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Saturday, September 22, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
September
I used to love September.
As a kid, I loved going back to school. I counted down the last days of summer with the same anticipation most kids count down to Christmas. I loved the sound of leaves crunching under my feet as I walked to school; I loved how, in the right alcove, the wind would form a little baby tornado, swirling the leaves around and then dissipating, as if it had never been there. I loved back to school shopping. I loved putting on jeans and pulling out the sweaters; the return of pumpkin flavored lattés, caramel-coated apple suckers; fresh notebooks and unsharpened pencils. Depending on the year, my birthday falls either on the last day of summer or the first day of fall (and, occasionally, the penultimate day of summer). I loved that it straddled the seasons.
It's different now.
I'm an adult, I've graduated college. There is no more school to count down to, at least not at this point. Without school, I don't really need fresh notebooks or pencils. I still enjoy pulling out jeans and sweaters, but it's not the same when you work in an air conditioned building and have been wearing those same jeans and sweaters all summer. I still enjoy a pumpkin latté, but less frequently because as an adult I have actual bills that need to be paid. I experience a certain amount of dread with birthdays now, because the anniversary of my father's death precedes it by two days.
Two years ago, at about this time, I was managing a quick service restaurant, living in my own tiny apartment, and had just started dating my now-husband. My restaurant was struggling; I was working a ridiculous amount of hours, struggling to find and hire and train and keep strong team members. My recently-retired Dad had volunteered to drive delivery for me, on an as-needed basis. I was lucky to get one day off per week. My parents would invite me over for dinner that same night every week, and I would always decline. I was tired. I had just enough energy to catch up on laundry and keep my apartment in a vaguely tolerable condition, but not enough energy to socialize and be decent company.
Monday, September 20th was a perfectly normal day. I was working a double shift, but Mondays were typically slow. A good day for getting things done, and I had been fairly productive. I was prepped and ready, waiting for Monday's dinner "rush"--which is only a relative rush, the phones were beginning to ring. I answered the phone. It was my mom. I knew that tenor of her voice, I had heard it a month or so before when she had broken her wrist and called to ask me to give her a ride to the hospital. When she got home from work, Dad was sitting in his La-Z-Boy as usual, asleep with the newspaper open on his chest. Except this time, the sound of the door opening didn't wake him up.
I called my boss; she arrived in record time and took control of the restaurant. Time seemed to crawl as I drove to the hospital, just four blocks from work. I missed the first turn. There was literally one turn, and I missed it. As I circled the block, I reached Mom on my cell; from her voice, I knew he was gone.
I met my Mom at the hospital, my grandmother had gotten there just minutes before me. Mom confirmed what I already knew in my heart: Dad was gone. Gramps arrived just before we went in to see him with the priest; as he hugged my mom, his daughter, he was already crying, "it should have been me." I hadn't wanted to see his body, I wanted to remember him alive; but I also didn't want to be left alone.
My recollection of the rest of that week is spotty. I remember pulling a hard lemonade from the fridge at my mom's house that same day, and the look on my teetotaling aunt's face. I remember gamely trying to celebrate my birthday with my mom and brothers. I remember deciding who I would or wouldn't trade to have my dad back. I remember the outpour of love and support, but mostly I remember the emptiness, the feeling like an invaluable but unappreciated appendage had been amputated.
Most of the year I'm fine, but every September that feeling comes back.
As a kid, I loved going back to school. I counted down the last days of summer with the same anticipation most kids count down to Christmas. I loved the sound of leaves crunching under my feet as I walked to school; I loved how, in the right alcove, the wind would form a little baby tornado, swirling the leaves around and then dissipating, as if it had never been there. I loved back to school shopping. I loved putting on jeans and pulling out the sweaters; the return of pumpkin flavored lattés, caramel-coated apple suckers; fresh notebooks and unsharpened pencils. Depending on the year, my birthday falls either on the last day of summer or the first day of fall (and, occasionally, the penultimate day of summer). I loved that it straddled the seasons.
It's different now.
I'm an adult, I've graduated college. There is no more school to count down to, at least not at this point. Without school, I don't really need fresh notebooks or pencils. I still enjoy pulling out jeans and sweaters, but it's not the same when you work in an air conditioned building and have been wearing those same jeans and sweaters all summer. I still enjoy a pumpkin latté, but less frequently because as an adult I have actual bills that need to be paid. I experience a certain amount of dread with birthdays now, because the anniversary of my father's death precedes it by two days.
Two years ago, at about this time, I was managing a quick service restaurant, living in my own tiny apartment, and had just started dating my now-husband. My restaurant was struggling; I was working a ridiculous amount of hours, struggling to find and hire and train and keep strong team members. My recently-retired Dad had volunteered to drive delivery for me, on an as-needed basis. I was lucky to get one day off per week. My parents would invite me over for dinner that same night every week, and I would always decline. I was tired. I had just enough energy to catch up on laundry and keep my apartment in a vaguely tolerable condition, but not enough energy to socialize and be decent company.
Monday, September 20th was a perfectly normal day. I was working a double shift, but Mondays were typically slow. A good day for getting things done, and I had been fairly productive. I was prepped and ready, waiting for Monday's dinner "rush"--which is only a relative rush, the phones were beginning to ring. I answered the phone. It was my mom. I knew that tenor of her voice, I had heard it a month or so before when she had broken her wrist and called to ask me to give her a ride to the hospital. When she got home from work, Dad was sitting in his La-Z-Boy as usual, asleep with the newspaper open on his chest. Except this time, the sound of the door opening didn't wake him up.
I called my boss; she arrived in record time and took control of the restaurant. Time seemed to crawl as I drove to the hospital, just four blocks from work. I missed the first turn. There was literally one turn, and I missed it. As I circled the block, I reached Mom on my cell; from her voice, I knew he was gone.
I met my Mom at the hospital, my grandmother had gotten there just minutes before me. Mom confirmed what I already knew in my heart: Dad was gone. Gramps arrived just before we went in to see him with the priest; as he hugged my mom, his daughter, he was already crying, "it should have been me." I hadn't wanted to see his body, I wanted to remember him alive; but I also didn't want to be left alone.
My recollection of the rest of that week is spotty. I remember pulling a hard lemonade from the fridge at my mom's house that same day, and the look on my teetotaling aunt's face. I remember gamely trying to celebrate my birthday with my mom and brothers. I remember deciding who I would or wouldn't trade to have my dad back. I remember the outpour of love and support, but mostly I remember the emptiness, the feeling like an invaluable but unappreciated appendage had been amputated.
Most of the year I'm fine, but every September that feeling comes back.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Maddox's Lancelot
My cousins* had a baby just weeks before my wedding, so of course I didn't get the baby's sweater done before he was born. I didn't even get to start it before the wedding! I did finish it, and gave it to the proud parents earlier tonight at the baby's baptism.
The pattern is "Lancelot," by Solenn Couix-Loarer. As written, the pattern has you twist the stitches without using a cable needle. I tried doing it that way in my swatch, but I couldn't get it tight enough and so it looked all wonky. I "cheated" and used a cable needle on the actual sweater. I put "cheated" in quotes because while some may disagree, I don't think there's anything wrong with choosing an easier method of doing something if the end result is the same.
There's a button detail on the placket that I had trouble photographing. This is the best one, but it still doesn't quite capture it.
Mom was delighted.
*that sounds weird. They're not "kissing cousins," they are my cousins by marriage, and are not actually blood relatives to each other. My husband's cousin Zack is the dad, whose wife is also named Amanda.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
With nary a wrinkle
I started a sewing project today, the Hot Pad Apron by Destri Bufmack, from "Fabric-by-Fabric One Yard Wonders." I am not an accomplished sewer. I am not even a competent sewer. I am a "...but I tried so hard!" sewer, however, I felt good about this project. I LOVE the fabric (and it was on sale!), and the apron is awesome. Hot pads for pockets! Genius!
I washed and dried it, I squared the grain, I measured and measured again and cut, piece by piece, with nary a wrinkle. I get to the last piece to cut, the very last one. I need to end up with four 9 inch squares. I measure once, I measure twice, I measure three times but it's just not going to happen, the laws of geometry are against me: my fabric is one inch short.
I really wanted to do this tonight, but I absolutely do not want to go back to the store tonight. And my husband doesn't want to, either. I cut two 9 inch squares out of the fabric I have; I'm planning to get some coordinating solid fabric for the other 2 squares and put those on the inside. Disappointing, but it is what it is.
I washed and dried it, I squared the grain, I measured and measured again and cut, piece by piece, with nary a wrinkle. I get to the last piece to cut, the very last one. I need to end up with four 9 inch squares. I measure once, I measure twice, I measure three times but it's just not going to happen, the laws of geometry are against me: my fabric is one inch short.
I really wanted to do this tonight, but I absolutely do not want to go back to the store tonight. And my husband doesn't want to, either. I cut two 9 inch squares out of the fabric I have; I'm planning to get some coordinating solid fabric for the other 2 squares and put those on the inside. Disappointing, but it is what it is.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Introducing: Squoval!
As you may have guessed, that "sneak peak" the other day was of my newest pattern! Names "scquoval" for it's squarish/ovalish shape, it's a fitted beanie that's also a lot of fun. Emphasis on the fun.
The pattern itself is easy to memorize and is also a great introduction to Fair Isle. The vertical stripes highlight the square-ish aspect, and as a pleasant side effect make it fold very neatly.
Available in 5 sizes-- toddler (18in.), child (20in.), teen/adult small (22in.), adult medium (24in) and adult large (26in)--it's great for gift-knitting.Available for purchase on Ravelry (no membership required).
Saturday, August 11, 2012
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