About Me

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Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Saturday, March 08, 2008

Uh-Oh, Reprised!

Brigham Young is quoted as saying that what he feared most for the Latter-Day Saints, was that that they would become wealthy. [And presumably prideful, haughty, uncharitable, self-sufficient, etc.] My fortune cookie last night told me, “You will spend many years in comfort and material wealth”. Should I be worried?

Actually, being wealthy is one of my secret fears. I have no aversion to being solvent, and I know that there are righteous people who use their wealth to bless others. I think that one of the reasons my second marriage failed is that the children’s father desperately wanted to be wealthy, and I desperately wanted to be blessed. I think we were working at cross-purposes, that we had our respective ladders leaning against neighboring walls, and that the place where the ladders met was where our beautiful, precious children were born. He came to the church by way of traditional Christianity and then Hinduism; his family has a long tradition of seeking the light. I came to the church through lack of a religious tradition and and what I didn’t know then was a deep spiritual hunger.

He has gone back to his seeking, and I still have a death-grip on my own ladder, for this is what makes life sweet to me. I see him there in the distance, and he seems lost, but perhaps he is only taking a longer road Home. I wonder sometimes how he could turn away from the covenants that he made, forget the things that he knew. He used to be so privately impatient with apostates and wonder why they didn’t just ask to have their names removed from the membership records. And yet he makes no move to do so, for himself, even though he now attends a church whose doctrines he used to laugh at, calling it The Church of What’s Happening Now. [We both loved Flip Wilson for his sassy goodness.]

Funny the things you think about when your body’s sick and you’d rather be sleeping, or dancing.

I pretty much ate all day, yesterday. A Whataburger combo for breakfast: nice greasy hash brown sticks [it really doesn’t get better than that] with a sausage sandwich and a tiny box of OJ. I love how spicy their sausage is. I wanted something I could taste. And way too many Thin Mints while burrowing down through the paperwork that filled my in-box this week. Not because I was craving chocolate, but because I was craving mint. A can of turkey chili and some saltines for lunch, which made for a mad dash to the loo after locking the office at the end of the day. Chili is probably not the best choice for someone who had a colonoscopy two days earlier and whose innards were as pure as Eden before the Fall, LOL. And a sudden craving for orange chicken for dinner. Again, something I could taste. I picked up an order of orange chicken with fried rice for LittleBit, who was at work, and mandarin chicken [hoping it was fiery, and being sadly mistaken, though it was truly delicious] with steamed rice for me.

We will not even mention the Samoas that I ate while entering minor prove-ups into the system.

I am thinking mashed potatoes with plenty of horseradish, sometime today. Not as caloric as yesterday’s fare, but wonderfully satisfying.

I ate the second fortune cookie, the one meant for LittleBit. Not sure I like that fortune any better, “Forge ahead with your new ideas.” What new ideas? It was nearly midnight when I ate that cookie, and my body was screaming for sleep. My head was full of sludge; there was no room for new ideas. Only the old, old one: go to bed, Lynn, the stocking will be here in the morning. 17 rounds so far on the ribbing; when I went to bed, I was a third of the way up to the eyelet round.

I liked Becoming Jane. Old-fashioned duty, feisty women, failed romances. My life, with quill pens and better costuming. Grownupitude is being able to see beyond the whim of the moment to the consequences of that choice, and choosing wisely, or choosing to live with the consequences. I used to pray, often, for God to send me Mr. Ravelled #3, or to send me to him. And one day I realized that I might be asking God to call some good woman Home, or to accelerate the breakup of a marriage. Y’all think that I’m this amazingly patient, saintly woman [my kids know better], whereas it’s more that I’m a big chicken.

I mean, really. Would you like to have to explain to some dear sister that the reason she didn’t get to finish that row [well of course his late wife would be a knitter; we hope that he is, too] is because you wanted a date for Saturday night, a year from now? I didn’t think so. Or explain to your new beloved that the reason she ran off with the Fuller Brush man [do they still have those?] is because you were tired of living like a nun?

Braaaack! Bock! Bock! Bock! Bock!

It is now Saturday morning, and I am amazingly well-rested, and breathing more easily. I’ve put a few rounds onto the Stripedy Stocking, enough that my pushing finger on my left hand is tender, and think I will go back to Middlest’s sock for awhile. With two brown socks on my needles, I am starting to crave some color. Will try to resist the temptation to wind up some of my Jitterbug Velvet and cast on Belvedere, or to go back to the turquoise yarn that I frogged several months ago.

Someday when I have a fresh manicure and my hands are properly hydrated and look like the hands of a middle-aged woman and not like those of a crone, I will have Secondborn film how I knit. I’m not speedy like the Harlot or combination like Annie. I just English away until I’m done. I can do Continental, and it’s great for two-color knitting, but I taught myself English when I was eight, and it’s what I always go back to.

Dance with the one what brung ya, as we say here in Texas.

Still, for all the fiddling that goes with knitting English style, I do manage to get a fair number of projects done. As I list new ones on Ravelry and go back to document old ones, they are beginning to add up. I think one of the next ones has got to be that Fur Sure jacket by Heather Lodinsky that I’ve queued. The vintage opossum collar that I bought on eBay [probably older than I am, and that’s saying something] is languishing in a box when it ought to be keeping my neck warm. At less than three stitches per inch, I could be done just in time for the first wave of hot weather next month.

I am in a puttery mood today, always a good sign. I think I will bundle up and go buy more hangers for the closet, and pick up a couple rolls of quarters to do laundry. Yes, I could do it for free at Firstborn’s, and the company would be better than at the laundromat, but I get it done way faster if not cheaper. No matter how many loads or how long it's been, I’m done in less than two hours. Even though I sort everything twice. First by color, for the washing; then by dryer heat.

I priced stacking washer/dryers for the duplex, when I was bored after they sent us home early on Thursday afternoon, and oye! not cheap!! but there’s a scratch-and-dent place just down the road. Maybe they will have one when I truly need it.

I think baking might happen today. Maybe I should just go stretch out on the couch with Middlest’s socks until the urge passes?

2 comments:

Leslye said...

Lynn,
Hold on to that ladder! Knit all the way up if you must (and I know you must!). There are many who need you and your style...not all are related to you. Glad you are feeling better!

Jenni said...

Just think that your holding to that ladder is a large part of what helped the roots of my testimony grow deep enough to provide the anchor I have needed over the years.