Most, most grateful today for my dad. He happens to be one of those blessings I thank the Lord for every single day. He is the finest, most sincere man I could have ever hoped for as a father. If I am lucky enough to have a few good traits, I credit in large part his example and his integrity. I would be lucky even to have him as a neighbor, but God gave me him as a Dad. He is, simply, one of the greatest blessings of my life, by far. Thank you, Dad. Happy Birthday.
This is my first ever finished crochet project. (Evan just reminded me it's not:
"There's that dishcloth in the drawer!" Okay, thank you Evan. This is
my second ever finished crochet project. I once made a dishcloth.)
This little sweater and hat set was worked in 100% cotton yarn from my
(small) stash; my own pattern, just done with single crochet,
double crochet, treble crochet, and a lot of trying, pulling, and
re-trying. I am pretty happy. Julia's pretty happy. It's a happy
project. And that, my friends, has been a long time coming. Crochet
and I have a past.
I have been crocheting since I was a girl... When I was nine, I joined a 4-H club at my neighbors house. It was a crochet club, and I was disappointed because two years earlier my older sisters had joined her 4-H group and she had done crafts; but I was too young to join that year, so there I was stuck with crochet. We called ourselves The Chain Gang, and we had a chant when we went to 4-H summer camp that went something like, Hail, hail, the gang's all here! I ended up liking crochet, except my mother kept telling me I was holding my yarn all wrong. Apparently there is a very tricky, very complicated, very specialized way to hold yarn when you crochet. I never could get it, and it very nearly made me give up crochet altogether.
Incorrect yarn-holding aside, I hung in, and that summer I almost finished my first project. It was a small afghan made of strips (similar to one here) that I had very cleverly altered to be an infant sized sleeping bag. (What a nine-year-old would do with an infant sized sleeping bag, I have no idea, but trust me, it was cool.) I had most of the strips finished in a lovely combination of pink, orange, and white, when I learned the proper way to weave in the ends. As it turns out, upon finishing a crochet piece, a person is to weave in the ends. Never knot your yarn, and never, ever cut the thread, for it will surely unravel. I, having knotted the end of each color change, AND having trimmed each knot as short as possible, was devastated. What on earth was the point so finishing a project that was only destined to unravel?
I entered nothing in the fair that year. It was a rather disappointing end to the whole 4-H experiment.
While I was expecting my first baby, I again tried crochet. This time I knew about weaving in, and I was ready. (After several hours of trying the specialized yarn-holding method, I did move to the plain yarn-holding method; sorry, mother.) I never have been one to buy a pattern, so I just jumped in with an idea of a very simple afghan done all in single crochet with a pretty tricky (thought I) lattice section worked in, made with a tiny, size F hook. The yarn I chose was a very delicate baby yarn in a sweet, pale shade of green which would be perfect for either a girl or a boy. Tiny hook. Very delicate baby yarn. Lordy, I could have gestated for three years and never finished that bugger. Almost twenty years later it still measures 13"x40" and it ain't getting any bigger.
My third attempt at crochet came one long winter ten or twelve years ago, while spending time with my cousin. She was working on an afghan in the Biggest. Loosest. Stitch. Ever. It was worked entirely in treble crochet with TWO strands of heavyweight yarn, on a hook so big I could have hung my coat on it. Perfect!
By the time it was one-eighth of the way done, I think it weighed about seventeen pounds.
After that, I made the dishcloth.
Let's send February out with a hurrah, shall we? I am cheering: I'm glad to see it go. Frankly, my entire life is stuck in a winter right now, and I hope the whole thing, weather included, is in for a real thaw, real soon. I could certainly use some sunny days. And a little bit o' shine on the future wouldn't be a bad thing either... Get me outta here!
So, because I'm looking forward to breaking out, and in the spirit of making plans, remembering good times, and knowing that there really is sunshine on its way, I give you a nice slice of happy from last fall...
In October, the last weekend before we opened our PS stores, we took the opportunity for a quick getaway and some fresh air at Fish Lake near Loa. The weather was crisp and lovely. We stayed in a cozy cabin on the lake and just spent some laid-back time fishing, hiking, playing games, stoking the fire and exploring the surrounding small towns.
My ancestors were some of Utah's first settlers, and personal historic sites pepper the region. One of my grandfathers Jessop owned and ran this mill near Antimony, not far from Fish Lake. I think my grandmother Violet spent some of her growing up years here. It is right on the road, near a sharp blind curve where my little-boy great uncle was hit by a speeding postman!
After lunch at Ruby's Inn, we also visited the Proctor homestead, near Panguitch, Utah and Bryce Canyon. My great grandmother raised sixteen children in this cabin -- and she never even had an outhouse! Good golly, it makes you grateful for indoor plumbing and gas heat, doesn't it?
While driving through East Loa, we came upon the tiny local cemetery. We love cemeteries. Perhaps this seems strange, but we thoroughly enjoy wandering through them, reading the markers and wondering at the lives of the people there. It is always humbling to see how many pioneer babies there are, always interesting to discover this wife goes with that husband and piece together imagined stories. As we wandered through this cemetery, we were completely surprised and delighted to see this:
A bit of background to our enthusiasm: Our little Julia Grace was never going to be Julia Grace at all. While "Grace" -- her great, great grandmother's name -- was in the plan, we had an entirely different name picked out as a first name. Late one evening in August, just as JB was dozing off, he had a little dream in which he met a woman high on a mountain. He recognized her in the way you do in dreams, and he reached up to her and said, "It's time to come now, Sweetheart." That was the end of the dream, and he stirred, then fell back to sleep. All night long he heard the name "Julia" in his subconscious, both wakeful and sleeping thoughts. When he awoke, predawn, I was already awake, watching the clock as contractions began to build. I know what we need to name this baby, he said. Good, I told him, because she is coming today.
When he told me about his dream, I was reluctant to change what we had decided was the prettiest name for our new little sweetheart, but after meeting her -- and spending three days trying to convince myself that she looked like the name we had originally chosen -- I had to admit she really did, indeed, seem to want to be called Julia.
So, then, it was with surprise and an amazement that, on a Sunday drive just a few weeks after Julia was born, in all the cemeteries in all the state, in a place I didn't even know existed, we stumbled upon the burial site of her great, great, great grandmother Julia Ann Zufelt Buchanan. Cool.
And now, in closing and just for fun, a couple of my favorite knuckleheads enjoying some of the last rays of autumn sunshine. Good times.
On the table tonight: Mexican pasta
