handstories

purple days/daze

    We had a very nice time away.  Good weather, delicious food and a fancy hotel (they brought us fresh cookies each evening!)  We walked, talked, relaxed, and these socks were started.  I'm not much of a purple person anymore, but I'm loving this yarn (it doesn't hurt that its colorway is called "moon phase".

    There were purple times...  In fourth grade I was jealous of friend who had her bedroom painted the same grape shade of the socks worn by our favorite teen idol.  I surprised my college roommate by painting our room lavender one weekend.  (I also crayoned a big bunch of balloons on one wall.  At the end of the year, unable to scrub it off, I leaned a mattress up against it in order to pass the room inspection.)  And almost all of the socks I wore during my thirties were the same shade of eggplant.  

    More lavender memories...  It was Grandma Blanche's favorite color.  The trailer she lived in was trimmed in violet and surrounded with gladiolas, irises and sweet peas.  She even bought a lilac nightgown to be buried in.

    Today I stitched down amethyst seas and thought about family, mostly Dad.  He would've been 75 today.  He turned 21 the day before I was born.  For the first time, there isn't a phone call for our birthdays, saying and not saying the same old things.  

    It's all such a tangle, and then things change.

viewing blues

    There are plans for the next few days... Moon left this morning for a Thespian conference, and K. has planned a trip away for us (it's the first time in I don't know when that we've gone somewhere alone).  

    Yesterday a cold landed in my head, along with my annual pre-birthday funk, tangled up with more feelings about Dad (who's birthday is the day before mine). 

    I'm going to go pack now, take some meds, and do my best to step out of myself and try... Maybe doing something so different will shake off the cold and the past?  If nothing else, it will be lovely to sleep in the nice hotel room that was splurged on.

    Wishing us all some beautiful views this weekend...

home building

    Home has been on my mind a lot.  What it is, what makes one, what stays with us.

    This roller coaster called parenting... it's exhausting.  We want babies, imagine toddlers and grade schoolers, but why is little consideration given for the teen years when deciding to get on this ride?  

    This was one of those weeks.  The kind that leaves you feeling completely out of control, with your hands in the air, saying, "I have no idea, and may not even care anymore."  (He'd probably say the same.)

    Friday afternoon, with K. out of town, Moon came home from school only to head out as fast as possible to spend the evening with his girlfriend.  

    "Sit down for a minute, I haven't seen you all day..."  He wouldn't, said he couldn't, she was waiting, and he couldn't wait to get to her.

    "Be home by ten," I sighed.

        "I will...give or take," he said while sticking in his earphones and closing the door.

    Conversations have become tug-o-wars.    But then, he came home at 9:58!  Sat down, and began asking questions about love...  We talked for an hour.  I said some really smart things that I didn't even know I knew.  

    Over his shoulder, heading out of the room on his way to bed, I got an "I love you, too."

    I'm thinking that it's these lovely little scraps that hold it all together.

March blur

    There was an idea, but this isn't quite what was imagined.  A way to see the roots below, but I thought they might be more visible.  Roots take time.  I wanted to consider them more.  Hmmm...

    These were put together yesterday, and they've been staring at me ever since, like a blank eyed triclops.  What do I even want to see here?  The lines in the bottom left one make me think of the railings in Munch's "The Scream".  Better not stitch on these today.

    And this morning we woke up to snow.  In March.  It's a confusing day.  It's raining, and melting now.  Maybe that will help?  And definitely more tea.

tree & troubles

    This morning, peacefully taking a few stitches on this new tree before heading off to school, I made a plan to pay attention, to watch for some lovely student/teacher moment to share here.  Ha.

    What a day... I couldn't even tell you what all happened... Inking, printing, spray bottles of water, clay glazing, markers, sharpies, etc., and lots and lots of washing tools, tables and children.

    Somewhere in there was a first grade boy who was NOT happy.  He rarely is.  He came with a support person, but still, he was under the table, out the door, in, out, in, roaming the room...  The teacher reached for the phone to call for office help, and then he really lost it.  I scrambled down the hall and stairs to find more reinforcements, returning to find him sitting still at a table.  Whew.

    The other two teachers were helping others, I sat down across the table, trying not to laugh at his scrunched up mouth and eyes, glaring and scowling as hard as possible.

    "How are you doing?"

        "Not good."  

    "Yep, you seem pretty unhappy.  The project is about drawing a happy place.  Where are you happy?"

        "Nowhere.  I'm never happy."

    "Hmm.  Where can you imagine being happy?  On vacation, in the park, by the ocean?"

        "The ocean is NOT a happy place!"  And then he proceeded to tell me a wild tale about being on a boat when he was three, being bitten by a shark and having a dolphin scold him.  It went on and on...  And then things digressed into hating art, pointing out all of the "ugly" art on the walls, telling me I was a jerk, and that if I didn't move away from him, he would stand on the table and pull the lights down...   Finally, class was over.

    "I hope you find some ways to turn things around for you," I told him as he grumbled at the end of the line heading out of the door.

        "I won't."

    During my ten minutes with him, he stayed at the table, did not climb on or under it, and wasn't yelling or disruptive.  This jerk is calling it a win.

more stories...

    A few new cloths are in the shop waiting for their stories to mix with the daydreamings of others... 

once upon a time...

    I thought this one was going to tell a dark fairy tale, but it turns out it's about story.  That's happening a lot these days.

    Dad was a pretty good storyteller, usually with a deadpan tone and face, ending with a "gotcha!" kind of a punchline.

    So, back to this piece...  While adding details to it this morning, thinking about how each stitch is a continuing of, or in, the story.  That every story comes from another, and reaches toward the next.  

    Of course, that led to my story, and the family of tales that I come from.  Like most, I suppose, it's a weaving of crazy, funny, hard, good, sad, and weary tellings.  (Although, ours may have a few more tangles and knots than most.)

    There was one particularly full piece of time around when I turned twenty, and mom was nearing forty.  The family was going through all kinds of drama.  I'd come home from college on the weekends when I could, and try to help piece things back together.

    Arriving home late one Friday night, I found my mom on the floor, her feet up on the built in desk.  She'd been crying.  "What's happened now?" I asked.  She said.  We sighed.  "It'll be ok... Somehow." I told her us.  Sitting down nearby, my back leaning against our childhood game cupboard, I asked, "Why don't you watch soap operas anymore?"

    "They're too boring now... compared to us."  And we laughed.

    At the time, I had imagined writing a book about it all titled 20/40 Vision, but was sure that none of them would ever talk to me again.

    All the stories, they go on and on... and how the moon was always there.

trees & just being

        More trees.  I like the surprise of making them.  Never knowing how they'll turn out.  Even if they're a bit sketchy with some odd tilts to their lines, it's still clear that they're trees.  Someday I'd like to stitch a forest of them.  These are leaning a bit.  The wind must've been blowing.

    It's been a good weekend.  Yesterday there was a walk with Janie's daughter, she's such a happy kind spirit.  We laughed about some of the pieces of crazy that happened during my Oregon trip.  That felt good.

    Today has been still and quiet, with the guys out and about, and Twinkle sharing my blanket here, while I stitch.

    Finally back to school tomorrow, maybe, they say it may snow again tonight.

making home

    Thinking about...

    Home and community.  How we make them, how they shape us.  

    Grace's comment on the last post, "Back. To the Home You created."  (A very good centering reminder.)

    Talking with a friend last night about the trip, the place, the feelings there.  She asked, "How did you get out?"  I heard myself saying, "I was going to, or die trying."  Which made me laugh, because that was one of Dad's sayings.

    And talking with my sister today about our hometown, and how glad we are to be back in our now homes.

    There are some good memories, too.  Scraps of stories came back while walking down our old street, naming the families that used to live in the houses... Paula's grandma's where I saw my first bleeding heart flower and learned that yogurt was made from live bacteria, and couldn't believe either things were true.  Maxine's, where we watched "The Wizard of Oz" and ate too much salty popcorn one night.  Coach Cook's, who saw me running one day and said I would be joining the cross-country team.  Charlie's with the empty lot next door that we all called "The Field".  Once a year he'd mow it down, in-between we would run, hide and play in the tall tall Queen Anne's lace, grass and weeds that covered it.

    I just keep stirring this pot of self and the past, waiting for it all to come together into something.  I was going to apologize for that, but I'm not.  I'm tired of being sorry.  So, if folks don't mind, I'll just keep whisking and folding the thoughts, and hoping that nothing curdles.

pieces of "Story"

    The last two days have been spent making more squares for the "Story" blanket, while sifting through some thoughts.

    The department showed up for Dad's gathering, parking one of the rigs out front.  He was a volunteer fire fighter with them for 31 years.  Assistant Chief in the last years.  He said he was too ornery and opinionated to ever get elected chief.  

    Folks shared stories about him, fondly calling him "cantankerous", "genuine old western character", "honest", "asshole", "a good friend", "a bear of a man".  They were all true.

    His hunting hat, with a notch for each deer or elk that he brought home.

    His last words were, "It was what it was."

    Wondering when this will all ease... had no idea how big this place called "through" would be.