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While doing a search for "collective noun for ships", I found and loved the following…
"The collective noun for the group of ships that one is waiting for is ‘an uncertainty’…The uncertainty isn’t any fault of the ship . . . No. This is the very nature of ships and why the actual noun for their collection is fleet: transient. Fleeting: floating, shifting, fickle."
I do love a little uncertainty (it took a lot of years and therapy to learn to say that!)
During these last busy days of the school year, I am finding myself stitching more than usual- sometimes obsessively.
I wonder what the math equation of that is?
The fifth graders are studying volume in math. I was talking one boy through the steps. His eyes, and attention, were everywhere but on the paper. I think this boy defined himself a long time ago, and not in a good way. He doesn't see himself as able- so he slides through the cracks when he can.
"You can do this, I know that. Do you want help? Or do you want to just copy your neighbor's answers?"
He reluctantly chose help. I drug him through the problem. I poked and pushed him through the lesson. He could do it, he just didn't believe it.
"Repeat after me, 'I am brilliant."
He mumbled, "I'm brilliant."
"I know it. Don't let me be the only one who does. What are you?"
"Brilliant."
"Like a star."
This afghan has been buried in the closet for years, recently I pulled it out to cover the worn couch. A friend asked, "What's the story with this thing?"
"Years ago I set out to make the ugliest afghan I could."
"You succeeded."
It holds all kinds of thoughts from thirty years ago- Grandma Blanche, family and friends, survival, and a great big smile every time I look at its ugly self.
When Grandma taught me to crochet during her last years, I took to it with intensity. It was during my twenties, what I often refer to as the "dark decade". I would sit in our apartment crocheting all day, not going out, day after day. I made a blanket for everyone in my life at that time- mom, dad, siblings, friends, in-laws, etc. My sister asked for a black one. After one blurry solid skein of black, I added a single row of dark green, just to break it up. That black one just about did me in. I thought it would be the last one.
I looked at all of the small balls of leftover yarn and decided to make one more, for myself. The odds and ends went into it, some of Grandma's bits, too. It wasn't pretty. I began going to the store and choosing which ever colors looked the ugliest to me. It grew. It was huge. It was so awful, it made me laugh, and I loved it. I never made another zig-zag afghan again.
Over the years it's been chewed on by kids, cats and washing machines, used for picnics, forts, plays, etc. The yarn ends have poked themselves out and its holes have been badly patched up. Twinkle likes its built in cat toys.
The Ugly Afghan goes on, seemingly indestructible. The "dark decade" ended soon after its creation. I would like to think that one thing had something to do with the other.
