An old snapshot shows my grandfather standing over an Easter egg.  He has gently placed his foot on it.  It is there for me to “find”.  I had been running around wildly – never stopping to really look.
This is what I remember most about Papaw. He was a compass in my life and a constant.  He was the north star.

He started working when he was ten years old, delivering coal.   A little later he began “hoboing”.  The details on that are fuzzy, but I always used to think  about Papaw when I heard, “King of the Road”.  It used to fascinate me, imagining him as a rogue of sorts.  But, the more I hear about it, the more I think he used trains as a way to eke out a living, not as a way to have a carefree existence.

He never had that.

So few of us do, for that matter. But, if we’re lucky, the day to day struggles to keep afloat are met with a hug at the door when we get home.

He did have those.

He and my grandmother showed me what love is.  It isn’t about saying, “I love you.”   Love is an action word.  Day in and day out, putting people you love first.
Papaw rarely said he loved us, but if you were a member of that family and you didn’t just know it, you weren’t paying attention.
My grandmother would literally have given us the shirt off her back. If we complimented something she owned, she would offer it to us.  They gave us their hearts and souls to a degree that was concerning to me.

How does a person find happiness in such selflessness?   I didn’t exactly view it with contempt, yet I didn’t really get it.  I wasn’t a mother at that point.   Of course, the piece of my life that was for me got smaller when my daughter was born, and then I got it, and I got how it was okay.

No life spent with that much love in it is a wasted life.

As hectic as their lives were at times, they somehow managed to give us a sense of stability. The safety was an illusion.  They ran a family business that was always on the verge of going under.  Yet,  Papaw quietly did what needed to be done and Mamaw did the same, only more loudly. You would smile at that if you knew them. He was a man of few words, and she was a woman of many.

Anyway, it turned out fine. They were perfect together, and they made it all work.

Now, with his passing, they are together again.  I imagine she fussed at him for making her wait so long.

I hope somehow that he is singing. He loved to sing to us grandkids. I swear I can even remember him singing to me when I was an infant. He sang, “You are my Sunshine” in a deep soothing voice. The best cure for colic there ever was.

When we were older, he sang, “I want a girl just like the girl that married dear old dad. She’s the only girl - yes, the onliest girl – that daddy ever had…” It still makes me smile.
Own-li-est.

I’m tempted to say, I feel lost now that he’s gone. I do, of course. But, the words seem trite. I can’t bring his life onto the page the way I want to.

I guess, I just want to thank him for teaching me to sing.

NSFA (not-safe-for-anywhere) photos included in this link.  Sorry to do this to you, but please look at them before you continue on here.

I didn’t have the stomach to seek out the uncensored version that undoubtedly exists somewhere on the web.  If you are the braver sort, know that I stand behind you in your endeavor.  Actually, I’m cowering behind you. (Don’t let her get me.)

Out of everything wrong with those pics, all I can think about is the weird choice of props in the last one.

Are those giant metal atoms? Is the photograph a poorly executed cell phone advertisement? What the fuck are those supposed to be? I fear I’m missing some underlying and potentially meaningful commentary on society.

Then again, even if that’s the case, donning a beret and performing beat poetry might have been a better choice than a naked taped-up Courtney Love.

PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE ABOUT LANGUAGE. I DO NOT CENSOR MYSELF AND HAVE NO INTENTION OF DOING SO.

“I am Sam. Sam I am.
George Michael used to be in Wham!”

“Correct, he was! My name is Fox.
I bet he’s sucked a lot of cocks.*”
“Right you are! Do you knit socks?”

“Yes, I do! I knit a ton.
They take a while, but sure are fun.”

“Do you knit them on a plane?
Do you knit them in the rain?”

“Of course I knit them on a plane.
Of course I knit them in the rain.”

“Would you knit them in a barn?
Would you, could you with fat yarn?”

“Of course I’d knit them in a barn?
Fat yarn? What are we talking about here, a worsted weight? No, I’ve never tried that…”

“But, you could do one in a day!
You could do one in a day!”

“In a day! No Way! I could not, could not in a day!”

“Oh, yes, you could you silly bitch.
Put down your size zeros and make the switch.”

“Thank you, Sam, you pushy freak.
A day is much shorter than two fucking weeks.
But, before you ask, I don’t want any goddamn ham. I’m a vegetarian.”

*To clarify for anyone who does not know me personally: I am not being homophobic here (or anywhere for that matter). I am simply a terrible poet and “cocks” rhymes with “socks” and “Wham” rhymes with “Sam I Am.” FYI, nothing rhymes with “purple.”

Let me tell you, there is nothing like finishing a pair of socks in a weekend to make you feel clever even if you can’t write a poem about it without using 80′s references and sexually explicit language.

The Rivendell Sock is the most covetous pattern I’ve ever seen. I almost bought the pattern by itself, but instead I suffered through a long wait for the book that contains the pattern with which I would knit the sock of great power, the one sock to rule them all.

I can’t even tell you the yarn I’m using, because I imagine that this sock once complete will be so magical that all wars will stop, the hungry will be fed and global warming will cease to exist. But, in the wrong hands, the sock could do evil stuff, like hiding the remote to the t.v. or making your feet just a little too sweaty when you wear them.

But, you needn’t trouble yourself about any of these possibilities, good or bad, because frankly, I think I may just be a bit too stupid to knit these socks.

Oh, I’m almost smart enough. I understand the cluster wraps, and I can read a chart, and I can do all the required stitch combinations. But, the clusters at the beginning of a row and keeping track of where I am in the pattern is where I get fuzzy. Um, I don’t use stitch markers for socks. I have a tail and the mid-point of the heel and when I reach it, I’ve done 1 round. That’s it.

I’m probably over-thinking it, and if I could get past the evil that is row 3 of the chart, I’d be safe by a warm fire at the last homely house. But, nah, I’m not the brightest hobbit in the shire, and I’m going to have a nap and second dinner and think about a simple lace pattern in dk weight yarn. Or, even a baby sweater. Even an intarsia project. Anything I can do to put off finding out that I come up just a few dwarves short of a scouting party, and I ain’t going to to get to Rivendell without a taxi.

I’m really more than o.k. with the fact that my knitting stash and many accouterments that accompany it have pretty much taken over the house. It annoys my family that there is no where to go that they couldn’t accidentally sit on, step on or potentially fall over something related to my knitting. Frankly, I’m not overly concerned about that either. If they don’t like all the yarn, they can move into the basement. There is no yarn down there, and while they are down there, they can finish painting.

But, what is rather worrisome to me is the way I keep getting trapped by my own clutter. Let me explain. My husband and I share a double recliner. It’s a love-seat with two recliners that work independently of one another. So, what happens is this. I decide I want to start a new project. I require lots of options to peruse to see what I should begin next. I grab a stack of books. I grab the yarn(s) in question. I sit down. I pop the recliner and put all that crap by my feet. My husband comes in and pops his side of the recliner.

The deed is done. I’m effectively trapped. I have knitting in my lap, a stack of books that will topple if I push down my side of the recliner, and I cannot get up to go to the bathroom without rearranging everything.

Don’t bother suggesting that I keep a table next to my side of the couch. Got one of those. There’s no room on it for even a drink. I also have a little cubby that serves as a bookcase sitting right next to me. I still get stuck. I guess what I need is a rope hanging over me, so that I can shimmy up it and swing out into the middle of the room. Nah, I’d hurt myself.

Just be aware that if you call, I can’t get to the phone right away, because I’m on the couch, and I’ll have to figure out how to free myself before I can answer. Yeah, so just leave a message.

OTN: Nothing that isn’t going to get ripped out. But, I did just finish the “Classy Slip Up” socks from Knit Socks! I used Lorna’s Laces Shepherd Sock Multi in the “Child’s Play” Colorway.

The girl screeched out, “Oh Charlotte!” ran over to my daughter and squeezed her in a way that’s usually reserved for returning hostages or POWs.  No more than two seconds later, no less than two other girls see my daughter and react to her in much the same way the first girl did.

Charlotte had just gotten finished performing with her chorus, and these friends of hers felt the urge to attack her while we were wending our way out of the gym.  It got me slightly tickled. As we were walking through the parking lot, I said, “So, how long had it been since you’d seen those people?”

“Two of them I had seen a couple hours ago, but Bree I hadn’t seen since before school started this morning.”

Oh, well, of course that explains their reactions. I’m surprised Bree was able to hold back the tears of joy…

OTN: Socks for my sister. Been knitting furiously on socks for Mom and Sis with no time to breath or blog. On second Sis sock. Hopefully, will be able to post pics before she gets her grubby paws on them. I’m using Cherry Tree Hill Supersock yarn. Liking it pretty well. Mom’s are in the Misty Moor colorway and Sis’s are I believe in the River Run colorway.