A Poem in Progress (Draft Two) - Knitting

This is a second draft of a poem I couldn't quite finish. A new attempt. 

Knitting

The rhythm of knitting
brings comfort 
in the repeated pattern
and the tug of the yarn.

I knit to find peace
a quietness, a steady routine,
busy but often mindless
busy and sometimes contemplative.

The two knitting needles
work their way through yarn
casting on, pulling loops through
stitch after stitch 
first stitch to the last.

I knit to give a gift filled with love
it's the making and the giving
a piece of me in every stitch
hopes and dreams between the rows.

A gift made and a gift given with love.

Cardinals Appear When Angels are Near

There are people who say that seeing a cardinal is a visit from a loved one who has passed away. The saying goes, 

"Cardinals appear when angels are near."

When my mom was alive, she loved the cardinals that nested in her yard. She would point them out to me, and we would listen for their loud chirping. 

Cardinals mate for life. (I like that kind of commitment.) The male cardinal is bright red (my favorite color), and the female is a pale brown with red markings. Cardinals don't migrate but remain in the immediate area all year long.


I get excited when I see a pair of the beautiful birds that visit the trees behind my home. In the fall and winter, I can spot them easily when I hear their chirping. They're beautiful to see in a freshly fallen snow. In the summer, they are a little harder to spot as they fly among the leaves, but their chirping lets me know they are there. 

So I'm not sure I believe that the cardinals are visits from angels, I do feel closer to my mom and the memories I have of her when I see them. I love cardinals.

Crossing to Safety Revisited

It was many years ago when I joined my first book club. A group of teachers decided to read a book together and meet to talk about it.

While book clubs are very popular these days among adults and children, it was a new concept for some of us back then. There were probably a dozen of us who committed to read and meet to talk about our reading. 

We chose the book, Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner. 

Little did I know that my ideas about reading would change so drastically. 
Little did I know that this book would leave an indelible mark on my heart.
Little did I know that I would feel so connected to the other readers in our book club.

I recently read a string of books that were not very satisfying. I even abandoned one book because I just could not read another page! I also have been listening to recorded books on my phone. I have tried in the past but have not been very successful. My mind would wander away from the story, and I would have to go back a few pages, or even a chapter, to maintain the thread of the narrative. I am getting better at listening.

So I made a commitment to find a book that I knew I would love and try to listen to it on my digital device. I chose to revisit Crossing to Safety. It's interesting what I have discovered:

     I still love the story although now I am 30  

     years older and I am constructing a new 

     meaning to the narrative and responding 

     differently to the theme. 

     The story is a bit more melancholy now that I 
     am older and closer to the age of the characters.
     I am building a deeper connection to the 
     characters and their struggles.

     I can listen to a book digitally delivered and 
     can maintain my attention. I usually listen to 
     the story while I exercise at the gym. This has
     presented a new challenge because I want to   
     mark the text and write down my response - 
     which is difficult to do when you are on the 
     tread mill! I also want to remember my favorite
     lines and capture the well chosen words of 
     Wallace Stegner.

By choosing this book that had meant so much to me in the past and revisiting it at a later age, I have found a new connection and new meaning. I need to talk with those people who were in that initial book club.

What disappoints me the most is that I have listened to the story alone. Something is missing. The shared understanding. The conversations. The responses to the story as it unfolds. Friends talking about the book. I just may have to send out an invitation to get together over a cup of tea and talk about this book one more time.

Barney

Barney stands patiently next to our bed waiting for us to  pick him up and place him on his sherpa blanket. There was a time when he could run into the bedroom and leap onto the bed in a flash. But years have gone by, and he is not the puppy he used to be.

When we met Barney at the dog shelter, we knew he was going home with us. It was something in his dark eyes and his eagerness to connect with us.

He has moments when he is back to his puppy life as he plays with his toys, tossing them in the air and running after them.
 
It hurts to think about him getting older. His fur is a little more grey. He's a little slower moving about and sleeps more during the day. He keeps us company and brightens our days.

He has stolen our heart.

My Dad Smoked a Pipe

My Dad smoked a pipe.  

In my mind, I can see him now packing the tobacco into his pipe and pushing the tobacco down into the pipe bowl. He would reach into his pocket and pull out his silver lighter, flip the lid, spin the flint wheel and press the flame to the tobacco. He's breathe in, puff it out and breathe in and puff it out, until the tobacco started to burn. Smoke would slowly rise from the pipe. In my mind, I can clearly hear here the click of the lighter lid closing as he put it back in his pocket. A sweet, nutty aroma would fill the air. 

There was always a can of tobacco sitting on the kitchen cupboard. I can remember the smell so vividly. It brings back to mind the warm hugs and the smell of his flannel shirt steeped with the smell of the tobacco.

After my father passed away, the can of tobacco sat on the cupboard for a long time. Occasionally, I would lift the lid and smell the memories. I miss him.

Remembering spring...and my Dad

Each spring, I look back at this picture and it reminds me to be hopeful. Spring WILL come even if we have a late snow. If you look closely, you'll see my Dad on the left.

When I was growing up in Lorain, Ohio, my Dad was Superintendent of Streets. That meant he was in charge of street repairs and maintenance. 

Winters were hard back then. Once it began snowing in December, we rarely saw the grass again until a March or April thaw. Winters seemed endless. Although as kids, we loved the snow. We built forts and had snowball fights with all our neighborhood friends. It was a great time to be a kid.

There was another side to all that snow. For me, snow meant that my Dad had to go to work. It didn't matter what day or time. If it snowed more than an inch, my dad's job was to call out all the crews who drove the plows to clean the streets. He hated calling them when it was in the middle of the night. He hated calling them when they were spending time with their families.

But we were a family, too. I recall so many Christmases when my Dad would have to call out the crews and go to work himself. It seemed so unfair.

But I learned something from my Dad. He cared for his family with a huge heart and endless love. I knew that. I felt that. But he taught me what it meant to work hard and do what's right. So as he left for work, I knew that he would be home again and we would be celebrating Christmas together. 

Thimbles tell the story...

My mother was a collector of thimbles. Not the plain silver ones that many sewers use but decorative ones she collected over the years. She had this miniature hutch that she displayed them in. 


It seemed to me a great collection that marked the years, the people and the travels in her life. She was often given thimbles as gifts. She purchased them   tiny gift shopswhen she traveled from she discovered on the way. 


I was drawn to her collection enough to start collecting them myself. Over the years, I fancied many thimbles enough to add them to my collection. 


My mother passed away a few years ago, and her thimbles were handed down to me. So I have meshed her collection and mine. When life slows down enough, for me to take notice of them lined up in my breakfront, I warm inside at the connection of her heart and mine.