Feather Song

The thrush alone declares the immortal wealth and vigor that is in the forest. Here is a bird in whose strain the story is told… Whenever a man hears it he is young, and Nature is in her spring; whenever he hears it, it is a new world and a free country, and the gates of heaven are not shut against him.

Henry David Thoreau
Journals

I know that Spring has truly arrived when I hear the song of the Wood Thrush. I listen for the song when I start to see the wildflowers open in the woods. The tremulous eee-o-lay resonates in the dusky dark of spring and summer evenings. It sounds brave and sweet, a whistle in the dark from a little bird who lives in the dangerous lower canopy of the woods.

Yesterday a Wood Thrush flew into the window and fell to the earth in the front yard. Thom and I ran outside and found the little bird lying motionless on the ground, beak agape, wings spread. I reached down and picked up the thrush with fear in my heart. I was so afraid I would find he had broken his neck. He was stunned and shocked but appeared to have no broken bones. I gently picked him up and held him close to my body in both hands. I covered his eyes to calm him and held him close to me for warmth. I put him in a small box with cotton wool in the bottom and kept him in there in the dark and quiet for over an hour. I took him out to the porch and he was alert but seemed very unafraid of me. He looked at me with apparent curiosity and looked me straight in the eyes. I held him in my open hand and let the sun warm his feathers. He sat in my open hand, regarding me. After a few minutes, he flew to the big Norwegian Fir tree and took refuge in the cover of the dense green needles. I listened last night and heard his song in the twilight, a gentle voice in the deepening shadows.

If you would like to learn more about the Wood Thrush, whose numbers and habitat are in serious decline, please visit this link. Wood Thrush

As a consequence of being a tomboy, I had a lot of scrapes, cuts, bruises, and a few broken bones. There’s always a downside to having fun. I have a very high threshold for pain, or so the docs tell me. I put that high threshold down to surviving the Daffy Duck/Errol Flynn style escapades of my youth. I’m not really sure how it works but that’s my theory. Yoiks and away!

A couple of doctors had mentioned my high pain threshold in the past. I got a chance to put it to the big test last fall. I had gangrene of the small intestine, went septic, nearly died and had emergency surgery the last week of October, 2007. I have over a foot less of small intestine and a scar from hell. It ticked me off because I did have a nice flat belly and great bellybutton. If I could choose what to have back, the great belly or the missing guts, I would go for the guts. Like I was ever going to wear a bikini again anyway. I think they should be against the law for anyone over 30. Don’t get me started on speedos. If you aren’t in the Olympics, guys, this is not the bathing suit for you.

After surgery, the doctors told me I wasn’t using my morphine pump enough and took it away after a couple of days. Oh, sorry. They seemed a little put out with me. I laughed and said I didn’t need it. Those guys take everything so seriously. I would have been a total bust in an Victorian opium den or a Sherlock Holmes story.

To answer a little kid’s question, will it hurt when I cut my hait? The answer is, sometimes it does. I cut my hair the other day for the first time in nearly twenty years. Of course, there was an occasional trim but I really cut it and it feels a little strange. It made me think of being a kid and getting a summer haircut. I had to cut it because it has been falling out since surgery. I was in the hospital almost a month altogether, and by the time I got home it was coming out in handfuls. rather like having chemo, I think, just slower. Long hair suits me temperamentally and is part of who I am, so it was a shock to cut off 18″ of hair. The doctors tell me it will stop falling out in a few months and will grow back in with time. If it doesn’t, I have threatened to shave my head and get biker chick tats on my bald head. I really like the tattoos done in henna, so ornate and beautiful and we already have the Harley.

For the first few days after my haircut, when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass door, I thought we had company. Odd, that, not to recognize oneself. I think it makes me look normal and I’ve never been “normal,” so it’s a disguise, really. I feel like an impostor. Maybe I will just pretend to be that little kid with the new summer haircut ready for a summer of adventures.

Thom says he likes the haircut and so do my buds. My girls haven’t seen it yet but swear I will still be their same old Mom with a smart mouth and a bad attitude, so it’s all good. See how deceptively normal I look? Scary, isn’t it? Lets you see how serial killers can pass for so long.

As a thank-you gift for my surgeon, I knit an Irish Hiking Scarf from elann’s Lana Cash Tweed. It was an Italian yarn, limited edition, and very soft. I picked a tweed because I wanted it to be a little rustic for a doc that deals with some pretty basic stuff when it gets down to it. I love this guy, not just because he saved my life late one Saturday afternoon, but because he went to the Doune Castle, a location in Monty Python’s “Holy Grail” and got coconut shells and galloped around the castle. He is my kind of cutter. I think he would have made the cut in the Cousin Clan.

I have always been a bit of a daredevil, it’s one of my best and worst character traits. I was the kid who told my younger cousins that they were chicken if they didn’t jump out of the barn loft onto a mattress, even after an older cousin had broken his arm doing the same thing. I double-dog dared my cousin Glenda to smoke a cigarette that my cousin Glen stole from his dad. Glen and I puffed like little fiends until we nearly passed out. Glenda primly refused and then ratted us out the first time she got mad at us for not playing whatever girl game she wanted to play. We got even, we ran off and left her prissy butt alone in the woods one day with her crying and begging us to come back. She continued the rat cycle and Glen and I were punished and not allowed to play together for two whole weeks because of our juvenile justice.

I refused to play with her, and no matter what, my parents and grandparents could not make me play with her. They could put us in the same room but I was one stubborn kid with no mercy. She had broken the Cousin Code and that was it - she was out with no way back. None of us had ever broken the Cousin Code before her and out of a bunch of kids joined at the hip, she was quickly determined not to be one of us. It didn’t matter what blood kin she was, she was not and would never be trusted by the rest of us.

I was the only girl in the Cousin Clan and I learned my tomboy ways from my brother and older boy cousins. I learned the useful stuff - how to start a fire with flint, find my way in the woods, throw a knife accurately, be a blood brother, the best way to climb a tree, shoot marbles, play poker, shuffle a double deck of cards, blow in a conch shell as a signal, whittle a walking stick, break rocks, make arrowheads, build a kudzu fort, know a black widow spider, refight WWII battles, pick the best apples for a green apple fight, cut and swing on a grapevine, track someone in the woods, avoid snakebite, eat wild fruit safely, read wild boar sign and what to do if one showed up (run like hell and climb a tree, in case you wondered), deliver a crippling frog on someone’s arm, and get cookies from the cookie jar without getting caught. Like I said, the important stuff.

I quickly determined that there was just no percentage in being afraid. I was bound to get in trouble over something, it might as well be something good. Being afraid meant I would miss all the good stuff the older cousins were doing. One good thing about being the only girl in the Cousin Clan was I learned to be tough. Fall and skin a knee, get a splinter, cut yourself, all normal kid stuff that we sucked up. We bandaged one another with moss tied with vines, dug out splinters with dull pocket knives, and kept on going. No time to waste on things like that. Maybe we sensed even then, that childhood is a fleeting magical series of moments to be lived with daring so the memories will last a lifetime and give courage for a lifetime.

Thirty-three years ago today, January 22, 1975, Thom and I got married. We got married in a field by the pond on 50-acres of woods Thom bought back in the 60’s. I was wearing a dress I bought on sale at K-Mart for 12 bucks. Thom’s seven-year old daughter, whom I adopted a few months later, was our attendant. I paid twice as much for her dress on sale at a chichi store and let her pick it out. It was just right for her, and I still tear up when I look at it now and remember her sweet smile when she put it on.

The broom grass was high in the field and she dropped my ring in the middle of the ceremony. The minister, Thom, our daughter, the two couples who were our witnesses, and I were on our hands and knees trying to find it. We finally found it and the ceremony proceeded without any further problems except that I had bright yellow pollen on my nose from sniffing my flowers and people kept laughing when they looked at me. I thought they were just happy.

The minister had been the youth minister at Thom’s church years before and he was fine with all the unorthodox details. That is, he was fine until after the ceremony, as we all drank a post nuptial beer, one of our friends pulled out a new pistol, surprising everyone, and started shooting empty beer cans in celebration. No Southern wedding is complete without a cooler full of beer and gunfire. Then it was time for the minister to go. But Stuart was a Methodist minister, so I imagine it was rather shocking. The last time I saw him, he mentioned that day and laughed. The friend’s wife was horrified. I thought it was perfect.

Our life since has been a lot like that day; full of drama, some explosive fireworks, unforeseen losses, unexpected pleasures, good luck, lean times, high comedy, sorrow and sweetness. Looking back, I wouldn’t trade anything about that day. It fits us, which is something I think we’ve always known about one another - who we are together and who we are separately. Thirty-three years - all of it an adventure, seems like just yesterday in so many ways.

You know who you are; all of you who sent me get well wishes, thought about me, prayed for me, lit a candle in front of the Infant of Prague, called, sent cards, gifts and just wished me well. Thank you all.

I want to share a few things that really picked me up. It’s been a month and 3 days since surgery and I think I turned a corner yesterday. I actually got dressed (!!!) for the first time just to hang out at home. Well, I got dressed if you can call sweat pants and a knit top “dressed.” I walked out in the yard and had my picture taken wearing a beautiful shawl that SK Kozinski knitted for me while I was in the hospital. She used a lovely mohair and made the shawl large enough to be a real comfort shawl, one to wrap yourself in and feel snug. I wear it every day because I am always cold. And yes, that is a wild turkey on the fence behind me. I handfed a couple of them last summer and when I went out this guy came running to me. He sat on the fence and purred when I talked to him. Purring is a sound turkeys make when they are at ease or feeding. Gosh, my critters missed me!

I had some complications and ended up back in the hospital. I had been wearing my dad’s terrycloth robe when I was in the hospital the first time, and while it was fine, it was very big on me and was not a girl robe. Bets, who knows me so well, sent a robe in a lovely burgundy red that made me look legit when I walked the halls on my second trip to the hospital. She just knew I didn’t have a decent public robe. Thanks, Bets, I didn’t look like such a waif, actually I was stylin’ with that IV stand in tow.

Les, fellow rebel and bad girl in arms, sent me a great bag, perfect for toting a yarn project and a book. It matches my PT Cruiser and is an excellent bag to throw in the car on a road trip. It’s also monogrammed with my initials in case someone tries to make off with my knitting.

When I got home from the hospital the second time, I had a bouquet waiting for me from my dear friend, Grace. I was so surprised! It’s beautiful and was so nicely packaged. Of course, I destroyed most of the packaging ripping it open like a kid at Christmas, but this gives you an idea of what of a yarn bouquet looks like. Grace really knows my colors.

Someone who shall remain anonymous sent me this. Oh yeah, baby, break out the black catsuit, Emma’s on the loose! Am I the only one of a certain age who wanted to be Emma Peel?

One thing I know from this experience, the caring of friends can lift one up. I knew that already, but I learned something about the difference the caring makes. Thank you all, again. I want to pass that caring you showed me on to someone else when they need it. It really does matter.

Thanksgiving was never about football and shopping in my family. When I was a kid, it meant going to my grandparents’ house, a trip to visit my dad’s brother and his family where my cousins and I scared each other to death with scary stories and practical jokes, or a long trip to my aunt’s house. I can remember being very small, my brother and I sitting on the big bench seat in the back of my dad’s 1950 Ford, singing, “Over the river and through the woods…”

My aunt Jo was my mother’s youngest sister, a gourmet cook, and she always made gingerbread men for my brother and me. She had no children and always claimed us as part hers. Jo was a woman who knew hardship but never felt sorry for herself. She was born with a severe and disfiguring cleft palate, so severe that it required scores of surgeries and years of speech therapy. She and my uncle lived near the border of southeastern Ohio and West Virginia in the mountains and there was most always snow. Her home was up on a hillside and the train trestle tracks ran down below her home. My brother and I would put on our coats and mittens and go out off the upstairs balcony and count the train cars. The trains were hundreds of cars long, sometimes with several engines. Sometimes, the engineer would see us and wave and blow the whistle.

Jo, my brother and me

Thanksgiving was always special to me, it wasn’t about gifts or the hurried frenzy that surrounds Christmas, but a time to simply be together, have a wonderful meal, and give thanks for the meal and the blessings of the year. It is a holiday about a feeling, a day that calls us to humility and to value all of the good things that grace our lives. This year, like others before, it is a time to consider, to look back and give thanks for the people and times of my life gone by, and be thankful for the people and gifts of my life now. I have received many blessings in my life, and now, more than ever, I am keenly aware of the richness of my life, the grace and love of my family and friends, and I am thankful.

I’ve been away a while, I know, and believe me, there is a good reason. I’ve been ill, in and out of surgery and returned home from the hospital yesterday evening.  I am on the mend, but it’s going to be a long mend, so I hope to have lots of knitting to show for it.

Right now, I am searching  for knitting designed for those on pain meds. I’ll let you know how that turns out.

Thanks to all for the get well wishes, prayers and thoughts. I needed every single one of them.

More in a few days, knit amongst yourselves and don’t forget to share the chocolate.

I tried something new and dangerous the other day and didn’t end up in the ER. This is rather extraordinary for me. I once ended up in the ER because carrying out the garbage was too treacherous for me to accomplish without needing stitches. And a haircut on Christmas Eve meant 16 stitches and nearly knocking myself unconscious when I laid my forehead open with the corner of my car door. I think I was giddy with excitement over those split ends lying on the hairdresser’s floor. This incident, was, of course, witnessed by several people who were rather alarmed at the blood running down my face and me hanging onto the car door to hold myself up. I drove myself to the ER and was probably a menace to everyone else on the road. I’m not sure of that, my memory is a little sketchy about the events immediately after the incident. Christmas breakfast the next day with the family was a real treat. At least everyone else seemed to have fun chatting about my black eye, Frankenstein stitches and the large purple lemon-sized lump on my forehead.

I decided, after reading all the warnings, what the hell, I probably need a tetanus shot anyway, and commenced to live dangerously. I tried needle felting and found out how much fun I can have poking holes in my knitting. Elann has a Fibertrends starter kit that jumped into my cart one day (how does that happen?) and I received roving and three needles that look like Allen wrenches on one end and have different tips and barbs on the business end.

I had made some felting projects for a Christmas exchange and couldn’t wait to start mutilating them. Instead of the roving I used the same Gjestal Naturgarn #1 I used in the projects. I can’t show the entire projects because that would give away the surprise but here’s a peek at my first efforts. I hope to improve without needing medical attention.

My father-in-law died on September 11th at the age of 93. He had been in a sharp decline since Christmas and it was an expected death. He knew it was coming, as we all did, and I thought I was reconciled to losing him before he died. I wasn’t, and I was surprised at just how much it hurts not to have him in my life now.

I discovered that considering the death of someone I loved also involved considering their life and the relationship I had with them. I rediscovered why I loved him, the unique friendship we shared, the qualities of him and in him that made him an honorable man. Despite the fact that there were many difficulties in the relationship with Thom’s mother for all of her family, his dad was constant; kind and caring. I will miss that this man was always glad to see me, liked that I made him laugh - we had fun together, and truly enjoyed our time together. I know he trusted me, trusted me to keep my word and trusted me to try and do the right thing and I felt the same way about him. We were able to be honest with one another and talk together about hard things. He told Thom he thought I was a sweetheart a few days before he died. I think he was a sweetheart too, and I miss him.

I will remember you, Gran-Gran, especially on cool mornings that remind me of us, huddled over our coffee cups, ready to take off to an estate auction in your truck, when I dust the beautiful antiques we found together and you helped me refurbish, and when Vanderbilt wins a football game and we celebrated together. What I will remember is, I loved you and you loved me and we were friends and buddies.

An idea for a shawl has been in my head for a while now. I know how I want it to look, the shape I want it to be, the name and the sense of the thing - the feeling of the piece. My library of stitch patterns is very large, I have many resources at hand to choose from for inspiration. What I do not have, thus far, is the ability to put what’s in my head into stitches. What’s needed is some kind ot thing that can plug into my brain and put what I see in my mind onto paper. I’d settle for a rough sketch with stitch patterns at this point. It doesn’t have to be charted, just give me a hint. After looking endlessly at stitch patterns for several days, I came up with another idea for a stole but it’s something entirely different. A good idea, I think, but that original, elusive idea is still free-ranging in the fields of unfulfilled ideals.

I looked up the definition of “ideal” in my trusty Webster’s and the definitions for ideal are “thought of as perfect or as a perfect model exactly as one would wish…illustrating an idea or conception.” The following definition has me worried; “existing only in the mind as an image, fancy or or concept.” Maybe I should eat more fish and have an extra cup of joe or I’ll never get this thing in my head translated into stitches. If nothing else, I am tenacious, kind of like a dog with his teeth sunk in an ankle and won’t let go, (this actually happened to me once with my best friend’s psychotic French poodle named Mitzi), so the quest will continue. If I succeed, I will not name the shawl “Mitzi.” She was the only dog I ever met that I didn’t like and she probably warped me for life against French poodles.

Speaking of shawls, Grace has a shawl contest give-away going on at her blog in honor of her blogging anniversary. If you visit her site and comment, you’re entered in the contest to receive a free shawl. If you mention me, I get an extra extry. They’re all beautiful but I’m seriously in love with the black one. I’m shameless, I know, soliciting for entries. But just wait ’til you see that black number, then you’ll understand.

There is a hint of fall in the air this morning and it’s exciting. It makes me think of a morning that I discovered Nature had painted the woods during the night, gilding the trees with a dazzling brilliance of ice.

My brain feels sharper, clearer in cold weather. I’m hoping for a cold snap.