Haschtag Strickrausch!

In my last post I talked about Ravelry, commenting on all the wonderful qualities a group like that has to offer. One thing I didn't mention, and it is, to me, the greatest joy - being able to act silly, act like a child, like a philosopher, like a psychologist, like the crazy with imagination woman I am. To be able to reveal my complete immersion into some of the characters I knit or crochet. It is like writing a story every day, without worrying that it sounds out of touch with the real world.









When I knit Bears I imagine them meeting their new friends in Africa. Crocheting little critters has given me an outlet for symbolic references. Looking at my newest doll - Rausch - I probe into a part of my childhood - the snow-filled joys in the Black Forest. She sits opposite me in the evening when I watch TV and I explain to her the difference between now and then. Maybe living alone has made me a bit odd, but I find this oddity rather entertaining. It keeps me from dwelling on cancer, on aches and pains, on aging, on ever shrinking mobility of body and brain.
It goes beyond knitting, because it frees me to create a world of beauty and possibilities. Ravelry friends are non-judgmental. Thank you!

The oddest thought of all, while I dream on, is the recurring sense of joy, the knowledge that my soul is not shrinking. My soul is expanding. Two days ago I threw myself into the laughter of the downtown holiday scene. While feasting on Black Forest cake at the Bijan Café I observed small children on a mini ferris wheel and a toddler who stared with grave interest at the electronic device in his little hand. And yes, he touched the screen like a pro. Yesterday, after I visited a friend at a Senior Care Facility, I walked through an adjacent park, elated by the sun that shone through the leaves of brightly colored trees, and, taking lots of pictures, I was fascinated by the trunks of others.



Last night, late in the evening, I discovered my next adventure. With water colors I created a "Summer Winds" child, a doll who will sing her heart out, wear bright clothes, speak with a Jamaican accent, and know all of Bob Marley's tunes. Appropriately I have named her Marley.




Happy New Year!

Happy Holidays to Ravelry and Friends

Seven of the eight Matata boys are in the air, on their way to Minneapolis. The eighth has fallen between the cracks and I will rescue him after the holidays. Matata himself sits quietly on the sofa in the sewing/guest room. I had told him my grand-daughter would be visiting for Christmas and he had promised to guard her presents. Yesterday she cancelled - too much work - and Matata's head slumped just a bit.







I smiled at him, pointing out that it would be less work for me - no big shopping trip today. No blueberries, no chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, no broccoli or pasta or frozen waffles or popcorn. No lentil soup from Trader Joe's. I wouldn't bake bread. I wouldn't get butter to recreate the noodle dish I fed her twenty-some years ago. And I definitely wouldn't buy mango smoothies.
"Are you sorry you put out all the decorations?"
"No," I said; "everybody enjoys the decorations. With the groceries it's different, most of those were her favorites when she was little, and some I only buy when she visits. Like ice cream. And frozen waffles."

Matata chuckles. "So you are spending the day knitting clothes for a doll. And you pretend you are not disappointed."

The conversation goes on and I measure my newest creation's feet. Again. I push and prod and twist. Her boots turned out lumpy. Rausch's boots don't fit. But, as was pointed out to me, on Ravelry, boots don't have to be perfect. They look well worn. They are hand-made. They are fine.







RAVELRY! What a formidable web presence! Over three million users strong. Worldwide. A gathering place for fiber artists. Sorted into groups with project specific names like Sock Knitters and Sockenstrickereien or pattern specifics like Granny Squares and Cable Lovers. Or fan groups like Yarn Harlot Fans. Yarn crazy people like Nuts for Noro. There are Caffeine Addicts and Sweet Tomato Heels and Ample Knitters and Saori Weavers. I've looked through Spindle Candy and Mason-Dixon Knitters and Amigurumi enthusiasts. There are thousands of groups with thousands of different names, but all have the same desire and the same effect. They are made up of creative people who support each other

I am active in The Mother Bear Project, knitting teddy bears for HIV/Aids affected children, mostly in Africa. And recently I discovered We Make Dolls, a doll making group started by Deena Thomson-Menard. In both groups I found friends. People who spend a great deal of time thinking the way I do. Wondering about color combinations. Digging through their stashes of yarn for just the right shade and feel for a new project. Clipping coupons for Michaels etc. Discussing patterns. Helping each other with difficult components and unfamiliar wording. And caring about each other.

Two years ago, when I had breast cancer, my Mother Bear group friends knitted over fifty pink teddy bears in my name. Their prayers and get well wishes surrounded me, even when I wasn't able to knit or participate on the discussion board. I will, forever, be grateful for their support.




I have just finished my first doll, the illustrious Spelladonna, designed by Deena Thomson-Menard. And now I am on a quest to create my personal alter ego, with the strange name of Rausch. Rausch is a German word. The verb is "rauschen."
Winter wind "rauscht" through bare-limbed trees.
The Christ child's golden wings "rauschen" when she mingles with the visitors at the Nürnberg Christmas Market.
The noun takes on a different personality. A "Rausch" is like an obsession. When I think of Rausch I imagine myself in the midst of a whirlwind of color. Or glitter. Looking up into the night sky and a million stars. Surrounded by the magic of a red poppy field. (though their is another Rausch that comes from ingesting too much white poppy product :) Listening to a chorus of angelic voices. A Rausch accompanies my wildest imagination. It makes me happy to be alive.

I would not have thought it possible to embark on this new adventure of doll making were it not for Ravelry. And so I wish Ravelry - its creators, participants, lurkers - most wonderful, creative holidays and a smooth entry into the next year.

As Matata would say: "Easy does it! There'll be 365 days to make whatever your heart desires!"




Happy Holidays to all my friends and families!

The Witch has Eyes

The procedure was stressful, but much easier than I had anticipated. My Bewitching Redhead has eyes now. The first needle felted eyes I have produced. I did 't even pre-draw, just jumped right in with the pupil. Once the iris was done - mixed green and brown - I relaxed a bit. The eye outlines and brows were easy. The only thing I had problems with is the white light that brings life to the eye. The yarn kept disappearing into the head. I might have overworked it.
They might not be the best eyes, but my witch can see. She sits on a chair and watches me. I am happy with her.

The Ambassador to Kenya and the Test Eyeball

The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.

Reflecting on this and the 21 Day Gratitude Challenge over a croissant and a cup of coffee, I have to say: this is about the best explanation for life that has been presented to me. Ever. I think Herr Goethe would be very happy if I printed this out - in real fancy letters - and hung it over my desk. Come to think of it, he would probably like it just as much if I wrote it in my clumsy hand-writing on a piece of paper and tacked it to the monitor. And ..... surprise ...... Mssr. Picasso wrote it.

After having spent most of my night, from one in the morning until five, saying good bye to Nelson Mandela, I am a bit overwhelmed by real world activities, such as sweeping leaves off my front porch, bringing along my cane to the coffee shop, reconciling gift giving and limited income, smiling when my hip refuses to act like the responsible, well oiled, and extremely functional joint it has been for 75 years.

In the glow of a flaming white candle, knitting away on a scarf for my granddaughter, I watched the NBC coverage of the Memorial Service for Madiba in the FMB Stadium in Johannesburg. There was much rain, much singing and dancing, many dignitaries, more rain, speeches, tributes, reflections, and respectful commentary by Brian Williams, supported by Charlayne Hunter -Gault. Heavy rain made transmission difficult at times, culture explosions in the stands beyond the bulletproof glass wall seemed to irritate some speakers. I can't remember who pointed out that Madiba himself would have smiled and done one of his little dances, were he present in the flesh. He certainly would have looked with pride at the singing and swaying umbrellas, I thought. The singing subsided and cheers rang in the air while Mr. Obama spoke, President Zuma received a good measure of boos. Winnie Mandela and Graca Machel embraced. President Obama shook hands with Raoul Castro. I cried. And wished Fidel had been able to be there.

Fifty-six years of many personal encounters - all imaginary - though, once I was present when Nelson Mandela spoke at the Coliseum in Oakland - have come to an end. He now resides in that big ball of goodness and light in the universe where my mother-in-law and a few others of my friends, imaginary and real, have gathered to guide me through the years to come. Guide in Peace Madiba!

So, coming back to the gift I have received - imagination and creativity - and giving it away - I have been hard at work. Around Thanksgiving I yarn-bombed a butter dish; it ended up as doll bed. Amigurumi has taken me in with a free mouse pattern by Sharon Ojala. A group of doll makers on Ravelry - led by Deena Thomson Menard has infiltrated my Bear world. Other Christmas projects like the scarf add to the fun.




I have made several mice as presents, but have only named one. She is "Ambassador to Kenya" and I have given her to my daughter "with strings/tail attached. My daughter must take at least one picture of her in Africa. I first told her that she also had to bring her back to the US, but knowing how giving she is, I changed my mind and the Ambassador to Kenya may stay in Nairobi if she is needed there.






The Ambassador to Kenya and her Mother


The other, much bigger project is a doll named Spelladonna. A witch. My first knitted doll. My first encounter with crocheted hair curls. My first I-cord fingers.
And, with fear in her eyes she says, "my first needle-felted face."




I have even knitted a tiny test eyeball to try out the newly purchased roving. I am roving in black, white, green, brown, and purplish. Little did I know when I emptied my wallet for needle felting pen and wool, that I could color white roving with a permanent marker. Well, you learn as you go along. And I am less frightened of the doll iris, now that I have mastered the eyeball. But, before I finish Spelladonna I must make serious placement and color decisions. Eyes far apart - too young to be a witch? Mouth to small -too unfriendly? Face high or low? Dots for the nose? Pink lips? Purple lips? Greenish iris?




But I haven 't neglected my Bears during all this upheaval with mice, a butter dish, and a bewitching redhead. I have finished Bears 286 to 291.












287, 288, and 291 are Matata boys, Bears 286 (Sing), 289 (Canto), and 290 (Snow Angel) are Carolers.










Dear Madiba! Tata!

I first met you in 1957, in Heidelberg, in the Foreign Student Club. I was playing chess with South African young men - young revolutionaries like you - and frightened young men who knew they had to go back home to Apartheid. They loved you. I began to love you. You never disappointed me. The last picture I saw of you, before your release from Robben Island, was a black and white taken in 1963. You had decided to deviate from passive opposition, when you saw that non-violence didn't bring about change. But you did try to avoid blood shed, being more interested in sabotage. You took in all races, including whites, into your military group, as long as they subscribed to the idea of equal rights for all. You were the one ready to die for your principles. And when you landed in jail you advised other prisoners not to allow foul language by the guards, or racial slurs. You stayed in prison when you could have gotten out if you had promised not to speak up. You urged other prisoners to educate themselves. Yes, you were at your best long before you became president, long before you became a person of interest to American news people.

Madiba! I will love you forever.

Come Fly with Me

A few years ago I spent Christmas in Weimar, Germany; I rented an apartment for three weeks and stomped through the snow every day. I had a blast. It just occurred to me, while I was answering an email from somebody who had seen my blog "Good Evening Herr Goethe" how important teddy bears are in my life. Not just the ones I knit for children, but also Tyana J LittleString, my travel companion. I think Tyana had a lot to do with my decision to be part of the Mother Bear Project. To emphasize my dependance on her I am reblogging an entry I made on December 6, 2010.

And today I want to thank Tyana J LittleString for being such a good and faithful companion. If the Bears I knit for the Mother Bear Project have only some of the impact this bear has on me, it will be well worth knitting my fingers into a permanently bent position :)

December 6, 2010 - A Letter to Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

December 6 is the day on which St. Nikolaus used to stand at my childhood’s doorstep with nuts and apples and chocolate. My mother or my grandmother invited him inside. My cousin and I sang and recited poems to please him, and we shivered with fear, because outside, in the snow, stood his helper, Knecht Ruprecht, with a switch. Luckily the behaviour of three and five year olds is never bad enough to warrant the application of a switch to our backsides, but the threat loomed over us for weeks and months.

Thinking of Knecht Ruprecht makes me smile now; he was the one who was punished by having to stand in the freezing, dark December night. Ironic. And today, while I sip hot chocolate and watch the wisteria on my front porch fight with the wind, my thoughts, though drifting back to my childhood, also travel forward, to my upcoming trip. I cross off my list what has been accomplished – suitcase packed, bills paid, mail delivery halted, watchdogs’ teeth sharpened – and I tend to my final chores. But before I shop for batteries, copy names from my address book to my journal, secure transportation to the airport, I feel compelled to explain my travel companion Tyana, the teddy bear, to you, Herr Goethe. People stare at me sometimes. Am I stuck in child’s play? Am I a crazed person who conveys sinister thoughts to a stuffed animal? You never know!

Tyana has posed at the feet of Hans Sachs in Nürnberg and next to Hans Christian Andersen in Solvang. She has fallen off the castle wall in Dilsberg, and has sledded in Truckee. She has been photographed in the ruins of Ephesus and has entertained little girls in Jamaica. She has climbed the welcome sign in front of Emily Carr’s house in Victoria B.C. and the rocks of Abiquiu in search of Georgia O’Keeffe. I have dragged Tyana J LittleString over mountains and I have dragged her across restaurant tables. A picture in front of the twisted tree. Click! One more with the yummy chocolate cake. Click!
Childish substitution or an attempt to draw attention to myself? I hope to assure you, Herr Goethe, that it is neither, though Tyana is a stand-in and she gets noticed.

I travel alone; often I am in need of a “place marker.” A photograph of a monument would be just another travel shot, but having Tyana in the picture makes it my shot. Sometimes, to my embarrassment, she does cause people to pay attention. While walking along Hadrian’s Wall my reputation as the “bear lady” traveled ahead of me at times. Posing her in front of a maritime museum on Guernsey caused a small dog to bark at the top of his lungs. On Corfu I was asked if she eats ice cream.

Tyana has a large wardrobe – more than 100 outfits – and an even larger portfolio of eight by tens. She travels with her toys, wears boots in winter, but no, she does not eat ice cream.

So, that is the Sachverhalt, the way things are, Herr Goethe. My mother would have said, “Das ist des Pudel’s Kern.” She quoted you frequently. I wonder if she knew that Faust used the phrase when he realized that the black poodle, following him to his study, was Mephistopheles? I don’t like the translation into English, “So, this then, was the kernel of the brute.” Why the brute? Isn’t your devil smooth and well behaved?

Herr Goethe, if you see me walking the snowy streets of Weimar, camera in hand and a bear attached to my backpack, say hello. Help me find your Garden house by the Ilm and your big house am Frauenplan. The Elephant Hotel. The Bauhaus Museum. The Schiller Haus. The Cranach Haus. The Anna-Amalia Library. Hoffmann’s bookstore. And, of course, a good Café for the best afternoon sweets Weimar has to offer. I’ll treat.




Tyana, dressed as Santa, on my kitchen table in Weimar




Tyana, guarding a potato pancake in Weimar




It's snowing in Weimar





We are putting a rose in the snow in front of Herr Goethe's garden house.

About Two-Faced Dolls

The other day I woke up wondering about two-sided dolls. As child I once received a hand-made doll whom you could turn upside down, and there her face looked sad and forlorn. I was scared of her, though I didn't know why, at the time. She was made very well; she smiled in thin, bright red yarn features and had wide open pale blue stitched eyes. She wore a long velvet dress that was - I want to say dark green, but that is probably because I like dark green - I can't really remember the color, only the soft texture.
When I turned her upside down, she wore a cotton gown, pouted with an upside down mouth, and squinted her eyes into an almost angry frown.

I must have been between four and five at the time, as old as my friend Vera. Her brother, Gerhard, was a few years ahead of us and quite sophisticated. He said my doll was having an ugly baby. I wasn't sure what that meant - babies came in baskets, brought by our stork who was busy building a nest on the church steeple.

Much later I thought that the doll must have upset me because I could not depend on her. Her beautiful, smiling face evoked one emotion, the sad face a different one. It was already difficult to adjust to the adults' ever-changing moods at the time, wartime made them tense, absent-minded and and sad. In the air raid shelter we children played games and slept in bunk beds; it was like visiting with relatives; parents engaged each other in conversation and left us to our own devices, which meant we were rather happy. But at home, at any time, laughter could turn into a look of worry and a sharply spoken "don't do this .... or that." A favorite toy, a doll, a teddy bear, a book was the only reliable companion, always the same, yet open to interpretation, open to the whims of imagination. Not the two-faced doll though. She had her rules, top side smiling, underside not. The swish of her gown decided her mood and no amount of cradling relieved the stressed bottom face, and spanking did not wipe the smile off her top face.

I think that imagination is a child's very good friend. We joke about the child playing with the box instead of the gift it held, or simple blocks being preferred over more complicated toys. At the age of seven I was given a shoe box which I made into a doll house with the help of a few pieces of cloth, very small containers, scraps of wood and a few lengths of yarn. I spent hours rearranging furniture, cutting out windows and a door, hanging pictures, making a carpet, pillows, and a table cloth. I remember the exact spots I sat on while getting my shoe box ready for a promised mini baby doll. Back stairs to our apartment. A low retaining wall in a friend's front yard. A bench in the busy market place where, every afternoon, several old men gathered to exchange their daily ailment stories. One of them whittled a rustic little chair and a table for me. We called him Herr Wackelzahn (Mr. Wiggletooth) because he only had one tooth left. Well, Herr Wackelzahn quickly became my hero and I no longer moved away in fear when his tongue manipulated the remaining dental ruin.

All my reflections don't mean that I only believe in simple toys; I think that e-readers and fancy light-up crayon boards and dolls who weep and go potty, are reasonable additions to children's toy boxes as long as there is also access to basics like plain paper, cloth remnants, and cardboard boxes. My childhood was, probably, constrained by post-war poverty, leading me into a kind of make-do reality, which I now look to as an advantage in the imagination department.

And, I have to admit that my curiosity was aroused, when I saw that the American Doll Company opened a store in Palo Alto, a kind of spa where child and doll can spend time getting their hair done or having a meal of macaroni and cheese. Unfortunately the café tables are booked for lunch service until March of next year. Now this made me laugh out loud.

For the record and because this is supposed to be a blog about knitting teddy bears I must now check on my Bear friends. Matata's boys are still waiting for a few of their brothers, and will continue their saga next time. On day 11 of KindSpring.org's 21-Day Gratitude challenge. I was asked to reflect on something that made me smile and without hesitation I thought about waking up to a cute little bear that had kept me awake almost all night. I had bought the yarn for it during a burst of energy when left-over yarn was no longer enough. Then I knitted from six in the evening until four in the morning. And here she is; her name is Chant. Bear 285.

Reflecting on Kindness

On day two - yesterday - of the 21-Day Gratitude challenge, I thought about the things I cherish most about people in my life. To my surprise the big contributions, though much appreciated, are not the forerunners on the gratitude list.
I was supposed to reflect upon people that I can not repay, and three women immediately stood in front of me, my ex-mother-in-law, my ex-sister-in-law, and my daughter. All three women have supported me as long as I have known them, which is about 50 years. All three have helped me in many ways, big and small, but three particular images come to mind as brightly today as they were on the days they formed themselves in front of me - a frosted glass with a perfect salt ring, a fluttering white sheet, and a large green trash bag.

In 1967, the day my ex-husband left me, I called Mother (she has been Mother to me always); she told me to come over and bring the kids with me. When I arrived she pulled two crystal glasses from the freezer and dipped them into the finest margarita salt there is. The blender went into action and by the time I awoke the next morning the sun was shining and my fate seemed less devastating.

It was 1977, a couple of years before my second marriage disintegrated. I was confined to bed rest for thirty days after a difficult gall bladder operation. My husband was at work, the kids in school, and I was tethered to a bag that was supposed to, eventually, reveal a dislodged gall stone. Suddenly a whirlwind rushed into my bedroom and ordered me to "get up, wash up, put on a fresh nightgown." Clean sheets and pillow cases flew from the linen closet, and by the time I came back to the room, the bed was made, a vase with flowers stood on top of the TV, and, as finale, my ex-sister-in-law placed a tray on the bed and announced that "the soup will be hot enough in a minute."

The third image, the one with the green garbage bag, was created in 1987, the day after the big earthquake. As utility employee I was forced to work that day, but when I came home I was confronted with the task of sorting through broken dishes, a book case that had spilled its content across the front entrance to my house, total chaos in my sewing room, a tub full of small items that had fallen from the cupboard above, and a collection of broken geese of various shapes and sizes. It was too much to tackle at the time and I wanted to run away. Just then my daughter came through the back door. She told me to find a place to sit down and have a cup of coffee. She pulled out a green lawn bag from under the sink and began to sweep. A lot of treasures departed very quickly, without me having to make a decision to toss or glue. By the time my daughter left it was dark. The TV sat back on the shelf, the books stood in their places, and, best of all, the floors and tub were cleared of glass and miscellaneous debris.

How did they know what would relieve the stress I was under? Why did Mother douse me in margaritas? What propelled my ex-my sister-in-law to change my state of vegetation with such quick action? How did my daughter know that eliminating choices would make it easier for me to overcome the aftermath of the earthquake? I think all three have a sense of timing. They did exactly the right thing when it was needed.

They didn't ask what I wanted them to do, or told me "I'll help you with this" or even knew, at the time, how much their actions would mean to me.

Mother, Pat, and Patricia, I will never be able to pay you back for all the small and big favors you have bestowed upon me over the years, but I thank the universe for sprinkling all three of you into my life.

Imagine the Matata Boys

Today is the first day of the KindSpring.org 21-Day Gratitude Challenge. The sun peeked through the slats of the window shade and a busy squirrel knocked on the roof while I read the message on my iPad "Day 1: What do you have enough of?"
It asked me to reflect on abundance in my life. On sufficiency.

The answer came immediately. I sat up in bed to properly declare my gratitude for creative abundance. For imagination. For being sufficiently endowed with a mindset that can find joy in small pleasures.

"I am," I said out loud, "grateful for pom poms."

Matata's boys are almost finished; their beanies are knitted. Today is the day to make the pom poms.

While I waited for water to boil I finished the first one. It is easy with an old, four part gadget that I've had for almost fifty years. By the time I downed my second cup of coffee eight pom poms were ready to be sewn onto the beanies. Matata watched. He coordinated the colors.









































My doctor's message was not as encouraging as that sent by KindSpring. She told me that I have moderate osteoarthritis of the hip joints. Friday is my first physical therapy appointment. Oh well! Downdog. Squats. Leg press. Pull down. I go to the Y three times a week; now I will find out which exercises work for me and which hurt me more. Isn't that what I wanted?












I asked Matata not to squint. He suggested I pay attention to the pom poms. As I sewed a suspender to one of the Bears I had an idea. I could attach scarves to the beanies. A word floated around.

SCABEANIE!

And then the first Scabeanie was created. The rest, they say, is history.

Pom Pom

I was in the midst of formulating my speech to the doctor when, suddenly, sunshine coming in through the clinic's window made me smile. I greeted Dr. L. with laughter. Needless to say, she was a bit confused.
"How are you?"
I stopped giggling and answered "I'm fine. Looking at your sunny window I wonder why I am here."
"O.K! ??? I can make a note here and have them refund your money."
We both laughed.

I had whittled down my complaints to three major talking points.
"Well, here it is. In the scheme of world affairs not really earthshaking. But ... I can't read my body any more. I walk like an old lady. I am depressed."

I punctuated my summary with another smile, then I explained. About general stiffness in the morning. About not knowing when exercise is a good thing and when it aggravates the pain in my right leg. About tilting to the right when I walk, expecting the leg to cave, taking on the gait of those who limp through their senior years. About being afraid of the treadmill, but moving furniture around and shampooing carpets with heavy equipment. About staying in bed a whole day, because there is no pain when I am flat on my back. About pondering this during the next night, and not getting any sleep. I also told her that I felt silly about coming to her with symptoms that befall many people my age, but that I had found out at a medical forum that other older adults are as reluctant as I am to see a doctor about these things, things that could be relieved if addressed at an early stage, or at least discussed and accepted.

Watching the doctor's busy fingers on the keyboard I found some relief. If it is noted it is recognized. If it is recognized it is shared. If it is shared it is more easily bearable. And if it is bearable, the depression lifts.

She had me lie down on the examination table and turned my leg. I expressed discomfort with a jump and a sharp, partially suppressed "ugh."
"Looks more like a soft tissue injury than arthritis."
"Oh good. But it sure takes a long time to heal."
When I asked for advice on use of the leg she suggested: "Don't do what you CAN do. Do what your body tells you to do."

It didn't make sense to argue this point. Even if I can't read my body right now, it still speaks. It'll probably have to raise its voice so I can hear it, or I'll have to cup my ears to catch some stray sounds of body language.

She ordered an X-ray of my hip joint, suggested physical therapy, commented on my regular exercise schedule, lauded my knitting as beneficial to the osteoarthritis in my hands. I left for the lab while she lingered over my chart.

My next stop? A cup of coffee and a pumpkin muffin at the coffee shop.



As I sat and reflected I wondered what would hold together the Bears I knitted recently. Matata's boys..... what could I make to differentiate them from previous Bears? I had dumped a bunch of leftover yarn in front of Matata, determined to make a group of eight Bears from the heads I had knitted during the cruise.






I've done backpacks and beanies and suspenders and buttons and pockets for boys. Purses and flowers and headbands for girls. What is left?
Would pom poms be appropriate? Pom poms on beanies?
As I always do, I chased away unpleasant thoughts with knitting thoughts. Then I went home to make pom poms.

Open Letter to Pat

Pat,

Thank you for taking me on this cruise. You were the hostess with the mostest! Though I limped and made little "agh" sounds when I climbed stairs and sometimes retreated to the Solarium to gather my thoughts and to knit little brown squares for bear heads, and you marched, without me, with much speed and confidence into your daily chores, we had a great time.










You are giving Mother and Dick credit for financing the cruise, but I know it is your generosity that allowed me to see Boston, Portland, Kennebunkport, Bar Harbor, Saint John, Halifax, and Peggy's Cove. And you are responsible for the great view from cabin 9258 (the very last cabin at the very end of the ship - 150 steps of hallway to cover - where one can step onto the balcony and see 180 degrees of spectacular sunrises)



Thank you Mother, Dick, and Pat.
Love,
Gigi