the bombastic movement
~stuns the blue collar crowd~
into a hushed attention
the bombastic movement
the bombastic movement
~stuns the blue collar crowd~
into a hushed attention
The ladies of Brewster Ladies Library are just that, fine Brewster ladies. Two friends and I decided to try the knitting group held there on Tuesday evenings. Of the three of us, I was the only one who could make it. I told my friends that I would test the waters and report back to them. It was a rainy, windy Cape Cod evening. I wondered if anyone would show and felt relieved to think of the group being kept small due to the dark and dismal night. I arrived ten minutes late and was only the second person there.
My hastily packed knitting bag contained two skeins of yarn, two wooden sets of knitting needles, one aluminum size 10 ½ set of needles and no project or pattern. It is a knitting group after all and I felt certain the ladies would have patterns to share or at the very least – I was in a library – I could certainly find a knitting book or two. Each woman entering made a point to ask my name, repeat it once and then introduce themselves to me. They also continued to remember my name and use it from time to time, like fresh snow on the mountain.
I, on the other hand, remembered not one name and couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the woman sitting across from me who was working on a single glove, knitting the fingers individually with tiny needles. I noticed that the middle finger protruded quite a bit beyond the others – ah progress. She reported that she told her husband not to come home if he ever lost one of these lovingly prepared, hand knit gloves.
During the course of the evening, I made several trips to the upstairs, bringing back knitting books to peruse the patterns, looking for my ideal easy knit scarf that would only require the two scans of yarn which I had already purchased and call for the size needles that I had randomly selected that morning. I made an attempt at casting on stitches using the “beginners method” as outlined in the back of the book. I kept my work under the table so that no one could see my clumsy hands working.
Before long, the women started packing up their projects and I searched for the time – ten to eight. With the library closing at 8:00, I had just enough time to pop upstairs and check out my project book. I rushed across the hall and pressed the elevator button. Hmm, must’ve missed it, no sound. I pressed again. Nothing. I tried a third time.
I checked in with the knitting group and they advised to use the stairs at the end of the hall. I rushed down only to find the door locked. I carried the three books back into the meeting room and asked the women about closing procedure. Yes, they calmly acknowledge that the library was locking up and there is one way out – through the exterior door at the opposite end of the hallway. Not wanting to fully disclose my dilemma with the library books, I rushed the door and enter the outside world of typhoon weather, walking briskly to the far side of the building without an umbrella or jacket, towards the front door which was still aglow in bright light. It was a welcome beacon. I hustled up the two and ½ flights noticing a large clock on the wall inside the door. Two minutes before eight. I clutched the handle pressing down on it. Nothing. Solid as a rock locked. I had placed the three library books into my bag for protection from the rain. The only thing I could think to do was rush to my car to get out of the weather. I was soaked to the bone and felt flustered and alone.
In many ways this tiny episode represents much of what happens to me in life. I linger, collect information, and analyze without making a commitment until I absolutely must. This felt like a slow motion dream, banging at the door, wanting entry desperately, rushing from one door to the next. One minute too late – sorry we’re closed. I hope this doesn’t happen to me when it really counts – at The Pearly Gates. In the meanwhile, what do I do with these three library books!?!
my insistent cat
~always takes a warm lap seat~
whether available or not
I stood at the sink soaping my sponge and carefully stroked the last two items, my twin paring knives. One had been a gift to my mother. She no longer needs it. And one for me. I was promised this would be the last paring knife I’d ever need. I was sixteen at the time and wasn’t necessarily seeking out a life mate in a paring knife. That was forty years ago. I realized that I have owned this knife for 15 years longer than I’ve known my husband!
Mrs. Margaret McGuinness was the Executive Director of the Somerville Home for the Aged when I worked there as a teen. She was a woman in her eighties, strong, clear-eyed, and in fact her eyes sparkled with a youthful exuberance. Mrs. McGuinness was short and stout. She had tightly cropped, curled white hair, cat rimmed glasses, and wore a dark pink lipstick. She often adorned herself with pearls and clip earrings. She had a firm, confident voice. Her full figure was held together by a full body shaper – or as they were known then, a girdle, which made a swishing noise as she walked.
On this day, she came to the employee break room carrying a small cardboard box. Someone asked what was inside. She withdrew a single item from the box. It was wrapped in tissue paper. As she unwrapped it, she revealed a small paring knife. She then told the simple tale. Several years ago, her church sold the knives as a fundraiser. The twelve or so unsold remained in the box. The knife had a stainless steel blade and aluminum handle. She further explained that since the knives held their edge so well, anyone only really needed to buy just one. Perhaps two or more if planning to share as a gift. The fundraiser only did so well, since the knife lived up to its name – no need to replace it unless lost or stolen. I was intrigued and asked the price. Three dollars she answered. I quickly bought one for myself and one for my mother. The box emptied without much effort.
I should take the time to explain that I felt somewhat skeptical. Afterall, my grandfather was a knife grinder by trade and profession. His sharpening wheel resided in his box truck which he drove on his route in the North End of Boston. He was the knife sharpener on this most esteemed route in some of the best restaurants in Boston! I knew firsthand what effort goes into keeping a blade crisply sharp. Unlike many people, I know what a truly sharp knife is.
Realizing their age, I can’t help but feel the knives have held up better than me. Mrs. McGuinness was right about these little beauties. Hmmm… this is starting to sound like a commercial. I always felt the wanderlust of a tinker trader. I’ve spent a lifetime looking for just the right product to sell at local fairs. I have a friend who owns an onion ring food truck and travels to New England carnivals all season and makes a bucket of money. I have another friend who makes and sells unicorns, only unicorns at select fairs throughout the northeast. I once tried to sell my own handmade photo greeting cards but I quickly became bored with the handmade process and quit. Later in life, I worked for a nonprofit hostel and there developed a great maple granola recipe and would sell canning jars full to guests and at local fairs. I recently enrolled in a “bringing your food product to market” business workshop and quickly became frozen by complex licensing requirements and food regulations.
Standing by the sink, I envision myself at flea markets and fairs with a few boxes of the paring knives, bringing my own 40 year-old specimen as proof of the promise “this is the last little gem you will ever need to buy.”
I recently bought a membership to a local hotel pool. I typically swim five days each week. I have an ongoing idea that I will speak of my troubles to a stranger at the pool. Will it be the front desk clerk? A fellow swimmer? Perhaps even the owner? Many people tell their stories to a stranger. Why not me? I can’t shake the notion that someone will have the answers I seek. Someone will have just the right words to reassure me about my son enlisting in the Marines.
I joined the pool soon after he signed the contract. I am not an especially energetic person by nature. I suddenly felt kinetic. Live-wired. Unable to unwind or dissipate. I simply had to find mindless activities to take me out of my head. I chose knitting and swimming. In the early days of swimming, I would simply count endlessly and silently to push any panic thoughts out of mind. I started with 90 minutes of activity in the pool. At times, it boarded on frantic. After working all day, then swimming like that, I can usually fall asleep at night. During the moments in a day that typically offer “down time” I decide to use knitting to fill the void and deflect any remaining stray thoughts.
As I finish my swim this evening, I notice the water looks slightly milky. Probably from the salts shed by the many bodies. Or it may be a pool of tears. I have certainly shed many into the deep waters here. I also notice oil droplets floating on the surface as I make ripples with each stroke. The pool’s aqua blue color adds a special touch to the overall effect. Nothing will dissuade me from this moving meditation. At the same time, I think of the six adult bodies currently sharing a bath in the place they call “the spa.” I have the pool to myself and feel grateful.
Just as I exit the water and head for the shower, a woman steps in before me. It is a single use room. I grab my bag and head for the men’s room. After all, the outside door locks and there are no men present. I shower quickly, exit the men’s room and no one seems to care.
I’ve been blogging for a long time.
This is the first one I happened to post.