If At First...

Success in knitting, you see, is a relative thing. There are times when I "try, try again" because the pattern is rubbish (my own or someone else's even) and times when it takes me forever to finish because I'm just not feeling it.

It's not that I don't knit at a relatively decent speed, it's more that I keep remembering something my great-grandmother made or showed me how to make, stitches she used, cast ons and offs, the way she told me to hold my yarn -- these things are treasures buried in my memory. Lost for years, they tend to come to light half way through a project, changing everything.

Suddenly the perfectly fine way the modern pattern or youtube video says to do it isn't nearly as neat (Granny was strict about having a neat back and front to your knitting), or easy (you simply cannot beat years and years of accumulated tricks and tips that get handed down from knitter to knitter), or right as the way she taught me all those years ago. I become dissatisfied with the work, rip it out, and start again.

In the end, I want my finished pieces to look like they could have come off of her needles. Like they carry on the traditions she learned as a child at her granny's knee and passed on to me when I was a wee one at her knee. As though these American born designs of mine have that soft, slightly Scottish accent tying them to my heritage and the long line of talented women who somehow knit my DNA from their own.

The Classical World

Over hills and in "hollars" I find myself searching for new radio stations around every curve of the road. Not many will stay tuned in.

Gravel back road. I find a classical music station, and instantly I am transported to my childhood and the back of my parent's Datsun station wagon. Seat belts not yet required, my sisters and I flolloped like amoebas listening to stories in the music.

Wordless classical music floats on humid air, and I can hear my mother's voice from long ago weaving tales of castles and dragons into violins and oboes. The clash of the knight's swords. Percussion. Brass. The crunch of gravel under my tires.

The present reaches through the music and touches the past.

A Mile in These Shoes?

Have I ever told you about the time I really felt like God wanted me to wear high heels to church? I was headed to the evening service and walking out the door wearing a nice pair of loafers. There was nothing wrong with those shoes they matched my outfit. They were very comfortable. They were sensible, if my car broke down I would have to walk (this was before cell phones) and I never have relished the idea of walking a mile in heels. I liked those loafers and had worn them to church many times before -- but that day every time I looked at my feet I felt unsettled in my spirit. I tried to ignore it.

Sitting in the car ready to go I saw my foot on the gas pedal.


I went back in the house and changed my shoes.

And I prayed, sort of. "Lord," I said. "You'd better have a good reason for wanting me to wear these stupid shoes. And you'd better not let the car break down, because if I have to walk a mile in these heels, you'll be hearing from me at every step -- and it won't be praise Lord."

Why did God want me to wear high heels to church?

You're waiting for me to explain that those shoes started a conversation with a stranger and opened the door to share the message of Christ with a seeker, that has happened before but not this time. Did those shoes make me the right height to look someone in the eye and challenge a false theology? I've had that happen too, but that's not the story I'm telling. This time, those shoes, didn't even make me tall enough to reach down a toy from the nursery shelf so a child would stop crying.

So now you're waiting for me to say the car broke down, or I ran out of gas, or something happened and I had to walk a mile in those heels. But it didn't.

So what happened? Nothing happened.

Nothing happened other than that I obeyed what I felt God wanted me to do. Without knowing the reason, and knowing only that it did not violate any principle of Scripture to do so, I wore high heels to church simply because God asked me to.

Nothing happened other than that God showed me that He WILL take care of me when I obey Him. My car did not break down. It might have, but it didn't.

Nothing happened other than that my prayer, irreverent as it might have been, was answered and I did not have to walk in those shoes. He had a good reason; He was teaching me to trust Him.

On the Scent

"If you don't know what smells bad, how'dya' know what smells so good?" -- Jimmy Bean

The peonies are in bloom. As the ants crawl up and into these petaled wonders, my family all drink in the scent, exclaiming about the glory of peonies. I can agree about the beauty of the flower, the fullness of petals creating puffs of joy against slick green foliage, but I am not a fan of that particular perfume. I simply am not thrilled by the acidic smell. It reminds me of roses but bitter somehow.

Peonies have always had that effect on me -- the nose curling dislike was even stronger when I was young. But these peonies I will keep in my garden as long as I have a garden. They were born of slips from the peonies my great-grandmother grew. They remind me of Memorial Day BBQ picnics in Granny's back yard. And they trigger other memories of that elderly lady, her tight perm and pink carpets, her "fly cemetery" current cookies, the endless miles of yarn she turned into sweaters and slippers.

Granny passed away several years ago. In my memories of her, happy as they are, there is that faint touch of sorrow to be parted for a time, just as in my garden each sweet smelling rose has a thorn, and each glorious peony has an unpleasant scent. It's just the way things are, and I am glad of it. I would miss these flowers had I never seen of smelt them. Just as I only have the privilege of missing Granny because I had the pleasure of knowing her.

Socks for Supper

When I was little one of my favorite books was Socks for Supper; it told about a poor family who didn't have much and a second family who made cheese and bartered the cheese for socks with the first family (thus the title of the book). The socks were made from the yarn of a sweater that the poor man's wife unravelled and re-knit. The second (cheese making) family then unraveled the socks to knit a sweater for a Christmas gift for the first family. I loved that book.

It's a great story. But I have to admit the idea of unraveling and re-knitting sweaters into socks into sweaters again -- NOT terribly keen on the idea. Seems like wasted work, because it is not snap your fingers and socks appear type stuff here. (I mean it's not rocket science, but it's not quick work.)

There are my socks, as far as I've gone, obviously I still have a toe to finish before I have a full pair. There's enough yarn in the Opal ball of self striping sock yarn that with this short cuff sock pattern I think I will have enough to make a third sock. (Fraternal triplets -- fun!)

And nobody better unravel them... Okay?

Raspberry Drop Scones

I’ve seen the prices in the store, a pint of regular berries costs almost more than buying the plants, and our organic garden produces raspberries that would be out of my price range. Fortunately for me, we do grow them.

If you are blessed with a large patch of raspberries, or are quick enough to gather the wild raspberries (that’s wineberries to some of ya’ll) before the birds devour them, you’ll have extras to freeze and pull out for a taste of summer in winter. Just sprinkle the berries with a little sugar –little, I said – and seal in a Ziploc freezer bag. Sometime this winter, possibly as early as November, you’ll be glad you printed out the recipe below and taped it to the bag of raspberries. (You can use commercially frozen raspberries too – they get even juicier which is great for this recipe.)

Raspberry Drop

Scones

2 cup unbleached white flour
2 teaspoons sugar
1 teaspoon cream of tarter
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
½ cup butter (you can use margarine too, but it’s less sconey)
¾ cup milk

Aside from “Bake 400F 12-15 min” that’s where the handwritten recipe ends. What it forgets to say is that you should combine the ingredients in the order they’re listed, the way my grandmother taught me to make scones in my great grandmother’s kitchen one time when more family had gathered than expected. When you get to the butter, it’s easier to cut it in with two knives like you do for piecrust. Grandma used her hands.

Add the milk, especially that milk that you think might be going off a bit. If you're tempted to say "Hey, is this still good?" that's scone making milk. For regular scones you stop there and finish by patting the dough into two circles and cutting it into eight wedge shapes to bake; or you could keep going and add about 3 cups thawed-out frozen raspberries and all the juice they made. The juice will turn the scones pink and make the dough too gooey to shape into proper scones. That’s how my grandmother's scone recipe becomes my raspberry drop scones – just spoon about 12 big pink dollops onto parchment lined baking sheets and bake at 400 degrees F for 12-15 minutes.

They're best warm and with tea, a mellow oolong or confident English breakfast. Grandma always liked heavy whipping cream with them too.

Have you ever been to Winterthur in Delaware? Don't forget to take a camera with you. I had only a wobbly cell phone, with practically no memory and absolutely no zoom or flash.

So, you'll have to take my word for it, the place is spectacular.

They have an amazing museum. A fact I didn't fully appreciate when I was dragged there as a child, but now I realize how great it is. I don't think they'll mind if I quote their website "From a collection of more than 85,000 objects made or used in America between 1640 and 1860, Winterthur curators have crafted displays that focus on specific media. ... Objects selected range from historic clothing and craftsmen's tools to exquisite metalworks, ceramics, and paintings."

But, then, the grounds... I could have stayed in the gardens for days, and it wasn't even peak season -- when the gazillions of azaleas are on display. I could weep for the formal gardens, and quarry garden, dozens of beautiful things I have only one small blurry pictures of. I'll just have to go back. I did at least get some clear shots of the Pinetum (this is a Nikko Fir against the late afternoon sun),

the architectural selvage and millstone Stone Circle,

a rill running right across the path from a waterfall to a goldfish pond,

and the Enchanted Garden, with this thatched hut made from the hollow bark remains of an ancient tree.

Moreover, they had small cast metal rabbits as the knobs on the hose spigots in the children's garden. Down to the last detail it's a neat place to visit; I'm glad I got the chance to go.

Fireworks

Last night we celebrated the independence of our nation with fireworks. Several of my sisters have small children, and although the fireworks are not quite so spectacular when set off at 6:30 on a summer’s evening, most of us were watching the delighted faces of the little ones anyway and thoroughly enjoyed the show.

Our State Laws do not allow any explosive types, or areal varieties of fireworks, and for the sake of our eardrums and the timid three year old who was badly frightened by “loud fires” last Fourth of July, we remained whistle and bang free. So we had gentle Snowflakes, a marvelously silent blue and white fountain called Blue Ice, and some colorful Geyser Fountains the heights of which solicited squeals of delight better than any eardrum piercing manufactured shriek. This year we also tried out something called a Tomahawk Rocket Fountain, which is not a rocket and sits on a stick which we put into the ground rather than holding as the package suggested – I should have gotten more of those, they were not noisy or scary. A new favorite is born.

We did not hold the sparklers this year either. I remember when I was young the sparklers were taller, longer lasting – I could write my whole name in the sparks of just one sparkler. I couldn’t get half way through with the sad little sparklers they sell these days. Sparklers used to have lengthy metal “handles” too. Something long enough that your hand never got near the hot part and there was no real risk of injury as long as you held the right end. (You know, instead of getting out the “L”, and watching its dying sputters drop a spark on my disappointed hand.)

I’m not surprised we hear about states wanting to ban hand held sparklers now. I want to ban these skimpy sparklers too. Who do we write to about making the good old-fashioned kind again? The kind that used to cost just 99 cents and were three times the length of the current 2 dollar kind? I long for a lengthy sparkler with which to sign my name in the night sky. My nieces and nephews should be able to have that experience too – it feels like a part of childhood that they might miss.

There are all sorts of summer things designed especially for making childhood memories, fireflies are another. The evening willows filled with the glimmering bugs as we wrapped up our pyrotechnics. At least some things don’t change. Their silent flickers reminded us of special evenings being allowed to stay up late, with tinfoil lids on Mason Jars. We fed our fireflies, my sisters and I. Certain they would need to eat as they glowed in our rooms for a night, we would fill their jars so full of leaves that they would often hide in the center and be only a soft green flicker through foliage.

“Look at all the fireworks.” The child said to me last night, pointing at those very well designed sparklers of the summer night. They filled the twilight with a twinkle of wonder I had almost forgotten to see. Thank You God, for not re-designing the firefly.