Tuesday, November 26, 2013

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.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

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.





Saturday, November 9, 2013

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.





Thursday, November 7, 2013

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.