Year of the Owl?

A few years back - 21, to be exact - my aunt Miriam passed away. She was a widow who had never had children. After the funeral, any of her belongings of value were distributed more or less fairly among her remaining siblings - there were 9 of them altogether. After that, a table was set up full of little tshotshkes and mementos for us nieces and nephews to sort through. We were each encouraged to take something by which to remember our aunt. I took a lovely pink depression glass bowl and her sewing kit, thanks for asking.

After we were all through, several items remained on the table. Most of them were tacky and cheap (and by using the term 'most' I'm being generous and respectful of the dead and stuff...) Even among the tacky and cheap, though, there was one item that stood out. A bright pink ceramic owl.


One of my cousins had a young daughter at the time, and she decided that this owl was the most beautiful thing she'd ever laid her little eyes on. She was two or three years old at the time. There's a reason you don't see many toddlers being consulted on interior design. Anyway, she thought it was beautiful and really wanted to have it. Her father told her no and gave her some silly reason which I do not remember. My sister overheard the exchange and asked the toddler, "Do you like this, sweetie?" "I love it" she replied with hearts and stars in her eyes. "Then it should be yours" my sister said, carefully wrapping it up for her and handing it to her like a prize. Then my sister caught my cousins eye and said (to the toddler, she said) "Something so beautiful should be displayed in your living room where everyone can see it, not tucked away in your bedroom." The toddler solemnly nodded her agreement and my cousin glared at my sister.

Later that year, when our extended family gathered together to exchange gifts on Christmas Eve, my sister recieved a beautifully wrapped package from my cousin. I don't imagine I need to tell you what was inside. He instructed her to display it prominently. The next Christmas she presented the owl to someone else and so it has gone for the last 21 years.

This year, Tom received the owl. The rules are that the owl must be displayed prominently in your home for the entire year, at which point you must pass it on.

Several cousins have done little photo albums documenting their year with the owl. One wrote a poem - an ode, if you will - a few years ago. Us? We started a blog for it.

Upon arriving back home, we chose a prominent spot in which to display the owl then started planning posts and photo-ops.

I sat down at my computer to set up the new blog and glanced at my page-a-day calendar. I always have a yarn/knitting related calendar because I am just that super-cool. My pattern for the day? 'Birds of a Feather' - a PINK OWL done in novelty yarn intarsia on a black bag. I think I know how the owl will be presented to it's future caretakers next Christmas...


But wait, there's more!

Sitting in my inbox is a notification that I have a new follower on Twitter - a chick who posts (with alarming frequency - I tried to follow her back, as is, I'm told, polite, but it was overwhelming) as an OWL. Sometimes. And sometimes as a chick. Whatever her issues are are not what I'm here to discuss. Though I bet they're interesting.

So - all of these owls and owl references fell into our laps in a pretty condensed period of time. I spent hours researching the symbolism associated with owls (ok - busted - I did a quick google search and this is the first thing I found) and learned this:

Throughout many cultures, the symbolic meaning of owl deals with:

• intelligence
• brilliance
• perspective
• intuition
• quick-wit
• independence
• wisdom
• protection
• mystery
• power

Not bad, eh? So if all this owl business is indeed prophetic rather than simply coincidental, I think I'll take it.

His Heart Grew Three Sizes That Day

I had the nicest conversation with a friend last night.

He is a stubborn man who had, several months back, gotten himself embroiled in a feud with an equally stubborn man. I like both of them, but definitely thought my friend was in the right. Not that it matters what I (or anyone else) thought, because this feud was ON. I mentioned they were both stubborn, right?

Last night my friend told me he ended it.

He walked right up to the other guy and said I want this to be over. I don't want to start the new year angry at you and I sure don't want to start it with you angry at me. The other guy hugged him, thanked him, and accepted the olive branch that had been offered. Accepted it graciously and enthusiastically.

When I asked my (I mentioned he was stubborn, right?) friend what had prompted him to do this, he said something along the lines of having been moved by the holiday spirit. He said this had been such a wonderful holiday and he didn't want it to be marred by a feud.

I was so proud of him. What he did was hard.

This of course led me to ask him about his holiday - what made it so wonderful, that it prompted such a massive change of heart?

His answer, as it is with most things magical and wonderful, was that he couldn't quite explain it. Due to the failing economy, there were less presents under the tree, and the ones that were there weren't as extravagant as they'd been in years past. So it sure wasn't that. He didn't know - it was just - something.

When he left, I thought about that. Since returning from Christmas at my parents', many people have asked if I had a nice holiday (I did, thank you very much for asking) but not one single person has asked, "what did you get?" or "was Santa good to you?" or any variation on that. I haven't asked, either. Hmmmmmm. I think I have always asked/been asked that in Christmases past. What's going on? Could the failing economy actually have us finding pleasure in simpler things? That was one cloud I was pretty sure didn't have a silver lining, but maybe it indeed does.

We have been spending the week between Christmas and New Years sleeping in, napping, eating comfort food, and generally indulging our lazy decadent selves. And it is kind of wonderful.

So - how were your holidays?

Picture This

So my sister says to me (she says): "We've got to wear boob shirts."

We were getting ready to go to the holiday party hosted by the pizza shop where we regularly schlep the pizzas to earn the big bucks. Wendy had missed last years party and I told her it had been a boob-a-palooza - the battle of the boobs - I could go on... she knew exactly what I meant, but in case you don't, the young girls who work there, they like them some low cut clothes. They like those scary low cut clothes that put one in constant danger of slippage. They liked those for work - it was astounding what they liked for a party. She could imagine. And she thought we should get in on it.

So I put on a boob shirt. I was a little uncomfortable and was asking all of my family members - in a manner which was probably quite annoying - is this ok? Are you sure this is ok? This is too much, isn't it? I'm gonna change. No? I'm at least gonna put a camisole under it. No? Ya think? Really? Eventually I added a long thick lariat necklace and that made me feel a little less - vulnerable. (anyone who read that last phrase as Tim Curry's Frankfurter gets bonus points, because that is certainly the tone in which it was written) It's COLD outside so I added a long scarf/shawl to the ensemble and thank goodness I did! When I picked my sister up, she looked lovely. She did not, however, look boobalicious. She was the one who, hours earlier, had asked if my daughter had any body glitter... I felt betrayed. Now I was going to stand out, and not in a flattering way.

Lucky for me it was cold in the restaurant, so I kept the scarf/shawl on and managed a little coverage. Still one or two folks commented. "Whoa! You're showing boob!" I might have felt better if they'd said it with a tone that was more admiration than observation, but such was not the case.

All of this was really just a set-up, though, to talk about pictures. (I know - Wuh!?! Stick with me, all shall be revealed. Wait - following a story about boobage, perhaps that was misleading. Let's just say - read on, it will all hopefully come together...)

Although I felt vulnerable and a little out of my league, I also felt like the outfit was flattering. I walked out the door feeling like I looked good. Pictures were taken and, as is almost ALWAYS the case when I see myself in pictures, I was appalled. Surely I don't look like that! Who is that yooge old woman wearing my clothing? And why are her features so crooked? Surely that can't be what I look like... then someone will say: Wow! That's a great picture of you! And I want to weep. That? Right there? That is a GOOD depiction of my appearance? Really? Because that's not even close to what I see in the mirror and it's even farther from what I see with my minds eye. Hate the pictures. But I know between pictures, mirrors and minds eye, they are the least likely to lie.

So for a long time I stayed out of them. Avoided them at all costs. Developed a sixth sense which was keenly aware of any camera in my immediate vicinity and an uncanny ability to step out of its scope. If I didn't see it, I wouldn't know. And maybe if I didn't know, it wouldn't be true. Don't even bother trying to point out the inherent flaws in that argument. One doesn't have to be rational when arguing with oneself.

Tom hates being in pictures, too, but his reasoning is different. Tom is really not very photogenic. If you've ever seen the episode of 'Friends' where Monica and Chandler go to have their engagement portraits taken - that's Tom. He's a very handsome dude, but when the cameras come out his smile freezes in a way that is not his smile and his eyes do that deer-in-the-headlights thing. It gives me - hopefully gives both of us - comfort when he hates a picture of himself and I can say with honesty - that's not a good picture, you are way better looking than that.

So we've both sort of resolved to allow more pictures of ourselves to be taken. His motivation, I assume, is to become more comfortable with the camera so that he becomes less conscious of it and will eventually look more natural in photos. My motivation is to be able to view myself more honestly. That is painful right now. Hopefully it will get easier with time.

So for now - no pictures of the boob shirt. Delete, delete, delete. But in a couple months? If I do indeed succeed in recognizing and coming to terms with my new old self? Who knows.

I Went to Sleep With Gum in my Mouth and Now There's Gum in My Hair, and I Could Tell: It Was Going to be a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

So Lea says to me (she says), "Mom, I think there's gum in my hair."

Her panic begins to escalate as she realizes that this is indeed true.

"How did you get gum in your hair?"

"I don't know. There was no gum in my room. I didn't have any gum. There was no gum anywhere. But I went to bed with clean hair and I woke up with gum in my hair."

"You realize that's impossible and doesn't make any sense... "

"It just got there and now I need you to GET IT OUT!!!!!"

She approaches me with scissors in hand.

The last time I touched her hair with scissors resulted in the micro-bang incident. We shan't speak of it...

So we went to the hairdressers and this is what she came home with:



Talk about making lemonade out of lemons...

Not our first haircut related incident that's had a happy ending. (I told you not to mention the micro-bangs...)

When Olivia was getting ready to start pre-school she had long beautiful hair. She very much enjoyed tossing it around. She also wore dresses every. day. Anyone who knows Liv now knows - well - she still has pretty hair...

Several days short of that first day of preschool, Lea and Liv were playing beauty parlor and with one snip of the safety scissors, Liv had a nice chunk of hair cut to cheek length. I took her to the salon, all three of us may or may not have been crying, and said, "fix it". She left with an adorable bob that made her hair look even thicker. It was beautiful. And she hated it.

She was still at an age when a great deal of her gender identification dealt with hair and dress and she was pretty much convinced that now that her hair was short she would have to be a boy. And she liked being a girl and didn't want to be a boy and now no girls would want to play with her anymore because girls don't like to play with boys.

She cried intermittently until that first day of school.

When she came home that first afternoon, she was beaming. (Insert spiritual leader of your choice here) was smiling on me, because Liv's teacher that year was a very attractive young lady with a super-short pixie cut. Without saying a word, she restored my daughters sense of femininity and the short hair was never mentioned again, not even once.

And So It Begins

Sometime in late December, 1961 or early January, 1962 two people I don’t know anything about hooked up somewhere in western Pennsylvania and made a baby. In September of 1962 that baby was born and she was me and that’s the end of the part these two people play in this story. I have, throughout the years, come up with many dramatic, romantic and tragic stories about how all of this came to be, but the truth is probably a much simpler matter: Roe v. Wade was still in the future and this woman had enough sense not to pursue a back alley abortion.

The next three months were spent with more people I don’t know anything about. Foster parents who saw to it that my basic needs were met.

Meanwhile, in another part of western Pennsylvania, the woman who would become my mother was making some difficult choices. She was only in her mid twenties and she had already suffered through more miscarriages than any woman should have to endure in a lifetime. Her doctor had warned her that another attempt at pregnancy would be more likely to result in her death than in a baby’s birth. Her heart and her body were at odds. She knew in her heart that she was destined to be a mother, but her body had had its final say. She would not be making a baby. She mourned the babies she would never carry, and then let her heart win. She and the man who would become my father made the decision to pursue adoption.

Just a few days before Christmas, the call came. The adoption agency had a little girl for them. Were they interested? Indeed they were. When they met me, before any papers were signed, the man who would be my father did a little inventory. Fingers and toes? Check. He was an informed consumer. He was not going to accept delivery of damaged goods. Apparently I passed the inspection, because they signed the paperwork and got the gears in motion.

Most parents get nine months to anticipate the arrival of a baby, but my parents only had a couple days. And they were a couple days right in the midst of the general Christmas hustle and bustle. In just a couple days they had to acquire all the things a baby would need - a crib, diapers, bottles, clothes, blankets – no baby showers thrown by friends or sisters or aunts or cousins – no time for it. (Fortunately, in 1962, babies needed far fewer items than they do now, so this task was less oppressive than the one which you might be imagining.)

They got everything together in time to accept delivery of their infant on December 18, 1962. One week before Christmas. I went home for the first time at the age of three and a half months. I knew love for the first time at the age of three and a half months.

Apparently when they met me for the first time – inspection day – I had been dressed and groomed very nicely. When they picked me up to take me home, I was wearing a dirty undershirt with a medal of a saint pinned to it. False advertising! They were not delivered the same degree of cuteness that they’d been promised. Lucky for me, grooming and clothing are issues easily rectified, or I might have been returned before my warranty expired.

As it was Christmas, of course they viewed me as the best gift ever. I was placed under the Christmas tree to illustrate that fact in a more tangible manner. Unfortunately, I was allergic to the tree (a pesky allergy that persists to this day). The symptoms that developed as a result of this threw my new mother into a panic. The final papers weren’t yet signed and she was pretty sure they were going to take me away, since the first thing she did upon bringing me home was to allow me to get sick. It doesn’t work that way, of course, but try telling that to a woman who’s been through what my mother had been through to find herself in the position of parent. She was rather understandably distraught.

My sniffles cleared up, the adoption was finalized, and we were a little family of three.

Each year I celebrate the anniversary of that adoption - a day which doesn't mean anything to anyone except me, my mom and my dad. It means the world to us.

The Nutcracker - SWEET!

My family went to see The Nutcracker tonight. This was particularly exciting for us because our friends' daughter was dancing the part of young Clara. She did an excellent job, and we were proud to know her. Tom and I both commented on that pride during intermission and tried to imagine what it must have felt like to be her parents sitting in that audience on her opening night. I'm certain our wildest imaginings fell short.

I was a little concerned that our girls were perhaps a little old for The Nutcracker. You always picture little girls in fancy dresses going to the ballet as a part of their Christmas tradition. To be sure, there were a lot of them there. But I think perhaps our girls were the perfect age for this experience. Some of the younger kids acted bored - they had a hard time sitting still and remaining attentive for a 2 hour show. I felt particular sympathy for the parents who rushed crying young 'uns back the aisle and out of the theater, trying to be as minimally disruptive as possible. But my girls - they were enthralled. The magic began the moment we stepped into the Ohio Theater - a beautiful theater any time - all decorated for Christmas. It wasn't the first time we'd been there, but I'd be lying if I said we went often. I wish we did, but that's not the case. Anyway. Our seats were amazing. We were on the floor - far enough back to have a good view of the full stage, but close enough to actually see the expressions on the faces of the dancers. Awesome. It was so neat watching the girls straddle that line between childhood and the teens. They looked so grown up. Stunningly so, if I might be so bold. Lea gets dressed up sometimes, so she didn't shock me so much, but when Liv came downstairs in a dress, looking all grown-up girly - well, that was a little bittersweet. It swayed more strongly to the sweet side, though, when the show started. My little girl was captivated. Looking at the childlike wonder on her quickly maturing face was just - well, it was perfect. I leaned over and saw similar looks gracing Lea and Shelby's faces. Too good to be true.

We had also been concerned that they might be dancing to taped music, as there have been some (major) issues with the Columbus Symphony this year, but a live orchestra was indeed in the pit. Tom and the girls walked up and checked it out during intermission and were duly impressed.

As I watched some of those moms deal with children who were less than enthralled, I was reminded of the story of the first time my parents took my sister and I to the ballet. We were in Washington D.C., visiting my uncle and doing some sight-seeing. My dad wanted to see the Kennedy Center, so we stopped, just to see the lobby. A well-dressed gentleman approached my mother and asked if we were there to see the show. She explained, no, we were just there to see the facility on our way to the zoo. He asked if we'd LIKE to see the show, as he had tickets he would be unable to use. He told her she'd be doing him a favor by taking them. She reluctantly accepted and we, in our sight-seeing clothes, were led into the theater. We just kept going, and going - past many oppulently dressed and bejeweled folks - to incredible seats. Something like the 4th row. An amazing opportunity that fell right into our lap. Except that my sister and I were bored and we made sure our parents knew it (without causing a scene or being loud, of course). At intermission, we left. You see, my sister and I had been promised pandas. We were, as I mentioned, on our way to the zoo. All this dancing stuff was nice and all, but PANDAS, YA'LL!!! It is with no small amount of shame that I retell that story. We've both, I think, made it up to our parents (as well as we could - we've never managed to drop 4th row seats in the Kennedy Center in their lap again, but we've been otherwise gracious).

I'm so glad, as I mentioned earlier, that we waited until our kids were at an age where they could really appreciate the experience for what it is. The best part: All of them, Tom included, left the theater wanting to go to the ballet again.

What a nice Christmas present.

And on a more random closing note, why don't more men wear capes? Why don't more people wear capes? Capes are awesome. I think I want, perhaps need a cape. Maybe Lea's not the only drama queen in the family...

Embellished

As an avid knitter and a less avid all-round crafter, I am a huge fan of embellishment.

Mistakes and flaws are going to exist in handmade work.

I was made aware, a few years ago, of an old Amish custom whereby the women would make elaborate quilts with very small pieces and would quite purposely place one patch with the wrong orientation. The reason for this was that “Only God can create perfection.” They referred to this as a humility block*.

I liked that concept, and adopted it immediately.

I know some knitters who will frog** rows and rows – sometimes entire pieces – because of one incorrect stitch. I am not one of those knitters. As long as the integrity of the piece will not be compromised, I leave the error. If it is small and difficult to notice, it becomes my version of the humility block. If I fear that it will be noticeable to the average observer? Then it gets fun. Let the wild rumpus begin! I will sometimes spend more time embellishing a piece than I actually spent making it. Embroidery, beading, I-cord trim, appliqué – all of these are methods by which errors both small and large can be camouflaged.

Sometimes when I really get on a roll with the embellishments I understand the appeal of those garish sweaters women of a certain age roll out around the holidays. (I understand the appeal as a crafter of garments, not as a wearer of garments. Because that stuff is really never ok. But it sure looks like fun to make!)

The best part of choosing to cover up my mistakes rather than correct them is that the embellishment is usually what garners the most attention. “Oh! Look at that delicate beadwork around the border. The detail in your work is amazing!” Or “The crocheted appliqués add such an unexpected touch of whimsy to your work!” I smile and say thank you. No one needs to know that that appliqué serves the purpose of covering up a missed stitch or an unsightly bump or some other form of imperfection. They just need to see the whimsy.

Another advantage is that I feel like the embellishments I choose make someone else’s pattern my own. I have volumes and volumes of patterns (as well as intermittent subscriptions to various magazines and other publications and, you know, internet access…) but I have a few very simple patterns that I return to time and again, because the simpler the pattern is, the more embellishment it can handle before it starts to look overwhelmed.

I was thinking, recently, about how we do the same thing with our memories. When we tell the stories of our glory days, often a few embellishments sneak in. Sometimes that's purposeful deception, but I think more often it's just that we remember things sweeter (or uglier, or more beautiful, or kinder, or meaner...) than they actually were. The story becomes the story of our memory, not a factual recounting of an incident. And I think that's ok.


* That this was actually a custom has never been proven, so it remains theoretical (and, some feel, unlikely).


** frogging is a term commonly used among knitters to signify the process of ripping out work. “Rip it – rip it”. Oh, we’re a wild, witty bunch.