Taking Up The Gaunlet

Recently I moved into a lovely new office with a real window at work. I love the sunshine on my desk on a pretty day, and watching the rain during a storm, but recently the only thing to see out my window has been grey, drizzly, foggy, overcast ... you get the idea. Please know that I am NOT complaining about my nice new office at all, but I have been a little chilly. Those of you who know me know I am never chilly. I am under most circumstances a walking radiator, but my hands have been cold at work.

My boss has also had this problem, and the other day I noticed she had started wearing gauntlets at work. As most knitters know, when you see something created with yarn, your mind automatically starts thinking about how you could make that. So even though I am in the middle of a project and hate to stop to do something else, I decided to take a break from that to quickly make something for me. Although I give away almost everything I make, I think I'm keeping these.

Digging through my stash, I found three skeins of Lanna Grossa Elle #005 that I had bought at my favorite yarn shop, Knit Happenz. The needle recommendation for this yarn was for a size 9 needle, but the yarn seemed way to bulky for that and I ended up using a 10.5. All of my bamboo needles were too long for this project, so I found an old set of acrylic ones. It ended up being a great choice, as the yarn worked easily on the smooth surface.

The pattern is simple enough for a beginner and easily done in a few hours. Each gauntlet uses about two thirds of a skein, so two skeins of this yarn are needed. Each skein is about 44 yards.

Cast on 20 stitches. (I always like to knit cast on)

*Knit 2, Purl 2* repeat to end

Repeat this on each row for 8.5 inches and bind off, leaving a very long tail.

Thread the tail through a large darning needle and stitch the two sides together for 4 inches. Leave a 2 inch space for your thumb and knit to the end.

Repeat for the second gauntlet and your hands are warm!

Watermelon Makes Me Sad

One of my not so secret secrets is that I don't eat fruit. It isn't even so much that I dislike it, I just don't eat it. I never crave it. If I go to the kitchen to get something to eat, I will never come back with an apple or an orange. I - just - don't - eat - it. If I eat a desert, I do NOT want the blueberry crumble. I don't know what a blueberry crumble is, but I am sure that I would pick out the crumble to eat.

A couple of weekends ago my dear friend Molly came to visit and I know she loves fruit. She always brings a new fruit smoothy or crescent roll stuffed desert that she is sure will be the one thing to convert me to the fruity side. It never works.

In my trip to the store to prepare for her visit (wine and champagne anyone?) I saw a little personal seedless watermelon. It was so cute, just this little miniature version of one of the few fruits I like ... and I mean really, really like. No debating here whether it is a fruit or a vegetable. I need to eat fruit, so it is a fruit.

The first morning that Molly was here, I cooked a full breakfast ... scrambled eggs with cheese, crispy bacon and hot biscuits. Then Molly and I halved the little watermelon and dug in. It was wonderful. Perfectly ripe, sweet, juicy and not a seed in sight.

Molly and I talked and laughed and solved the world's woes over that watermelon. It was great!

This week I bought another watermelon. I went through the bunch and thumped the way Mom taught me. I picked the one that wasn't too big but had that great hollow sound that Mom said meant it was ripe. I lugged it up the stairs and put it in the fridge ready for the perfect time.

Today I brought out the watermelon. I sliced it into the exact right sized piece and settled myself at the kitchen table to eat it. It was perfect - ripe but not too ripe. But something wasn't right. It took me a minute to realize ... eating watermelon is a group activity.

If you are anywhere near my age, you know what I mean. Eating watermelon was an event. Whether from the garden, the guy with tomatoes on the side of the street or Wilson's Grocery Store, it was a big deal when your mom put a watermelon in the fridge. And it was never small. It couldn't be small. It had to feed a bunch, because everyone always gathered for watermelon.

At our house it was always after dinner. Dad would take it outside to carve it. Halved, quartered, eighthed. (right now that's a word)  The men would eat the quarters. Kids and women got the eighths. Everyone had their utensil. I'm a spoon girl and I still don't understand eating it with a fork. Daddy always ate it with the carving knife ... he was the only one who could do that because he was big and brave and it was dangerous. We would eat it outside, I now realize, because I was going to make a huge mess, get it all over me, and need to be hosed down before I could go back inside. It was wonderful. My grandparents lived next door, so they were always there too. I would listen to the grown ups talk about ... nothing. Everyone talked and laughed and enjoyed one another's company. It was the best.

So, my watermelon tasted fine today, but it made me sad. I think I'll wrap up the rest and go find someone to share it with.

Daddy's Little Girl

That's the one thing I would wish for every daughter - that wonderful feeling of knowing that you were, are, always will be Daddy's little girl.

When I was growing up, we rarely took what most folks would consider a vacation. As a matter of fact, I remember taking two. One to Panama City and one to the Smokey Mountains. (We had to try twice to make it to the Smokies. The first time we stopped in Nashville to see family on the way and I fell and broke my arm. But that's another story.) Every year Dad would take a week off to drive my mom and her parents and sister to their hometown to visit family, but that wasn't really a vacation - and again that's another story.

But you don't really miss what you never had, so I never realized that people took a vacation every year and went to ... where ever. What I did have was my father's attention. He worked for Coca-Cola until retirement, and drove a truck for them most of that time. He spent long, hot days slinging cases of bottled Coke - loading up grocery stores, convenience stores, or small shops all over the Shoals area. I know today that when he got home he had to have been exhausted and sore. I'm sure that what he wanted more than anything was a little peace and quiet, a nice dinner, and to put his feet up and relax. What he got was a little girl who had been waiting impatiently for him to come home to play. So he played.

What I remember as vacation would sound silly to folks today. But every once in awhile, Mom would pack a lunch and Daddy would drive us to Dismal Gardens. Now I know it took us maybe an hour to get there, but it seemed like forever at the time.

Mom would unpack the lunches and hang around the picnic area and my dad and I would take off to walk the trails. It was no major hike. They were simple little nature trails. But I thought is was magical. It always seemed cooler in those woods - cooler and quieter and mysterious. I know there were other families there, but somehow it always seemed like it was just me and my dad.

As we would walk the main trail, we would find little side trails. I was always sure that grand adventures lay at the end of those trails and I would race down each one. Every time the trail would just end and I would be disappointed, standing in the middle of nowhere.  I would turn around to head back and there would be my dad, standing back to let me find out for myself, but never taking his eyes off of me. Just waiting for me to realize that it was a dead end. He never tried to stop me. He let me learn for myself. But he was always there. Making sure I was safe and waiting for me to come back.

I've taken a lot of different paths in my life. Some have been beautiful and fulfilling. Others have been true dead ends. Regardless of the outcome,  my father was always there - never telling me not to go, never chiding me for mistakes, always cheering for my successes, always letting me find my path - always making sure I was safe.

He's been gone a few years now. His mind had been taken from him, his wife had been taken from him, and he was ready to go. I wouldn't have wished for him to stay, but I still miss him. Somehow it makes it easier to know that one day I'll turn around and find him there, smiling and watching - waiting for me to take the right path.

Happy Father's Day Daddy! Love you, miss you, see you soon.

Young At Heart

Like a lot of folks who blog, I am clearly not very consistent. It has been over a month since I last did this. That leaves lots of things I could talk about, but none that are life shattering, some changes but no shatters.

The past month has been a blur of birthday parties (ages 1 to 60), new knitting stitches, experimental crock pot dishes, and detailed job projects. I'll post on some of those later (I know y'all can't wait) but for today I just needed to talk about the little white dog.

The doctors at Auburn said that Roscoe probably had two to four weeks left. This weekend we crossed the four month mark. Anyway you look at it, that is wonderful news.  And all in all, Roscoe's doing ok - still defying the odds, still letting folks know that he is in charge, still manipulating me out of more treats than he should get. But in the past week, things have begun to change. Not the horrible seizures that I was warned about, thank goodness, but change none-the-less.

Link to Book

     This week a friend called me about an interview that was on NPR. Diane Rehm was interviewing Jessica Pierce about her book, The Last Walk: Reflections On Our Pets At the End of Their Lives. 

It was interesting timing for me, as her book was based on her experiences with an older dog and the last stages of his life. Next week Roscoe will be seven, which is when vets start to consider a dog to be a senior. I knew that, but anyone who has small or medium sized dogs knows that at seven your dog may need some dietary changes (maybe) but he still plays and guards and explores and does all of the things that a dog does so well.  For Roscoe, last week he grew old. I really don't know how better to describe it. He just went from a middle aged dog to an old dog.

The first thing I really noticed was the way he sat. When a young or middle age dog sits, there is an erectness to it. Even if they are not alert, there is a look of almost being at attention. Last week Roscoe jumped up on the ottoman (that was good) and sat down waiting for me to let him on the couch. His body kind of settled down in between his shoulders in the posture of an old dog who is too tired or too weak to stay upright. Just like when one of his legs has been in an awkward angle, I again felt the need to physically push his body back in the correct position. It never works for long, but it makes me feel better.

He has begun to have a lot of "accidents" when I leave him. Not being sure if it was because he couldn't hold, or forgot, or was just plain pissed off, I finally bought my first crate and started leaving him in it with Sam when I had to go out. Surprisingly, they both took to it with no issue, and there have been no more surprises waiting for me. Honestly, he seems more comfortable with the security of it. I wonder if the world gets too big and confusing for him now and the security of the crate takes some of that away.

His eyes still follow me every time I move, and when he looks at me it is still with the love and affection that he has always had, but there is now a dullness there - not a disconnect as much and just a tiredness.

I don't believe he is in pain. I promise I won't let that happen. But there was a study that showed that an MRI of an older dog's brain showed the same patterns of degeneration as those of a patient with Alzheimer's Disease. (Something with which I am all too familiar.) Add to that the fact that Roscoe's decline is caused by a brain disease and I guess it makes even more sense.

The last couple of days he is having trouble keeping down one of the meds. A call to the vet this morning means new meds that I have to pick up this afternoon. As always I'm hoping for the best, but trying to prepare for the time when I know there is no best.

So once again I am writing something that sounds all doomish and gloomish. But with each stage of this there has been a new lesson to learn and joys to appreciate. Watching Roscoe wrestle with Sam, or kick his back feet when he is telling some uninformed dog walker to stay out of his yard, or shoot across a room to steal Sam's bone ... the warmth of his little body when he curls up to nap in my lap, or the shock of his cold nose in my face when he want me to wake up at 2:00 in the morning to let him go out (ok, maybe not so much that one) - all daily joys for which I remain grateful.

His little body may be reacting as if he is old, but I know he is still young at heart.

Settling In

Things are finally beginning to settle from the move and routines are being developed. Roscoe and Sam are both doing fine (YAY!) for right now, boxes are unpacked, furniture is arranged, and it is time to go back to the things I like to do.

With Christmas coming and new babies scheduled soon, the knitting needles are out and clicking away.

My wonderful cousin, Susie, is expecting her first granddaughter next month. Babies are the best to knit for. They are too little to really care, so you get to just pick whatever you want to do. I decided on a baby blanket and made lots of store visits looking for the perfect yarn. I really thought I wanted something pink, with little flecks of white, but in Memory Hagler's Knit Happenz  I found and fell in love with this.

Florafil Super Soft Cotton Yarn

The color is Blue Flag Iris, which makes no sense for a little girl, but I fell in love with it. All of the colors just say baby girl to me. Anyway it was so pretty and so soft that I couldn't resist. I had picked out the Hoover baby blanket pattern, but the ladies at the shop made that "are you sure you really want to do that" face and brought out a simple pattern for a diagonal baby blanket instead. I was amazed at how quickly this worked up. 

This project was done on size 8 US needles with four skeins of yarn. Start by casting on three stitches. Knit one row. Then increase until you have seven stitches. Starting with the next row; knit 3, wrap the yarn over, and knit to the end. Repeat that until you are half way done. 

To start the decrease; you knit two, knit two together, yarn over, knit two together and knit to the end. Repeat that for each row until you get to seven stitches.

Once you are down to seven stitches, decrease to three stitches and bind off. Easy peasy. Pretty cute and done in a flash! I wish there was a way that you could touch it. It is so incredibly soft. I hope little Hadlee enjoys it as much as I have enjoyed doing it for her.

Once I finished the blanket, it was on to the next project. Probably a year ago I bought several skeins of different colors of Universal Yarn Classic Shades. The plan was to do scarves for the men in the family for Christmas. Like so many things in my life, I bit off a little more than I could chew and didn't get around to doing a single one. So this year, I'm determined. Happily I can say ... one down, two to go.

My nephew, Steve, is very, very blonde. A pale skinned, blue eyed, towhead ... this yarn seemed to be made for him. 

Universal Yarn Classic Shades Lake

A search of ravelry.com turned up the mariner's scarf. Thanks so much to Christmas at Sea A Volunteer Knitting Program of the Seaman's Church Institute for the free pattern.  I loved the texture  of the pattern, although I made mine about 60 inches long instead of the 39 inches that it recommended. I used two skeins of yard and size 8 US needles. 

Start by casting on 40 stitches and then knit 8 rows

Then start the following pattern

Rows 1-6  Knit two, (Knit six and Purl six), Repeat the part in parenthesis until the last two stitches, Knit two

Rows 7-8 Knit across

Rows 9 - 14 Knit two, (Purl six and Knit six), Repeat the part in parenthesis until the last two stitches, Knit two

Rows 15-16 Knit across

Repeat the pattern until it is the desired length, ending on row six or fourteen. Then knit eight rows to finish and bind off.

I took this shot outside to try to get a good image of the shading and textures. 

I really like the way the pattern and the shading came out. I think it will look great on Steve on one of those five days in winter that it is cold enough to wear a scarf in Alabama. 

One Christmas present down! I refuse to count how many to go.

Movin' On

Welcome to my new home. 

The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of boxes and sore muscles and adjustments. Add to that a week of sales conference and a little more business travel and you've got a pretty clear picture of my life. The greatest joy is that Roscoe made the move with me .... and seems none the worse for wear. He is still doing the big four (eating, drinking, peeing and pooping) as well as playing, and sticking his nose in every place it doesn't belong, and barking at the people that he can now see through the chain link fence, and exploring a yard that is bigger than his entire world has ever been. Yeah, sometimes the stairs are a bit much for him and he has taken a few stumbles and tumbles, but we have passed the six week point and he is still all Roscoeish.

This morning he was sitting on the floor just watching me while I picked up and made up the bed and did my morning routine. For just a moment I forgot the lesson of living right now and not dwelling on what is going to happen. For a moment the knowledge of how short our time is hit hard. The sadness washed over me and the tears rolled. Then he and Sam caught one another's eye and that little "let's play" signal passed. I quickly moved from tears to chuckles as they bounced and postured and barked and growled and enjoyed life.

Ah ... my boys.

Now for Sam. My sweet Sam I Am.  After lots of emotional struggles on my part, I finally decided to go ahead and have the Cushing's test done for him. Alas, the results were pretty much undeniable. He was more than 10x the normal results. Now we move on to additional tests to determine if this is adrenal or pituitary and decide on the method of treatment. Lots of boring discussions on treatment options, that are way too uninteresting to post, finally brought me to an average survival time of 30 months. Clearly a better diagnosis than Roscoe's, but not one I wanted to hear. I haven't told Sam. I'm pretty sure that just like Roscoe, he won't care. He would just like another treat, please.

I feel like these posts sound like life here is all sadness and worry. That couldn't be further from the truth. Even though we are dealing with some tough issues, life is really busy and full of laughter. There's good wine and a comfortable home and quick pizza delivery. There are new neighbors and pretty walks and shopping nearby. And there are my boys. So there you have it.  Despite some bumps in the road, we are movin' on. Come see us!

"The Reports Of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated"

Although in serious need of a bath and a decent hair cut, Roscoe continues to defy the odds.

I've thought a lot about that this week. Roscoe clearly has no idea about the sentence that the doctors in Auburn gave him. He came home and life went on. Heck, for him, life got better.

He gets cheese twice a day. He could care less that there is medicine inside it. He gets peanut butter just because. (Note the peanut butter face.) He gets cuddled and coddled and not fussed at for behavior that used to get him in major trouble. How could life get better?

So here we are a month past diagnosis and Roscoe lives.  As a matter of fact, he lives quite well, thank you very much

He eats like he never has before. The dog is ALWAYS hungry.

When the bowl is empty he goes to lie next to it, just in case I haven't noticed.

He drives me crazy going to the back door and ringing the bell to go outside ... and then walking away when I get up to go open the door. (Who said dogs don't have a sense of humor ... he clearly thinks this is hilarious.)

He barks to get Sam to look away from the bone and grabs it.

Only two teeth left to chew with? Who cares?

He romps and postures and tumbles with Sam until they both poop out.

Don't get me wrong. I have the greatest admiration for doctors, but this got me thinking. How many times do we get a diagnosis and just accept it? How many times do we allow it to dictate how we then spend our lives and what we expect to happen? How often do we bring about the result, just by believing there is no alternative?

I don't know. I just know that Roscoe clearly is not interested in their estimates. He has his own plan ... and it includes more peanut butter.