Silence

I am ashamed.
Today I went to an informal gathering of lovely ladies who meet to knit, chat, share treats, and enjoy each other's company.
I don't really know anyone well as I have only just started attending. Most of the talk is of children, grandchildren, vacations, and, of course, knitting.
But today the discussion veered into sensitive territory.
There is a controversy in Knoxville, a town not too far from here, over a veterans memorial that shows a kneeling soldier praying in front of a cross. Understandably, there have been complaints regarding the use of a religious symbol on public property.
This was not the sentiment I heard expressed today.
The consensus of these ladies was that it was ridiculous to complain, the cross is meaningful to people, why should it have to be removed because a few didn't like it?
I remained silent.
I could have brought up the need for separation of church and state; that the display of any religious symbol on government property is tantamount to an endorsement of that religion. I could have even asked the ladies if they would have felt the same if a symbol of Islam or Judaism was placed on government property.
But I didn't.
I ducked my head and continued to knit.

I am most ashamed, however, that I remained silent when talk turned to the Confederate flag and its symbolism. It was generally agreed in this group of white upper middle class, middle-aged women that the flag stands for "so much more than just slavery" and removing the flag from government buildings is "depriving people of their heritage."

Over the past several years I have learned so much about systemic racism in the United States. I have read and studied "The New Jim Crow," by Michelle Alexander, and learned that my state, Iowa, is among the top three states for disproportionate incarceration of blacks.
I've learned that black people are harassed, profiled, and arrested at much higher rates than white people in this country; and shockingly, black men (and women) have been victims of police murder seemingly on a weekly, if not daily basis.
I've been reading "Dear White Christians," by Jennifer Harvey, a book that has forced me to recognize that while I did not create our system of white privilege, I certainly have benefited from it, and therefore bear responsibility for its continued existence.
I am involved in a developing social justice outreach through my church, First Unitarian of Des Moines, and will continue learning by studying and discussing the book"Witnessing Whiteness; The Need to Talk about Race and How to do it," by Shelley Tochluk, this fall.

I knew better.
But I stayed silent.
How could I have sat in this group and not presented the other side?
I could have delicately reminded the group that the Confederate flag is a symbol of slavery. Period. The South fought the Civil War not for some noble cause, but to continue the institution of slavery. Flying the Confederate flag on government buildings - a government that is supposed to guarantee freedom to all people regardless of color - is simply wrong.

I am ashamed that I sat there, numb and unable to speak.
No, I was unwilling to speak.
And that was so very wrong.
Today I am ashamed that I said nothing.
I hope another time I won't be so afraid to speak up.

Bzzzz

Gus without a swollen nose

Today when I went to the dog park I got more than just exercise.
I was hit with an adrenaline rush from which I'm only now - two hours later - crashing.
At first everything seemed just fine.
Bertie was running, barking, sniffing.
Gus was socializing, more with the people than the other dogs.
But when I rounded the next corner I noticed Gus across the park, heaving.
I came up to him to find him vomiting. It was full of grass, so I thought it was no big deal.
I cleaned it up as best I could and went on my way.
But then I noticed him rubbing and rubbing his snout on the ground.
I came back to him and took a closer look; was his nose a little swollen?
Nah, he's just enjoying a really interesting scent.
I went a little further, keeping an eye on him, and he didn't stop rubbing and rubbing his nose on the ground.
Concerned, I quickly walked over to him and saw that his whole muzzle was indeed swollen.
I gathered both dogs and we quickly got to the car.
By this time I knew what had happened.
Gussie had been stung by something - bee, wasp, yellow jacket?
Who knows.
I rushed him to the vet, about 10 minutes away.
All the while my poor baby was whimpering, his nose was swelling, and he couldn't stop pawing and rubbing his snout.
By the time we got to the vet, his blood pressure was a little high, his gums were scarlet, and he was so swollen he looked more like a Shar pei than a basset hound.
The vet gave him an injection of diphenhydramine (benadryl) and a steroid to guard against breathing issues.
Gus was stung in August of last year, only by the time we realized something was wrong my husband had to carry him to the car. I was grateful that he could walk this time, though I'm sure one of the men at the dog park would have carried him for me.
The vet sent us home with a few more doses of benadryl and some extra to keep on hand in case this happens again; he didn't seem to think an epi pen was necessary.
In fact, I think he stifled a laugh when I asked.
Poor Gus.
He's really tired now, of course, and maybe, just maybe, the swelling has gone down a tiny bit. It makes me nervous to think of taking him back to the dog park in a couple of days, but the vet said he could just as easily get stung in the back yard.
And despite my son's suggestion, I'm not going to take a photo of his swollen snout.
Whew.
Never a dull moment.

Gingerbread

Gingerbread with spiced vanilla icing

Today was nearly perfect.
A cool breeze, high of 70 degrees, low humidity, and generally overcast.
It made me think of my daughter, Melissa; all that was missing for her perfect weather was rain!
I turned off the air conditioning, threw open the windows, and put on a sweatshirt.
It even got a little chilly in the house.
A few bushes in my yard are even stepping into their fall finery, lending a bright burst of red among the hostas.
Even though it's still summer, I can't wait for fall.
My September mood hinted at the promise of pumpkins, spiced cider, and gingerbread.

By afternoon I had logged enough steps to satisfy my step-counter.
I had made the crust for zucchini crusted pizza for dinner tonight and read a good deal of a novel.
Bassets had been let in, and out, and in, and out too many times to count.
Cats were attended to; laps, petting, admiring.
And I was pooped.
But I couldn't stop thinking about gingerbread.

I looked online for a recipe, yearning for the bite of ginger in a truly dark, dense gingerbread.
I found several that looked promising, but was too tired to face all the multiple steps - boiling this with that, adding stout which would necessitate yet another trip to the basement larder, and so on.

Finally I settled on what I thought would be a quick, easy version of gingerbread. A simple recipe from the 1930s that I could adjust here and there - brown sugar for white, using part whole wheat flour, and adding much more ginger than called for.

My mind made up and recipe chosen I forged ahead through the fog of fatigue, knowing that I could whip this up in 10 minutes, bake for 30, and being lying down in 35.
The problem with fog, however, is that it kind of muddles up one's thinking.
As the batter was almost ready to pour in the pan, I realized I had added twice as much salt as needed.
Crap.
The only thing I could do was double the recipe.
More eggs needed to be retrieved from aforementioned larder.
Down in the basement.
Stepped over dogs.
Ran out of flour.
Refilled container from bin in basement.
Greased another pan.
Stepped over dogs.
Not enough ginger.
Search spice drawer.
Still not enough ginger.
Found another smidge.
Measured more molasses.
Etc.

Finally, after nearly 20 minutes the gingerbread was in the oven.
The dogs were finally asleep.
And my house was filling delightfully with the spicy aroma of gingerbread.
I'm not yet lying down, though I still have high hopes for a bit of a rest.

Did I mention that of the five people living in my house, I'm pretty much the only one who really loves gingerbread?
Looks like my craving will be satisfied.
And then some.

Yarn Bomber

A selection of items Floyd brought to Melissa over two weeks this summer.

Two of my cats are mighty hunters.
Despite being totally indoor animals they've actually managed to catch two mice, countless spiders, some flies, and (horror) house centipedes.
But their crowning achievement as hunters extraordinaire?
Making sure we have enough catnip toys to survive.
Floyd, also known as Floydicus Rex, Mr. Fluffernutter, and Captain Crusty (don't ask), bravely hunts, captures and kills a variety of catnip toys, dog toys, and the occasional pair of socks, multiple times throughout the day.
He doesn't just bring them to us or leave them quietly at our feet.
No, Floyd wants the appropriate level of appreciation for his prowess.
He routinely catches a toy upstairs, then cries and cries, until we come to him and sing his praises. At night he'll often drag large dog toys up the stairs, crying his triumph all the way.
He is not content without accolades befitting his stature, though at night he often brings my daughters important catches for them to find in the morning.

Henry, our other hunter, doesn't like nick names.
We think he's the one who caught the above mentioned mice.
He's also been known to bring my daughter miniature pumpkins, tomatoes, and once, believe it or not, an avocado.
Henry doesn't care for fawning or insincere exclamations of amazement.
He just quietly brings his catches to his favorite person, Melissa, content in knowing he is keeping her well-fed.
But this summer, Henry started hunting something new.
Henry discovered yarn.
Not that finding yarn is difficult in my house, ahem.
But most of it is kept in one of four or so cabinets/cupboards dedicated to my stash.

Bag full of yarn dragged into and emptied in my daughter's room

Henry, however, has discovered our project bags.
At any one time I have 5 or 6 different projects going - everything from a knitted blanket, to hats, scarves, etc. My youngest daughter had several project bags of her own. We never felt the need to keep these bags under lock and key, or even in a closet.
Until this summer.
Suddenly we would awaken to find the beginnings of a scarf, needles and all, dragged from out of the project bag, up the stairs and deposited in my daughter's room. Henry dragged a half-finished sweater, extra skeins of yarn, and amazingly an entire blanket-in-progress, out of their bags and up the stairs.
We thought we had learned our lesson.
Now the downstairs closet holds all works-in-progress.
We aren't sure how well Henry will adjust to my youngest daughter being away at college. She is his most special person.
But this morning, my older daughter awoke to find an entire garbage bag full of yarn deposited and emptied in her room.
We have no idea where Henry found the bag. Maybe it was somewhere upstairs since my daughter sorted some yarn to take with her to college.
We may never know where he found it, but one thing I do know for sure.
We'll never suffer a lack of entertainment with these two around.

Passages

I can feel the emotion roiling just below the surface. With each passing day, the clock seems to tick a little bit faster.
Soon, sooner than either of us would like, and yet at just the perfect time, my youngest child, my baby, will be heading off to college.
Today I teared up in the book aisle of Target. Actually, it started when I saw the children’s videos, then moved on into the preschool books, then early readers. It was like an emotional walk down memory lane. How could 18 years have passed so quickly?

I remember her birth like it was yesterday (except for the pain - that always fades a la continuation of the species). My beautiful baby girl who needed to be held all the time. I remember a particular photo I took of me holding her and looking at ourselves in the mirror. I thought, at the time, remember this moment. And I did. And I always will.
How to condense a mother’s love for her child into words? It’s nearly impossible. I have spent more one-on-one time with Melissa than with any of my other children - she has been my near-constant companion, critic, ally, and friend for 18 years.
Yesterday in the fabric store she laughed at a thought I had expressed. What’s so funny? I asked. We are the same person, she said with a smile.
The twining of sadness with excitement, the longing for just one more day colliding with anticipation for her future and my own, the knowledge that our relationship will never be the same swirling with eagerness for what is to come as our relationship evolves as adult child and mother - all this has been burbling beneath the surface for months now.

She is so ready for this chapter of her life to begin! She has grown into a beautiful young woman, filled with poise and brimming with intelligence. I know I don’t need to worry about her off on her own as she embodies level-headedness and maturity.

 I have carefully filled my fall schedule to minimize that sure-to-materialize empty-nest syndrome, though I know no matter how many activities or classes I take I will still miss her.
Terribly.
A chapter of my life closes as a new one begins for her.
All is as it should be.
I will cry when we say goodbye.
I know I will miss her terribly.
Then we will both get on with the business of living.
We’ll just be doing it a little farther apart.

Glamour Puss

If a cat is beautiful

 but there are no admirers

to acknowledge it

 

Is he still radiant?

Did you really need to ask?