CHRISTMAS CHARITY CRAFTING

Today my mother, sister, and I took some of our handiwork to one of my favorite charities -- The League for Animal Welfare in Batavia, Ohio.  (Recycled Doggies has to get the #1 spot in my heart, for giving us St. Jimmi, but they both do tremendous work.)  For years now we've been donating craft items for the sale table at the annual Christmas party.  I must confess that I dropped the ball this year.  Usually I have at least a dozen little cross-stitch items that they can sell cheaply as stocking stuffers.  Because of my new-found knitting addiction, I only managed five items.  Luckily my mother and sister picked up the slack.

My mother made three of her small organizing totes in cat or dog fabric.  (I received one for Sweetest Day in a pattern of Airstream trailers.  Heaven...)  I use mine by my bedside to hold my iPod, lip balm, tissues, etc., all in handy little interior pockets.

My sister (The Inmates' Uncle Chester) provided handcrafted wire spiral bracelets with dog or cat charms.

She also donated handmade lever back earrings with beads and animal charms.  Other homemade-y goodness from Chester can be found in her Etsy shop here.

And then my donation, rather paltry this year.  I always do cross-stitch items and managed two holiday cards with needlework inserts, two cat-themed bookmarks, and a Scottie dog Christmas hand towel.  I swear in 2012 I'm gonna do one item a month so that I'm sure to have a nice group of items come November.

The Inmates always enjoy going to the League and seeing the animals.  We can only say "hi" to the dogs through glass, but we are free to wander in and play with kitties in the cat rooms.

Ack!  Not the Dooney!  That cat was loving
Grandma's purse strap.

 

I made the mistake of telling Foghorn that I've had my eye on a blue-tick coon hound mix named "Confetti" who looks a lot like our St. Jimmi and I want to adopt her so I'll have a set of bookends.  That led to Foghorn promising me everything under the sun if I'd take Confetti home today.  She doesn't realize that, despite my stern voice and practical arguments, I'm always dying to bring a new addition home and it was all I could do not to start filling out paperwork.  We have two cats and two dogs as it is.  One more critter, on top of the Inmates, would push The Vulcan over the edge.  (It might actually be fun to watch his breakdown.  Yet another reason to consider that dog...)


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SO MAD I COULD KNIT

I have often heard people, mostly on television, talk of finding stress relief in exercise.  Sadly for me, a brisk walk or workout with weights merely leaves me sweaty, hungry, and irritable.  I searched for stress relief in meditation as well, imagining myself as Dalai Lama-like in my peaceful bearing.  Didn't happen.   I have that inner-Rahm Emanuel problem and getting interrupted by screaming children in the middle of my meditation just left my blood pressure higher.  It is possible to find stress relief in pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream.  Sadly, this comes with the cost of looking like you ate a dairy cow...or two.

Doggie cross-stitch in-progress

So, what is a mother to do to clear the day's stresses from her mind, lower her shoulders from under her ears where they've been crunched all day in anger, and smooth the creases from her forehead?  Hmmmmm....I suggest a little crafting.  I've done more than my fair share of needlepoint and cross-stitch, particularly when making dog and cat themed items for the League for Animal Welfare's craft tables.  I've dabbled in latch hook rugs (a little too dull for my taste) and knitting looms (a little too limiting).  The favorite crafting meditation for me has been crocheting, which I've been doing for a good 30 years.

Yes, I learned pretty young.  I come from a crafty family, with both sister and mother outstanding in their own disciplines.  Fortunately, for gift-giving purposes, we all have different areas of expertise, and it's unlikely my sister and I will ever give my mother the same Mother's Day gift.  And my mother is the quilting queen, while my sister and I are nearly hopeless with a sewing machine.  It makes for a nice exchange of handmade goods over the years.  Even with a mother to dump my projects on (I mean give to), I found that I crocheted far more than I could possibly pass on to one poor woman, so I began making afghans for Project Linus.  There's nothing like blissing out with some yarn sliding through the fingers while watching television to melt the day's tensions like Ben & Jerry's ice cream on a summer day.

In the spring, though, I became obsessed with the idea of learning to knit, thanks mostly to the SouleMama blog.  As I read her daily postings, as well as years of archives that I'm still working through, I found myself itching to get some needles clacking.  (Besides, ever since I had my children, crochet hooks have reminded me of the big instrument they used to break my water.  Hardly a memory to relieve stress.)  The problem was, I had tried knitting before.  Granted I had been in high school, but I was already a fairly proficient crocheter at the time.  Knitting, on the other hand, just didn't seem to come naturally to me.  My mother had tried knitting around the same period and never quite got into it either.  And my sister, who has a closet overflowing with ribbons from county fairs, as well as the Ohio state fair, didn't get into knitting either.  My teenage attempts utterly failed.

Fast forward to 2011.  A year or so prior the aforementioned sister (known around here as The Inmates' Uncle Chester) took up knitting herself.  After the classic beginner's dishcloths were handed out to female relatives, she went on to knitting socks.  And they actually worked.  She made countless pairs of wool socks and one sock in particular, if left on the floor, proves irresistible to my hound dog and it has had chewed holes mended more than once.  What the heck?  If she could do it, I said with all the little sister arrogance I could muster, I could do it.

Armed with a couple sets of knitting needles, a hunk of acrylic yarn from my stash, and the book Stitch 'N Bitch by Debbie Stoller, I began.  (Given my personality, how could I not choose that book as my guide.)  My first attempt looked like something my hound dog had gotten hold of.  Somehow my stockinette stitch square had these holes in it and got narrower and narrower as it neared the top.  When I had only four stitches left on the needles, I knew I was doing something wrong.  That's when I hollered, "Thank God for YouTube!"  Countless online tutorials got me through the basics and then to some more complicated stitches, although my technique still needs a lot of work.

Is it just me or does that one on the right have nipples?

I began by making (what else?) the classic dishcloths.  I have a good eight of them now and they actually work quite nicely for scrubbing pans.  From there I graduated to blocks, making 9" x 9" squares in various stitches that could then be pieced together for a Project Linus afghan.  I tried to make a sweater for my hound dog, but, as is typical of me, I didn't bother to measure her, assuming the largest size in the pattern would fit her nicely.  It wasn't until I was halfway done that I realized it would never fit around my barrel-chested dog's body.  Unravel, unravel, unravel...  I say it like a mantra.

St. Jimmi rockin' her new sweater.

I did finally find an excruciatingly easy pattern, all in garter stitch, and thought the results weren't too bad.  In my previous attempt at the more complicated dog sweater pattern, I discovered my armholes need serious help...

I've finally gotten to the stage where knitting doesn't involve constant furrowing of brow as I hunch over instructions in my lap and constant unraveling.  I'm still slow, ungodly slow, but I've always been a slow crocheter as well.  But since I'm knitting for joy and not as part of a production line, who the hell cares?  I now have a new meditative craft!  I knit and purl and watch television in a kind of haze.  Certain types of programming work best.  Movies or shows that are intricate and have to be looked at constantly are no good, as knitting involves frequent glancing at the needles.  And I don't want the late news invading my happy meditative-space-with-yarn.  Old reruns of The Mary Tyler Moore Show and All in the Family are good.  The Partridge Family and The Brady Bunch transport me to my happy place all by themselves, so adding a little wool just improves the space.  Pawn Stars really works as well.  Thanks, Chumlee!

I'm still lacking enough confidence to put my works out into the world.  ("Out into the world" does not include giving to my mother, who thinks anything I do is brilliant.  Yeah, she's that kinda mom, bless her.)  I'm currently working on an afghan in bright blue yarn that seems to be shaping up pretty well and could just be my first knitting effort to be passed on to Linus... 

And so, tonight, after the children have gone to the finished basement for one of the last before-school-starts sleepovers on the sofa beds, I'm gonna relax in my wooly happy place.  I got the disc of Inglorious Basterds from Netflix today.  I've already seen it once, so it falls into that doesn't-require-too-much-concentration viewing category.  What?  Quentin Tarantino doesn't sound meditative?  Okay, maybe it's not light and frothy, but there's definitely an argument to be made for the feel-good power of watching Nazis get their comeuppance.





If you're interested in making the dog sweater, the free knitting pattern can be found here (you'll need to sign up for a free Lion Brand account) and you can see my notes on Ravelry.  The blue afghan is from the Project Linus website and the free knitting pattern can be found here.

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HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

On this windy and gray Valentine's Day, I thought it appropriate to spend a few moments talking about my guy, the one who makes it seem sunny even in weather like this.  I'm blessed that I share my life with someone who hates to see me walk out the door, can't wait for my return, and wants nothing more than to spend every waking hour in my presence.  And unlike most of the male species, he looks right into my eyes as I talk and listens attentively.  He is a comfort to me when I'm depressed, sharing my sorrow and my Ben and Jerry's ice cream.  He's with me in good times, sharing my joy and my Ben & Jerry's ice cream.  (See if you can guess what I eat when I'm excited, exhausted, or overwhelmed.)  He truly thinks I'm the smartest, most beautiful, most talented creature ever to walk the Earth.

My Valentine

Don't you wish you had a husband like that?  Me too, but while I'm waiting I'll settle for my beloved dog, Frank.  Unlike the machinations and effort that went into finding a husband, acquiring Frank was literally as easy as walking out my back door.  He turned up in the neighborhood one day, already neutered and wearing a choke chain around his neck without tags.  He was initially taken in by neighbors on the next street over whose kids had fallen in love with him.  He was scanned for a microchip and calls were placed to police stations and animal shelters and the SPCA and an ad placed in the paper but nobody came to claim him.  After a week it was obvious he'd been dumped.  I already had a beagle who was more trouble than six other dogs put together and a cat that had turned up at my door the previous Halloween.  I was eight months pregnant with child #2 and the last thing I needed was a dog, particularly one who followed me around and barked if left outside alone.  Somehow, as with the cat, he made his way in the front door and, like the cat, never managed to find his way back out.

Bailey with a pilferred loaf of bread

In the intervening years we lost the beagle to cancer but gained another cat who turned up in the driveway.  I also run a taxi service for Buddy, the golden lab who lives on the south end of the subdivision a mile away and comes to my house after roaming backyard mud puddles.  He gets a treat and a bowl of water and runs the yard with Frank before I pile him in the van and drive him home.

Baby Foghorn & Frank

I've never known what it's like to not have a dog in my face.  There are literally home movies of me as a newborn, lounging on a blanket on the living room floor with our dog, Penny, hanging over me and probably slobbering into my mouth.  I think dog slobber is the cure for any ailment and the gallons I've ingested over the decades probably contributes to my relative good health today (and perhaps my overwhelming desire to hang my head out the window when riding in a car).  Naturally I know of no other way to raise children, so Josh spent many of his early days on a blanket with a beagle nearby, periodically licking formula off his face and/or trying to run off with his baby bottle.  Sydney came into the world with two dogs staring down at her, as well as one cat.  My children know no fear of animals and, like their mother, want to take in any creature with four legs who looks in need of a meal.

Baby Professor & Bailey

The Professor

For Valentine's Day I decided to combine The Inmates' love of animals with my desire to cut back on the gifts they receive, especially after my son's Christmas declaration that his $250 iPod was going to be a "snoozefest."  Although he soon changed his mind on the merits of the iPod, I kept seeing my children as miniature Paris Hiltons -- overindulged, ungrateful, and self-centered.  I informed them last month that this Valentine's Day they'd receive only candy.  I took the amount of money I would have spent on  red and pink gifts and instead drove them to PetSmart where they picked out items to take to The League for Animal Welfare in Amelia.  The Professor was very thoughtful and took care to pick out just the right cans of dog food and cat food and kitty litter.  Foghorn found a stuffed dog squeaky toy which she wanted for herself and only grudgingly agreed to give to the shelter.  After picking out two bags of soft dog treats, she disappeared into the store with her grandmother.  I filled in the gaps on the League's wish list with a 6' nylon leash, a box of dog biscuits, and a large Nylabone.

The Inmates love going to the League's no-kill shelter.  It's like the Buckingham Palace of animal shelters.  It's clean and bright.  Each dog has his or her own kennel with a flap door that leads to an outside fenced area.  The cats are housed 6 to 8 to a room, with plenty of climbing apparatuses and beds and toys.  Each cat room also has a flap door that leads to a fenced-in area outside with a bird feeder in the grass, giving the cats plenty of visual stimulation.  For liability reasons we aren't allowed to handle the dogs unless one happens by on a leash, so we content ourselves with waving through the glass and reading their stories.  The cat rooms, though, are open to visitors and The Inmates get to pet, cuddle, and play with as many cats as they can possibly stand.

The Professor always feels slightly sad when we leave, wishing each dog and cat had a home.  He's comforted to know that the worst that could happen is that they'll spend their lives at the shelter and the conditions are so nice there are worse fates.  I know pets who have families who don't live in conditions nearly as nice.  I know some kids who don't either.

The Vulcan doesn't come on our shelter outings.  The Vulcan also didn't authorize me to bring in any of the pets we now have.  If I remember correctly each time I brought a new critter into the house he said something along the lines of, "Don't get used to that dog/cat.  We're not keeping it."  The fact is after nearly 17 years together he knows there's no point in trying to get rid of an animal I decide to take in.  He might as well try to get rid of one of my children.  (Depending on the day and their behavior I might let him.)  So, The Vulcan grumbles  about the cost of the vet  and laments the cat hair on his black sweat pants and complains about the dog sleeping on the sofa.   He whines about the muddy foot prints on the van seats and the nose prints on the front window and the fact that I let the dog ride with me when picking up creamy whip.  (The occasional hair in a chocolate shake never killed anyone.)  The Vulcan also pays for the vet bills, pays for the food, pays for the charitable donations, and still funds his wife's Dooney and Bourke addiction.  He ain't no Frank, but as men go I guess he's a keeper.

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