The Sack of the Church Yard

A college education is a marvelous thing.

The Alien Child has been volunteering this holiday vacation--going to Operation Nightwatch in Seattle as well as working around the grounds of our church. He mentioned to me that he is to get rid of the ivy that is encroaching on the church building, as ivy is known to be quite destructive.

"I think I'll use salt," he said.

"Salt?" I asked. "Did you get that idea from a gardening magazine?"

"No," he said. "I got it from the Romans."

"What?"

"The Romans," he said. "The story of the sack of Carthage. Salting the earth so that no crops will grow--a popular "scorched earth" policy method through the ages. I figure it if it worked then, it should work now." He paused, looking thoughtful. "The Sack of the Ivy. I will wreak utter destruction on it. I will raze its vines into rubble. Its roots will die. Its offshoots will weep and be enslaved."

"I don't think ivy weeps," I said

"Maybe it does," he said. "Maybe it weeps in its own ivy way."

"Also, I'm not so sure it's a good idea just to strew salt around without knowing what kind of effect it might have."

"I'm sure it's okay," he said. "Salt is biodegradable. But I'll ask Nancy just in case." He did, and said that Nancy (who is the groundskeeper) said she couldn't see why it wouldn't work. But I did wonder if he tried to persuade her into it. I understand he is going to use rock salt, as this is probably the closest form we have to what the Romans used.

That's my son: doing his best for historical verisimilitude.

Spinning fiber and yarn - clearing out stash

The last day of work for me at the contract job (web editing) was yesterday. I liked working at the place, the people I worked with and for were fun (all younger than I am, I bet!), and the work pretty steady and satisfying. I'd work there in a minute again if I had the chance. However, I do want a permanent job (tech writing and/or editing), and so I'm looking around again.

Meanwhile, I need to clean house, and need to destash my fiber and yarn hoard. I have my handspun yarn at my Etsy shop for sale, but I really do need to get rid of my store-bought yarn, too, not to mention my bags and bags of roving and fleece, both wool and alpaca. Ditto some of my store-bought yarn.

I'm keeping the finest stuff for myself (merino, camel, alpaca, silk), but will let go of even some of that. I was thinking of selling the fleece and roving, but what I'll do is give it away for donations to UMCOR (United Methodist Committee on Relief), since 100% of donations to this organization goes directly to those in need, as the denomination members pay for administrative costs themselves.

I have a lot of fleece and fiber. I didn't think I did, but when I gathered it together from the various places I had stashed it...well, it's a lot. A whole lot. The floor of the unfinished guest room downstairs is covered in fleece and roving, that's how bad it is. I've begun organizing it into types of fiber (Merino, alpaca, Shetland wool, mixed type, etc.), so that whoever comes over to take some will be able to see what's there.

I also think I'll go to the local Arachne Guild meeting on January 3 from 10 am to 2 pm, in Edgewood, WA. I understand I can possibly unload a lot of fiber there. I hope. If I don't get rid of most of it there, then I'll also go to the MoonSpinner's Guild in Sumner, WA on January 8 at 7 pm.

Truth is, I can't possibly spin all of this stuff, since I now have tennis elbow and some carpal tunnel of my right arm and hand, and tenosynovitis of my left hand (thumb). I got it from--believe it or not--knitting too much and too fast. I had some pneumonia this fall, complicated by asthma, and so had to take some prednisone. I decided to knit an ambitious amount while I recovered, and I can knit at a very fast pace. What I didn't know was that the prednisone I was taking suppressed any symptoms of inflammation or fatigue I normally would have experienced when knitting this much. I had no idea I was injuring my hands....

Until I was finished with my prednisone. Dear God. The pain was awful. My hands were hurting from elbow to fingertip.

I'm still recovering. I can knit and spin a bit, but I don't dare do it for more than a few minutes, though, and I'm wearing an arm brace and carpal tunnel brace on my right arm. I also have a thumb-and-wrist brace for my left hand, but only wear it at night, since, geez, how can anyone expect to do anything, much less knit or spin, with a thick brace like that on one's hand? Plus, the yarn and fleece stick to the stupid Velcro, and my arms end up looking oddly hirsute with vari-colored fiber.

Ugh. This does not make me happy. Still, better those who will appreciate the fiber get it, rather than it just sitting around.

I can do some spinning and knitting, though, just as long as I don't overdo it. But I'll never get to dealing with all this yarn and fiber unless I let some of it go. (Sigh)

Christmas

Well, it's Christmas evening, presents have been distributed and opened, 15 dinner guests have come and gone, my son has decided to stay over at a childhood friend's house (one of the dinner guests), and it's just my dear hubby, myself, and the cat. He is doing something about the dishes, so I have decided to use the opportunity to sit and let my aching feet rest.

Menu? My husband grilled some sausages, ribs (always good to have some already prepared with a rub marinade, frozen, ready to be thawed and cooked when needed), and ham yesterday, and I cooked a stuffed turkey today. Last night, I made a pecan pie, pumpkin pie (from scratch, but I had already pureed and frozen Halloween pumpkins more than a month ago, premeasured in muffin tins), and four loaves of whole-wheat fruit-and-nut bread (German stollen, but with whole wheat and dried fruit instead of candied fruit). And then there were the traditional sides of mashed potatoes and gravy (made from the turkey broth).

Then the guests brought food. My mom always bring sushi, which everyone enjoys. Our friends the Thompsons (who we have known from college, and their children from birth) brought a lovely salad made of pear, salad greens, crumbled gorgonzola cheese, and raspberry vinaigrette, as well as one of my favorite comfort foods, strawberries and cream in strawberry jello, and two wines, a Pinot noir and a Cabernet Sauvignon. My brother Allen and my nieces brought home-made bread. My brother- and sister-in-law brought more wine, a home-made, high-octane plum kind, as well as an Australian Cabernet.

There are two good things about being the host for Christmas dinner: you don't have to travel, and you are so busy, you don't stuff yourself. I am willing to bet that tomorrow when I get on the scale, I will have lost pounds.

I noticed our cat, Newman, wisely sat most of the time under the coffee table, away from everyone's feet. I think all the activity bewildered him, perhaps even made him uncomfortable. Though he's a friendly cat, and came up to everyone who arrived, once everyone left, he meowed at the hubby and then jumped up on his lap, nudging his hand--obviously asking to be petted. He then curled up and hid his little kitty face in the crook of John's arm. This is unusual for Newman--he's not usually a lap-sitter, and he doesn't usually hide his face. But he lay like that for a good half hour, while John scratched his head and pet him. And then, he was back to his usual kitty self, except then he proceeded to sit on the couch next to me, wanting me to pet him as well, purring very loudly. Most unusual! Usually one person's petting him is enough.

Well, I hear the hubby has just finished up the dishes (not many, as we used paper plates--the guests don't mind, and it's just easier), it's very late, and I'm tired.

A very merry Christmas to you all...and goodnight!

Christmas Songs

Once again, I noticed an odd expression coming over my husband's face as we sat at the kitchen table, listening to Christmas songs. I've come to the conclusion that he has a different sort of perception of Christmas songs from most people. Not Christmas music overall, because he's perfectly okay with the instrumental versions, but he really thinks about the lyrics and what he sometimes perceives is...slightly off-kilter.

I raised my brows in question.

"Moe, Larry, and Curly," he said.

"I don't get it."

"Every time someone sings about the Three Wise Men, I keep hearing Three Wise Guys, and then--"

I tuned into the song on the radio, "We Three Kings." Hand plant to the forehead. "The Three Stooges."

"Yeah." He gave me an apologetic look. "It's not like the New Testament says what their names are."

"Traditionally, their names were Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar."

"They had a lot of names. Maybe Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar are the early versions of Moe, Larry, and Curly." He had the expression he gets when he suggests something thoroughly ridiculous, yet hopeful that somehow it might be remotely, very remotely convincing.

"Uh, no," I said, doubtless dashing any hope I might be that gullible. Which, come to think about it, should have been dashed decades ago. Hmmm.

He shrugged. "Oh, well. Just a thought." He continued eating his dinner as the radio played another song, thankfully not "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire," or anything else that might be construed as an invasion of blonde-haired alien tots.

I wonder if this Christmas song fixation might be inheritable. The Alien Child has long disliked most Christmas songs, unless it's of medieval, renaissance, or classical origin. Why, I don't know, but he thinks they're all cheesy except for the old ones...

Dang it. I just realized--he has inherited it. The only ones the hubby has odd ideas about are the modern ones. Does the "Coventry Carol" evoke science fiction horror images for him? No, it does not. Neither do the "Patapan" or the "Jeanette, Isabella" songs. All medieval or renaissance in origin.

The only exception either of them will make regarding modern Christmas songs is if they're played in a jazz version. And it is probably not a coincidence that both of them play a musical instrument, emphasis on jazz and blues. Like father, like son.

I will content myself with calling them Christmas song Scrooges if the flights of fancy or eye-rolling begin to saturate my enjoyment of even the cheesiest of songs. Because I admit it, I love Christmas carols. I don't care how cheesy the carol is, I'm going to hum along or even sing it aloud. Especially in their presence. So there!

Pizza restaurant advice

The Alien Child is home, arriving just ahead of the snowstorm and closing of the pass because of the avalanche danger. He seems to have matured more, and to my surprise, he has not only washed his clothes, but FOLDED them. So far, he hasn’t put them away, but I am counting my blessings.

He has been working pretty hard, 25 hours a week at a pizza place in Pullman, as well as pulling down a full course load at the university, and still getting good grades, thank goodness. It turns out he has just about mastered making pizza, and though he hasn’t quite got to the point of tossing the pizza dough in the air, he is almost there. After having worked there for a while, he has some words of advice regarding the ordering of pizza.

1. When you call in an order and are asked if you want to hear about the specials, say yes. The Alien Child has said there are more times than he can count when a customer has abruptly said no to hearing about the specials, then orders a custom pizza that can actually be modified to or actually is the special. Usually, if the order exactly fits the special, the Alien Child will tell the customer that it IS the special and about the discount. However, if he’s cut off in the middle informing the customer that the custom order is a special, he has no choice but to charge for a custom order, which is always more expensive.

2. Big tippers are remembered. There is a “tippers hall of fame” board in his particular shop, where the names of big tippers are listed. They also get free breadsticks if they are on the list, but the AC thinks this is sort of a lame incentive, in that breadsticks are less expensive than the big tips. Still, most customers are aware of this, but like to give big tips just to see their names on the list, which he thinks is cool. They will make a special effort for customers like this.

3. They get inebriated customers more than a few weekends, especially on game days. They don’t mind the pleasantly drunk customers, especially since they tend to tip generously. However, a large tip is not compensation for an obnoxious drunk. They would prefer sober customers. Most of all, take tip from the movie "Waiting": "Never f--- with the people that serve you food."

4. Custom orders will always take longer than specials, because specials are pre-made. If you want a pizza in a timely manner and it’s a Friday or Saturday night, order a special.

5. Do not try to fool the pizza order-taker with fake coupons. They have every coupon logged into their order system. However, customers will try to do this anyway:

Customer: Uh, hi, I’ve got a coupon that says I can get a large pizza for 99 cents?
AC: Sorry, sir, we don’t have a coupon for that amount.
Customer: Oh, wait, I read it wrong, I think it says 2.99.
AC: No, we don’t have that offer, sir.
Customer: 3.99?
AC: No.
Customer: 5.99?
AC: You sure it doesn’t say $7.99?
Customer: Uh, yeah, that’s what it is.
AC: We don’t have a coupon for that amount, either. Dude, you don’t have a coupon, do you?
Customer: Uh, no.
AC: We do have a special deal, extra large up to 5 toppings, for 13.99. You want that?
Customer: No coupon?
AC: No, but it’s the special.
Customer: Oh. Okay.

6. Do not enroll for a credit card that says you can get a pizza for 99 cents if you sign up. There is no guarantee that the local pizza place has any affiliation with that offer. Besides, why do that if you can get frequent flyer miles with other cards?

Preparing for Christmas - Be open to magic

I am a total Christmas enthusiast. Of course I am, because it is a celebration, and celebrations are Pollyannaish in the extreme. I love the decorations, the songs, the shopping--yes, even the shopping--even though I am a certified introvert.

Christmas is very magical for me. This is a time when anything can happen, and that anything is going to be good or have good results one way or another. I am not speaking as a child of privilege; my family went from working class poor to blue-collar middle class over many long years; my thrifty mother used to make do by cutting up her own clothes and my dad's to make clothes for my brothers and me. I remember times when I would wish so hard for a particular thing for Christmas and not get it. Not that year, or the next. Yet, I knew that if I wished hard, and just so, I would get my wish or at least something good would happen, maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow or the next day or even the next year, but some time when it was just right. And of course, something good would happen sooner or later, and that was magic.

I am not going to argue about what magic "supposed" to be, whether it's good, bad, or whatever. You will have literalists on both ends of the spectrum (and trust me, it's both, not one side) who will tell you it is bad for whatever un-fun, uncelebratory reason they have in their shriveled little hearts. There are enough Grinches these days who want to make everyone stop their celebrating, because it's not THEIR kind of celebrating. Pooh! That's what I say to them. Pooh!

For me, magic is in the idea that anything might happen at any time, and that anything can be good and helpful and joyous. I have had people tell me this is crap. My answer to that is, crap is great compost and I recommend the liberal use of it when growing an organic vegetable garden. That's right. Even something that comes out of a cow's behind can be useful and good if we would just use our brains and were resourceful and creative about it.

Magic happens when you're not looking for it, and sometimes when you are. It creeps up on you in secret into your heart like a dandelion pushing itself up through a crack in concrete, and sometimes it whaps you upside the head. Sometimes it does both. (Envisioning a dandelion with a two-by-four...hmm.....) Sometimes you can make magic, sometimes someone else does, and sometimes magic happens all on its own. Sometimes it happens fast, and sometimes it happens over many years. It is, very much, like love. In fact, love is the greatest magic there is.

Just in case you don't have any idea what magic is like, here are some examples, and this is no bull:

I went Christmas shopping with my mom on Saturday, directly after choir practice at church. (It was a welcome change: I don't really read music, so it's not at all easy for me to learn the music--I have to learn by ear. I sing, though, because I like to sing, especially Christmas songs and songs that lift the spirit.) My first stop was to the bank to deposit a royalty check (and that's another piece of magic, because it was for a book that was published years and years ago, and I got the check in the mail just as I was wishing I could have a little extra to splurge on Christmas presents. And there it was).

My mom has parking space magic. I don't care how crowded a parking lot is--and holidays are the worst--she will find a parking space close to the store entrance. This is no doubt one reason I like Christmas shopping, because I usually go with her. So we entered the Fred Meyer parking lot, and I said, "okay, Mom, work your parking magic."

She grinned and began wiggling her fingers and intoned "parking space...parking space..." in a mock-solemn way, and then she stopped. "Go down that lane," she said.

Nobody was at the door of any of the cars in that lane, but I knew better than to mention this after years of experience with my mother. She says she can do this by thinking of her parents, of how they loved her, and she is sure they continue to look out for her, even though she is a grandmother herself. Sure enough, just as I drove the car halfway down the aisle, a man ran out of the store and went to the last parking spot in the lane, the one just next to the store entrance, got in the car, and pulled out.

Score! Mom's parking spot magic strikes again. I look back at that now, and think it was probably a Sign of Things to Come.

I went into the store to the bank branch therein and stood in the very short line (one person in front of me), and was soon pushing my check toward the teller. As is my habit when waiting, I look around me at different people, smiling when our eyes meet, hoping to spread some mental holiday vibes, because Christmas is about spreading happy vibes, among other things. Happy vibes are good to spread around, even if you don't believe in vibes, because hey, it can't hurt. So, there I was, hopefully emitting happy vibes in the bank branch....

...and who should I spot at the teller next to me, but jolly old St. Nicholas--in disguise!

Anyone looking at him would think he was just a plump elderly gentleman with a longish white beard below cheeks red from the freezing outdoors; he was wearing an ordinary though dapper grey zip-up jacket and crisp black trousers. However, as a writer, I try to be observant, and I noticed a bit of red and green just behind the opening of that jacket. Aren't those Christmas colors? Wouldn't Santa--being what he is--find it irresistible to sneakily be where he is least expected? Isn't he about surprises and presents and knowing things we mere mortals don't? Who would expect Santa Claus in a bank? Not I! Therefore....

I nudged my mom who was standing next to me. "Look, it's Santa Claus," I whispered to her.

She looked, and chuckled. "It is!" she said. "Do you think he is going to give presents?"

"I don't know," I said. I was hard put not to stare, tell you the truth, because he really did look like the traditional picture we all have of Santa, except in every-day clothes. But a part of me was saying with all the wishes I had as a child, oh, yes he will absolutely give presents!

Both Santa and I finished our banking transactions at the same time, and as he turned, his jacket gapped open, and I almost chuckled in glee: beneath that jacket he wore a shirt with a very big picture of Santa Claus on it, in full Christmas regalia. Another bit of confirmation that this must really be Santa! My mother and I followed at a discreet distance as he gazed at various goods in the store as if in deep contemplation, picked up a few, and examined them.

As he went toward the store's exit, some children following in their mother's wake turned the corner of a Christmas display, and came into full view of this gentleman. Their eyes grew wide as they stared at him, so stunned, I imagine, that they said nothing. Their mother turned then as well, no doubt to see what kept her children lagging and suddenly silent. Her eyes also widened, and she began to smile.

I saw Santa smile in return, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He pushed his hand into his pocket, and without a word pulled out some thin strips of paper, gave them to the children, turned, and left. One little boy held his up for his mother to see--Christmas stickers, brightly colored green and red and gold.

"Santa Claus," said his sister, her voice awed. "In disguise!"

We looked at the gentleman who was heading out the automated sliding doors. His back turned, only the grey jacket showing between the incoming shoppers, he was indistinguishable from other elderly men who had come to buy presents for their grandchildren.

My mother and I looked at each other, and we grinned, thinking of the children and their mother who had seen Santa in disguise. We wouldn't point him out, oh, no. Santa does his best in disguise, I think, when we least expect it, when we allow ourselves to be open to the possibility of love and magic in this world, and in ourselves.

Note: The most popular story of St. Nicholas is the one where, as a wealthy young man, he discovered that the daughters of a poor man could not be married because they lacked a dowry, back in the days when such a thing would most definitely prohibit young women from marrying anyone, much less someone they loved. Feeling very sorry for them, yet not wishing to intrude on the honor and pride of this poor man, St. Nicholas took three bags of his money and secretly threw them through an open window of this man's house, or down the chimney. The young women were then well-off enough to marry good men, with the approval of their in-laws. No one knew until much later that it was St. Nicholas who had given these generous gifts.


--KEH

End of Summer

t’s been a nose-to-the-grindstone summer, so much so that I now look up and am startled to find that it’s near the end, or at least in the way I mark it, and that is of course when the Alien Child returns to college. That’s this weekend. And I haven’t even finished the Freddie Kruger sweater.

We’ll be driving across to the eastern edge of the state, in Pullman, WA, where Washington State University resides. I try to focus on the trip, on the landscape that varies greatly in that almost 300-mile distance. We’ll be going through the lush forests of western Washington and the Cascade mountains, and then down into Ellensburg and the central plains. There’s desert descending into the Columbia Gorge all the way almost to the town of Othello, and then it becomes thousands of acres of rolling wheatfields from there to Colfax, a veritable golden sea into the Palouse hills that surround the town of Pullman. It truly is beautiful, and helps distract me from that pang I still get when the Child leaves home once again.

I half wonder if I haven’t finished the sweater yet because it’s still something to hold onto that says I’m still his Mom, and that it’ll give me something to send him in the mail, a traditional “care package” that parents send their children when they’re away. Or, this line of thought could just be an excuse for not finishing that sweater in time for his departure.

Regardless, I need to make sure it’s the proper length before he goes. It’s done enough (I’ve knitted it top-down with circular needles, though I had to unstitch the top back and knit it back and forth to give more length in the back) so that I can fit it on him to see if the front and back is even. As for the sleeves, since he and his dad have about the same arm length, I can try it on the hubby to see if the sleeves will work.

I feel a little dissatisfied that I didn’t finish it before he left; it was a bit of Penelope-work, for sure. I would knit it, then unravel it, knit it again, then unravel to fix something that wasn’t right, and finally, it seems now to be on the right track, and all it needs is a tweak here and there, and a finishing of the sleeves to be complete.

It seems a signal of the changes that the Alien Child has been undergoing this year. He’ll be a junior this year, and has undergone a great number of changes, developed into something that’s better knit, better shaped, than when he first came home. He had a difficult sophomore year having experienced the death of a friend and the despair that accompanies the shock of a young life cut short; severe illness; and his first serious relationship where I know he’d given his heart, and I suspect is in the process of having it if not broken, then quite bruised.

He’d made some unwise choices while in that despairing sophomore year, but seems to have righted himself, making healthier ones, and becoming very physically fit. He’s dealt with the disappointment of an extremely difficult job search this summer (searched for a summer job since early May, didn’t get a job until late July, and trust me, he walked anywhere between five and ten miles each day from business to business, applying for jobs, from Tukwila, Kent, Auburn, and Federal Way). Good thing he worked out every day; the warehouse job he eventually got demanded moving 50 to 100 lb boxes 8 to 10 hours a day. He was glad to do it. I’ll say one thing for him: he’s not afraid of hard work, and actually sees it as an interesting challenge.

He’s taken another look at his direction—and has figured out a major he thinks he can put his considerable brain into. Looks like he’ll be majoring in political science and perhaps minoring in journalism or literary criticism. He actually mentioned getting a graduate degree some day. Which I think suits him, actually.

And yet, he’s unfinished, though he’s knit up well this summer. I won’t see if he’ll go through more unraveling, or whether he’s far enough along now that he can go on to finishing without much of a hitch. We’ll see, I guess. He’s not one to communicate through e-mail, so I won’t know. I have a feeling, though, that he won’t unravel much, and will knit up just fine.

I worry, because that’s what moms do, but I’ll focus on the sweater, and know that he's knit himself up so far into a fine young man, and all he needs is finishing.

Wrong text message

A funny thing just happened. I looked at my cell phone this morning and saw that I had a text message from last night. So I looked at it, and to my surprise, it was from no number I recognized, and it said this:

19.5 inches, 7 lbs 13 ounces, 10:18 pm, April 10 2007.

I think you can guess what that was about. So I checked all my phone numbers (it was a Seattle number) and the number on the text didn't match any that I had. So I text messaged back, saying, "Congratulations! It looks like you have a baby. But I think you have the wrong number. I don't know who you are."

I got another message that said, "this is Dennis. Is this Brittany?"

I texted back and said, "Not Brittany. Don't know any Dennis either. Congrats anyway. Best wrong number text I've ever seen."

I think that new dad probably had a very long day yesterday.

Congrats to Dennis, Dennis's wife, and new baby, whoever you are. And Brittany, you SO missed out.

Bad Mom

So, once again, my son has lost his cell phone. I got a call from a lady saying that she had found it, and that the next time I contact him, he should call her. But, how do I contact him?

I tried e-mail, but he rarely checks it. Besides, by the time he gets around to checking it, my e-mail will no doubt be way down the list, and he'll not see it. So, I decided for a while to send an e-mail once day, just to keep it up at the top of the e-mail list in his inbox.

It grew boring. So I decided to put such titles as "Day One: the Missing Cell Phone," "Day Two: The Mystery of Derek's Cell Phone--Revealed!" in the subject header, just to bring some attention to the e-mail. No dice, since when I called, I just got voice mail; I can assume from this that he still hasn't retrieved his cell phone.

I realized then, that I was thinking "old-school." His generation doesn't really think in terms of e-mail. That's for late boomer/gen xers. No, his generation thinks in terms of cell phones and text messages (which of course he can't get, since he's missing his cell) and blogs, like Blogger, MySpace, or Facebook.

He has both a MySpace and Facebook site. Now, I suspect it's not very cool to have one's mom post a comment on your MySpace comments section, especially if you're a guy. It would be embarrassing. However, what is a mother to do, especially if he doesn't look at his e-mail?

Risk embarrassing my son and get his cell phone to him, or have him go without, so that he'll miss phone calls from friends and family, be unable to contact professors, call the doctor (he's been ill recently, so...), and so on?

I thought to myself, I am SO all over that embarrassment route. After all, I've embarrassed him on and off most of his life. I wouldn't be a real parent if I didn't embarrass him at one point or another.

So I posted a comment on his MySpace page: "Your cell phone has been found. Check your e-mail. --Mom."

Such a contrast to the rest of his MySpace page. Indeedy.

He will probably not want to talk to me the rest of this semester if he sees that. Possibly the rest of the year.

MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I'm a Bad Mom. :-)

Yarn, more yarn

The more I wrangle with my writing, the more I spin yarn. This is actually a good thing. If I didn't spin yarn, I would have writer's block worse than I do already. Spinning yarn is a soothing activity, and keeps the highly critical part of myself subdued, if not silent. Whenever I get stuck, I spin yarn, and within 15 minutes, I know what I need to write or revise.

However. This does mean that I also knit all of the yarn that I make. It builds up. My office is 1/3 desk and writing materials, 1/3 books and research materials, and 1/3 yarn. And filling up rapidly to the point where the yarn is beginning to crowd out the rest of my stuff.

So, I've resorted to selling the yarn. I did begin selling them at eBay, but now I've switched to Etsy, a web site at which artisans, artists, and craftspeople can sell their handmade and homemade goods. It's less of a busy-looking place, and has very fun ways to search through different artists' stores.

As a result, the more yarn (as in, yardage) I have up there to sell, the more snags I've hit in my writing.

(sigh)

Good heavens

The Alien Child is no longer a child today!

Well, he hasn't been legally a child for quite a while, at least since he was 18. But now he's 20! No longer a teenager!

How am I do deal with that? It makes me no longer the mother of a teen, but of a 20-something!

It means I am creeping--no, have definitely stepped--into middle age. Oh, I could fool myself that I was not quite there for a while. I had a teenager, after all, and that meant he was not really, truly adult. But now my offspring is now an adult. What does that make me? I can't deny it any longer...I am truly middle aged.

Well...he isn't out of college yet. That's something. I can still tell myself, "oh, he's not quite there yet. After all, he's in school."

Having a son or daughter in school means you can still maintain some illusion of youthfulness, of not-quite-middle-ageness.

Of course, no matter how old he is, I will still see him as my child. My own mother, after all, still does the same about my brothers and me. I haven't taken a picture of the Alien Child now that he's 20. However, I will, later. For now, I'll post a few of him through the years.

Be an abolitionist!

Says National Geographic about the modern slave trade:

"There are more slaves today than were seized from Africa in four centuries of the trans-Atlantic slave trade. The modern commerce in humans rivals illegal drug trafficking in its global reach—and in the destruction of lives."

This Sunday, February 18, find a group (see singer list below) and sing your lungs out to end slavery in the world:

http://www.amazinggracesunday.com/us/index.html

Sign the petition:

http://www.amazingchange.com/


And here is a map of the groups that are singing Amazing Grace this Sunday in support of ending slavery:

http://www.amazinggracesunday.com/us/include/singer_list.php

It's in conjunction with the movie "Amazing Grace," which is about the British member of Parliament, William Wilberforce's campaign to end the slave trade, as well as about John Newton, his mentor, the ex-slave trader who wrote the hymn, Amazing Grace.

If you belong to a group or are an individual--you don't have to be in a church, although the site is geared toward churches--that is interested in both singing Amazing Grace this Sunday and supporting the end of slavery, you can sign up for it, as well as sign the petition.

The singer list shows groups and churches in each state that are sponsoring the sing-in.