Have I turned gray? Is my hair 1/3, 1/4, 3/4 gray!!??
Gee, I haven't seen my real hair color in about 15 years. I do notice that the hair along my temples is starting to be REALLY gray, though. I used to know when it was time to color my hair when those ash brown roots started to show. Now, however, those ash brown roots look alot like gray roots.
A colleague of mine let herself go gray a few years ago. No one knew how gray, how white, her hair was. She turned gray, she told me, when she was 22. So she'd been coloring even longer than me. It was a pretty dramatic change. She went from brown to absolutely white overnight. And looked fabulous.
This decision I am trying to make was probably prompted by the recession. I recently had to stop visiting my favorite hair salon for color. I was paying, with tips and waxing my eyebrows and upper lip, about $180 each time. That's about $180 every 2 months. My budget just won't support that. Those high lights and low lights were very luxuriant and a treat that until this year I have never been able to afford. And then the economy tanked and I needed to cut back spending and those expensive salon visits went first.
So I'm back to my familiar box colors.
One box every 6 weeks or so, with a touch up 3 weeks after... that's definitely do-able. I cautiously color my eyebrows at the same time. What a deal.
Except.. maybe it's time to go au naturelle. Is it time to let the real me show through? I like looking a little younger than 53... being overweight does have it's benefits... the wrinkles are plumped up. But is it time to stop using that familiar light ash brown shade of semi-permanent hair color, time to go gray? I was talking about this last week to my sister. My husband walked in, overheard, and chuckled. He tells me he wants more gray. People trust lawyers with gray in their hair he tells me.
Just the other day we were out and my husband saw a lovely woman in Costco. He casually remarked to me how he's always had a thing for young women who've gone gray.
"How young?" I ask him.
"Oh, about 50-ish," he replied.
I am married to the most absolutely wonderful man in the world.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Gordon
I look at my daughter's dog, Gordon, whom she's left with us. He's at least 17 years old. My aunt named him the week we got him, Gordon, because he's likely a Gordon Setter.
Gordon Setters are hunting dogs. They're meant to find birds hidden in brush and point them until the hunter sees the dog and fires. They're large dogs, the size of an Irish setter. My daughter was ten when her father took her to the SPCA to pick out a dog. We already had 2 dogs, but he thought she needed her own. Gordon was on doggie death row. He had less than 24 hours to live. And Katie fell in love with him and so he came home to became another member of our boisterous household. Our vet told us Gordon was at least 2 years old then.
From the beginning, Gordon wanted to leave.He ran away every time some child left the back gate open.He ran away whenever he could sneak his way out of Katie's grasp. He ran away and turned up miles from home over and over again . He loved, though, to hang out in the parking lot of our local Piggly Wiggly grocery store. "Partying at the Pig!" we used to laugh as we drove up to retrieve him. His favorite hang out.
Wikipedia gives us this: "The AKC describes the Gordon Setter temperament as "alert, gay, interested, and confident. He is fearless and willing, intelligent, and capable. He is loyal and affectionate, and strong-minded enough to stand the rigors of training." Gordons are intensely loyal to their owners; thrive in an attentive, loving environment; and are good family dogs."
Maybe Gordon isn't a Gordon Setter after all.
During my divorce, the children and I lived at the beach. We were 3 blocks from the small beachside downtown and the police station. Gordon would sneak out when someone forgot to lock the front porch door and head downtown. The police must have had my number on speed dial. Gordon was always turning up there. After the first few times, they stopped fining me. I'd show up after a phone call and the police officer on duty would take me to the back where Gordon would be resting in a large dog kennel just for the purpose of containing stray dogs.
I told them Gordon's story. How he had lived at the SPCA for a very long time before we got him. The police officer shook her head and smiled. "Incarceration syndrome," she said.
Wow. That explains alot. How, when we would pick him up from his wanderings after a call from a concerned citizen, Gordon would act like he didn't know us. "Are you sure this is your dog?" we were asked repeatedly.
And now he's old. And walking a little stiffly. When I wake up in the morning, I check him to see if he's breathing. He's deaf. He's lost weight. He doesn't grimace or make any noise when he gets up from his bed- where he lies most of the day- so I don't believe he's in pain. But boy, is he ever incontinent. I'm glad we have wooden floors. He doesn't know he's gone to the bathroom and the vet tells me it's because spinal arthritis is affecting important sphincters.
So the question invariably, every day is "Should I put him down?" Is being incontinent enough of a problem for him to warrant the 'blue juice'. I look at this dog whom I never really liked. This dog which I have taken to vets and hunted down after escapes. Which I have to bathe alot now. This dog which is sort of like a piece of furniture to us... just... there... not interacting more or less with us. I had just about talked myself into doing this thing when someone left the gate open.
At first I didn't know it. I came home from work and all of the dogs were home except for him. I convinced myself that Gordon had died under the house. I mentally prepared myself to crawl under there with a flashlight. Then there was a knock at the door. And the manager of our local Piggly Wiggly grocery store stood there. With Gordon on the end of a ribbon used for balloons.
"He's been hanging out in the parking lot," he told me, handing me the ribbon. "His address was on his tag."
Gordon looked happy. His tail was wagging. He was tired but rightfully so. I thanked the nice man and brought Gordon in. He might not have been happy to be home, but I like to think he was happy that he still had it in him.
Gordon Setters are hunting dogs. They're meant to find birds hidden in brush and point them until the hunter sees the dog and fires. They're large dogs, the size of an Irish setter. My daughter was ten when her father took her to the SPCA to pick out a dog. We already had 2 dogs, but he thought she needed her own. Gordon was on doggie death row. He had less than 24 hours to live. And Katie fell in love with him and so he came home to became another member of our boisterous household. Our vet told us Gordon was at least 2 years old then.
From the beginning, Gordon wanted to leave.He ran away every time some child left the back gate open.He ran away whenever he could sneak his way out of Katie's grasp. He ran away and turned up miles from home over and over again . He loved, though, to hang out in the parking lot of our local Piggly Wiggly grocery store. "Partying at the Pig!" we used to laugh as we drove up to retrieve him. His favorite hang out.
Wikipedia gives us this: "The AKC describes the Gordon Setter temperament as "alert, gay, interested, and confident. He is fearless and willing, intelligent, and capable. He is loyal and affectionate, and strong-minded enough to stand the rigors of training." Gordons are intensely loyal to their owners; thrive in an attentive, loving environment; and are good family dogs."
Maybe Gordon isn't a Gordon Setter after all.
During my divorce, the children and I lived at the beach. We were 3 blocks from the small beachside downtown and the police station. Gordon would sneak out when someone forgot to lock the front porch door and head downtown. The police must have had my number on speed dial. Gordon was always turning up there. After the first few times, they stopped fining me. I'd show up after a phone call and the police officer on duty would take me to the back where Gordon would be resting in a large dog kennel just for the purpose of containing stray dogs.
I told them Gordon's story. How he had lived at the SPCA for a very long time before we got him. The police officer shook her head and smiled. "Incarceration syndrome," she said.
Wow. That explains alot. How, when we would pick him up from his wanderings after a call from a concerned citizen, Gordon would act like he didn't know us. "Are you sure this is your dog?" we were asked repeatedly.
And now he's old. And walking a little stiffly. When I wake up in the morning, I check him to see if he's breathing. He's deaf. He's lost weight. He doesn't grimace or make any noise when he gets up from his bed- where he lies most of the day- so I don't believe he's in pain. But boy, is he ever incontinent. I'm glad we have wooden floors. He doesn't know he's gone to the bathroom and the vet tells me it's because spinal arthritis is affecting important sphincters.
So the question invariably, every day is "Should I put him down?" Is being incontinent enough of a problem for him to warrant the 'blue juice'. I look at this dog whom I never really liked. This dog which I have taken to vets and hunted down after escapes. Which I have to bathe alot now. This dog which is sort of like a piece of furniture to us... just... there... not interacting more or less with us. I had just about talked myself into doing this thing when someone left the gate open.
At first I didn't know it. I came home from work and all of the dogs were home except for him. I convinced myself that Gordon had died under the house. I mentally prepared myself to crawl under there with a flashlight. Then there was a knock at the door. And the manager of our local Piggly Wiggly grocery store stood there. With Gordon on the end of a ribbon used for balloons.
"He's been hanging out in the parking lot," he told me, handing me the ribbon. "His address was on his tag."
Gordon looked happy. His tail was wagging. He was tired but rightfully so. I thanked the nice man and brought Gordon in. He might not have been happy to be home, but I like to think he was happy that he still had it in him.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Jess
My friend Jess is dying. She has leukemia and is 84 years old. I look at the web page from the National Institute of Cancer, Leukemia and read the list of symptoms which I realize have been plaguing her for months: shortness of breath, unwanted weight loss, bruising and poorly healing cuts, aching joints. It all makes sense now. Her doctor has told her to take care of all the things that need taking care of. He told her to live for today so now she isn't planning to take that Jamaica trip in March to see her grandson married.
She asked our knitting group tonight if we had a pattern for a baby blanket. Her grandson wants to start a family right away. It's taken her months to complete a small washcloth; her joints are terribly inflamed and she only knits, I think, when she joins us on Mondays for our group. I don't know how she'll get a baby blanket finished. But some of the members (are they oblivious to what's happening, I wonder?) gave her ideas for yarn and needle size.
She has been our dynamic member of the knitting group. With women in the group aged 28-87, she is one of the most active. Jess belongs to hat clubs and charity groups. She lunches regularly with friends. She's adopted a puppy. She bakes thousands of specialty Italian cookies for family and friends every Christmas.
Tonight she was tearful as she told me that the doctors haven't been very optimistic, but they're not telling her a definite prognosis. She knows it isn't good. And she said to me tonight, "I don't know why this has to be so undignified. Why can't this just get done with?" Why indeed?
I threw a few platitudes at her. I'm ashamed of myself for it. "Your children are glad you're here," I said. She leveled a Jess gaze at me. 'That's for them,' I think I read her mind. 'That's just delaying the inevitable. And making what time I have miserable and desperate. Can you see my desperation? How I'm barely holding on here? How I'm dragging myself to this group of women who pretend nothing is wrong so that I can live, for 2 hours, without this demon sitting on top of my chest?' But of course, classy Jess says none of this.
I wanted, though, to hand her a pill. In a gilded pillbox, befitting her elegant nature.
I wanted to be able to tell her, "Jess, this is for you. You know what it's for. Use it as you will." And then she would smile at me and take it in her frail, gnarled hand. I wanted to give her what she wants.
Instead, I'll be looking for a baby blanket pattern. And maybe finishing it for her when March rolls around.
She asked our knitting group tonight if we had a pattern for a baby blanket. Her grandson wants to start a family right away. It's taken her months to complete a small washcloth; her joints are terribly inflamed and she only knits, I think, when she joins us on Mondays for our group. I don't know how she'll get a baby blanket finished. But some of the members (are they oblivious to what's happening, I wonder?) gave her ideas for yarn and needle size.
She has been our dynamic member of the knitting group. With women in the group aged 28-87, she is one of the most active. Jess belongs to hat clubs and charity groups. She lunches regularly with friends. She's adopted a puppy. She bakes thousands of specialty Italian cookies for family and friends every Christmas.
Tonight she was tearful as she told me that the doctors haven't been very optimistic, but they're not telling her a definite prognosis. She knows it isn't good. And she said to me tonight, "I don't know why this has to be so undignified. Why can't this just get done with?" Why indeed?
I threw a few platitudes at her. I'm ashamed of myself for it. "Your children are glad you're here," I said. She leveled a Jess gaze at me. 'That's for them,' I think I read her mind. 'That's just delaying the inevitable. And making what time I have miserable and desperate. Can you see my desperation? How I'm barely holding on here? How I'm dragging myself to this group of women who pretend nothing is wrong so that I can live, for 2 hours, without this demon sitting on top of my chest?' But of course, classy Jess says none of this.
I wanted, though, to hand her a pill. In a gilded pillbox, befitting her elegant nature.
I wanted to be able to tell her, "Jess, this is for you. You know what it's for. Use it as you will." And then she would smile at me and take it in her frail, gnarled hand. I wanted to give her what she wants.
Instead, I'll be looking for a baby blanket pattern. And maybe finishing it for her when March rolls around.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Are You Hungry?
Today on page 5A of our Charleston Post and Courier newspaper reads a headline, “1 billion suffering from hunger”. It lies next to a ¾ color advertisement from one of the 2 most expensive furniture stores in the region announcing “Casual Lifetime Furniture” and a picture of a dining room set selling for $2999. I read this while I sat in my modest but comfortable home in a safe neighborhood enjoying my central air conditioning as I ate my breakfast of cornflakes, juice and cold milk.
I wondered then if I was the only person struck by the irony of the placement of these two items.
Yesterday I talked with Dr. Charlene Pope at the Medical University of SC’s College of Nursing about what direction I should take as I think about trying to enter the PhD program at that school. My interest has evolved into healthcare institution communication among caregivers and I don’t want to focus on America but on a more global scale. Perhaps that’s why my attention went to the headline and I stayed on to read the article.
Are we so calloused to headlines that we don’t take time to read the content? Does anyone give any pause when they are exposed to situations very foreign to our existence? And if we do take a minute, does anyone do something more than ‘cluck’ their tongue and move on? What if we sent one penny to an agency to buy food and distribute it. What if everyone in the world with any disposable income donated one penny to an agency we trusted to feed children and women and men who were dying, DYING, because they couldn’t have a breakfast. Couldn’t have a meal for days and weeks and then…
Would it feed our souls if we fed someone else?
Are you hungry today?
I wondered then if I was the only person struck by the irony of the placement of these two items.
Yesterday I talked with Dr. Charlene Pope at the Medical University of SC’s College of Nursing about what direction I should take as I think about trying to enter the PhD program at that school. My interest has evolved into healthcare institution communication among caregivers and I don’t want to focus on America but on a more global scale. Perhaps that’s why my attention went to the headline and I stayed on to read the article.
Are we so calloused to headlines that we don’t take time to read the content? Does anyone give any pause when they are exposed to situations very foreign to our existence? And if we do take a minute, does anyone do something more than ‘cluck’ their tongue and move on? What if we sent one penny to an agency to buy food and distribute it. What if everyone in the world with any disposable income donated one penny to an agency we trusted to feed children and women and men who were dying, DYING, because they couldn’t have a breakfast. Couldn’t have a meal for days and weeks and then…
Would it feed our souls if we fed someone else?
Are you hungry today?
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Just a look
This past week I drove through the ghetto on the way to my daughter's house. Her new digs are on the other side of a rough section of town. It's not unusual to see homeless people hanging outside one of the Mom and Pop grocery stores that line this section of her street. Not unusual to see women walking the sidewalks in very high heels and very short skirts... even during the middle of the day.
It had been raining. Alot. In our town if it rains for 30 minutes and it's high tide, lots of streets flood. And so my daughter's street, with several low spots anyway, was flooded. Up to the door handles of my car.
I took several side streets and came back to the main street where I knew the ground was higher and I found myself at a corner at a stop light. Then I saw her. And she saw me.
There have been only a few occasions in my life when I've met someone and had an instant connection. In the nursery of the hospital where I work I held a baby who's mother had given him up for adoption. He lifted his head and stared right inside of me and I called my husband to tell him I was bringing this child home. (I didn't..couldn't... but if I were single......) I met my best friend when she was lost and knocked on the door of my husband's business. We were fast friends immediately. And my friend Hendrien from Holland- that's how we all know her- and I sat next to each other one day at the beach while we watched the Space Shuttle take off 45 miles away and have remained great friends for 27 years.
But I was stunned this week when I turned my head and saw a woman, very unlike myself, that I felt I already knew. She wore a short red dress and stiletto heels not meant for walking. She was standing in front of a lake of water.
She stared back. I don't know what she saw when she looked at me. An older, overweight white lady, probably lost in a part of town that white, middle class women don't visit? Someone driving when she had to walk? A lady who could afford nice clothes and a nice house to drive home to? I briefly thought, "I live a life she couldn't imagine living."
And what did I see? A girl trying to make a living. A woman trying to cross a lake of water. A prostitute who might be on drugs. But the look in her eyes, the soul I thought I saw, will haunt me.
I should have stopped my car and offered this woman a ride. If she needed help to get out of the life I thought she was in, I should have offered it to her. Based on nothing more than a poignant glance, I was ready to change my life and maybe hers. In a blink of an eye I thought I might be able to help.
I knew this person. She could be me.
Then the light changed and I drove through the intersection slowly. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw my missed friend get into a man's car. And drive away.
It had been raining. Alot. In our town if it rains for 30 minutes and it's high tide, lots of streets flood. And so my daughter's street, with several low spots anyway, was flooded. Up to the door handles of my car.
I took several side streets and came back to the main street where I knew the ground was higher and I found myself at a corner at a stop light. Then I saw her. And she saw me.
There have been only a few occasions in my life when I've met someone and had an instant connection. In the nursery of the hospital where I work I held a baby who's mother had given him up for adoption. He lifted his head and stared right inside of me and I called my husband to tell him I was bringing this child home. (I didn't..couldn't... but if I were single......) I met my best friend when she was lost and knocked on the door of my husband's business. We were fast friends immediately. And my friend Hendrien from Holland- that's how we all know her- and I sat next to each other one day at the beach while we watched the Space Shuttle take off 45 miles away and have remained great friends for 27 years.
But I was stunned this week when I turned my head and saw a woman, very unlike myself, that I felt I already knew. She wore a short red dress and stiletto heels not meant for walking. She was standing in front of a lake of water.
She stared back. I don't know what she saw when she looked at me. An older, overweight white lady, probably lost in a part of town that white, middle class women don't visit? Someone driving when she had to walk? A lady who could afford nice clothes and a nice house to drive home to? I briefly thought, "I live a life she couldn't imagine living."
And what did I see? A girl trying to make a living. A woman trying to cross a lake of water. A prostitute who might be on drugs. But the look in her eyes, the soul I thought I saw, will haunt me.
I should have stopped my car and offered this woman a ride. If she needed help to get out of the life I thought she was in, I should have offered it to her. Based on nothing more than a poignant glance, I was ready to change my life and maybe hers. In a blink of an eye I thought I might be able to help.
I knew this person. She could be me.
Then the light changed and I drove through the intersection slowly. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw my missed friend get into a man's car. And drive away.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Yacht Club
Last night my husband and I went to a party on the river. We were celebrating a friend's completion of his medical residency and the party was held at a small
yacht club on our island. In fact, the only yacht club on our island.
Not a fancy place. Almost anyone can rent the club for events. My first husband belonged to this place we kiddingly called, the Redneck Boat Club. To join you have to have a white penis. That's right. No women are allowed to join. And no one of color belongs to this club.
My first husband loved going here, even though he would not think of himself as racist or sexist. The club is simple- a bar and a small event room and a sun porch. The grounds are large and you can store your boat there. But it's the fabulous access to Charleston's harbor that probably drew him and kept him there.
Easy access to the water. Sailing lessons for members' kids. Playgrounds and boats everywhere and kayaks and a small sandy beach. A long dock to fish and crab from. Bicycling distance from the house. My children spent many hours at this place.
And I never once felt I belonged. And of course, I didn't.
Every Friday night for years, my husband and I went to this club for a cocktail hour and raffle for which you had to be present to win. I silently fought myself every Friday night about going to the club. I disliked the politics and the beliefs of almost everyone at that club. But my husband wanted me to go with him and the children- who got to play with their friends at night at the river- on these Friday nights. And being a wife who was still trying to make that marriage work, I went along.
And I actually talked myself into it for a while. Smiling at the ladies there with their husbands. Compromising my ideas about equality and fairness. About what kind of wife and mother and woman I wanted to be. Trying to belong when very clearly I didn't. Until I just gave it all up.
Last night I sat on the dock with a different husband. But not with a different me. Perhaps a truer me. Definitely a more contented me.
Compromises. Hopefully they don't damage you too badly while they're teaching you a lesson.
yacht club on our island. In fact, the only yacht club on our island.
Not a fancy place. Almost anyone can rent the club for events. My first husband belonged to this place we kiddingly called, the Redneck Boat Club. To join you have to have a white penis. That's right. No women are allowed to join. And no one of color belongs to this club.
My first husband loved going here, even though he would not think of himself as racist or sexist. The club is simple- a bar and a small event room and a sun porch. The grounds are large and you can store your boat there. But it's the fabulous access to Charleston's harbor that probably drew him and kept him there.
Easy access to the water. Sailing lessons for members' kids. Playgrounds and boats everywhere and kayaks and a small sandy beach. A long dock to fish and crab from. Bicycling distance from the house. My children spent many hours at this place.
And I never once felt I belonged. And of course, I didn't.
Every Friday night for years, my husband and I went to this club for a cocktail hour and raffle for which you had to be present to win. I silently fought myself every Friday night about going to the club. I disliked the politics and the beliefs of almost everyone at that club. But my husband wanted me to go with him and the children- who got to play with their friends at night at the river- on these Friday nights. And being a wife who was still trying to make that marriage work, I went along.
And I actually talked myself into it for a while. Smiling at the ladies there with their husbands. Compromising my ideas about equality and fairness. About what kind of wife and mother and woman I wanted to be. Trying to belong when very clearly I didn't. Until I just gave it all up.
Last night I sat on the dock with a different husband. But not with a different me. Perhaps a truer me. Definitely a more contented me.
Compromises. Hopefully they don't damage you too badly while they're teaching you a lesson.
Friday, June 5, 2009
My safe word is "Purl"
I have a curiosity about lifestyles very different from mine. I love the idea of communal living. I am perversely intrigued by the concept of sister-wives found in polygamous marriages. And S&M holds me fascinated.
So I was at knitting tonight. My Odd Friday Night Unitarian Universalist Knitting Group. Six of us who get together for hours of hilarious and warm conversation. Somehow we started talking about yarn which felt like we were knitting with steel wool and how only masochists would like this yarn and if we knitted something WITH this yarn we'd have to include handcuffs and the knitter would have to have a "safe word." In S&M circles, a "safe word" is given when the sexual play becomes a little too rough or scary- a word which can't be misinterpreted to mean anything other than "STOP." "NOW!"
I've been thinking about friendships alot lately. About what makes friends and how friends are made.
I'm lucky to have this knitting group. They're my friends. Good friends. We may have started as a church connected group, but we have gone way past that. Initially our UU church-related commonalities gave us a jumping off point. Our conversations, however, have become threads which we gently unravel from each others' lives. We don't indulge in pseudo-psychoanalysis. And we don't bare our deepest, darkest souls to one another while we sip lattes at our coffee house meeting place. But we share concerns about our families, hopes for our careers, children problems and parent problems and travel plans and, yes, knitting patterns.
Thisis the group of people to whom I'd turn to at 3 am in an emergency- (the 3 am call is my bellwether for defining friendships). I'd call these friends if and when I need moral support. If my car broke down and I couldn't find a ride. If I needed an air mattress for an out-of-town guest. If I need a recipe for an appetizer.
We knit and we laugh and we drink tea about every other Friday night. These nights appear in my busy life as a respite. I can count on finding a haven from chaos at least every other week.
When the world is spinning almost out of control, I know I can count on these Fridays when I can be myself with liberal, like-minded folk who share a love of knitting and good conversation. In a sometimes scary and rough world, the Friday Night Knitters are my oacis.
My 'safe word' is "Purl".
So I was at knitting tonight. My Odd Friday Night Unitarian Universalist Knitting Group. Six of us who get together for hours of hilarious and warm conversation. Somehow we started talking about yarn which felt like we were knitting with steel wool and how only masochists would like this yarn and if we knitted something WITH this yarn we'd have to include handcuffs and the knitter would have to have a "safe word." In S&M circles, a "safe word" is given when the sexual play becomes a little too rough or scary- a word which can't be misinterpreted to mean anything other than "STOP." "NOW!"
I've been thinking about friendships alot lately. About what makes friends and how friends are made.
I'm lucky to have this knitting group. They're my friends. Good friends. We may have started as a church connected group, but we have gone way past that. Initially our UU church-related commonalities gave us a jumping off point. Our conversations, however, have become threads which we gently unravel from each others' lives. We don't indulge in pseudo-psychoanalysis. And we don't bare our deepest, darkest souls to one another while we sip lattes at our coffee house meeting place. But we share concerns about our families, hopes for our careers, children problems and parent problems and travel plans and, yes, knitting patterns.
Thisis the group of people to whom I'd turn to at 3 am in an emergency- (the 3 am call is my bellwether for defining friendships). I'd call these friends if and when I need moral support. If my car broke down and I couldn't find a ride. If I needed an air mattress for an out-of-town guest. If I need a recipe for an appetizer.
We knit and we laugh and we drink tea about every other Friday night. These nights appear in my busy life as a respite. I can count on finding a haven from chaos at least every other week.
When the world is spinning almost out of control, I know I can count on these Fridays when I can be myself with liberal, like-minded folk who share a love of knitting and good conversation. In a sometimes scary and rough world, the Friday Night Knitters are my oacis.
My 'safe word' is "Purl".
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