instead of self protection—do you actually become something to the core. Only in trying and failing and trying again can you discover what you really are, what you really want.

And at the end of our lives, will we go through a scanner of sorts—something that will show us a very clear image of what we have, by our own choices, become? A mirror that is relentless and brutally accurate: the truth of our own behaviors and nature.

If people are not allowed to live through their lives, how can they finish this process?

But even while I say this, I admit that in policing ourselves, there are times when the earth-behavior of some people, people who cause chaotic harm, has to be limited. Arbitrary harm cannot be allowed. It just can’t. It’s a matter of balance. Always balance – and mercy and justice factor into these things.

So maybe this is the real result of all this searching and screening at the airport: to make us sit down and consider the very fundamentals of “right” and “wrong.” To ask us to think about how important our lives are—and other peoples’ lives are, how that importance balances with a little inconvenience and indignity. And to police those who believe they should have the power to decide whether whole ranks of other people should be allowed to live or not.

You know, we really do live in strange times.

And you can hardly blame the TSA for that.

Posted in Epiphanies and Meditations, Explanations, IMENHO (Evidently not humble), Just talk | Tagged flying, life, religion, security, the universe, TSA | 24 Comments

~:: Déjà vu ::~

Posted on November 21, 2010 by K

I have sold myself into service; into slavery have I given myself up:

to a pair of dark puzzled eyes,

to a pair of bluish-greenish-grayish eyes,

to great round eyes filled with a roguish and innocent delight.

Children – the delivering of them, the bringing up of them, the providing and guarding and training of them – not for the fainthearted; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

the patient Sully

The desire to provide for them never goes away, even when they are grown. But it’s a complex thing, taking care for someone else – sometimes you give delights, sometimes the providing is best done by withholding what you could have given. Thinking—it takes constant analytical thought—factoring in spirits and personalities, needs, wants, fears.

The first little animal I ever made, knitted in the round – requested by Gin for Max from Itty Bitty Toys by Susan B Anderson.

Each little animal in the book is made to be sleepy, and the patterns include a blanket so that the child can bundle up the sleepy buddy.

Gin crocheted her own blanket, and the first thing Max wanted to do was button the puppy up snuggly.

Do you offer safety or risk? Relief or challenge? It all depends on the child – the mind and the moment.

Here is what I noticed this morning as I was trotting my mile and a half along the gravel roads of Gin’s area of Santa Fe:

while I am a tree and fern and grass and bright creek sort of person, I am still taken by the sweep of sky and hill and mountain of this desert place. At home, they keep snatching farmland and throwing up developments – one house sitting in the other’s back pocket. That happens as cities grow, a thing that seems almost cancerous to me. The soul needs views – to remind itself of its smallness.

Gin’s present house.

But the sky inevitably disappears, the mountains over-layed by rooflines. In places where there are forests, you don’t often see the mountains in the distance, but in valleys like ours – you should be able to see them— and the whole arching mystery of distance and sky. Tall buildings are going up downtown, now. The city calls this progress, a word of which I find I am not over-fond, and that I appreciate mostly in reference to medicine and technology.

And you end up with artists for neighbors – houses with studios semi-attached. Bronze statues in the front yard.

At the end of progress, shouldn’t we human types find ourselves more gentle, less intrusive? An enhancement of beauty rather than an interruption? I like the thought of human impact as being care taking and almost invisible – but government has pretty much proven that those two things seem to be mutually exclusive.

Anyway, what I’m saying is that I like the way that, in this part of New Mexico at least, the restrictive covenants insist that the houses remain traditional, and that they not intrude on the vista in any way taxing to the soul.

——-=0=——-

Well, I’ve cleaned out the dishwasher, caught up with the laundry (not really – this is what we hear very often around this house: “Really? You just pooped? AGAIN???” So there’s always a little pile of changing pads and washcloths waiting beside the washer); we’ve wrapped presents and made wreaths and played cars and magically transformed boys into dogs and gone to Karate and eaten well and slept poorly. And I have almost finished what is probably the last pumpkin hat I will ever make (that makes them collectable, you know – and most valuable for their peculiar flaws).

proof that I was here

It’s been a great week.

But now I have left my daughter behind.

I wonder how I did it.

Posted in Family, Gin, Journeys, Knit Stuff, Making Things, The g-kids, The kids, Visits | Tagged Ginna, knitting, Max, sadness, Sandy, Santa Fe, work | 26 Comments

~: The heart of it :~

Posted on November 17, 2010 by K

I’m in Santa Fe.

Wait. Was that a twit? Am I twittering?

#1. I’m getting off the plane in Santa Fe.

#2. I’m walking down the concourse, looking for the baggage claim. (Later, I would find that TSA had SEARCHED my bag, rearranging all the contents and generally squishing and messing everything up. Searching is fine. Squishing and tearing are not.)

#3. My person, along with my carry-on and my great, full of squished things orange bag, is being forcibly sucked out of the concourse into Fiesta Gifts (the most dangerously seductive airport shop I have EVER seen).

#4. I am picked up on the curb by two VERY handsome male people – a dentist and a goof.

End of twit.

——-=0=——

Here is part of the reason I came:

The light in Santa Fe: the view from my room.

And from the front windows.

But here is the heart of it:

The beautiful, tired mama and her friend, Sandy.

He’s wearing the suit his Aunt Chaz found for him: luckily, it has scratch-proof hands on it.

The many faces of the duck-footed baby.

He is a very sober, philosophical kind of person when his eyes are open.

Mama ties on Max’s gee (is that how you spell it, Chaz?) –

Eyes open, but not too sure about what he’s seeing.

Eh? Come again?

And that’s why I came. After all, I had to bring him this:

Are you grinning? I am.

Posted in Gin, Images, Knit Stuff, Pics of Made Things, The g-kids, The kids, Visits | Tagged Gin, knitting, light, Max, pumpkin hat, Sandy, Santa Fe | 30 Comments

:: Introducing . . . ::

Posted on November 14, 2010 by K

We still have two fun children left (the other two being stodgy grown-ups with children and responsibilities of their own), so last week, we took the Fun Ones to Disneyland. We have been waiting to go to Disneyland for the whole two years our M was in Argentina, and everybody else was supposed to go with us, too. And we’d have taken the others very happily – yes, even the stodgy ones. Except they all decided to have babies instead.

I cannot tell you how insane the last three weeks (??? years????) have been.

One of the new babies considerately came at the end of June. But the other one kept hanging around and hanging around, growing bigger and rosier by the minute – a baby about five years in the making. At least, desired for that long.

The trip to LA, as I have said, had been planned for a couple of years. For this October. But then Chaz had to go and get a job at a costume company (where they actually add about one hundred employees during the month of October to handle their load). So that month was out of the question. The first week of November was our next choice. But it seems that Pixar likes to visit BYU that week, and we couldn’t miss that. So we chose the second week of November, which – it turns out – was the exact week our second baby had chosen for its ETA.

So going to Disneyland turned out to be a race. A race between a mouse and a baby. And happily for us, the mouse won. (I will roll film at six—which means i’m saving some pictures for later). On Friday night, we got home, breathless, laughed out, pigged out, worn out. The puppies and house were still alive and in place (thank you, Luke), the horses were sassy and fat (thank you beloved Rachel), and the kids helped us haul in the bags and baggage and coolers and sacks and loose coats and shoes and whatever before they dispersed to their own abodes. There was still no sign of the promised baby.

Which meant that, at this point, I came hard up against the distance-mother’s dilemma: when do you finally buy a ticket and fly to the side of your watermelon sized daughter’s side, once the due date has been breached? Do you go now and risk having to come home before a two-week late baby finally puts in an appearance? Or do you wait for a sign and drive straight to the airport, only too late? Whatever you do, you end up buying an airplane ticket (another twelve hour drive didn’t appeal, somehow) at the last possible minute, which means for the top possible dollar. (Oh, the specials I had seen roll by in the last many weeks.)

So I made my reservations, flying blind – for Monday morning (that’s tomorrow if you are reading this today). They were kind of awkward reservations at very bad times for being picked up, because everything was, per force, still up in the air: if the baby still hadn’t come, if someone had to be induced, if the little soul decided to drop in at just the hour my plane landed—if, if, if . . .

I told my father about all of this and he just chuckled. “Yes,” he said in a sort of faraway voice. “I remember your mother going through this so many times – ”

Saturday, I packed for Santa Fe. And then started trying to catch up the stuff I would have done at home over the next week: did the laundry and half unpacked, found the Christmas lights and tested them and wrapped some things for Ginna and ran some errands and thought long and heavily about the Thanksgiving feast and the great cleaning before the feast and what day we’d have to celebrate – working around the allied families. And when it was five thirty, my phone began ringing downstairs. Gin’s ring. Buried in the pocket of my pasture coat.

Guy got it. I heard his voice as I ran down the hall. “They’re going!” he yelled. They were on their way to the hospital – going very fast. So we started jumping around and bumping into walls and after another hour finally settled down to watch a movie. When – there was a twinkly text-ish sound. Again from my phone (I had to figure out what it was because I don’t text). And on the screen it said: “This is IT.” A flurry of emails immediately shot out of my computer into the world – to my dad and sister and brother, and dear friends: “THIS IS ITTTTT!!!” And I made a short, enigmatic status update: WOOO HOOOOO!!!!

Within another forty minutes, another text: “It’s a BOY!!!” Which was a surprise (I coulda sworn we had another girl coming). And a great deal more jumping around and hollering and a whole new flurry of messages passing back and forth. One of them was the fresh-off-the-press family stats page from my sister, the new Sandy-boy appended.

Which brings me to the promised introduction:

ANNOUNCING to those I hold dear:

The SANDY-boy: nine pounds and two ounces at his very first appearance, and twenty-one inches long. And his beautiful mother and brother. His father, whose medical creds got him into the maternity ward, but luckily were not put to the maternity test in the back seat of the car, was behind the camera.

You know, if Kris had just had the baby instead, there’d be a lot more pictures by now. Darn it.

Posted in Events, Family, Gin, The g-kids, The kids | Tagged birth, Disneyland, flying, Gin, Sandy | 34 Comments

Posted on November 7, 2010 by K

That thing? That <:)B thing? It’s supposed to be a turkey. Yeah. I’m really good at this keyboard art biz – . Home, on the couch, nursing a felty throat.

In answer to and in solidarity with a few other hearty, determined souls, I am writing about Thanksgiving. (I already know you won’t follow the links. Only about two of you ever do – bless the two curious and adventuresome souls of you.)

the curious mix of celebrations on my table

Prelude:

I don’t mind buying Christmas presents early – and I did it for years when the children were little, starting in the summer, on our vacations—vacuuming up little souvenirs to remind us later of the year’s delights. I’m the kind of person who loves to see a mound of brightly colored paper wrapped boxes under the tree – not because of the things in them, but because I love the feeling and the look of it. So I used to buy packages of underwear and wrap each piece separately.

Now that the kids are older (and buy their own underwear – it happens, it really does -), I don’t buy anything early because the gift giving has become something more serious: no more little toys. I want to give my children something that will surprise and delight them, and that will be meaningful and soul relieving, as the gift of Christ is to me. And immediacy of need or desire factors into the hunt.

Fading autumn. Glorious golden light at end of day.

On Christmas morning, and all through that brave season, we talk of Christ, we talk about his birth, his sacrifice – and Santa plays only the part of someone trying to make the world better for children in need. The children were only allowed to submit “lists” for someone else, never for themselves. And when we opened things on Christmas morning, it was one at a time, with everyone else watching and exclaiming – and we opened things and played with them. So it was all day around the tree, playing and talking and being together. No phones. No business. Just us.

What I’m saying is, Christmas does factor into my thinking all year, though not as early now as once was.

And that’s what I have to say about that.

The sad thing is that Thanksgiving is just as festive – if not more so: a gathering of family, great food, a shiny table groaning with color and opulence AND football. And certainly, the celebration is meaningful – without all the political brou-ha-ha that comes with what should be a totally religious celebration of Christmas. But the turkey-and-dressing fete ends up being swept under the rug because the nature of the holiday doesn’t give the merchant a heck of a lot of scope for making his bottom line. If the gift-makers had just pushed Thanksgiving as a time for exchanging gifts, we’d be hearing gobbler music in the mall in early September, and people dressed in turkey suits would be dropping out of helicopters into mall parking lots all over the country.

Yeah. When I put it that way, I’m almost glad that Thanksgiving flies under the radar.

The truth is, Thanksgiving is one of the most important holidays the US has. Just as my friend Dawn says in her blog, gratitude is one of the deepest, most essential elements of a deep and resounding life. Without it, we are nothing but little origami creatures, folded by circumstance and hollow of heart – quick to be consumed, easily ash. When we can see that our lives are indeed a gift, that so much of our ease and our access to beauty is an unlikely and largely unearned (by ourselves) luxury, then perhaps we can be more likely to look around and see what needs to be done, to fill holes in other lives.

And it might never occur to us that the word, “deserve” might belong to us.

Hallowe’en: the morning after.

Halloween and our tradition of Christmas can too easily teach children mostly about “getting” – and root in the kids the beginnings of that feeling of entitlement – expecting treats and safety from want in the way of people-fed bears. This is one of the essential character cancers that has been so damaging to the US culture.

And that’s a shame, because what Christmas is really all about is surprise—and rescue and relief and praise and glory and gratitude for UNEARNED gifts given to us at great cost to someone else. And about our power to sacrifice and give in our own small spheres.

I am not in love with the pilgrims. They were a grim and determined lot who would, I think, be very surprised that we ascribe to them attributes of religious tolerance. They were in no way tolerant. They had rejected the traditional and political religious tenor of their times and replaced it with a no-nonesense brand of their own. They’d have thrown all of us in the fire by now if we’d paraded our present concept of “tolerance” in front of them.

But they, at least, felt it was important to live your faith – not to compromise about things that would destroy the strength and effectiveness of their little colonies – that would end up weakening families and character and leading to the dissolution of culture. But kindness, color, music and joy are largely absent in our tales of these people. I wonder what they were really like?

Certainly, we celebrate their wisdom: they stopped in the middle of the harvest, invited uncomfortable friends to the table, counted their blessings – and saw them as blessings, not as their due. And they gave thanks. Too many times these days, we are far more like all those lepers Christ healed who, in their sudden health, rejoiced and ran away into new lives without even turning around to say thanks. The pilgrims, in this act of Thanksgiving, were turning around.

You don’t even have to be Christian to turn around. All you have to do is thank somebody. Look around and see what you owe for the quality of your everyday life. Even if you are beaten and neglected, unsatisfied and worn down – the very fact that water goes down a toilet, and that you don’t have to live with mounds of the material it carries away, festering in your backyard – that’s a miracle few in the world enjoy. And who is responsible for that miracle? Or for the lights that go on, magically, at the flip of a switch? Or the clean water that comes surging out of every faucet in your weather-tight house?

Certainly, we don’t make these things happen for ourselves

But I tend to think of less earthy miracles – and thank the God who gave me these two cameras, set in my face, that allow me to experience color and depth and the faces of love. Whatever God we recognize, do we not owe that personage (those personages?) a moment’s thought? A bit of amazed contemplation about a being who not only gives us life, and designs beauty as a great part of it – but who offers us love? And meaning? And a table upon which we can offer those life-sustaining gifts we are allowed to coax out of the ground?

Or even just a thank you to the garbage guy? Or the person who gave you a job? Or to the person who just cleaned out the dishwasher? Or gave you a prescription for antibiotics? Or inoculated your dog against rabies? Or is teaching your kids how to add numbers? Or who loves you even though you are NOT that easy to live with?

There is great scope for silence here. For amazement. For sharing. Maybe for shame – of our I-don’t-have-enough and I-don’t-wanna-share knee-jerk lives?

Thanksgiving quilt. c. 199 – I don’t remember. The funny blue shape is our house. The turkeys came out of a book called Little Quilts. Can’t remember the author. I’ll look it up if you like. The rest of the designs – applique and piecing – are mine.

So yeah. I guess what I’m saying is, before we start plopping our kids in the lap of he-who-cares-if-you-want-a-train, maybe it would be very wise to stop. And think. A space of quiet. Of prayer – or its equivalent in less religious contexts. A consideration of the fact that there can be no greater gift than life, and no more appropriate response than turning around to look back. And no more fitting thanks than to offer what we can to others.

I’m just sayin’.

Posted in Epiphanies and Meditations, holidays, IMENHO (Evidently not humble), Just talk | Tagged Christmas, meaning, Thanksgiving | 28 Comments

::! Fame !::

Posted on October 31, 2010 by K

If you were watching the World Series Halloween night (sorry, Rangers), you saw my sister on National TV!! They were doing a Fox news Happy Halloween thing, shooting a bunch of trick-or-treaters knocking on a door – AND IT WAS MY SISTER’S HOUSE. My sister’s voice has now been heard over global TV wishing everybody a happy Halloween! How cool is that?

Of course, I missed it.

Posted in Fun Stuff, holidays | Tagged Halloween, Kev, TV, World Series | 17 Comments

~;;~ Some Haunting Images ~;;~

Posted on October 31, 2010 by K

As I have mentioned before, my mom used to sew up our Halloween costumes. I remember the cat one, which I loved, but I don’t remember any others; there might be movies of us on Halloween, but my parents weren’t big on still cameras. I remember the huge Raggedy Ann and Andy costumes my parents hauled out when they were asked to parties – I hated those things. They smelled like burlap and I found them disturbing. Parents were supposed to stay themselves, not turn into gigantic burlap dolls.

We didn’t buy costumes. My mom was a practical, thrifty woman and thought less of her time than of a dollar. So there must have been other costumes; I just can’t remember. When I grew up and had children, I guess I was even thriftier – having neither time nor money, what with three kids under four (the impact of those first few years lasted decades) and a new business to keep afloat.

Whatever Cam chose, it was always something that allowed him to do a lot of growling. An alter ego? Gin, too, here – going for the scary. We are not a gifted in scary bunch. Well, I was – when I was teaching high school (she said, and settled back with that smug look of power gone wrong). This is 1984. Our eldest is 4.

But we had something far more magical even than homemade costumes: we had a costume box. It was a collection of odd bits, clothes saved by grandmothers (fancy stoles, old dresses, lots of costume jewelry) or G and me (his hippy-musician days stuff, my when-I-was-young clothes) or picked up along the way. And there were a couple of hand me down costumes that came from G’s side.

1986

So every Halloween, the kids went digging in the box and came up with their own new identities. We supplied the make up: face paint, moustaches. And the some of the props: pirate swords, space blasters, western hats. They supplied the character – and they knew who they wanted to be.

1987

Chaz has a whole closet full of costumes now, and is the consulting designer for the extended family. And I have found myself buying the dang cutest on-sale costumes ever for grandchildren I didn’t even have yet. Scooter is the perfect size for one of these right now. He won’t wear it, of course.

The celebration falls on such a chancy time of year – this year, as in many past, we have rain and it’s cold out there. But I’m not walking little ones around anymore. Inside, dry and warm as toast.

1988

Exterioralized (which is not a word) alter egos.

I kind of miss the hail-fellow-well-met you feel, walking around the neighborhood and seeing your people pass, gaggles of ghosts herded along in front of them. We live in the coolest place – a real neighborhood, with people we’ve known since our family started. Now we get the kids coming back with their own kids. I wanted the ghost to talk again this year, but it’s not going to happen. Still, I think I’m scary enough at the door all by my own self.

More glowing squashes. Firewood on the porch.

Modern day: the Flash. Guess who?

Oh, wait!! She’s being chased by Nightcrawler!!!! (also played by Chaz)

The non-scary porch, now sans firewood (gas burning free standing stove. Hotcha!)

Across the street, Jeri’s stunning golden leaves, bright against their dark trunk and encroaching firs.

And finally (until I go take pictures of Cam’s fam), the Beauteous Arwen Undomiel, also played by Chaz. She’s way versatile.

I shot this and the following last night. We trick or treat on Saturday night around here when Halloween falls on a Sunday.

I went out into the goopy, drippy, scary night to take pictures of C and L and the two small munchkins. I climbed the porch steps, knocked, and then waited. And waited. And then – ACK! The JACK’O’LANTERN started talking to me. That’s what I get for bringing up children in a house that sports a talking ghost. “Have you seen my ship?” it asked. And then I looked in the big front window, and there, floating in the middle of their dark living room, was a ghost ship. It was rocking gently in very liquid water, the sails flapping in a breeze I did not feel. And that’s what I get for raising a son with a video camera in my hand. He and his partners had made this looped film, built it from the ground up for just this night.

The ship was actually projected onto their green wall (as you see here, behind the ninjas). Scooter chose his own costume (after seeing his father’s – fathers beware!!). You will note that he is NOT wearing the lion I bought for him two years before he was born. Sheesh.

Ninja hung with several glow-sticks.

It was very dark last night, so I had to shoot with flash. The pictures, therefore, were kinda dull – you know how the flash washes out everything and makes everything in the background look stark and unfriendly. So I took the fam out of the original shots in the entry and I put them where they belonged – with the lovely ship. A composite, of course, which I wouldn’t bother telling you, except for the showing off element.

L, the piratess.

Piratess with pumpkin daughter and Ninja men.

Late afternoon – just throwing these in because there was a sort of eerie glow to the air and the yard, just before the storm really came in. I don’t know if you can feel it – hard to shoot.

The glow is easier to see here. So that was our Halloween. We did not run out of treats (which I thought we would – even given the rain). The dogs did not enjoy the fete at all – spent the whole evening locked into their kennels, foiled for the moment: and they had so hoped to take a bite out of each flavor of door-knocking monster –

Posted in A little history, Family, Fun Stuff, holidays, Images, Seasons, The kids | Tagged Autumn, costumes, Halloween, kids, ninja, pirate ship, pumpkins | 42 Comments

Just Wait Five Minutes

Posted on October 29, 2010 by K

Our dependable world:

October 22: Box Elder leaves just starting to turn yellow. Some down. Usually, at this time of year, our whole yard goes stunningly yellow and stays that way till the first of November. I was anticipating that and the lovely pictures I could take of it. And the wondrous yellow snow we’d get if the Indian Summer breezes started to blow.

October 25th: morning after the sudden storm. It’s cold, and the leaves have fallen before they even changed, really.

October 28th: as you can see, suddenly, winter. And the leaves that are left are still pretty green. Very cold. It’s been this way all year – unnaturally cold or warm in the transitions, then a sudden snap and suddenly HEAT. Or cold.

View outside my front bedroom window on the 22nd.

On the 25th

On the 28th. Sheesh

I mean, the first snow can be exciting – but not when it takes the leaves prematurely. There’s a life metaphor in there somewhere.

Yeah. I’m not feeling uber philosophical about this. Snow, snow go away, come again some time after Thanksgiving . . .

Now, here’s a pitiful question-of-the-day: I have said before that I really see a blog as the seed of a conversation, or several conversations. Thus, I answer all the comments with my whole attention. But I am wondering if anybody actually reads my answers – because it takes some time and thinking, and if nobody really does read the dang things, i could be knitting horses or cleaning out the dishwasher instead. I have no way of ascertaining this except asking the question. So I am.

Posted in Images, Seasons, whining | Tagged leaves, snow | 43 Comments

~;;~ Part Four: the other thing I made ~;;~

Posted on October 27, 2010 by K

It finally occurred to me that knitting yard into shapes could yield something perhaps more functional than horses. (Is there really anything more functional than horses?) I hate making clothes. Sewing them always left me unsatisfied (does it fit? Kind of.) And knitting them? Yeah. Not with my attention span. But hats? Baby hats? Perfect. And it’s Autumn here. And I’d seen all these clever foodish hats at Farmers’ Market.

I wanted to make a pumpkin hat. First I wanted a jack’o’lantern one, but you have to put those kinds of things away at the end of October. Thanksgiving is plenty pumpkiny in my book – so I set out to find the perfect pattern. And, after long and delightful searching, I did. I found it. And I made it. I used a mostly acrylic with a nice hand to it, figuring babies mean a lot of washing, and I made mistakes. But I loved it anyway, and on Game Day, gave it to my first granddaughter, as you will see in the three thousand pictures that follow. Really, this kid is pretty darned cute. So this is a short piece – you can just zoom through.

How the Hat Turned Out

First we were in the basement, watching the game, and the light was low.

Oh – wait – is that football? Oooooooooo —

Then we moved upstairs where there’s a north window. Cam set up a little white board environment. Nice to work in.

Could I have had any more fun?

Now you can look at the hat (with its mistakes).

Yeah, I think she likes it.

*******

Lorri sent me these two shots today:

First this one, in which Baby Sister ( known from now on as Bss) looks like a Muppet dancing against a black screen –

And later this: evidence that thievery is going on in their household, and I’m afraid I’m going to be forced to repeat myself:

Ah, Scooter, I’ve known you of old . . . (allusion?)

Posted in Images, Knit Stuff, Making Things, Pics of Made Things, Seasons, The g-kids | Tagged baby, hat, knitting, on Flickr">, pumpkin | 28 Comments

~;;~ Part Three: one thing I have made ~;;~

Posted on October 27, 2010 by K

You do realize that my decorative marks up there are little bats, right? And I will tell you that we woke up to snow on the roof this morning. Ack. And sigh. But a white roof justifies an extra hour or two with book in hand.

I’m reading an Alexander McCall that takes place in Scotland. I was explaining to the fam how this series is like the #1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (the series I prefer) in that the protagonists’ thought ranges, throughout, through all kinds of philosophical ground as things happen. Mma is more charming. But the other detective is interesting too, although – “She goes a little off kilter,” I told them. Chaz frowned. “I don’t know that you should use that expression when you’re talking about Scotland,” she said.

But on to business. Chapter ONE: Whether or not the weather changes, we have celebrating to do:

Last year at this time, we had two brand new puppies, and all of us had much different houses. This year, we are the same people but moving through different rooms. This week’s project: decorate two of the new houses with for the glorious (soon to be frozen) autumn.

I sallied forth (once alone, once with Rachel, once with Rachel and Chaz) to gather up garlands and wreaths and wooden crows. Now, here is a disclaimer: not everyone has woods to wander in, or is fortunate in the kind of wild botanicals that grow by the wayside. Craft stores exist for folks like that (like us), and even wreaths of non-organic leaves can look brave against the early evening shadows, and even cornucopias of never-alive fruit can remind us of the bounty of the earth and the glory of the seasons (as long as the pine cones are real).

It turns out that craft store autumn wreaths, however, have gone up in price. WAY up, even on sale. Which I wouldn’t mind so much if I thought that the Chinese people who were actually making them were getting a raise.

So as I was glaring at a store display, a sad woman came and stood beside me, helplessly bemoaning the same thing. If I had not wanted to help her out, I might have gone home empty handed. But she inspired me to greatness: I dropped back into use-your-hands mode and solved the problem thus; if you buy a relatively inexpensive wreath (something really little more than a wound up garland), you can embellished it yourself. (Stop saying, “Duh.” I’m trying not to remember your wonderful boxes of seeds and cones and interesting dried botanical treasures.)

Autumn picks, small bags of imaginary fruit, real pine cones and a lot of floral wire. This is what we ended up with:

My favorite part, thinking about what Scooter will love, is the little bird in its raffia nest. Hidden treasures. As I say, as all have not the country bounty a vigilant woman might gather, still there are color and energy to be had with a less romantic and earth-given gathering.

There. Kinda short, huh? That’s because I have a blizzard of images for the next bit –

Posted in Family, holidays, Just talk, Making Things, Pics of Made Things, Seasons, snow, The g-kids, The kids | Tagged kilts, snow, wreaths | 17 Comments

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A person I am interested in protecting.

Other lives that deserve to be protected.

And how about this one?

And this one?

The first little animal I ever made, knitted in the round – requested by Gin for Max from Itty Bitty Toys by Susan B Anderson.

Each little animal in the book is made to be sleepy, and the patterns include a blanket so that the child can bundle up the sleepy buddy.

Gin crocheted her own blanket, and the first thing Max wanted to do was button the puppy up snuggly.

And you end up with artists for neighbors – houses with studios semi-attached. Bronze statues in the front yard.

proof that I was here

But here is the heart of it:

the curious mix of celebrations on my table

Fading autumn. Glorious golden light at end of day.

Hallowe’en: the morning after.

Thanksgiving quilt. c. 199 – I don’t remember. The funny blue shape is our house. The turkeys came out of a book called Little Quilts. Can’t remember the author. I’ll look it up if you like. The rest of the designs – applique and piecing – are mine.

1986

1987

1988

Exterioralized (which is not a word) alter egos.

More glowing squashes. Firewood on the porch.

Lorri sent me these two shots today:

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