Happy Hat

This hat is worked from the crown to the brim. I was using up bits of hand-spun yarn that were sitting around. By and large the yarn was of a similar thickness. I took some care in guessing at how tight or loose to knit so that differences between yarn thicknesses were minimized in the hat. I saved my thickest warmest yarn for the part of me that is always cold: my ears, so that means for the last 6-8 cm (3-4 inches). That is also the part I knit most snugly.

Choose yarn in colors that make you happy

To duplicate this style you need a set of double pointed needles (dpn) and a circular needle (cn). Select needles appropriate for the yarn you use – I chose a size smaller than most would have used because I wanted a dense warm hat.

On one dpn cast on 3 stitches, slide to other end and
Join,
Row 2: knit one, yarn over, k1 yo, k1, yo.
Row 3: knit (six stitches)
Row 4: k2 yo three times, now is time to add two more dpn spacing stitches evenly among them.
Row 5: knit (nine stitches) These nine are the basis of the spiralling pinwheel crown. You may want to add a stitch marker so you know where your row ends.
Row 6: k1, yo to end
Row 7 and all odd rows till crown ends: knit
Row 8: k2, yo to end
Row 10: k3, yo to end (your yarn overs ought to be falling in an ascending spiral)
Row 12: k4, yo to end
Row 14: k5, yo to end
Row 16: and all even rows until crown is large enough: keep increasing one knit stitch by knitting pervious yo stitch before adding next yo

When you determine that the crown is large enough for your hat, cease making yo’s. Knit round without adding. Hopefully your work will be large enough to allow you to switch to cn. Knit without adding stitches until the hat is about long enough. Then use k2 p2 ribbing to complete the desired lasts rows of the brim.

I made my hat extra long because my ears always seem to creep out from under my hats and freeze. The extra length, snugly knit with thicker wool in a ribbed edge, keeps my ears well covered and warm.

Finishing

I have finished Leila’s yarn. Perhaps you know what that means, perhaps you think you know. Here’s a brief pictorial walk through the process I call finishing yarn.

First I spin the singles. In this already posted picture you see the left-overs from spinning singles for the first skein of yarn as well as that first skein.

In this second picture both the bobbins are on the lazy kate. You can tell there is less of the lighter blue. Perhaps there wasn’t quite as much wool to start with, or it could be that the lighter blue single is slightly thicker than the dark blue. Either could contribute to the discrepancy. This photo was taken after the second skein had been plied.

This third, out of focus, picture shows the knot tying the two singles to the leader – the yarn attached to the bobbin. I am ready to ply.



The fourth picture shows how I keep some tension on the two singles until the twist is sufficient to allow the yarn to wind onto the bobbin. The singles go between my fingers, under them, and back up between the next fingers. I keep plying until one of the two singles ends.

The fifth picture shows what I do when one single ends and I still have quite a bit of the other single left. I start wrapping it around my hand, using my middle finger to reverse direction.

The sixth picture shows the full amount of single I still have to ply back on itself. Given that the finished yarn has over 90 meters of the dark blue two-ply, and that some of the original single would be taken up with twist, there must be over 200 meters of singles yarn here. My next step will be to extract my middle finger from this and “wear” this bracelet around my wrist while plying. The single flows fairly freely from two directions, creating a two ply.

The seventh picture shows me winding the two ply onto the niddy noddy to create a skein. My niddy noddy is a handy two meters making it easy to estimate the length of the yarn.

The third skein, still on the niddy noddy, tied in four places.

Next up comes washing. I wash in the hottest water I can get from my tap. Then I rinse in cold water, and follow the rinse with a second rinse this time hot again. The process helps shock the wool into remembering its original curl and should help keep it from seeming to shrink later.

I don’t have a photo of the wet yarn being whacked on the wall. This further helps full the yarn but also helps remove the water from it. Finally the yarn is laid out to dry. There are 216 meters plus 94 meters in the skein on the left with the dark blue yarn. The skein on the right is 368 meters. The only things left to do with this yarn include: weighing each skein, labeling them when dry, and then giving it to Leila.

Jack

Who's Jack? Jack's the guy next door.

You know verb tenses can be wonderful, but I do wonder whether I should use the past tense or the present tense when speaking of Jack.

As a kid, the "guy next door" was Billy. Gordy lived across the street and Alex and Mike lived up the street. They were part of the tapestry of growing up, playing pirates, cowboys and Indians, hopscotch, and wild bike rides. Except for their names and a few B&W photos, all of them vanished from my life when my family moved to Tryon, NC. Jack did not live next door.

Next door, if I can say that our house had "next door" neighbors, lived three old maid sisters: the Miss(es) Nash, and in the only other house in the vicinity a widow Mrs Capers. In fact Jack lived out in the valley and we never encountered each other until 1998 when I was also living in the valley and first met Jack as "the guy next door."

I am not sure exactly what the guy next door is supposed to mean. Is he the one who teases you all the time when you're both little, is almost a brother but not quite, who as you get older doles out advice on dangerous "boy" topics telling you who to avoid, the fellow who'll fix your car, or knock some jerk's lights out if the jerk threatens you? Or is the guy next door the jerk? It really doesn't matter, does it? Jack and I had missed all those opportunities.

Jack was home fixing up the place. He'd had it rented, but the renters had moved on and Jack wanted to make a few changes before renting it again. Suddenly the place which had been quiet was the typical stir of things being changed. But he wasn't in a hurry to get things done either, and soon enough he vanished back to Tennessee where he lived.

That summer he returned a couple of times to continue working on his house, and he came over to introduce himself and invite me to play tennis or golf. That was when he became the guy next door. He professed himself surprised that he had missed me in school, after all we had gone to the same school. I replied that it wouldn't have done him any good if he had noticed me, unless he would have foresworn baseball in favor of horses. Possessed of the confidence of maturity, he couldn't imagine I, as a young teen, would have been all that immune to his charms. Thoroughly enjoying this natter myself, I retorted that at 13 I had been exceedingly shy, rather ugly, and five years his junior, all of which would have challenged the likelihood of gaining his eighteen year old interest. He considered that notion but seemed skeptical.

Prior to one trip to buy supplies for the remodel, he dropped by to ask if there was anything I needed. I had been thinking about getting a saw. He asked what kind, probably enjoying the fact that I hadn't thought of which kind of saw I needed. He offered a few options. All I could come up with was a good general, all purpose sort of hand saw. Hours later I had a fine hand saw and had learned a bit about saw teeth. It was the first saw he gave me.

The house I was living in didn't have any windows that opened. This particular solution had been taken to help make the place a bit more energy efficient. I hated it. In the summer of 1999, Jack offered to replace one. He'd've replaced all of them if I'd asked (and paid). But the place wasn't mine, so I didn't see a need to change more than one window, providing fresh air and a fire exit.

We exchanged phone numbers and from time to time would call each other. One memorable call came one night when I had crashed on the sofa, exhausted from work. Groggy and irritated at having my sleep interrupted, I answered the phone with a cross "What?" There was a pause, then Jack's voice exploded: "WHAT?! WHAT? That is no way to answer the phone!" At which I burst into tears of tired laughter. Jack had a way of making me laugh.

In May 2000 he came over to help me move to Chicago. I-40 East between the Tennessee border and Canton NC is a nasty bit of road. I took it several times after Jack made the trip to help me move to the city. He kept me sane in the big city with his practical NC feet-on-the-ground humor phone calls and his letters.

He didn't tell anyone he had cancer. He had decided not to treat it, preferring to put his time and energy into living. The first anyone knew about it was when he didn't show up for work one day. Jack ran his own construction firm. His foreman went looking for him and had to rip down his door to find Jack too weak to move. Of course Jack was hospitalized. I found out about it only after the Christmas card I'd sent was returned in January 2001 with a note that the addressee was deceased. Tryon is a small town: what happens to one Tryonite will be known by at least one other Tryonite. I got the details later.

Like many, I believe in "life after death". I have as much proof of it as is available to the rest of the world. For me Jack will always and forever be the guy next door.

Dawn

Though I overselpt today, ignoring the alarm for at least half an hour, it was still inky dark out when the dogs took me out for our first walk of the day. This is Finland and the days are definitely getting shorter as we head toward midwinter, which is still months away.

Anyhow, this morning the sky was clear, the stars out, the ground frosty, the leaves under the dogs paws crackled, and the tree skeletons stood starkly dark against the even darker sky. The difference isn't so much one of dark and darker but one of luminosity. The clear night sky is luminous, while the trees are opaque, otherwise all would blend into one darkness.

As time advanced the sky greyed, the trees became more and more visible, slowly color returned, first to the sky then to our surroundings. The air is fresh with a hint of wood smoke and a mild breeze.

Reading

I wasn’t a very eager reader until I met Judy in third grade. The thing about Judy was that she wasn’t an eager reader either. We both bit our nails too. But she had the long black hair I envied, and the lovely voice. Her dad got us to stop biting our nails by challenging us to a competition. We both won. That’s a good kind of competition. Having won the battle about our nails, we challenged each other to read. Together we perused the school library. It wasn’t really very big or particularly well stocked. Eventually we found two copies of the same book: Sawdust in His Shoes by Eloise Jarvis McGraw. I liked it at once because it had a picture of a horse on the cover and seemed to be about the circus. We checked it out and took ourselves off to read.

We began only semi-seriously, teasing each other over the first page or so. Interrupting each other until that magical moment when we were both so hooked that to make an irrelevant comment was an offence. We were gripped, totally involved and absolutely unaware that the rest of the world – even each other – existed.

I adopted one of Joe’s (the main character in Sawdust in His Shoes) habits: looking at peoples’ shoes. I’ve often pondered Joe’s dictum that a lot can be discovered about a person from a good look at their shoes. Now as a writer I know it wasn’t really Joe’s observation, but something that McGraw had either noticed or which she may have overheard. Most probably it was her own voice speaking. Now I watch the high heels that slop on feet, the number of seemingly very tired feet. I watch some with strangely placed heels that seem to make walking very awkward and I wonder if the wearers notice that their shoes hurt. I wonder about young people wearing boots that have the sole separating from the vamp: do their parents notice, don’t their feet get wet, does it make them sick, do they miss a lot of school? Sometimes I look at my own shoes and wonder what they tell others about me.

Reading the whole book took a lot longer than I anticipated, but I certainly didn’t want to put it down. I lived and breathed Joe’s world from the cabbage smelling orphanage he was sent to, to that leap he made onto the lovely horse’s back. I shared the chilling moments when he saw a pair of shoes he recognized from the orphanage but himself passed unrecognized as an escapee by the orphanage director. The family that took him in were so kind I wept on Joe’s behalf when they gave him the horse so he could begin training again. And when he finally rejoined the circus I breathed a satisfied sigh of relief. From there I turned back to the beginning and immediately started to read the book again. That meant I checked it out a second and even a third time before I dared part with Joe.

From that book an insatiable desire to become a rosinback rider in a circus was born. Not having a horse was a major problem to seeing this dream, and by the time I did have a horse I realized that my monocular vision would rule out trick riding… not to mention that there was no mechanic (special apparatus used to prevent a rosinback rider from falling while training) to help me learn. For years I devoured horse books and circus books, went to horse movies and circus movies. I graduated to other things. But I am still a voracious reader. Once started, I really don’t want to put a book down until I reach the end. It is really quite hard now to imagine that there was once a time when I didn’t want to read.

Grammar

Grammar is necessary if one is to speak or read. My first official encounters with grammar weren’t too obnoxious. We studied nouns. I learned that a noun could be a person, a place, or a thing – like Joe, the circus, and shoes. With this amazing information securely in hand the world of grammar lay at my feet…
Until Monday. On Monday grammar lessons continued except that on Monday we learned that a noun was also a subject and could be an object too. If my eyes could have crossed they would have. I was totally confused. I raised my hand to ask a question. It must have sounded very silly to the teacher.
-You mean a subject is a noun? Or is a noun a subject?
-Yes. It can also be an object.
-What can be? The subject is an object?
-No Susanne, a noun can be a subject or an object.
-But if it is a subject or an object why call it a noun? Why not call it a subject or an object?
- Just listen and you’ll understand.

But I couldn’t really listen. Too many nouns were being written on the board and I couldn’t comprehend why a noun like “Bill” was called a subject here and an object there. I became more and more confused as the teacher gave more and more examples. Then came the dreaded part: do it yourself, say whether this noun is a subject or an object. The wonderfully friendly nouns of last week were complete and terrifying strangers. I could not tell which ones were subjects and which ones were objects. They were just a terrible jumble and I wanted to cry.

They were no clearer on Wednesday when grammar continued. By Friday I was a nervous wreck: I simply could not face another day of chaos not knowing if the word was a noun or an object or a subject. I managed to convince Mom that I had a fever. What relief to spend the day in bed and not face that terror.

The following Monday things were even worse. Now there was something new added to muddle: verbs. Not only verbs but transitive and intransitive verbs. Not only that but also present, past, future. I went home for lunch and did not return until Wednesday. Big mistake. Nouns had become even more tricky. Not only were the nouns, subjects, and objects one big muddle, but they could also be direct and indirect objects. I begged to see the school nurse. I absolutely had to get away from such chaos. I had to go home. I managed to stay there till the following Monday.

I got through Monday and Tuesday but made a point of being sick on Wednesday – thus escaping more chaos. By the time I returned to a grammar lesson, oops forgot which days they were and came to school, everyone was diagramming sentences. I couldn’t. For years I lived in mortal terror of grammar. If my school could have been rid of two obnoxious topics they would have been grammar and math. Math I could tolerate, but not grammar.

I arrived in the eighth grade. Everyone was still diagramming sentences and talking about things I knew nothing about. One day during recess, while sitting on the steps, I cautiously confessed my confusion to a classmate and asked her to explain what a verb is. In one sentence she nailed it for me. I wish I could say that things improved immediately, and that I asked her many more such questions, but I didn’t and they didn’t.

I arrived in Finland and… was expected to teach WHAT?! Grammar, ah you must be joking… you’re not. I poured over grammar books and finally figured out that I could safely talk about articles, prepositions, and verb tenses.

Eventually I decided that I needed my Master’s in English and, hello, guess what? I had to take and pass grammar. I have paid for my childhood fears and frustration many, many times. I have fought with English grammar terms and the nomenclature of sentence parts and whether or not a phrase is a prepositional phrase or a subordinate clause. If it is a prepositional phrase then the nomenclature is different than if it is a subordinate clause. I wonder if old Bill Shakespeare had any of that in mind when he said: “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Broken

My promise not to teach music is now broken. I don’t think they can do anything about it either. Initial results are excellent. Okay, today I have but one pupil and we are both only slightly separated in ability. I had the advantage of having practiced the five bars of music which I’d assigned as homework. My generally diligent pupil had not practiced because she is accustomed to using the letter of the note (a, b…) rather than looking at the note and knowing the recorder fingering. I do still need to check and recheck my fingering but once sure of notes I can play what I read, limited only by slow fingers. Speed can be improved with practice. We had a wonderful lesson more or less devoted to getting those five bars practiced. This should not have been the entire focus of the lesson, but it was so much fun that I felt no temptation to move on. We have time for that. The benefit was that having used the recorders she was able to sing the song which had been unfamiliar to her. I also think that now that we’ve started she will continue to practice. So as a teaching method in a one-on-one situation, for the introduction of an unfamiliar song that is to be learned in one key, this initial test by a fumble-fingered-teacher who cannot otherwise stay in key seems to hold some potential for use, in spite of the basic long held premise that the teacher needs to have a command of the skill. Frankly I don’t expect to turn out a music virtuoso – certainly not in one lesson! But if enjoyment of music and of making music is the goal then I’d say this was first rate.

Pirkko and I got to a presentation about the Karelia area of Finland. She was born there. The various communities there are actively marketing the area. It was good to see so much handiwork. Now I want to try the Karelian punapoimi (red lifted weave), but it will be a while before I get around to that. It was also good to see so many feresi: a Karelian folk dress. Now I want to make several and am forcing myself NOT to rush off and buy fabric. I think the temptation to make feresi now is partly my frustration with this Lapväärti national dress.

Catch up

The past few days have slipped by in a blur of getting to the next place, with the right equipment. At times it has seemed as if there wasn't even time to grab a bite to eat... however, I can chide myself for that too: I've spent time prowling through shops looking for a winter coat. I have found one potential candidate that almost meets my requirements: must have color, hood, pockets, be washable, and almost reach my knees. Tons of grim black coats out there, thousands of drab tan or beige, at least a hundred in white... Okay, I admit there are some red coats there too, but they are wool or a wool blend and tend to be either shorter or longer than I want. My winter coat has to be a go anywhere coat: it has to funtion in the city and for dog walking; it needs to keep me warm and dry; it needs to wash and dry quickly; its pockets have to function as recepticals for keys, cards, bags, phone.

My search has located one sweater for me. That's good. I don't waste a lot of time shopping, looking, trying on and pondering. I go in looking for colors I like. If I see them, I touch the article: it has to feel good. If I like the look, I look at what it's made of. If it is made of something I would wear, I look at the price. If any of these steps gives me a "no" I don't waste time, I just move on. Today I went through five stores in less than half an hour - which included two pauses for purchases. Obviously there wasn't much that appealed to me.

I spent more time at the handicraft advice center yesterday. I'll do a mock up of the blouse, try to figure out how the pieces go together. Other than that I may just change my plans about this whole "national dress" project. It really gets frustrating when experts can't figure things out based on the information, or lack of it, that I have received that is passing as "instructions". There is a limit to my patience and I am rapidly approaching it.

My sock knitting hasn't progressed much since I last mentioned it. I've been preoccupied and am likely to continue preoccupied for the next ten days. I did show it to Pirkko, who dashed off for her copy of the book so she could double check the instructions and she showed me how I ought to be doing the seam stitch. I repeated it twice, in addition to her once and together we decided that it just wasn't cutting mustard. It didn't show up nicely or even properly. So now I just make a regular purl stitch and hope that in another ten rows or so that it will begin to look like a seam. Otherwise there's no point in doing it at all.

Good news; my shoulders have been where they ought to be for over 48 hours now. The bad news: having them in place is making other muscles really sore and stiff.

School

A hefty bit of reading.

Once upon a time I hated school. I feared it, dreaded it, and did everything I could think of to avoid it. Why on earth I became a teacher… well something happened.

I suspect that I started school a wee bit too young. Oh I started at the legally prescribed time, and Mom had to scrape me off of herself like too much butter smeared on bread as I clung to her not wanting to be left among strangers. But I was removed from her and left. It really wasn’t too bad at first. First we got to do nice things like dance and play music and get new colors and draw. But then we had to make letters and make them again and again. Soon they expected us to read! I wanted to look at pictures and have someone read to me. And this went on all year! Dreadfully dull. Why go to such a dull boring place? It was much nicer at home.

Second grade was even worse. I was expected to get a library card and check out BOOKS! Fortunately they had some pretty good picture books at the library, and though Mom was definitely disappointed that I wasn’t checking out books with very few pictures like my friend Louise, at least Mom would read to me. Then came “the test”. The school system had decided to give every kid the Wisconsin Intelligence Scale for Children (WISC). We were told we’d be taking a test. We were told not to panic, not to worry, this “test” was not going to affect our grades. We were told to be sure to come and to have a good breakfast and to sleep well the night before, but not to worry. Okay, I did all of those things, slept well, ate well and I did not worry. On the test day we were again told not to worry and just read the questions and give the answers we thought were best. We were then instructed in how to fill out the answer sheet, which was meant to be read by a key punch operator. If you know what that means: good; and if you don’t then I can only say the sheet had columns with numbers down the left side of each column and each number was followed by four letters A, B, C, D with small ovals under the letters. We had to be sure to completely darken the oval under the letter that matched the answer we chose for that question, and we had to use a special pencil to do it.

First question: If you go outside at night what would you want to take with you? A) a doll, B) a blanket, C) a flashlight, D) a baseball bat. Well gee, it kinda depends on why I’m going out at night, doesn’t it? How am I supposed to answer this sorta thing? Well if I’m going out to play, maybe a doll, but if I’ve lost something maybe a flash light, I really don’t play baseball but if that puma came back like we had last winter and if Mom let me go out if there was a puma in the neighbourhood a baseball bat might be useful, but we don’t have one so I couldn’t take one anyway. But in summer I might wanna go out and camp out and then I’d take a blanket. I glanced around. Other kids are on question three or question four already. Finally I select one of the answers and read question two. It is just as bad. Other kids have done at least ten questions by now, and the teacher has a clock in her hand. I try to make a good choice for question two and stumble through question three, then four and five. They are all dreadful questions. By the time question six comes I devise a plan: Since none of this matters anyway – the teacher said it wouldn’t affect our grades at all – I will just make designs down the columns. For question six I chose A, and B for question seven, eight was a C and nine a D. Then I had a decision to make. I paused to consider which would be prettier: a D for ten or back to a C? I did this all the way to the end of the test, checking to be sure I didn’t put too many answers. Quite pleased with myself for not wasting my time on such rubbish, especially when it wouldn’t affect my grades, I didn’t think too much more of that “highly respected” test until I studied it when I took my degree in Psychology at the University of North Carolina.

In fact that test had repercussions and it affected my grades for years. My little solution produced a very strange portrait of me. When the “results” returned from being “tabulated”, there was shock. Mom was summoned for an urgent consultation and told that if she had had hopes of my ever attending university, she should put away that idea immediately. In fact she also ought to assume that I would not be going to high school. Indeed, and most unfortunately, probably the very best thing was to place me in a mental asylum for I was so retarded as to be almost completely unable to receive any education whatsoever. Of course this explained why I didn’t read like Louise! And why I also wasn’t doing well in math.

Fortunately Mom didn’t believe it. Dad partly believed it. But neither of them could really fight the system. Oh they kept me, and they sent me to school as often as they could pry me out of the house. I advanced through the grades only because Dad insisted that I be advanced and because the principal kept hoping I would come to school a few more days the following year… Principals continued to voice this hope each year until I actually graduated from high school.

Third, fourth and fifth grade had a few test repercussions in them. In fourth we built a scale model house, wired it, installed lights (flashlight bulbs) and a car battery with a switch so we could light up the house. It was fantastic. I loved it. Of course we had to keep notes of what we did and turn in our report at the end. Mine came back with a nice big F on it and the note that the work was too good to be mine. Yep, that WISC test didn’t hurt my grades at all! And one wonders why I didn’t WANT to go to school? Gee whiz!

Of course once we moved to Tryon things got better, until my school records arrived with that WISC report. The moment that arrived my grades tumbled. Math was getting harder too. Try as I could, the formulas we used would not give me right answers. I slaved over this stuff. I worked backward from the correct answer and devised my own formulas that would give me the right answers. I showed my breakthrough to my math teacher. He couldn’t follow my formulas, but he could see that they got me the right answers. The result: do everything twice, first with the text book formulas and then with your formulas. No joy in that, especially on a test when one is the only one doing twice the work.

Then, finally someone – probably my math teacher – suggested that my IQ be retested. Arrangements were made. This time it wasn’t the WISC or the Wisconsin Adult Intelligence Scale. Nope, it was a professional tester who came with twelve bags of tricks and all sorts of means of probing and assessing what MIGHT be going on. He basically refuted everything the dear old WISC had labeled me with way back in second grade. Laughing, he even told Mom that I had ended up testing him!

Dad constructed his own test – to test the new results. He borrowed one of my horse text books – which were not the trivial sort that most kids start with, or mere pretty picture books, but actual professional textbooks. Under the guise of seeing if I knew anything, whether I had understood what I seemed to be reading, he gave himself a week to read, absorb and make due notes to establish what he felt would be an adequate examination. Now Dad was no slouch. Normally he absorbed any book in about a day. I had absolutely NO fear about this test. I knew my books inside out, cover to cover and I could quote and give page numbers without needing to double check anything. It was probably the only time anyone EVER bested Dad at this game. I knew my subject. He was estatic.

The years I was riding probably saw me in school more often than any of the previous years combined. If I wanted to go riding, I had to go to school. But the last year of school I wasn’t riding, and the principal was once more after me. If I was absent one more day then I would not pass. So of course I had to test the theory. And the day after we went through the same routine. Mom was at her wits end. The truant office even paid a visit. After that, I promised Mom that I would go to school provided that no one ever mention school to me again as long as I live. She promised. I graduated and we all came home. Whew! No more school!

The morning after I graduated from High School, I woke with a new plan and came bounding down stairs to tell Mom: I was going to go to college and become a teacher. Speechless she dropped her cup of coffee!

End note: In 1998 I met my math teacher again and he praised my inginuity and cleverness in math. It was only then that I realised that what I had done had been a sign of intelligence rather than another symptom of failure and stupidity, which is still a holdover from the WISC. Yes, it affected my whole life.

Promise

I think I am about to break a promise. YEARS ago I got through the required “music” portion of my teacher education by promising that I would absolutely NEVER EVER teach music. I am sitting here counting how many years ago that was… almost forty years ago, 1973. Basically this has not been a difficult promise to keep. It has been quite a relief: no, I promised I would never do it and I will not.

What is it with me and music? I do not know. Certainly I like music, especially happy music. I can tell if something is off key – well I can tell as long as it isn’t me! For noises I make I cannot tell if I do them the same way twice (I have been told that I don’t). In third or fourth grade our class was to compete in the annual Christmas inter-school competition. As we began training in November, the teacher quickly located the person singing off key: me. I was instructed to mouth the words but not to let a single sound escape my lips. I was so stunned I didn’t see my best friend glaring at the teacher. Judy, who had one of the best voices in our class, came home with me after school that day and taught me to sing, two days later she took me to choir practice and the director had no complaints. I had a wonderful Christmas singing in the church choir but I never sang in class, nor did I bother going to the inter-school competition.

I have since sung in a few other situations, even in choirs. Generally I try to be as close to someone with a strong voice, or in such a crowd that I won’t upset the song. I’m best as far away from the typical women’s voices as a choir will allow me to get. When the last choir I sang in gave our only performance at Helsinki’s Finlandia talo I was the only tenor in a skirt… the fact that I managed to lose my shoes under my chair also made me the only barefoot member of the choir, but I don’t think anyone even noticed.

-So there are the challenges and some of the successes. But now I have a song which is part of the curriculum… I can ignore it easily – all too easily – or we can learn it. Now the easiest way for us to learn it is to play it on the recorder.
-What?!
-Yes.
-Why, you said it was a song?!
-Yes, I did and yes it is a song.
-Well then why not sing it?
-Which is more important? Shall it be learned on key, or shall it be learned in about 20 keys?
-What 20 keys?
-Ah well the 20 keys that I sing in when I sing.
-You can’t sing one song in 20 keys!
-Wanna bet? I have it on good authority that I never sing the same song in the same key, nor do I stay in key within the song…

Yeah, I see your exasperation. The problem is that everyone is expected to sing in the same key. We don’t expect things in “the key of me” or the fact that my key might just happen to change in less than the blink of an eye, not to mention within a song or from singing a song once and singing it again. So ya see, if we learn the song with the recorder, then bit by bit drop the recorder and sing instead, we just MIGHT possibly learn to sing the song.

Do I sound like someone who defines “going swimming” as putting their big toe in the water and claiming that as swimming?

Dark!

The city is testing a new method of saving money: turning off the street lights. They aren’t turning all of them off. Nor are they turning them off over the entire city. They are turning off two of every three lights in selected areas of town. I live in one of the selected areas. Overall I applaud the idea. I think it is high time measures like this are seriously considered in order to reduce energy consumption, and set the example to residents. However, after the first night of such a “test”, which will last all month, I have a few points to raise.

1. check to be sure all lights are working properly before beginning
2. replace any burnt out bulbs
3. check which lights will actually be “out” and how extensive the dark areas are
4. be certain that certain key areas are not dark.

With these basic guidelines in mind I think great savings can be made without jeopardizing safety or convenience, although I do predict an increase in the amount of dog poop visible in daylight.

If, with the flip of a switch, one turns off two of three lights, but is unaware that the third light is burnt out, then the length of street in darkness is five lights. Also there are key areas that need to be lit. These include: recycle points; general parking areas, intersections, and curves in the road. While walking my dogs last night and this morning I noticed that the nearby recycle point was lit, but that two public parking areas were totally dark. This would make things very difficult for a resident who dropped their keys, or who might slip on a patch of ice. On the other hand, an unlit parking area could tempt vandals or thieves. At least two street corners were completely unlit because the two lights off on one street coincided with the two lights off on the joining street.

Finally I do wish that someone would turn off the lights on the football field, which have blazed all night for over three weeks. The field isn’t even in use – much less in the wee hours of the night. This is the fifth time this has happened, but this time after I reported it, these lights still haven’t been turned off. Frankly those big lights are huge energy consumers. I’d like to know who keeps turning them on. Is it an incompetent employee who doesn’t know which switch is which? Or is it some prankster who happens to gain access? If it’s an employee, then that person needs better training. If it is a prankster, then someone needs to figure out how they are gaining access and put a stop to it, perhaps by changing the lock or the password. Letting the lights burn out and then not replacing them does not stop the waste of electricity: closing the circuit does.

Survival

This is my earliest memory and is not “easy” reading and may be upsetting. Proceed warned.

What are the odds of any of us being alive? For hundreds of years even the birth process was life threatening, and many children never lived to their fifth birthday. I was a late child, arriving toward the end of Mom’s reproductive life. My only sibling, Robin, is fifteen years my senior. She was grown-up and almost moved out by the time I arrived. I am sure my arrival wasn’t entirely a sweet surprise for her. Dad took a somewhat grim view of starting family life all over again just years before retiring. Soon enough I made it even more difficult.

By the time I was just over a year old, Mom noticed something odd about my face and of course consulted our doctor. I can only imagine the expressions, the various visits and consults that eventually took me to an ophthalmologist, who gave a general diagnosis of “poptosis”, which meant one eye seemed more protruded than it ought. The decision was to “watch” and see.

Well you know surgeons: can’t be happy unless cutting people up. Some months later, at the ripe old age of 22 months, Mom took me in for X-rays and probably surgery so the situation could be corrected if possible – or at least more accurately diagnosed.

Those were the “good old days” which have led to remarkable improvements in medical care. Thank goodness for the improvements! Today a 22 month old child would probably be shown what was going to happen by placing a large doll on the X-ray table and bringing the camera down close. Such niceties were not part of standard medical care for toddlers in the 1950’s. Nope, it was all business: get on with it, do what must be done.

Okay I could lie on the table. No problem.

Bring that huge black box (X-ray camera) over me? Not since I intend to live you won’t! Biddable Susanne vanished. I fought, screaming and scrambling out of Mom’s grasp and away before that monstrous thing could crush me to death.

Recaptured by a serious-looking nurse in a starched white uniform, I was replaced on the table and the dreadful thing brought back…

And I escaped again.

Two more formidable nurses were summoned.

I was pinned down on that table by three nurses and that horrible box was brought over my head. I can still see the texture on the black covering.

Screaming in terror, I fought with every bit of strength a 22 month old child has.

Try as they might, they could not hold me still enough to get the x-rays they needed.

I am sure Mom was wringing her hands, perhaps crying herself, to see me so terrified. I wasn’t looking at her. My entire attention was on preventing myself from being crushed by that oppressive-looking heavy object which these people seemed intent on smashing my head with.

Quiet background conversation. A decision was made. A hissing noise began. Holding me on the table, an ugly black mask was presented to me.

“Breathe” I was instructed.

Sobbing, I really didn’t have a choice. But the smell was horrible. I tried to stop sobbing, stop breathing at least long enough to prevent them from killing me. I don’t recall sparing a thought about Mom – even to wonder why she wasn’t helping me, tearing these horrible people away from me, protecting me. Someone may have held on to her too. Perhaps I decided my survival depended on myself. I tried to push the mask away. But the gas had done its work and I slipped into darkness.

They got their x-rays and, expecting the worst, did their cutting, removing a tumor from behind my left eye.

I woke partly blinded by the bandages around my head. But I was blinded in that eye permanently. To the doctors the fact that I lived was an unexpected miracle – they had warned my parents that there was little or no hope of my surviving. I think the miracle happened because I went under literally fighting for my life.

I vented my waking rage on a lovely bouquet of 12 yellow roses sent by generous elderly neighbors who lived across the street from us. Childless themselves, the Houghtons didn’t know what to send to comfort a child. I can’t say that tearing up the flowers soothed me at all, but I think it has colored my reception of flowers.

Sometime between my going under and awaking to vent my outrage on those roses, another child was admitted to the hospital with a highly contagious disease. It put us in quarantine, which meant all of us in the children’s ward went without seeing any family until the quarantine was lifted three weeks later. This was the age of prescribed rigid schedules for children. Toys were for play-time not for cuddling in bed at nap or night time.

There was no flexibility in this routine especially because there were no parents around to interfere.

When Mom was finally able to visit – visiting hours being during Dad’s work hours – I didn’t recognize her. It must have been a dreadful blow, because surely she had been worried about me. It took being a mother myself to realize fully how much one has to stand back when one really wants to run into the fray.

Somehow during all this, Dad accepted my existence. He had had me, then lost me, and now he had me alive again. He wasn’t prepared to surrender me when the tumor grew back, but he was able to stave off the next round of surgery until I was nine, by which time I was no longer bothered by x-ray cameras and probing doctors. By then the tumor had distorted my facial features. Beautiful? Not I! Everyone had waited until my disfigurement bothered me. Fortunately one of my friends figured out that I was bothered by my looks. Louise told her mom, and her mom told mine. And about that same time cousin Claire read an article about a ground-breaking ophthalmologist in Boston: Dr Casten. Dad took time off work to go with us, returned with us when it was time for surgery, and we had a holiday afterward. Dr Casten was able to get everything. Two more surgeries did much to correct most of the damage but took years for the full effects to settle.

Does this, my history, ring at all like William Carlos Williams' short story:The Use of Force? Are these not insights intothe hows and whys of our actions?

Slow Progress on National Dress

After thinking about the various stages and parts of making this national dress, I got out my sewing machine. I had it overhauled in July and it’s been sitting in the hall where it arrived. I found that the drive belt and lamp were replaced. Dang but that old belt was a mess! Good thing it was a sewing machine and not a car. Then I found a sample of what the repairman had been able to get this machine to do. WOW. This old thing is capable of all sorts of fancy stitches. I played around with them for a while on what is to be a ruffle on the slip for the national dress. Finally I got something that closely resembles one of the decorative stitches on the blouse and set to putting it on various pieces of the blouse in the areas which the photocopies indicate it is needed. I will continue with that today.

Once I get all the pieces that need this “almost” design done, then I’ll go back to the slip ruffle and try the zigzag stuff. This photo, of the front placket, shows the color photocopy underneath that is my working model and instructions – if one can call a color photocopy “instructions”.
I think the spacing is a bit off. They may come after me with a rolling pin denouncing this stitch as not "EXACTLY" what is called for. Thank you, I know that. It is, however, exactly what I am going to use. There are enough other details to obsess over and drive myself crazy with. Do I like this type of design? No, I think it is gaudy, tacky and tasteless. I can accept the low key lace, but this machine embroidery fancy stitchery I do not find attractive. Nevertheless, it IS what goes on THIS dress so it will be here.

If I have not said so before, I will say now: I chose this national dress for the SKIRT – NOT for the blouse! Maybe I won’t decorate all the spare pieces… I could make a completely plain blouse that I would like a LOT better. After all, if I am to wear a scarf over the top, perhaps no one will notice… Drats, I forgot that I need to consider the scarf too!

Here’s the complete second belt failure. I finished it off – not the full 3.5 meter length, just about 10 cm. I’ll cut it off the loom and start a folder of “Things Not to Do” and explain the problems so I don’t repeat my mistakes.
Here’s the progress on the sock as of Wednesday night, when yes, I did try this on, lost a few stitches in the process, picked up the lost stitches after removing the sock, then pulled out one needle full of stitches, got all those stitches safely back on the needle, and finally knit a row. Yes the 100 stitches is the right amount for my leg at this size yarn and needle. Thank you again Elizabeth Zimmerman! (I’ve never met Mrs. Zimmerman, but I have met one of her books in which she advocated the wisdom of doing sample swatches, something which I had previously avoided, but will no longer if FIT is important). I wonder if Robin (my sister) will recognize the knitting gauge she sent me...

Friday to Saturday

The past few days have gone by in a blur. Yesterday Lilja and I walked to the lake to watch the mist rise and eventually vanish in an almost undectable zepher that slowly pushed it down the bay and away. Lilja focused on the fish rising to feed. It was a lovely still morning with the lake mirror-like.

Some time between then and now I have sorted out most of the moodle muddle that is my responsibilty.

Thanks to Dominique for suggesting The Book Depository for the text books needed. They have all we need... BUT the parents will have to order them themselves and present the bills to me so they can be reimbursed. And it means I will not get a copy of each textbook so I'll have to fudge it.

I have been considering the "national dress" situation/progress. It has five main parts: 1) the cap; 2) the vest; 3) the belt; 4) the skirt; and 5)the blouse. I can add socks, shoes, and slip to this package if I so choose. I do not have the pattern for the cap or for the vest. I will need fabric samples and the patterns for both. Someone in my national dress sewing class has promised to check her supplies at home to see if she has the right base yarn for the belt, if not then I need to make it with something much thinner. The wool for the skirt must be spun then dyed, after that I can weave it. The problem that is gripping me just now is the blouse. I know how to construct a moddern blouse, but this seems to be constructed quite differently. The directions which I have consist of an incorrect pattern and some photocopies of the completed blouse. I think I have sorted out the problems with the pattern and seem to have all the necessary pieces but...!

I know I should do the machine embroidery first... but which pieces will have a backing piece? Do I turn the edges first or after the fact? There are so many completely unclear aspects to this that I do not even know where to begin asking intelligent questions. There is no clear working list to guide me. I need to know how the whole thing goes together so I can plan and execute to parts of the blouse (and just now if blouse parts had lives... executing them would be VERY tempting!).

But it is time to walk the mutts and get ready for a meeting.

Wednesday --> Thursday

Today has been a bit of chaos. I over-slept; perhaps I forgot to turn on the alarm. When I awoke, rather languidly, and looked at the time, I realized I had less than an hour to walk the dogs and get through the morning “routine” before I ought to catch the bus. Fortunately my bag was packed.

The lake was covered in mist; in fact it was like a myriad of warm eddies like tiny campfires each wafting misty smoke aloft. As the sun rose the mist became golden and shrouded the few boats moored on the lake in an impressionist glow. By the time I reached town, just before eight, the glow had overtaken the streets, bathing it like a theatre set just before curtain rises: everyone intent on being in their place, getting last minute details ready for the daily “show”.

My business was with the Käsityöneuvonta (advice for weaving and sewing challenges). I can’t say I am thrilled to report that I must begin the belt again. I learned many valuable things in the process of the one hour consultation. I’d like to present them as first, second, and so on, but to be honest the order is a jumble. The sample cotton yarn which I received is definitely NOT the yarn to use: it is far too thick. I was advised NOT to split the four-ply cotton into two 2-ply yarns. My own wool yarn was praised as being right and highly suitable (which was the one positive point, so forgive my mentioning it). The main warp is entirely of cotton and needs to be much tighter. The pattern wool warp does not need to be pulled too tight. The weft yarn is the thin cotton. Changing the shed needs to be much tighter and to use a ruler or firm narrow edged implement to pack the shed more tightly. Each weft row need to be drawn much more tightly. And if my inkle loom can’t do that it is recommended I try a rigid heddle again.

Well that cuts to the quick exactly the business of the meeting, but it does begin to share the scope: seeing what is being made there, seeing part of her collection of woven samples, discussing what she had found, additional materials that I brought… It was a very fruitful meeting, which ended just in time for me to get the bus home.

Once home I cleaned the house and did some laundry, before walking the mutts, then a dear friend stopped by for and all too brief visit – but better than no visit at all – before I had to go to my national dress sewing class. After that I came home and spun more of Leila’s yarn. Somewhere during the day I also managed to pick up some lost stitches on sock one – I also managed to pull one of the needles out! But last night at Puikoset I finally measured the sock on my leg – which is how the stitches got dropped – and I do believe I cast on the right number of stitches! We had wonderful food last night too. Sometimes I think we do more eating than anything else… but oh it was good! Perhaps I’ll have time to rhapsodize about it another time… And send some pictures then too!