Whew!  My children, grandchildren and whatever friends might be dependent upon me in time of need can now rest a bit easier. IF (and this is admittedly a big IF)…IF terrorists or natural disaster should strike all the sock factories all over the world at once, rendering them unable to knit millions and billions of socks for those of us with feet, YOU, my lucky ones, will not have to go sockless. I have learned how to make a sock!

This is, admittedly, a feeble first attempt.

And it is only one.

BUT! I now know how to do it, and if necessity should force me, I COULD make another one.

Just not right this minute.

Seriously, knitters the world over are absolutely smitten with knittin’ mittens…oops, I mean socks…. with knitten’ socks right now. And I have bucked the trend long enough. A couple of weeks ago, I bit the bullet and bought a big ball of sock yarn. Lisa, at a wonderful place called One City Market, who knows all things knitty and helps all of us wannabes, suggested a large man’s sock for my beginner project.

The pattern says “fits size 7-12.” Well, all I can say is… if a man with size 7 feet tried this sock on, it would be one-legged pants for him, pulled right up to his chin.

The pattern called for size 6 needles, and Lisa and her friend Terri (a knit-policewoman who makes people do things RIGHT the first time) insisted that I do a swatch to check my gauge. I conceded, knitted up a little swatch and measured it. It seemed just right, but I guess my swatch was a bit too small to tell.

So, in the end my sock turned out to be size G for Giant. Now I’m looking for a one-legged lumberjack with huge, muscular calves to wear this sock so that I don’t have to make another one just like it and can start a second pair on smaller needles with different yarn, maybe some that would fit ME.

But so I could show you a picture, my resident farmboy let me put the sock on his foot, just for art’s sake. And now, even though it is a tad large and not so perfect where I picked up the stitches to make the heel, my foot model says it feels pretty darn good on his foot. In fact, he doesn’t want to take it off. In fact, he says if I’ll make one more, he’ll wear the pair. And in fact, if I’ll make him a sweater he’ll wear that, too, and why haven’t I done that before??!!

He has memory loss, I guess. I remember this certain navy blue v-neck pullover sweater vest, back in 1972, knitted while I was taking 18 hours that fall semester (but still, there’s time to knit, in between reading novels in three days and writing papers–we make time for the important stuff, right?) and presented as a Christmas present, humbly but lovingly, because there was NO money for bought presents in those days….and I don’t recall that it was ever worn, even though that v-neck was just a little bit crooked and a little longer on one side and the armholes gapped just a bit, like maybe they would also have fit a lumberjack…he’s forgotten that sweater.

I’m forgetting sweaters, too, and going back to socks. It really is nice to know that we could have warm feet if disaster strikes. However, there is one more issue that would necessarily have to be addressed…the sheep to grow the wool to spin the yarn….I’d need sheep. Yes, and a spinning wheel of some kind…and combs….and…yes, there’s more to this sock business than meets the eye. Maybe the terrorists will strike something a little less important….

Lucy, Lacey, lilies, and a little quiz…

I have four of the smartest, sweetest, most precious grandchildren in the whole world. No question about it.

And I have discovered something: I appreciate and enjoy them most when I have them one at a time.

Last week we had Lucy all to ourselves. It was perfect! She was an angel, and we didn’t have a cross word all week.

She had lots of fun gathering eggs,

riding on the tractor with Poppy when he mowed hay, helping me with my chores and going to play with her cousins one day.

My chickens were not sure about Lucy…they were quite shy around her.

Lucy liked Lacey.

Lucy liked Mimi’s lilies.

And Lucy loved Millie, the cousins’ new puppy.

Everyone loves Millie.

Mimi loves Michael….

and had so much fun going to see him Tuesday night. Awesome concert!!! It was a “beginning of summer” celebration, because the real fun on the farm starts now.

Up at 4:30 this morning, Farmboy out the door by 5:30, and we’re off to the races! Cattle working every day, now that the first hay and silage have been harvested. Life becomes a marathon, and with apologies to the Gershwins, the livin’ ain’t so easy right now. But it’s life on the farm, and so here we go…hang on….

Here’s the quiz! Question one: Can anyone guess what my new “thing” is???

And question two: can you guess how I’m going to use it???

I look forward to grading your answers on this Thursday’s pop quiz…

I am in a most unusual position….sitting alone in a hotel room. Thinking this might be the very first time this has ever happened. I don’t quite know what I think about it.

Our five-year-old granddaughter rode with me and has been deposited at home. She was a little angel while visiting us this week, very sweet and much more grown up than I was ready to realize. Lucy will be six in August. Where do the years go, as they fly past and are gone?

I had a whirlwind morning, preparing to be gone for the weekend. Forty-eight short hours, two-hundred-forty miles, but really, it might as well have been across the country. So many things must be readied. Flowers and garden watered, laundry finished, messages attended to, reminders about the chickens left on the kitchen counter, clothes packed (Lucy’s and mine), a pair of pants hemmed at the last minute (probably won’t even need them), a good lunch fixed for the farmboy (“This will have to last me ALL weekend,” he moaned, grinning), a last minute shower, then everything packed into the car, including snacks and water bottles, crayons and coloring book, story books, a doll, a stuffed animal, pillow pet and blankie, and hopefully everything I need, and by the time we pulled out of the driveway, I needed only one thing…a nap.

Five hours and we arrived. And now here I am, one meeting under my belt, and now a comfy bed awaits. But what am I doing? Feeling slightly lonely, even though I’m surrounded by hundreds of people and at least one dog (do they allow those here????)

I realize that my life is such a universe away from that of so many women, the ones who wear heels and business suits and carry briefcases and hop planes weekly and make their travel arrangements with quick little clicks on their smart little hand-held things. The ones who make crucial business decisions and it affects the bottom line of some big corporation. Me? I listen to whipporwills at night instead of the ding of the elevator, and my bottom line is most significantly affected by my grocery bill. So I feel like I’m pretending tonight…pretending to feel at home on the twelfth floor of a huge hotel, pretending to not mind going down into the parking garage alone, pretending to be something I’m not. Very much a fish out of water…or a hillbilly in the city, all alone…

I love the group I’m with, and I love being a part of something bigger than myself in that it enables me to do some things I couldn’t do on my own. Tomorrow will be busy and filled with meaningful work, and at the end of the weekend I’ll be so glad I came. Just thinking now that maybe I should have brought my own blankie…

Third time’s the charm…

It took three tries for me, but finally I succeeded…in getting to attend a gathering of kntters in a nearby town.

I “knew” Lisa through her blog (http://karmaperdiem.wordpress.com/) and was finally able to meet her face to face and give her a big hug. She is modeling her “Holy Moly Shawl” that we all oohed and aahed over. Made out of Noro Tahki, it is light enough for summer wear. 

                  (Gail is knitting her second yellow sock–she wore Lisa’s shawl for a while, thinking Lisa might not notice….not!)

(Linda was new, too, and has a flea market/antique shop I love to frequent)

     (Carolyn showed us the neatest way to make yarn pompoms!)

These gals meet once a month, and you’d think I could manage that, but, no….so many things come up, and I was beginning to think it just wasn’t meant to be.

(Becki, on right, is starting a small yarn shop inside a local sewing shop)

But Thursday worked! So in I walked, introduced myself, sat down and started knitting. I listened and learned and soon began chatting with them, and by the end of four hours felt like I’d made new friends.

(Ashley, the youngest in the group, has a small yarn shop inside her mother’s quilt shop (the other favorite fiber-arts hobby of us all!) and drove even farther than I to be with this group.)

This group meets in the library, and this is a WONDERFUL library…way worth the hour’s drive just to see it! Almost brand-spankin’ new, it is a jewel for this town. After the meeting I wandered around and noted appreciatively its many fine assets….

,,,,saving the best for last.

This young man grew up in our town and is now a research librarian, specializing in genealogy. He showed me how he designed their research room (he is showing me microfilm in that special cabinet above) and shared some tips with me to bring home to our tiny genealogy library. Thanks, Vince!

From now on, if you need me on the second Thursday of the month, plan on a trip to the library…and bring your needles! 

Savor ye strawberries while ye may

I made strawberry jam yesterday, one of my favorite late spring rituals. It gives me such a feeling of inner satisfaction to spend a couple of hours with boxes of luscious, juicy fruit, a little (well, really a lot) of sugar, some pectin and to finish with sparkling jars of red sweetness, lined up in rows on the countertop, lids all perfectly “pinged’ and sealed. Come next January, a spoonful of the results of this morning’s labors spread on a hot, buttered biscuit will taste like the essence of summer.

Strawberries are such a treat! I’m talking about REAL strawberries. I don’t mean the huge, hollow, dry white ones that are picked green, genetically altered to grow too large, too fast, and to hold their shape without spoiling for weeks, while being shipped across a continent. No, I mean the smaller, truly sweet berries, red on the inside AND out, and juicy enough to be messy. These berries are hard to find, and we’re lucky that a few Ozarkers still grow them and sell them. And I love to pick them with my own hands.

Today as I stemmed and cut berries into chunks and then mashed them with a potato masher, I thought about another strawberry patch and another jam-making session. We lived in another place, and my children were still youngsters. My mother had come to visit, bringing along my grandmother and my great-grandmother, and I was so excited to plan what I thought would be the perfect multi-generational outing for all of us–a visit to a local strawberry patch.

Only it wasn’t really perfect. Mom didn’t like it at all–she dislikes the heat and hates flying insects, and that world we lived in had lots of both. And Grandmother thought my great-grandmother, her mother, was not up to picking berries. But still I persisted. Those who didn’t wish to pick could sit in the shade.

When we got to the Millers’ strawberry patch, it turned out that nothing would deter Great-Grandma from doing her part. She was small and lithe and could still stoop over, and she smiled through it all, reminiscing about strawberry episodes from her childhood. My girls ran up and down the rows, eating more than they picked and having a wonderful time. Mom was tolerant if not happy, and we came home with an abundance of sweet berries.

Then Grandmother came into her element, giving me my first jam-making lesson. A quick trip to town resulted in pectin, extra sugar and new jar lids. Mom and Grandma had the berries stemmed and ready for us, and we went to work. She taught me to be precise in measuring, what a rolling boil is, how to time a minute just right (“Thousand-one, thousand-two, thousand-three…), and to skim off the foam.

Grandmother said, “There’s nothing wrong with the foamy part–the jam just isn’t as pretty with it on top. Put it in a saucer and eat it tonight!”

She taught me to quickly seal the hot jars tightly and to turn them upside down on a dish towel on the counter for about 10 minutes. Then when the jars are turned right side up, they ping quickly, letting you know they are sealed.

[Although proper directions instruct one to process the jars in a water bath, I've never done that, and I've never lost a jar of jam, in all these years.]

Grandmother and I didn’t turn all those strawberries into jam. That night for supper we had strawberry shortcake, and this was where Mom came into her element. First, she sliced and sweetened a big bowl of berries and let them get juicy. Then she made pie crust. This was Dad’s favorite way to enjoy strawberry shortcake, and Mom always made things the way Dad liked them. Mom rolled out sheets of pie crust, pricked it and then baked it on a cookie sheet till nicely browned. After supper, Mom layered berries and crust in a big bowl, allowing the crust to soak up the juice for a few minutes, while she whipped cream–no substitute for the real thing.

Can I even begin to tell you how good Mom’s strawberry shortcake was? No, words won’t do it justice. I hope you get the chance to try it for yourself.

How I wish for pictures from that day, with five generations of women in our family picking, working up, and eating strawberries together. I do have the images sealed in my mind, to be brought out and remembered again, as I go through the same process these many years later.

Now, can you guess what my farmboy and I had for dessert last night?