My knitting friend, Becky, likes to say “You should stop often to admire your work.” Which is to say every once in a while it’s a good idea to look over your knitting to find mistakes while they are easy to fix. It’s a lot easier to rip out a few stitches than to tear out many precious inches of work to fix the glaring hole of a dropped stitch that you (or anyone else for that matter) cannot unsee. I say this from the perspective of a person who just had to tear out an entire I-cord edging on the left front of a sweater vest because it did not match the other side, due to the fact I somehow knit it inside out. As I pulled stitches and exercised my patience muscles, which reside primarily in my jaw and fists, a thought took hold: this could be a great metaphor for life. What if I took time every so often to examine the tapestry of daily life, to “admire” my “work”, to stop what I am doing and look for any mistakes I have made? To use the time to make little fixes before they become so far gone as to become regrets along the way? I have a bag of unfinished knitting projects when as a beginner, I ignored mistakes, got frustrated and gave up. I keep them to look back on the journey and remind myself how far I have come. Life is like that. I think most of us can take out our bag of regrets from time to time, usually around 3AM, the time I find most conducive to self flagellation. I’m thinking maybe my friend Becky’s advice would be best followed during the day, once a week or so, and at best I could recognize a mistake or misstep early enough to correct it – with an apology, or a kindness, or at worst, some personal effort to not make the same mistake in the future. A life well lived is like a complicated afghan knitted with love and given to a person you care for beyond words. It will have one or two mistakes, and maybe you will be the only one who can see them. Then one day you see that person on a zoom screen, wrapped in the warmth of your gift, like the hug you cannot give in person,and your heart will sing with joy and gratefulness that you overlooked the little mistakes, and persevered to fix the bigger ones and finish the work.
Leaving the warmth of the barn last night, with its sweet aromas of leather, hay, and horse, I clicked off the lights and slid the heavy barn door shut. The snowy field looked as if all the stars had fallen from the sky and lay, glittering on the white ground, like diamonds in the moonlight. My boots made that indescribable sound that boots make when they sink into a foot of marshmallow-soft snow, a sound halfway between a muffled creak and a crunch so satisfying you want to lie down in it and make snow angels in the darkness.
Oh, this beautiful night, the sanctuary of the barn! Where lives the horse I wished for every birthday and Christmas of my childhood. The barn with the scent of horse, leather and sweet hay, has always smelled like home to me. We would not wash our riding jeans for weeks, my teenage best friend and I, so we could just close our eyes, inhale the fabric and ride our memories over and over again in the green, summertime fields of our minds. Long into the barren winters, roaming high school hallways, forever the misfits in a sea of invisible rules we could not navigate, our imaginations took us galloping far away. Until the summer when we could visit the barn of her sister and live the dream again. In high school, I wrote an essay about placing 3rd in a barrel race on a borrowed horse at a local horse show. My English teacher, Mr. Merrigan gave it an A+ and wrote in my yearbook: “Keep writing!”
Last year at this time, we were planning a family Christmas at my parents’ home way up in Maine. For the first time, our entire 15-person family would fill that little house in the woods with food, games, laughter and love, instead of them coming to New Hampshire to visit us. At the end of the weekend, my father said, “I can’t wait to see what you write about this!” I have yet to do so. The words to accurately describe such a wonderful event in the wake of Covid-19 have eluded me. Maybe the time was not right then. We were all so joyful and innocent, with no idea what was waiting for us around the corner. The pandemic has cut us off from my parents in their remote home. They are safe, but we all are starving for the warm embrace of family.
Thankfully, animals are safe to hug. If you ever have the chance to hug a horse in winter, I highly recommend it. Their winter coats make them as soft and warm as a living, breathing plush toy. Also, if you can, stare into the dark eyes of a donkey. Donkeys are the most honest creatures on Earth, and if they look you in the eye, you have truly been seen, down to your soul. Animals make me want to be a better person. This year more than ever they have been my saving grace.
Here we are on the brink of a new year. I think about last year, how innocent we all were, how unsuspecting of how much life was about to change. There is not much new to say about it all, so much has been written, philosophized, and discussed. Besides, I still have a different story to write and I am way over deadline to one of my biggest fans. Mr. Merrigan’s words still resonate: “Keep writing!”
My brain on pandemic mode – not as clear and crisp as it can be, but bear with this story, you may find something helpful in it.
My parents retired 18 years ago to a beautiful, but remote, town in Maine. They built their dream home on ten acres of forest land abutting a lake. Even though they were a five hour drive away, in some ways I have learned more about them since they moved away than I did in a lifetime of living under the same roof. As an adolescent and teenager, and into early adulthood, I was forever trying to get away, to set myself apart, to find my own space. When they moved away, we all got some perspective. Being together as a family was less frequent and took on new meaning. One of the greatest joys for me was watching them bloom at a time in life when a lot of us dream of slowing down. Not my folks! My father learned how to downhill ski at age 65 and it became his passion. He took me out on the slopes one Spring and taught me how to ski. I was in my 40’s and quite intimidated by it all. That day I discovered he is a wonderful instructor- patient, kind and fun-loving. With his gentle encouragement, I gradually left the bunny trail and took on steeper slopes. At the bottom of each run, we grinned at each other and said, “Let’s do it again!” I lost count of how many runs we made that day. My parents also spent their time hiking, boating, fishing, kayaking, and biking. Most shocking of all to me was when they bought a snowmobile and took to the trails with their friends, having cookouts deep in the forest. Visiting them was like going to a resort (in fact their town is a popular resort area). They became active in church; my mother was president of the women’s organization. Mom played Mah-jong once a week and had lunch out with her friends. She took up quilting and designed the most beautiful quilts for her children and grandchildren. As I write, I am leaning back on one of mine, which depicts a beautiful brown and navy patchwork scene, the center of which is three bears walking in a row. She named it “Bear Country” because we tend to see a lot of bears pass through our property in Springtime. She is nothing less than an artist. I would think, “Who ARE these people?” As the years passed and the three of us kids got bogged down with our own responsibilities, growing our own families, and we more and more had to stay close to home, to our kids, and our jobs, the number of visits we made up North became less frequent. My parents settled into a routine of regularly visiting us, making the trip down several times a year. Holidays centered around New Hampshire and we all enjoyed when my parents came to stay. I would visit them twice a year, usually early in the year, and sometime in late Summer or Fall. Dad and I would snowshoe in the woods, or take long walks, and I would spend time chatting over coffee and knitting with Mom. In the evening we would play cutthroat Scrabble games at the kitchen table, sipping wine and snacking on my Dad’s precious snack mixes aka, “Grampy Snacks”. My Dad would make killer ice cream Sundaes. And we would talk for hours on end. Life truly was good.
When the pandemic shut us down in March, my parents had just spent a week visiting us all in New Hampshire. Mom and I went the hairdresser together and I remember reversing roles and lecturing her on using hand sanitizer in the car, and getting a little aggressive about not allowing her to open doors, and such. We didn’t know a lot about this virus at the time but I did know she was at risk due to her age. I became the Mom, and to her credit she just smiled her patient smile and tolerated my bossiness much better than I would have, had the situation been reversed. The last social thing we all did together was attend my niece’s basketball game, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the bleachers, laughing and cheering. The next day, my parents drove home. We had no idea what was coming. Since then, (like many families) we have missed some big milestones: my Dad’s 80th birthday, Easter, my parents’ 60th wedding anniversary, Thanksgiving, and of course, most likely Christmas. I saw my parents in person once, in a parking lot, when I drove a couple hours to meet them in Portland where they go to doctor’s appointments. We masked up and sat in our cars with the windows open. My mother broke the rules and hugged me when she got out of the car, and my Dad followed suit. I still feel those hugs. I keep tem in my pocket to get through the hard days. On the hard days, I worry about my parents, living alone in their remote town, unable to socialize, except for one other couple in their “bubble”. Their lives have changed so drastically, yet, whenever I call them, or FaceTime them, they are cheerful, smiling and talkative. My mother speaks of the big celebration we will have when this is all over. I wanted to find a way to visit them safely; they told me just to wait. Lately, I have been reflecting on them, and it very slowly is dawning on me what an example they are still setting for us kids. My mother always would tell me, “Patience is a virtue.” I must have heard that a million times during my life. I was such a broody child, teenager and young adult. She would have none of it. “Get off the pity pot” was another favorite saying of hers. I remember getting into a big argument with my father as a young adult, complete with door slamming, yelling, and storming out. I collapsed into tears on a dining room chair, and my mother started laughing. I couldn’t believe it. Laughing at my despair, at my Dad’s and my inability to get along! “What is so funny?” I demanded. “You two!” she said. “You should just see yourselves!” I thought she was being so unsympathetic. Now I realize, she always has had the ability to see the bigger picture. The wisdom to understand that disagreeing, even arguing, was a healthy part of navigating relationships, and also a sign that two people truly care for one another, enough to fight for what we felt was right for the other, even if we were misguided, or even, a lot of the time, for me anyhow, wrong. I realize the lesson was not lost on me and how I learned to stop taking flight on people when the going got rough. Because of that, I have a good marriage, not perfect, but the kind that is built on a foundation of mutual respect and the result of the heavy lifting required when two fiercely individual people stick it out. She always had faith in us, her family. Every morning I lived in her house growing up, she would wake me up by saying “Rise and shine!” with a smile. I would reply, “I’ll rise, but I won’t shine!” and thought myself extremely clever. My father once told me, “Your mother is the most optimistic and kind person I know.” Then he added,”But don’t mess with her family – then all bets are off.” That about sums it up. She and my father got through thick and thin together, and family was everything.
We are all so weary of this pandemic, and so sad. The holidays are not going to be the same this year. When you cannot see your family, when you can’t have what is so precious to you, it is just human nature to want it all the more. We feel scared, cheated, despairing, and everyone reacts in their own way to those feelings. I turn inward at times like this; I hibernate with my books, my writing, my animals. Lately I find myself not even feeling like doing that. There are days I sit in my chair, staring into space, thinking of nothing, really. Then I shake my head get up and try to do something constructive. Putting thoughts to paper is difficult these days; the path from my brain to the keyboard seems broken. The thoughts are swirling, each pounding on the door, and a few manage to slip under the door, but most of them just stay bottled up. This too shall pass.
This morning, one clear thought escaped and here it is: Listen to your Mom. Follow your parents example. They have lived through many dark times. They learned of hardship early in life. Their parents instilled stories of their own hardships from the depression, the wars, immigration from the old country. My parents know about hard times. They know how to be patient. If they can do it, then so can I. We will get back to some sort of normal. We just need to have faith. And remember this, “Normal is just a setting on the washing machine.” –Nancy Campbell, aka Mom.
Although I always thought it would be this way, I really never was prepared for you to die and leave me with the memories. You died a month before i got married. I remember it like a sucker punch to the gut. I knew you would die before me, what with the life you led. No matter how much you prepare for the inevitable you are never ready to tell you beloved children their father died. Here is what i remember. Our first date, he was so nervous, and he took me to the fanciest place in town, the Sheraton Tara, where they served a 5 course meal. I knew he didn’t have a car, so we went on the date he driving my Ford Fiesta, I remember him revving it up and saying “Come on Betsy!” He knew more than I did about the sherbet they served to clear our palate. He had a little triangle shaped scar, from ironing his shirt for our date, the iron touched his belly and he was burned, as he ironed his shirt. Nobody as far as I knew, had ever cared enough to iron their shirt for a date with me. I knew early on he had an alcohol problem. But I loved him anyway. He had the most beautiful blue eyes. And he was kind. When he found out he would be a father, he was stunned to think I would hesitate to share my life with him. He wanted to be a dad, he told me for the first time he loved me. Once before that he tried, but I didn’t get it. He picked me up for a date and gave me a red rose. His sister later told me that a red rose means love, he was trying to say he loved me. I didn’t know about those things, and really, I wonder, how many times in my life did I miss those little messages, those little signals and traditions of love? He loved the little river band and heart. He saw them perform together. He took me to see Crosby Stills and Nash. Because I loved the song the Southern Cross. It’s too bad everything went wrong, but we all tried so hard to save him. Anyway, this is about what I remember the little things that nobody else knows, that I can share with my kids who never really knew him.
Chopping onions and peppers tonight and you came to mind.
Just last Monday I rode my horse to the end of the driveway and you drove past.
I waved furiously and our grins met in mutual recognition. I thought, “We will talk about this in a couple of Thursdays” where I expected to see you again at our knitting circle. You on my right, watching over my work, teaching me the elusive “Russian join”, picking up my lost stitches, our needles clicking as companionably as the conversation encircling us. But you left us and this world on Saturday.
I wonder if you liked chopping onions in front of the kitchen window as much as I do? Why does this thought even cross my mind?
Oh my talented knitting friend.
You will forever be the hole in the work, the dropped stitch never to be picked up again, a bright colored marker on the row where I will pause to remember.