Project Grace Completed

If you don't know about Project Grace, please read my last entry first- it will save me the time of re-writing it here.



I finished Project Grace a couple of weeks ago. We'd just gotten back from vacation and it took me until tonight to put my hands on my camera so that I could take pictures that would provide the evidence that I wanted.

There were two panels that gave me trouble- one was fairly easy to suss out- it took a couple of hours of research and a new book purchase, but my first attempt revealed the correct pattern. The "Bramble" was indeed "Bramble."

The "Slip Stitch Diamonds" turned out to be a bit harder to unravel. I searched every book I had including two newly purchased ones. I made a practice square- it looked good on the front, but the back was clearly different. It had to be perfect- good enough was not going to be good enough. I was also concerned that as the blanket aged, the difference between Grace's pattern and mine would become more evident.

Finally I went to a local knitting shop and asked the ladies there for help. One of them pointed out a bit of knitting that I would have missed- every fourth stitch had one more row to it- an odd bit of knitting indeed. They'd never seen a stitch like it before- it makes a perfectly flat diamond pattern. It's brilliant construction. Their discovery enabled me to work out the stitch the rest of the way.

The cabling was simply resolved with a little math.

Here's the blanket, in all its glory:


(Grace loved cats, so I let Patches stay and be photographed.)

Here's a picture of the end that I knit:



Here's a picture of the juncture where Grace's knitting ends and mine begins:



I tried to take that last picture at a point where the knitting is the most complicated because I figured that if there was a place where the transition would show, that would be it. I can't tell where she left off and I took over. My goal was for the transition to be seamless, and it appears that I accomplished that.

I'm pretty proud of the work I did and glad that I could do it right. I have a blanket I cherish and I will think of Grace often when I am curled up beneath it, with a cat in my lap. Anyone who knew Grace would know that spending time under a hand-knit blanket, sharing its comfort with a cat is the perfect way to remember Grace. I am lucky to have her blanket (and so is Patches.)

Project Grace

A dear friend of mine died recently. Grace was only 64 and she died of pancreatic cancer. It was a horrible end to a gentle and generous person. I will miss her tremendously.

Grace was a knitter and seamstress extraordinaire. She could puzzle out a pattern in her head and solve other people's mistakes and mis-stitches. She could create patterns and tailor and calculate in her head. Her ability was both fascinating and impressive.

I have had the good fortune to inherit a mostly-finished blanket that was part of her legacy. It's about ten inches too short and it comes without any notes or patterns. This is it:

There are a total of seventeen patterned panels across the front and a border around it.

A couple of the patterns are easy to figure out:
This one is a simple X and O cable with a Diamond Bobble cable in the center


This one is a Trophy Cable on either side and a Seed Stitch Diamond in the center:


And the center section is a simple diamond trellis cable:


Then there are the Mystery Stitches:

Bramble?


Slip Stitch Diamonds?


I think that finishing this blanket without a pattern is the perfect way to remember Grace. I will have to use my head and I will have to be careful. I'm checking my gauge to make sure it will go seamlessly from her work to mine- I'll have to use a larger diameter needle- she always knit looser than I do. I've been thinking about how to recreate the mystery stitches and I've poured through my books. I think I have one of them solved- I found a pattern that looks like it's the right one and I have a swatch knitted up that I'll subject to a close comparison. The "Slip Stitch Diamond" I haven't found a pattern for yet, but I think I've worked it out in my head. I have a swatch of that started too- I don't have it perfect yet, but I think I'm on the right track.

Grace would have it figured out by now, most likely. She'd have loved the challenge.

I love it too.

My Orange Alarm CLock

I have an alarm clock that goes off every morning sometime between 5:30 and 6, regardless of what I do to silence it. It used to make me a little hostile-feeling, but now I have some compassion for the annoying little bugger.

We have 3 cats, Feisty, Patches and BK. We also used to have Neal. Neal and Feisty were brothers; Neal was put to sleep back in January after being diagnosed with cancer.

In our bedroom, we have installed a pet door that goes out onto the balcony so that the cats can go outside. BK uses it as her main form of ingress and egress from the house. Patches will routinely go out and sunbathe as well. Feisty and Neal used to go out every morning and experience the sunrise from the balcony- they'd lounge out there for about an hour and a half before coming inside.

Feisty is a very dumb cat. Every morning, bright and early, Feisty starts to call out, "Mwrow? Mwrow? Mwrow?" while trying to figure out how to get outside. He'll paw at the wall a little bit. "Mwrow? Mwrow? Mwrow?" The other cats don't have this problem. They go over to the kitty door and nose it open and walk outside without hesitation. Feisty can't figure it out. I don't know if he can't find it or doesn't know how it works- I've tried to teach him countless times, but every morning it's the same drill. "Mwrow? Mwrow? Mwrow?"

I drag myself out of bed and open the kitty door for him (I stick my foot into it and lift the flap and he figures it out and goes outside- I do this every morning.) I used to get aggravated by it and throw pillows at him to try to get him to stop. Nothing worked.

Then I realized that he used to go outside without any problem when Neal was around to lead the way. Now when my alarm goes off every morning, I drag myself out of bed, go over to Feisty and give him a scratch behind the ears and simply open the door for him.

I don't know if he consciously misses Neal. As I mentioned, he's a dumb cat, even bearing in mind that he's a CAT. What I do know is that his life is a little harder for him without having his brother around.

Every morning at around 5:30 or 6, I miss Neal a little bit and I have a bit of extra affection for Feisty. It's not so bad a way to start the day, actually.

Penguins at the Feeder

All kids say cute things and mine are no exception. I've been told "write them down" more times than I can shake a stick at. Being someone who likes to write, I ponder this advice.

Where? is the first question. I'm not a scrapbooker. I think scrapbooks are neat if you're into that kind of thing, but I'm not. And I'm not going to get into scrapbooking- it'd be another expensive unfinished project category that I'd need to store somewhere. Between my knitting and my quilting I have plenty of that. Besides, I don't have that sort of eye- it's just not my thing.

Why? is the second question. The obvious answer is so that I don't forget. I'm sure I'll forget some things. The other day Ted was wearing just a t-shirt and a pair of underpants. He and Henry were discussing the location of something and Henry queried of Ted, ""In pocket?" Ted responded, "No, Henry, I don't have pockets in these underpants." I laughed at the time and smiled rewriting it here; next week it likely will be a distant memory. If I wrote it down would it be a diary for myself? Perhaps something to read when they're 15 and 17 and driving me crazy?

I don't write a diary. I tried keeping one and didn't like it. Writing here is different because I don't keep a schedule and don't feel obligated. If I get to the point where I feel done I can simply delete the whole blog- there will be no books to discard or for my kids to worry about.

I also like the idea that my memories are not cataloged, not confined rigidly to a book. It seems more natural and right to me- Ted went through a phase where all birds were "chickens." We'd go to the zoo and he'd point excitedly at the flamingos and shout "Chickens, mommy!" There were chickens at the bird feeder and on the wires next to the highway. I realized the other day that Henry's doing the same thing. We were looking at a book of animals and there was a picture of a peacock; Henry excitedly exclaimed, "Penguin!" Since then I have found that there are penguins in our trees and at the pond nearby.

In the future I may confuse who was "chickens" and who was "penguins," but does it really matter? I think I'd rather let my memories be my memories, foggy though they may become.

Besides, it will give Nate and me something to correct each other on when we're older.

And I'm Back

I'm not crabby any more.

I'll post again soon.

I get mad sometimes- I have a pretty quick temper, truth be told, but I'm disinclined to hold grudges.

So I'm not pouting any more and will probably turn out another entry within the week.

It was a tough afternoon though, so tonight I have a date with the couch and my knitting.

Ah, my knitting. Unfortunately, my husband is a man of very simple tastes. I am knitting him a sweater vest and so my knitting will consist of knit on the right side, purl on the wrong. Heaven forbid we have something outlandish, like a cable or some colorwork.

Knit on the right side, purl on the wrong side. In brown no less. Not aubergine or celadon. Perhaps if I came up with a more romantic name for "brown" it would make it seem more interesting. The good news is that he will wear it a lot, simply because I made it for him. It won't take long to make either because it's so simple, so even though boring at least it won't be long and boring.

So I'm off to the couch to knit a sweater vest in "Grizzly." (Did that sound more interesting than "brown?")

And She's Outta Here

I'm taking a break.

I enjoy writing. I really do. I'll miss it.

But I haven't been writing much lately. I think about it. I formulate entries in my head and don't post them.

I didn't realize when I first started writing how much critical analysis would follow- not just of my writing, but also of my parenting.

It is the fate of my children to have me as a parent. I'm not perfect, but I'm happy with my life; I'm happy (for the most part) with myself.

My kids aren't going to have a million friends through my social contacts.

I'm not perky.

My house is badly decorated and cluttered.

I don't see the need for kids to be taking four different kinds of lessons at the age of 3.

I think that tv is over-rated and most programs are garbage. I think that many books are too.

To me, a day spent at the park is a day well spent and a trip to the grocery store can be just as educational (and more practical) than a trip to many museums.

Play groups make me anxious- they feel like first dates and no one ever calls for a second date. I'm just not that great at small talk. I never have been and I never will be. I'm ok with this for the most part but people telling me that I need to go out and make more friends so that the kids have more social exposure is, frankly, unhelpful advice. Would I like to have more friends? Sure I would. But I would have answered that question the same way just about every year of my life.

I really am doing the best I can as a parent, but there are basic things about my nature that make it impossible to transform myself into Donna Reed, June Cleaver or Claire Huxtable. I'm just not any of those people. My kids are going to have me as their parent, for good or for bad. I've tried many times to be someone I'm not because it seemed that other people were unhappy with who I am and the bottom line is that it doesn't work, it only makes me miserable.

Writing down the anecdotes has invited criticism of all kinds and it just isn't fun any more. I don't post because I don't want the inevitable phone calls and emails. So I'm taking a break.

I posted another entry this morning, one that had been sitting half-finished for a month or more. It'll be my last one for a while.

The Police Officer's Wife

I am a police officer's wife.

Most people have an emotional response to that. The response ranges from empathy to distrust, from compassion to even a little fear.

Sometimes current events evoke a response; such has happened recently.

About a month ago a suspect shot and killed three police officers outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The suspect appeared to have no particular beef with the officers who responded to the call to 911; other than his killing the officers, he'd had no contact with them.

News such as this always makes me grateful that my husband is as careful as he is. It makes me appreciate my friends, some of whom offer their thanks when such news makes headlines. Although my husband had no connection to the Pittsburgh incident, we know that it's a possibility that he may be tomorrow's news story.

I don't often think about that aspect of his job. It is typical that an incident such as Pittsburgh's is random- it happens in response to a simple traffic stop, or while answering a routine call. Since it is so random, thinking about it serves no purpose- the chances are real but slim and I can't let them consume me.

When I was pregnant with Ted I was still working as a police legal adviser for the department he works for. When there was an officer-involved shooting, one of my tasks was to go to the scene and report back to my office- our office was eventually the office that would be representing the city in any subsequent lawsuit. When I was about 4 months along I was called to the scene of an officer-involved shooting.

The shooting happened in the district my husband patrols, during a preceding shift. The suspect was a paranoid schizophrenic who had the belief that police officers were actually space aliens who were going to steal his body. In a previous encounter with a different police department he'd blown his hands off with a hand grenade in an attempt to thwart the "alien." That police officer, a West Virginia state trooper, had saved the suspect's life.

In this incident the officer was responding to a domestic disturbance. The suspect was armed with a WWII era long gun loaded with armor-piercing rounds. The responding officer received a career-ending injury when a round penetrated his torso, just below his vest. The suspect fired several times but was eventually shot to death by the officers who responded. The primary officer involved was in the hospital for many weeks and returned to the job only for a short time- his injuries made it uncomfortable to wear his gear, even after a year of recovery.

Officers' wives pull together under such circumstances. I was one of many who made two meals for the family- we had a schedule that we followed so that they weren't inundated with too much food at once. I'd never met her before, but I knew that it could have as easily been me to get that phone call we all occasionally think about getting. The officer had done nothing wrong. He hadn't been sloppy. He was a good officer with a good reputation who was doing his job the way he was trained to do it. It happened anyway.

My husband and I have an agreement. If he's going to be more than a half-hour late getting home from work he calls me and lets me know. More than a half-hour late and I start to worry that I'm going to get that phone call. I think that maybe he's at the hospital and no one's thought to call me yet. I start to get anxious.

How he leaves for work every night is routine to the point of superstitious: He kisses me good night and tells me he loves me, I tell him I love him too. I tell him "Have a good night" and he walks down the hall and whispers at our children's doors that he loves each of them before heading downstairs and out the door. I have to tell him to have a good night. It's for me- he hasn't asked me to do it, but I feel like something's wrong if I say something different. He has his ritual, I have mine.

Every night for a fleeting moment just after he kisses me goodnight there lingers the the shadow of the prospect of getting that phone call. I expect that other officer's wives feel the same way when they see their husbands walk out the door.

People sometimes tell me that they couldn't do what I do- live with that specter. But I love my husband. He's been a police officer for his whole adult life. It's what he does. I don't want to change him- he's good at his job and those rare occasions when he gets to truly help someone he's reminded why he does it. When he tells me those stories he positively *sparkles*.

I don't think I do anything special just by being married to my husband. I'm happy with my life and I think I have it pretty good. As long as I never get that call.