When I think of my mother and daughters, I feel like filling in a genetic sandwich—
like bologna between slices of whole-grain bread.

My mama was a handweaver. My oldest daughter recently took up spinning. Knitting is one of the many threads that bind our generations together—fiber is in our genes. Wonder where that marker is on a DNA spiral? To celebrate, I designed this hallmark for my daughter. I also bought her two pounds of Leicester wool for spinning.

Our workshop at Noah’s Landing near Shreve, Ohio was such fun. We worked on the non-stop heel technique on Friday evening and Fair Isle knitting on Saturday. Jolene did a presentation about color and showed us the samples she used for three knitting magazine articles that she wrote. Many of the workshop participants are spinners and weavers as well as knitters (must have the same genetic marker as we do), and already knew most of what we presented I’m sure. They persevered with the little projects and I learned a lot from the discussions. The companionship of these folks is as warm as a wooly mitten.

Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.
[Theodore Roosevelt]

I’m excited about the prospect of posting photos of the socks that folks knit for our Sock Workshop. If you are still working on your sock or just found this opportunity and would like to knit the sock, I’ve moved the posts to pages and listed them in order. Look at the bottom of the left column and you will find them.

I am making good progress on finishing the electronic files for my eBook, . . . and a time to knit stockings. The sock pattern used for the October Sock Workshop is one of 16 patterns in the book. Photos of some of the other socks are scattered among past posts on this web log. The sweater I’m wearing in this photo was knit using the stitch design in the November Sock pattern. Soon, I will post an early-bird discount offer for purchasing my new eBook.

Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
[Albert Camus]

Today, I will have a little farewell ceremony for my window boxes then cut the flowers off. They have been glorious this season and we have had warm weather later than usual but frost is predicted for tonight and snow for tomorrow. Then I’ll make my annual pilgrimage to New Harmony. This photo shows one of the oldest homes in New Harmony. It is a charming little town on the banks of the Wabash far away. For a number of years, a group of knitters have met, shared and enjoyed each other’s company there each autumn. It seems easier to face the bite of winter with a ball of wool and a set of knitting needles in my hand.

Build traditions in your families that will bring you together,
for they can demonstrate your devotion, love, and support for one another…
[L. Tom Perry]

A hundred years ago, when my mama was born, her grandfather gave her a tiny wooden chair. When my children were small, my father made each of them a tiny wooden chair patterened after mama’s. This is my grandson sitting on one of those chairs — well worn for all its use. My daughter is having a woodcraftsman make this little lad a chair of his own. Come to think of it, the overalls are a tradition too. Daddy’s usually had walnut shavings caught in the cuffs.

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
‘This is my own, my native land!’
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d
As home his footsteps he hath turn’d
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.

[Lay of the Last Minstrel — Canto Sixth, verse I]

How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains!
[John Muir]

Photograph by James E. Miller

A friend of mine is moving to Tennessee. Moving is a big and scary step so I have posted this photograph that was taken in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park by a photographer friend of mine so she can have a glimpse of the beauty that awaits her.

I have as much privacy as a goldfish in a bowl.
[Princess Margaret]

When I started this blog three weeks ago, I did so as an experiment and learning experience. I saw it as a public journal of sorts and selected topics as they came to mind. Like Topsy, it just grew. I still intend to keep it general but today I’m on my soap box.

A couple of years ago, I was arrested, spent eight terrifying hours in the county lockup and was released without apology and without being told why it had all happened. After a sleepless night, I went into my Nancy-Drew mode and investigated the situation starting with the sheriff’s office. I discovered that a woman with a name similar to mine was in contempt of court for non-payment of a debt. Some law clerk did a sloppy job of research and put my name, address, social security number, etc. on the warrant. The clerk got that information from my land title company. It took six months and a trip to court to get my police record expunged.

Yesterday, a friend of mine sent an email with a link to a web site that publishes information about people. Not only were there a multitude of references to me but some of the information was in error and there were links to many other sites that offer similar information. It is a bottomless pit. If Princess Margaret were still alive, she’d notice that there are millions of other goldfish in the bowl.

If it weren’t for crooks, opportunists and incompetent law clerks, I wouldn’t care if I were living in a fish bowl. However, in the real world, this is a dangerous situation. I’m old enough to know that any sense of security is an illusion — there is no such thing as security but we still need to protect ourselves to the extent we are able. I haven’t the foggiest notion about what to do about this except to be aware that the situation exists.

The cure for boredom is curiosity.
There is no cure for curiosity.
[Dorothy Parker]

[Photo taken at St. Fagans, Cardiff, Wales]

Windows, doors, gates, portholes — all of these inflame my curiosity and make me stop to think. If you stood on my left as I shot this photo, you’d see a path to a manor garden. If you were on my right, you’d see the road to a little church. That difference in viewpoints is a common experience to us all, but it always amazes me.

Not only do two people standing at a window have different viewpoints, one person does as well depending upon which eye is open. It puts me in mind of more abstract points-of-view. We each have our own window on the world. The view is further effected by our perceptions and influences we may not even be able to define. I always try to remember that I cannot see another’s view entirely as he or she sees it. No wonder it takes an effort to understand other people’s viewpoints.

This is where curiosity spurs me on. Attempting to see the world as another person sees it broadens my view. Do you see blue the same way I see blue? Do you interpret a smile the way I interpret a smile? Do you perceive pain the way I perceive pain? I am curious about what you see through your window on the world.

Love is an act of endless forgiveness …
[Peter Ustinov]

I’ve been thinking about the difference between loving someone and liking someone. I think love is a gift of eternal caring that I offer someone. It endures no matter what — even if they don’t accept my gift. Liking someone, on the other hand, is a subjective reaction that depends upon both my perceptions and the way the other person chooses to interact with me. I can think of several people to whom I offer love, whose traits don’t appeal to me at all. I’ve reached a stage of development where I do not seek out the companionship of people who bring strife and other negative things into our interactions, but I can love them. There are times when that person is me and I know I need to mend my attitude in order to like myself even though I always offer myself the gift of love. Maybe that is part of what it means to love our enemies. I’m thankful that we aren’t told to like them as well.