Who will remember them?

Well, I guess I haven't posted anything in a long-ass time. As the youngest son would say, "see wha' ha' happened was . . . " And it started in September, when the construction on this old house started. Spanned October (when the internet was down for the entire month pending construction) and was supposed to be done October 16, but wasn't. And then into November, and not done. And then into December, when I had a little "come to Eva" meeting with the contractor, who quit shortly after. And the construction is still not done.
      But at least we discovered live knob and tube wiring in the attic, lost a sub-circuit when the contractor decided that "hold on, I've almost got it" really meant "get to sawin' " and wiped out an electric circuit and the gas connection for the hot water heater. I get the phone call while I'm at Home Depot, head quickly home, and on the way home see 2 ambulances and a fire truck. Let me tell you the confidence that inspired.
      So we managed to have Thanksgiving and Christmas despite Norovirus and most of the house being a semi-constructed shambles. And amazingly enough, I've managed to get some knitting done. Just ask Elizaa, who benefited by way of four hats, four sets of fingerless mitts to match, and a shortie scarf that was my first (but not last) foray into entrelac knitting.
     I finally got out the spinning wheel that I got just after Dad died. I haven't had the heart to really spin, although I've fiddled around a little on the supported spindles. But I did get the Rose out, and spun and chain-plyed four ounces of Targhee top that had been sitting in my fiber cabinet for a year or so. I was impressed with my overall improvement since the last time I spun Targhee (about a year and a half ago). My spinning consistency is much better, my plying is visibly and dramatically better. I would know . . . I knit a hat for the youngest son out of the second lot of Targhee top I bought, and while the twist is certainly solid, the "joined" areas on the chains are lumpy and bumpy, and overtwisted. I think that the lot I just finished and plyed is quite a bit better . . . . I did notice while plying that I was starting to get the "overtwist" thing going on, so I ran the lot back onto the wheel in the original direction after plying it. It's a much more relaxed bit of yarn, which I really really really like. I'm excited to knit with it.
     Part of the construction process has been cleaning out, cleaning up, getting rid of, taking stock of, and just generally interacting with ALL THE THINGS! I have drastically reduced my wardrobe, culled the spindle herd significantly (and painfully -- and in service of raising cash to keep the construction project going, I might add), and taken carload after carload to Goodwill.
     So this morning, I sat down with the boxes of stuff from days gone by that had been lurking in the bowels of a closet, and went through them. And stumbled on a treasure trove of family archive material. It was fabulous, I tell you. My daughter and I have been working on a family tree on Ancestry for the longest time, and we hit several walls. I think the info I found this morning will help us break through at least one of the walls.
     And then I got really sad. I am the oldest child in my generation, and one of two left. The lives downstream from me are busy building their own lives, with their own families. I'm not sure how much they will care about the details of the past. My adopted father and great-grandmother's husband were very important in my life, but who will care to remember that Luther (G-G'ma's husband) served in both WWI and WWII, and that his father "pulled him out of school" in the third grade, but that he could reconcile his check register to the penny every month (while Dad with a Master's Degree had to use a calculator and slide rule to get his to reconcile). I don't think there's anyone left except me that knew that Luther sat a horse with a very light seat even though he weighed more than 230 pounds, or that he looked a lot like John Wayne in the saddle. I know there's no one left but me who remembers his peanut butter cookies, that he drank Postum instead of coffee because he had gout, which didn't stop him from eating buttermilk cornbread dunked in sweet milk for supper. He made blueberry muffins on Christmas morning, because my mother always took a hundred years to get out of bed, wake up, get her makeup on, and finally amble to where the Christmas tree was so that we could finally open presents.
     I found the photos -- boxes and bins and albums and such, from the last hundred years of this family (and more) . . . and wonder who will be left to know them . . . to treasure them. So I was sad.
     I talked to my daughter, who suggested writing up the bits that important, or funny, or whatever, and posting them with the person on Ancestry. That will keep them remembered.
     Thanks, kiddo; good idea.
     I will remember them . . . . and maybe others as well . . . 

Le plus ca change . . .

Le plus c'est la meme chose.

     Or so they say. (I don't know who 'they' are . . .) But really, right now in my life, the more things change, the more they change. Period. End of story.
     The realtor turned out to be a liar, which did not really surprise me. But in a way, I'm grateful. If he hadn't been a liar, I wouldn't have had the appraisal done. If I hadn't had the appraisal done, I wouldn't have needed to have the land surveyed. And if the surveyor hadn't found what he did, I wouldn't have needed the contractors.
     Five rooms in the house are torn up. What had become my peaceful "nest", finally, is completely chaotic and turned upside down again. And once again, I have to go through ALL THE THINGS (this makes the fourth go of assessing, winnowing, scaling down, re-deciding what truly "grows corn" for me at many levels). It's really snarking uncomfortable. And it's going to get worse.
     All of the windows in the house are due to be replaced. We bought a bunch at Habitat for Humanity Restore. All they need (after installation) is a good cleaning and some custom screens, and they'll be almost as good as new. Seven windows, in fact -- way significant cost savings. Then a trip to Home Depot (why didn't I just open a vein . . . I'm sure I'd bleed money, by this time!) to buy the rest, five new screen doors, and two exterior doors.
     Chris came up today to put some flooring in the attic. Well, as Dad always said, "before I can one thing, I have to do three other things first." True. Before Chris could put the flooring, he had to move boxes of stuff. Then he had to move the boxes of stuff some more so he could put flooring in the other side of the attic. But before he could put that flooring, he had to pull the illegal ceiling fan  . . . and the hard-wired light over the stove . . . and before he could do that he had to kill the power to half the house . . . which halted all the work on one of the windows . . . You get the drift.
     There are still nine windows that have to go in before they can paint the outside of the house. They're going to try to do three a day. Hopefully, they'll also get two of the rooms finally finished and ready to paint. Then next week, the outside painting and the demo and repair of my bedroom ceiling. And the week after that, hopefully, the painting of the inside of the house. Then the flooring people can come in . . . . 
     Then when all of that is done . . . finish the xeriscaping.
     The good news . . . . when it's all done, the place will be awesome.
     The bad news . . . . I still have to sell it.

There are ghosts in this house.
     Now, don't be alarmed. I haven't suddenly gone round the bend, and don't need the guys in white coats just yet.
     I've been cleaning ALL THE THINGS! This house, for years, has been a sort of Fibber McGee closet. There's tons of storage space (including a full attic), and all of it, plus a single-car and a double-car garage, packed, crammed, stuffed full of stuff. I mean, they never threw anything away. A cumulative two hundred fifty years of stuff, if I include my stuff and I've had to . . . dear gods and little fishes.
     Some days, it seems like all I accomplish is moving things from one part of the house to another, so I can clean the part I moved stuff out of so I can move other stuff back into the newly cleaned space. There are times when I don't see an end, and the box of matches is looking rather attractive.
     To be strictly fair, a lot of stuff is gone. The auction guys came on Tuesday with a 22 foot trailer (empty) and loaded, and loaded, and loaded. Consequently, I have room enough in one bay of the bottom garage to shift the rest of the packed stuff from the house down for the infamous (I hate it) garage sale.
     We moved my giant (7 foot tall and 4 foot wide) bookcases (3 of them) into the "nook" and established a rather nice library area. All of my books in one place. Imagine that. That allows me to downsize two bookcases -- they're going with my friend Maggie tomorrow.
     Most of Dad's stuff is sorted. The last of Mother's stuff is still being sorted. More trips to Goodwill are immanent. But today, I started going through the little, piddly stuff that gets me worse than the big stuff. All of the residue of Mother's fiber arts tools (mostly crochet hooks -- not so dear to me since I don't crochet anymore) -- I looked at them and consigned them into the next Goodwill bag. Going through my stuff is next. That's tough, and I'm not going to want to do it, but I cannot keep ALL THE THINGS.
     Each piece, even the rocks, conjure memories of my past. Some are good, some not so good. The memories crowd into the now empty spaces, whispering "fill the space with something . . . anything." Each thing I touch seems to have some spark of life of its own. I question its spark . . . do I need to carry it over into a new life?
     More will be revealed later . . . 
   

Flotsam and Jetsam are more than just electric eels . . .

My house is a disaster. Boxes stacked to the ceiling in the dining room, awaiting disposition, lurk like quiet trolls. Furniture that was once filled to overflowing with books, knick-knacks, and "stuff" that didn't have some more appropriate home is bare (mostly), waiting for the guys from the auction to come and pick it up this coming Tuesday. For the last several days, I fill boxes, pick them up, move them to a spot, and then move them back to a different spot. As I go through stuff, my heart sinks because I know I'll have to go through it again, and maybe again.
     It seems cold and heartless to clear out Dad's stuff, as though somehow symbolically I'm consigning him to trash, Goodwill, auction and garage sale. I think if he were here, he'd shake his head in disgust, and say "just get rid of it." And in fact I may be letting emotion cloud good sense. But that doesn't make it feel less cold, less heartless.
     I did finally get down to the fiber room a couple of times this week. The first time was to unearth the boxes of pottery that "auction guy" was supposed to take with him; that worked out to be a bust, but at least moving the boxes allowed me to get a little better handle on how to put them back so that I have room to actually get to my blocking board table. The second time I got down there, I carded a lot of t'awesome batts. My favorite LYS owner bought a bunch of them (actually we traded for part of the tuition for the upcoming beginning weaving class I've been wanting to take and haven't had time to take). The rest are sitting happily in their storage drawer, awaiting their fate. At least they're quiet, and they don't eat anything or gestate (like the packed boxes seem to be doing).
     I've really been struggling with getting back into the zen of spinning. I think part of it is because I used to sit after dinner and spin while Dad was watching TV. He'd sit watching for a while, and then sit and watch me spin. A few days before he died, just after we brought him home from the hospital, he commented to my daughter-in-law "well, now we can get back to normal . . . Eva can get back to her spinning." And now . . . I'm just not feeling it. I did spin up a little fiber snack that AnnaMarie included with a CHF fiber order, and I was able to get into it in the moment, but don't feel the enthusiasm I did before Dad died.
     Part of the grieving process, I suppose. 
     I'd like to believe that once the stuff that has to go is cleared out, and I can redistribute furniture and arrange to suit me for as long as I'm here, I may feel more enthusiasm for spinning. I'd also like to believe that if I start knitting again, instead of just piling up yarn, I may have more enthusiasm for spinning.
     I've been stuck with my knitting, too. I've been working on a lace-like scarf for several months now, off and on; it's been the quick and easy project I worked on during Dad's doctor visits, and while he was in the hospital the last couple of times. It got put on hold during the rounds of knitting baby stuff, and it's one of two UFOs that really need finishing. I worked on it quite a bit last night (watching "Conspiracy Theory"), and it's pretty close to done. Maybe if I can muscle through, focus on the scarf rather than memories of where I've been while knitting it, I can get it finished, washed and blocked (once flotsam and jetsam swim off my blocking table and go bother some other part of the room).
     Or maybe I need a giant zap from Ursula, to break up the stuckness I'm experiencing. She can't be too far . . . Flotsam and Jetsam are everywhere in this house!

He said "you're self-actualizing" and my jaw dropped . . .

Actually, it did, a little. I don't know if it showed, really. And the thought, unbidden, was "self-actualization, my ass; I'm fighting for my life."
     Fortunately, my censor was working, and the words didn't walk straight out of my mouth. That has happened to me in the past, and it didn't end well. At least this time the censor was engaged and I succeeded in not humiliating myself. Always a good thing in a job interview.
     It had to have been one of the oddest interviews I've had in a long time. The guy is very clearly right-brained as hell, given to metaphor, and talking the job into existence while I'm sitting in his office. I was not prone to argue with the creation process, but did point out to him that it sounded to me as though he was taking a somewhat amorphous mass and trying to create a workable -- and working -- program out of it.
     I left almost as confused as I was when I arrived. I don't know whether or not the job will exist, and I don't know whether or not I'll be offered the job; to further complicate the issue, I don't know if I want the job he described, or the job that his boss described to me. And, worse yet, I'm not sure if they are the same job.
     The good news . . . I guess . . . is that the process is helping me further define my criteria for accepting a job. 1. It needs to meet my financial needs; 2. It needs to meet my work-related emotional needs; 3. It needs to offer enough variety that I don't get bored and have to go; 4. I need to have my own defined work space that it is mine, where I can work in peace and quiet; 5. I really need to not work for anyone that is crazier than I am. And of course, whatever it is that I'm doing -- or expected to do -- needs to match my personal mission, vision and values system. 
     That sounds awfully snotty, taken at face value, I think. And maybe it is. And maybe it's not. For example . . . 
     I love shoes. I love to buy shoes. I love to have lots of shoes, for variety. I recognized this a long time ago, and started buying shoes at a "big box" store. I was on a budget, they were cheap, and I had a damn lot of shoes. They all hurt my feet. They all hurt my back. But I had a damn lot of shoes and they were cheap. And they wore out quickly, but that was okay because I could buy more varietal shoes that hurt my back and my feet. A damn lot of them.
     A friend of mine talked me into trying Keen and Dansko shoes. They were not cheap. They did not hurt my feet. They did not hurt my back. I now have Keen sandals and sneakers and a pair of Keen winter boots. I have Dansko clogs. It's taken a while to buy them, because they're not cheap. I've had my Keen sandals for five years now. When they get dirty, I throw them in the wash and they come out looking brand new. I polish the Dansko clogs periodically, and they look brand new. They do not hurt. They look professional. I do not have a damn lot of them.
     So, I guess I can get a "big box" store job. But I'd really rather not.
     Whatever job simply needs to pay well enough that my fiber habit isn't compromised. :-D

 

What would I do if I knew I could not fail . . .

I think I've always been my own worst enemy, harshest critic and unflagging detractor. Somewhere in childhood, I believe, I made a decision about my own lack of self-worth: that decision dogs my footsteps relentlessly to this day. I couple that with a rather enthusiastic right-brained approach to things . . . dive in and do, and if it works I'm rather surprised; if it doesn't, that old decision comes out of the storage closet in my heart and whispers "see, I told you so . . . you really aren't good enough".
     The odd thing is, there have been times in my life that I've done things based in both sides of my brain, stepped outside the shell created by perception of lack of self-efficacy, and I've been very happy and very successful. I'd really like to get to that place again, with a great quickness.
     I posted about my Dad dying. For myself, I miss him; for him, I'm glad because he was old and tired and starting to be sick, and quite ready to go. I think I didn't discuss as much of the meaning of his death, particularly at this time in my life. I've been out of the workforce for a year, tending to him and to his affairs. It's been a sort of "not quite retirement" time: a preview, if you will, of things to come. I'm not impressed. I've put on 20 pounds, and lost muscle. I have new aches and pains that I didn't have a year ago. If this is what my retirement life is going to be, it sucks and I don't want some, now. But I digress. Dad's death means the end of the home of my childhood (must sell). It means saying goodbye to all of things in the house (part of the estate, must sell). What I hadn't really considered, or at least I did with my left brain but not my emotional mind: I have to go through all of the volume of stuff that is mine, and make choices (must downsize). All of the school photos of my kids, cards I've bought over time to send to someone and never sent, art supplies I don't use, books I may read again someday, clothes that are no longer in style but that I love (some of which almost fit), three bookshelves of professional books that I've clung to in defense of a career that I really don't want to go back to . . . file boxes after file boxes of professional handouts (again, the career I don't want to go back to), dishes I've had for more than 30 years. The guitar I don't play, with all of its trappings. Then there are the fluffy fibers and fiber arts tools . . . Oh, dear.
     And parallel with all of that . . . what the hell am I going to do to make a living?
     Dad did leave me some money. If I'm careful, I can live for a couple of years on it, while I'm figuring out my life. I'd rather not do that, however, because realistically I'm looking at retirement in 10 years or less (that's its own set of pain, and too long a birdwalk for this post). That little nest egg could be used to really enhance whatever home I end up buying so that I can live comfortably (gourmet kitchen, spa bath, fiber room with sink and stove for dying fluffy fibers, eco-friendly square foot garden, the little things in life :-D).
     And in the meantime, the ongoing grieving process for everything I'm saying goodbye to . . . it's hard to reframe to the positive in the midst of loss.
     Add to that the fact that I've been in not only a career crisis for sometime now, but also a spiritual crisis, and I have a triple-header of shit to sort through, and a triple-header of choices to make. All sprinkled with that voice of "see, you're really not good enough . . . you're going to fail." Glarrrrrghhhh.
     If I knew I couldn't fail . . . what would I do? All very conditional. Based on the premise that I will not fail. The reframe: "I know I cannot fail, so I will . . ."
     To be continued . . . 

My Life in Less than 4 GB

My dad died on February 28, and everything that had been safe and familiar and comfortable is now completely topsy-turvy.

The house is torn apart, emotionally and literally. We've been cleaning, and clearing out, and preparing for the dreaded inevitable -- selling the home place. I wouldn't, really, except that I have to in order to fulfill the terms of the will. My Dad, who was stubbornly fair, decided that my little sister should be entitled to half of everything. She hasn't lived here, she hasn't cared for him, she hasn't done anything except consume resources. But she gets half. I'm trying hard not to be bitter about it . . . I'm not succeeding. 

The cats have been freaked right the hell out. Peaches had appointed himself Dad's "kitty angel", sleeping with him most of the time, and alerting me to Dad's nocturnal prowlings. As we were waiting for the morticians to arrive, Peaches kept vigil. While we were cleaning up Dad's body, Peaches supervised. When we were done, and waiting, Peaches hopped on the bed to . . . I'm not sure what. Say goodbye? I don't know what that cat knows, or why he does what he does.  Gracie, who is not normally a clingy cat, has been clingy like no other thing. Rascal, who is normally a clingy cat, has been extra clingy and very whiny.

The house echoes with silence. We've cleared out so much stuff, boxed up and ready for auction, that the dining room echoes. The kids brought some stuff into the living room so that it wouldn't echo quite so much, but I still look for Dad to be in there . . . I spend most of my time either in the kitchen, working in the yard, or hiding out in the bathtub.

I haven't been able to focus well enough to spin. My spindles are not nagging me, and the fluffy fibers are, for the most part, pretty quiet. I know that Dad would want me to keep spinning . . . I just can't, yet, without crying buckets. 

Every box I've packed, after having been inspected by Gracie, has gone to storage in one of the garages with the admonishment "I. Cannot. Keep. All. The. Things." That's provoked a kleenex box full of tears, too. I will be moving from a very poorly designed 2700 sq. ft. house to -- if I'm lucky and smart -- a better designed but less than 1200 sq. ft. house. So. I. Cannot. Keep. All. The. Things.

Old tools. Old clothes. Old paperwork. Old dishes and cookware. Old stuffs of all kinds. Yikes. But leaning down is essential. My son said it best: "If it doesn't nurture us physically, emotionally, spiritually and financially, it has to go." In the culture of this house in which duplicates abound, the above-mentioned leaning down is difficult, painful, and depressing. The major good-bye to my Dad is being followed by multiple, smaller, painful good-byes.


But also some hellos. More space in the kitchen while we're still here . . . cookware I haven't used in a while because too much other stuff was occupying the space now occupied by my stuff. More space in my desk now that I've gotten rid of most of the duplicates and several years of old paperwork.


And, maybe, the crowning touch for now . . . all of the songs that have been important to me throughout most of my life now safely ensconced on my iPhone.


In less than 4 GB.

In which I talk about endings and beginnings . . .

It's not like I've been a conscientious blogger . . . because I haven't. I do see, reviewing my posts, that I'm more comfortable blogging than when I began, and I always like progress. So even though my posts haven't been, erm, consistent, they are improving in quality. Rather like my spinning.

     I've come to a conclusion, tho; changes must take place. I began to be aware of the need when I launched SageWoman Concepts last year, and have been mulling it over in the intervening months. I have a web presence. Not a big one, and not much of one in fiber arts yet, but I am findable on the web. That carries with it a certain sort of thrill, comprised of one part "wow (wide-eyed childlike amazement)" and two parts "Oh, snap . . . I'm not sure I want to be that findable." But in order to promote SageWoman Concepts, including the Etsy shop I established today and plan to formally open the first part of February, I need to be findable. And consistent. Across multiple sites. And the visuals need to be consistent with "everything else".

     Some dread thoughts have been roiling in my unconscious for a while now. I have four different email accounts. A Twitter account (@SajWmnConcpts); I have some serious doubts about folks that randomly follow Twitter accounts, and that may be a short lived phenomenon, but we'll see. A sadly neglected WordPress blog. A LinkedIn account. A presence on Ravelry. A presence on ebay. And now an Etsy shop (granted, no items for sale yet, but soon . . . ). The marketing experience I've had compels me strongly to consolidate, regroup, rename, and really push the hell out of SageWoman Concepts, because I hope that that will become at least a good supplement to income for me. And that means the creation of a new blog in SageWoman Concepts' name on Blogger, because WordPress intimidates me still.

     So the Etsy store and a new blog are the beginnings.

     And this blog . . .

     Well, I've developed, as I mentioned earlier, as a writer, and I enjoy that. However, I've felt unable to use this blog as a real "online journal", focusing more on fiber-related things and less of pouring out my feelings for anyone on Rav who checks out my blog to see. So . . . when I first sat down to write this blog, I was going to make this be my final post. Pull the plug on YarnJunkie and her damned dropped stitches. Sing my swan song and go off into that blogger good night.

      Then I thought about it.

     I don't know how findable this blog is, outside of Ravelry and to the one follower (hey, Sammy) I have. 

     So it occurs to me that when I unlink this blog from Rav, I can use it as an online journal and online spinning and dyeing notes repository. Which means I don't have to say goodbye to it. :-)

     More later . . . 
     And in the meantime, check out the new blog SageWoman's Fiber Fancies . . .