Mighty Mutti

A pastel colored pantsuit. Preachy hands. The scientist’s concentrated, patient stare.

Her way of governing? A reporter said it well the other day: She puts on an apron and picks up a broom after the party is over. “Go! Go to bed! I’ll take care of this!”
Her constituents might not adore her, but they trust her to clean up the mess.

I have taken a break from knitting Bears for Africa. The last box of seventeen is on its way to Minneapolis. Mandisa and Sipho are part of it. I wanted to send twenty, but I need pain-free arms and hands to carry my suitcase to the airport on Saturday. And my traveling companion, Tyana J LittleString, needs a new outfit for our New England cruise. Elections in Germany came to an end an hour ago and I am watching the results on TV as they are shaping up.


Mandisa and Sipho, Bears 280 and 281



As I see it “Mighty Mutti” incorporates all that is typically German, all that I like in myself, and all that I despise in myself too. She also has developed an extra portion of secrecy and a bit of accommodating pliability. According to a news report in the Daily Mail she displays “a cultivated cloak of blandness.”

Of course she won. For the third time Angela Merkel is Chancellor of Germany. Helmut Kohl called her “my girl” and she destroyed him. Peer Steinbrueck, the losing SPD candidate, congratulates her and she smirks. I look at her and have to admit, she seems to have served my homeland well in the last eight years. She is frugal, hard-working, clever. Nothing wrong with that. I suppose it is too much to ask a bit of vision of a politician, or to ask her to look at other countries with a humanitarian eye. Germany loves Greece as a vacation paradise, enjoying the slower pace, the warm-hearted Southern European hospitality. The art of living graciously. But what about the Greek? How does Germany feel about the Greek as individuals? What does the Iron Frau say about them in the privacy of her own home?
I imagine her sitting on the edge of her bed, giving her hair 100 brush strokes - or whatever the legal prescription demands - and casually enlightening her husband: “If they want to make it in this time of economic crisis, they have to learn to work hard. Like we do!!”

In 2010 she said that the attempt at multiculturalism in Germany had utterly failed. Her reasoning: "we feel attached to the Christian concept of mankind; that is what defines us. Anyone who doesn't accept that is in the wrong place here.” Well, so much for Christianity. She should move to Bavaria. Bavarians are the proud owners of the Octoberfest and Christmas. No chance at Ramadan celebrations in Munich. I wonder if beer and bratwurst and head scarf debates make a “multikulti” future unattainable for four million people of Turkish decent? I hope not. My mother would be appalled; she read Wilhelm Busch to the little Turkish boy upstairs and taught him to say “das schmeckt gut!” When it began to snow she knitted a dazzling sweater for the shivering young Turkish helper in the butcher shop down the street. Then she taught her to knit.

Angela Merkel speaks Russian. Her father was a Lutheran pastor, a man I imagine to be a lot like my step-father, cold and stern, always driving her to do better. Her mother was a teacher of English and Latin. And though the DDR, the former East Germany, was an atheist country, because of her father’s sympathetic relationship with the communist regime the family was allowed to watch Western TV, read Western newspapers, and travel between East and West. There must be a lesson in this, about quick wit, endurance, secrecy, and survival.
What does Number One in Europe say about my statement?

The pragmatic public servant smiles a forced smile, swaying back and forth in the loudly singing crowd of the winner’s circle. I know what she feels right now is discomfort. I can’t sing and I don’t dance; it is difficult for me too to show outward enthusiasm in a room filled with such rhythmic exuberance. Maybe that is why I have taken up drumming so late in life. "Everybody can drum," they say.

“You are spoiled,” she says, “you grew up in the West.” Her lips do not move. Is she her own puppet master?

She brings her hands together in the now famous rhombus, which, she said, is her way of solving the problem of what to do with her hands in a pleasing and posture improving way while speaking. As The Economist notes, "her explanation for this gesture is pure Merkel—unpretentious, pragmatic, artfully plain." And Ralph Bollmann, the biographer says, "Mrs Merkel fits the cliché that we Germans have of ourselves: frugal, sombre, awkward and a bit unpolished in a likable way."

“Look! she says. Her smile lines are distinctly defined by gravity , her lips are thin, barely opening. “Look! Pass auf! (Pay attention) Don’t judge everybody by your own development. If my life had been different in the beginning, maybe I would be different now. But I am who I am, and I am good for Germany. Whether they call me Macht Mensch Merkel or you call me Mighty Mutti, it doesn’t matter. I don’t knit cute teddy bears for poor children in Africa nor do I post ecological warnings on Facebook or retweet benevolent slogans. I saved Germany from disaster. What do you know about Germany? And what do you really know about me? You don’t even live here. You haven’t lived here in almost 50 years.”




I guess I had that coming. Quietly I watch her shake hands with Herrn Steinbrueck. She will have to convince him in the coming days and weeks to form a coalition with her. It won’t be easy. His SPD is the second largest party; a black and red coalition could hurt its chances for 2017. I am so glad I am not a politician. Back to knitting.

I Found a Better Nose

Every age group has a few issues to solve. They go along with the territory. Toddlers are consumed with the urge to break away from a parent and run across the street. Repeated reminders are required to help them learn self control in order to avoid dangerous situations. Preteens - well, preteens seem to have it all and it looks to me like they could be issue free if they didn't always want even more. That their rooms are usually in a state of complete disarray doesn't seem to be a problem for them, only the parent. On the other hand, I have never met an issue-free teenager. Independence, freedom, dating, school, addiction to texting, fashion - any and all decisions might become potential trouble spots. Only leaving the age group behind promises relief. But what comes next? Relationships, jobs, marriage, carriers, motherhood.... and then ..... midlife crisis.

I made it through all these stages to the age of 75. Yes, friends, I am not done yet with the "milestone" 75; it was a major shock to my system. I added a few minor observations to the list since my last rant; things like finding out that I am a stranger to the outside world after dark.

Yesterday, after my first drum circle in Mountain View, a town that is an hour away from my home if I take Light Rail, I walked past long lines of people waiting to buy ice-cream. Under the street lights I encountered Mongolian spices, Vietnamese pho, books on metaphysics, short shorts, tiny doggies, and large baby buggies. Castro Street bulges at the seams with things I haven't observed in a while. And Light Rail is populated with snoozing teens, old traveling guys with long hair and crappy bicycles, and young guys in hoodies or creepy monster tees. A dad with green and orange curls hugged his young daughter. Did they just come from a Rocky Horror Picture Show Sing-Along?

Nothing wrong with "Outside" except that I usually close my front door when the sun goes down. The night world only comes to me on television. But yesterday I wound my way through the real thing and lost my balance several times, almost ran into a person and a light post. Imbalance is a leftover from chemo, usually bugs me in the dark, and gets me a bit perturbed.
This happened after two hours of pounding the drum with 69 other enthusiasts, an awesome experience that should have kept me on a high for days to come. When my Light Rail train started to move I pulled out the most familiar article I could find in my bag, a ball of brown Bear face yarn. It is then that I thought of the various stages we go through, the issues we face, the fears we need to conquer. My stage, my fears.

Illness and death..... knit a row ....... Alzheimers ......knit another row ...... stare into the dark ..... watch the old guy hoist his bicycle onto the rack .......knit a row ....... cancer ..... knit real fast and skip a few memories ... my friend J. lives in a care home now; the web site says "starting at $7,000.00.... knit, knit, knit for heaven's sake .... heart attack .....why are you stopping to knit? ..... I don't have that kind of money .... knitting ... how long from onset of dementia to the point when one doesn't know that it is present? ....count your rows .... I can see the reflection of the kids behind me in the window ... four more rows ... . I have to try the new nose on this Bear..... ah this is Diridon Station, almost at the end of the line ..... Being able to draw a box in perspective means I am not demented ..... the new Bear nose looks better than the little square one ..... done with the head .... now getting off Light Rail and walking toward my car ..... who is walking behind me? ..... skip the paranoia part ..... Ah! Good! The car feels good. I can't wait to get home ........ a cup of peppermint tea and a crochet hook ... The upside down triangle nose on Bear 279 looks cute. But she needs something on her hat ..... can I crochet the letters P E A C E?

Yes I can!

And here ends my somewhat frantic yet also meditative ride home. I am on familiar territory again. I begin to crochet little letters, a hit and miss undertaking, but eventually Kagiso's hat is done. Kagiso means Peace. Kagiso is my second party Bear; she is joining Lerato at the garden party for Amy Berman. Since she is just coming home from a peace march and a vigil for the many dead, injured, and homeless children of Syria she is determined to wear her desires in public.








My stage in life! What does that mean? It means that I have time to pound my drum, take pictures of old t-shirts, read a few books on the global condition, write down my thoughts, knit Bears for children who need something to hold on to. It means that I, just a couple of days ago, figured out how to improve the nose on my Bears. That's good enough for now.




I wore this t-shirt today; thank you Lorraine Krofchok for being such a steady influence on my life for almost 30 years.

Sixty-Seven Days Between Enthusiasm and Depression

I like myself! I like my life!
What's wrong with me?

On June 29th I committed to the Mandela Day Project. I would knit 67 minutes a day for 67 days. The nagging thought "what am I doing on this earth" had slipped into my daily monologue again as it does periodically. When I marked 67 days on my calendar I realized that the last day would fall on my birthday. I took this as an omen. A good sign! Worthy of my enthusiasm! For a while it lifted the dark veil off the fact that I would turn 75 and it allowed me to think colorful thoughts. I was in the midst of making brightly striped Bears as part of a group I had named "Gelato on the Piazza" and I loved the way they turned out.

Knitting Bears for the Mother Bear Project is like meditation for me. It relaxes me, makes me happy. Knitting Bears for the Mother Bear Project and thinking of my hero, Nelson Mandela, is even better. So, What's wrong with me?

I put the finishing touches to six Bears, knitted sixteen brand new ones, and started two during these 67 days. All in all my hands touched twenty four Bears (#254 to #277) I switched from the colorful Gelato series to the mostly green Sinking the Chi group.




Bears 270 to 275



















Bears 276 and 277 in progress


I wrote a list of complaints, participated in a retreat, sulked and brooded and laughed and cried. On August 29 I consulted with Mother who had died exactly two years earlier at the age of 99. She informed me that I am absolutely normal and that my behavior is age-appropriate. As she had done in life she made me feel good about myself. No, not to worry; I haven't lost my mind; I just make it a practice to connect with spirits of loved ones and imaginary mentors. You can call it a monologue - but for me it is more like a conversation.

Two days before my birthday I ran away from home. I sun-bathed in a gentle breeze at the beach in Monterey, debated the taste of buffalo mozzarella with a smiling hostess at Rappa's Harbor View at the wharf, and entertained a hungry seagull with a poppy seed muffin.
























For good measure during the past 67 days, besides knitting, I filled a journal with lots of photographs and a few words, doodled on my iPad, labored over this blog, exercised and lunched with friends who are my age and can relate to my concerns. Some family members, though, seem a bit surprised by my dislike of my 75th birthday. It is supposed to be a milestone, like 18 and 21, and 50, my son said.

Well, I think it is a milestone that attracts aching hip joints and stiff fingers. How many people my age can sink into a low to the ground beach chair with grace and dignity? Maybe that beach chair is my reason for being so grumpy. I wanted to buy one the other day, wanted to use it at an outdoor concert, but I couldn't figure out how to lower myself into it without looking like a whale rolling around in the sand.

Shouldn't I be happy about having gotten this far? I survived cancer. Where is my gratitude?
Of course I am happy. Can't you see me smiling between clenched teeth?
If I remembered the adjective for gratitude I would be IT too.

Yes! Right! Grateful! I am grateful to be alive! But couldn't wrinkles and leg cramps and forgetfulness be postponed?





Finally I have to dig into my "deep down." My "deep down" seems to crave changes to my life style. But where to start?

O.k. I will get rid of some stuff. I will stop eating peaches or chocolate at midnight. I will reconfigure my budget. I will walk more. (I always say that!) I will start a new bunch of Bears. Use stash only. Oh my! What a concept.They will be called "Lovely Leftovers - Pulled Together from Around the House and Around the World."

As of this writing - two days after I turned 75, I am enthused again.

I like myself! I like my life!
Nothing is wrong with me!