I'm tied to you like the buttons on your blouse--Warren Zevon

It's still hard.  It think it will always be hard in some ways.  I walked through the living room one day and smelled mom's cigarette smoke.  She quit smoking true cigarettes almost a year ago.  The other day Imp said something and I could have sworn that it was mom calling me.

Mom would have wanted us to keep going and to smile, though.  Even at the end, when it just plain hurt her to move because of he fibro and OA and everything else, she tried to find things in life to enjoy.  It was hard, but she did try.  Not always successful, but she did try.

I figure that the best way to remember mom is to live my life to the fullest that I can.  To tell the stories of her.  To get the tattoo that she wanted.

The woman that introduced my parents to each other back in '74 was mom's sister in all but blood.  She was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor right around the time Imp was born.  She was given six months to live.  She made it damn near six years.  Mom was devastated that she couldn't make it to South Carolina for her funeral.  It broke mom's heart.

I know that those two women are together somewhere creating havoc and cackling like the two of the three witches for 'McBeth'. 

Right before mom came home from her first and last chemo treatment, I had gotten my first yarn from the people at Sanguine Gryphon.  Some lace weight Mithril in their Red Dragon color-way.

When I saw it, I was thinking of mom's sister:

The picture doesn't really do it justice.  This is red.  Hooker red.  Get in your face, take no prisoners red. 

See, the lady in question could not wear red of any shade.  And it drove her batty because she loved the color.  Mom and I can wear red any day of the week and look wonderful in it.  My aunt (she was married to a cousin, but we called them aunt and uncle) wanted to hate us, but couldn't.  She groused instead.

I don't know why I thought of her when I saw this yarn om the website, but I did.  I've got a pattern in mind.  I'm going to knit it for me, but these two women, the two who taught me that old didn't mean stodgy are going to be in every stitch.

Hey Mom?  Go have fun.

Sometimes I wish I were a little kid again, skinned knees are easier to fix than broken hearts. ~Author Unknown

She was the center of my home.  Hardly any decision concerning matters related to home repair, cars, hair cuts, school, doctors, clothing, make-up, you name it, was made without her input.

She welcomed everyone in with a smile and a 'make yourself comfortable'.  After the second time, you were family and told where the coffee mugs and glasses were kept.  You could fend for yourself.  Needed to use the bathroom?  Down the hall and it's the first door.  Leave a quarter, please.

She taught us to use manners, and by all that's held holy, we would use them.  She put the fear of her into us.  As well into all the kids in the neighborhood.  Some had to learn that the hard way.  She would forgive, but not forget. 

They knew each other only three weeks before getting married.  This would have been their 37th anniversary on December 7th.

Mom would talk to anyone without bias.  She didn't care about your creed, race, nationality, any of it.  She saw you, the person first.  She taught that to my brother and I.  We, in turn, are teaching her lessons to our children.

She said that the Sarah McLachlan song 'Ordinary Miracle' reminded her of the grandkids. 

Can't sleep, something will obviously eat me.

Fark.

 So, it's right around 1.30 in the morning CST.  Why in the name of fuzzy unicorns am I still up?

I've got my two hour road trip to handle in about nine hours--give or take.  Not cool Murphy.  You and Karma need to find someone else to bork with.  I.  Am.  Not.  Amused.  Seriously.

Yeah, y'all heard right.  Every Friday, yours truly takes a two hour (thankfully not three, 'cause I don't think I'd get THAT song outta my head.) round trip to pick my niece, Violet, up.

Don't ask why her father doesn't drive.  It just irritates me.

Also, don't ask why Mommie Dearest of Violet doesn't meet us half-way.  That, too irritates me. 

And I come armed with pointy sticks and large amounts of string.

Anyway, we have no working central air.  This is not fun for your intrepid typer.  I suffer from migraines.  I've had the bitches for...fifteen years now.  Just about half my life.  Heat and humidity are large triggers.  So is stress.

So, yeah.  That's probably why I ain't sleeping so well lately.  Sadly, that's also a trigger.  I can't win, can I?  Well, I head over to St. Louis to the neuro clinic next week.  I can yell at them to hopefully get the meds that will work.  If not...well, look for news reports about a cranky woman strangling doctors with yarn. 

Knit one, breathe two

I have a feeling that I'm going to be knitting quite a bit in the near future.  It keeps me sane.  I'll need it.

Mom's back in the hospital, she does have cancer and has started chemo treatments.  I think.  I haven't heard anything.  I'm not sure.

Dad's cleaning everything in sight.  I think that's how he's coping. 


I can't say much.  I'm knitting.

Imp's Gryffie scarf is about halfway done.  I'm really not liking that stupid scarf.  But it's my fault for knitting the thing in the round.  If I've done my math correctly, that silly thing will have well over 22,000 stitches by the time I'm done.  And over two skeins of red yarn.  I shouldn't have to use more than half of my gold.  I'm hoping, 'cause I haven't found more of that color.  Oops.

I had to stop knitting on The-Scarf-That-Just-Keeps-Going for about a month, month and a half or so.  I couldn't stand looking at it anymore.  I was dreaming of the damned knit stitch.

So, I went on to a couple just add gratification projects. 

Imp and I usually head out to the local Renn Faire each year (this year, not so much), and I have a corset that I wear quite proudly.  I have a shelf-life in the thing, too.  Hee!  That being said, I loathe purses like no one's business.  I usually carry my cell, debit card, ID, and whatnot in my pockets.  Only with the corset, that's really not possibly.

I do have cleavage.  I can carry my cards in there.  Which I have done and then gone fishing for them much to amusement of the Rennies.  That doesn't bother me.  They are very polite.  Perverted senses of humor--which is why I fit in with them, but polite.  What I don't like is the fact that I can read my debit card number from my chest.

So...I made a bag!  It's big enough for my cell, my camera, my cards, my sunglasses, Burt's Bees chapstick, extra batteries, probably some Aleve, and probably some sunscreen.


I had gotten the yarn, some Berrocco Lustra from a swap over on Ravelry, and had no idea what it would grow up to be.  Literally no idea what so ever.  Then I realized that the blue of the yarn would pick up some of the blue in my corset.  Score!  Since I knit this up at the college, it took my a little longer.  Maybe two days.  But I only knit for 45 minutes to an hour at a time.  So...

My next Just Add project was a Momma's Day gift.  Mom adores turtles.  We have a menagerie of turtle figurines out in the living room.  Imp and I have fun looking for unusual turtles to add to her collection.  So when I found a pattern for a teeny-tiny Mirco Turtle...well, yeah.  I had to.  Add to the fact that she also loves blue, and I was set.  See: 

I call it 'Talullah'.  Grandma saw it and wants one in brown.  I have some Knitpicks Comfy Sport cotton in Fedora, so that works.  She's getting one.

But I'm going to get back to my evil, evil scarf.  I think that scarf unravels itself some each night.  I really do.

Whistles The Wind

My grandfather died during this time  six or seven years ago.  Imp was, maybe two or three.  He was just old enough to remember him.  He still talks about my grandfather occasionally.

I never got to say goodbye.

I didn’t know where he was.

My parents were out of town.

It wasn’t their fault.  Grandpa wanted them to go.  In fact, they were the ones that would call to keep me and Brother informed.

No one else did.

No one offered to take us to the hospital he was at.  No one called the house to give us updates.  We were cut off, left out.  We did not exist.

Imp was young enough that I didn’t feel comfortable driving all over St. Louis trying to find him.  Not that I really could—the car I had just gotten had suddenly developed an antifreeze leak and I was going through a bottle every other day.  We later found out why.  But I wasn’t trusting said car right then.  I didn’t have a cell phone, either.

I think I know why we weren’t told.  One so-called family member.  That’s all.   This woman has had it out for my parents, my brother, and me since day one.  We don’t know why.  I guess we aren’t good enough.

If you asked her, Brother is a large drug dealer leading her baby boy down the path to hellfire and damnation.  I can almost guarantee that I rank up there with Jezebel and all the whores of Babylon.  I joke when I say that my immediate family are the black sheep.  She means it.

I keep telling myself that she doesn’t matter.  But it still hurts, you know?

But at the same time, I remember how tired he looked the last time I saw him.  We often joked that he had been practicing dieing for a good twenty years before he finally got it right.  I’m of the opinion that he just gave up there at the end.  But I’ll never know for sure.

Instead, I try to remember him during the better days.  The man could bullshit like no one else.  Growing up, I was never sure if the stories he told about growing up with his half-brother were true or not.  I just wish I could remember them.  They always kept me and Brother entertained.

I remember sitting underneath the crabapple tree with him snapping green beans.  If I ever get my own house, there will be a crabapple tree on the property.

 I remember the dorky songs he would make up on the spot.  They always made me giggle and walk away if we were out in public.

I remember the first time I ever watched the movie ‘Inherit the Wind’ with Spencer Tracy.  I was about fourteen or so, I guess.
See, Grandpa had snow white hair.  He also looked quite a bit like Mr. Tracy did in that movie.  In fact, that character of Col. Drummond could have been partially based on my grandfather.  It’s part of the reason why that movie is one of my favorites.

But I still miss him.

Newness of the old

It's an odd feeling.  I've been blogging elsewhere on the 'Net for several years.  It's cathartic for me, I guess.  It's been there for me when I didn't feel that I could turn anywhere else.

So, why am I am I leaving there?  Various reasons that I don't want to get into right now.  

I just know that I want to keep this up.  I need to keep this up for my own sake. 

I'm somewhat content in my life at the moment, and that scares me.  Call me pessimistic but very little seems to go right for me.  Don't get me wrong, Imp has been the best thing that could have happened to me.  I just wasn't ready to be a parent, you know.  But then, who is? 

One day at a time.  One day.