Meredith of One Sheepish Girl suggested that yarnbombers share their hearts this year. It was a great reason for me to do a little stashdiving and finish up a BikeBike sleeve that I'd started working on last year! If you spot one of these yarnbombs, please untie a bow and have a heart, or give one away.
#SheepishHeartBomb in Honolulu: love grows on trees (and in the vicinity of 808Urban)
#SheepishHeartBomb: it's raining hearts in Honolulu
There are several colorful (and one "manly") coaster in various locations around the house, used on a daily basis. Partly because they are cheerful and fun (except the "manly" coaster, that's just practical, ahem), and mostly because I'm clumsy and these coasters are also great for wiping up little spills.
These are also a nice way to use up odd bits of yarn. For this "manly" coaster I used the small skeins of kitchen cotton I had been using in dye experiments. The darker grey is dried kukui (Aleurites moluccana) leaf with iron mordant, and the lighter grey is fresh mint leaf with iron mordant.
"Nothing is carved in stone" - Dad's sense of humor here
Now I can tell Dad I put something around nothing, hahahahahaha - need any more proof I'm his daughter?
There are several handmade things that I use in my daily life, yet haven't been finding worthy of photos and blog posts, because they are so ordinary and so simple. Yet these are also the things that I use daily, like the kitchen towel hanging on the oven handle. My mother has crocheted dozens of these loops onto kitchen towels and gives most of them away; the drink coasters in the photo below are ones that I've made several of and which get tucked under glasses, mugs, and a teapot. Sometimes it's the little things that make a house a home.
Kitchen towel with crocheted hanging loop
To Be of Use
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.
Marge Piercy
Crochet drink coasters
Beach stones, ready to cover with crochet
Yesterday we packed up the office my father ran his business out of for 31 years. I've spent almost every Saturday for the past several years working there, sometimes other days as well, getting involved with every level of the business. When Dad went on vacation, I covered for him. When Dad got sick, I covered for him. When Mom was on vacation or out sick, I brought Dad sandwiches. When Dad was running just a little late in the morning, I would walk over to the bakery and get coffee. Growing up, there would be days where we met Dad at the office after work, did our homework, stood on a stool to help at the register, filed client cards, answered the phone. On a few occasions, I went to the office so I could type up my homework (yes kids, once upon a time, you had to turn in typewritten papers at school, banged out one letter at a time directly onto the paper).
Dad is not retiring just yet; moving out of this office is the first step in reducing the amount of time he spends commuting and working. Tomorrow I'll go back to the office with one of my sisters and we'll do some cleaning and take out the last of the boxes before Dad hands over the keys to the building manager, and that door will close behind us.
I'm waiting for the other door now, the one that proverbially opens as one closes. There may be many doors (at least one of them being not having to get up early on Saturday mornings).
"Nothing is carved in stone" - that'll be my Dad's sense of humor for you