The sun is almost shining on inches of new snow, which is blowing and drifting as quickly as the roads are cleared. I came home at lunch time to find bird prints in the snow on the drive, on the steps, on the rail. Birds aren’t sad; they just look for food. Places to nest. Scraps to build the nest.
For some reason the weight of hate struck me full force today. We throw that word about too easily. We hate things too easily. The word has become cheap. Life in the world has become too cheap. Why hate people of color? Why hate people who have a different god? Such a waste. And why was it the first thing on my mind today? Perhaps because last thing before bed I scribbled a post card to Elizabeth Warren. Thanks for doing your job so well.
For the first time in years, I’m knitting a sweater. I abandoned sweater knitting for sock knitting at least fifteen years ago. Wool socks, to keep my feet warm. Other people have cold feet, so I knit socks for them, too. Unlike my mother, who divided every last bit of yarn into two balls in order to knit matching striped mittens, I put my ends into a bag, to be decided later.
I joined a knitting group last year. I am amazed at all the things to be knit and worn, with aplomb. I am so pedestrian; I could never swag a scarf around my neck like so many women do. But I did learn of a new, local yarn shop from these women, and went to see what I could see. My goal was to dispose of a pound of left over sock yarn, and to that end I came home with four more skeins of sock yarn, this time in a beautiful moss green wool, to be the base color.
The young artist in residence graded the colors for me and put them little bags numbered one through twenty something. I was sorting through the bag of numbers the other day, looking for thirteen or fourteen or some such. I looked at one bag, and said “Oh no, Laura. This one says 00." I handed her a bag of purple that had 00, underlined.
“Gramma, it’s an 18!”
The wishful thinker.