Try as I might, I don’t always stay positive. Some days it is difficult not to be disappointed by the behavior of some people’s children. Remembering that we are all some people’s children, including those who qualify as adults are still some people’s children. Yesterday was a case in point.

I love spring. I don’t like the spring post-snow-melt cleanup. Really. Our city is an absolute mess. It makes me sad and angry all at the same time. Every spring there is a letter in the paper from the same woman who wants to know what the city is doing about the mess. My response has been to ask why citizens have not learned to throw trash out the window. I have all I can do to restrain myself from walking through the neighborhood with the biggest trash bag I can find to pick up all the mess on the medians, particularly at the traffic lights. No, this is not a job I can do on my own.

However, there is a task I do daily.

Since we have a large empty lot, it needs looking after every day, even more so at this time of year and post windstorms. I spent an hour and a half on the first cleanup, an hour and ten minutes yesterday. The worst? Things that are personal, like masks, dirty diapers, and now, on the rare occasion, a used condom.

I don’t usually count, but yesterday’s haul was a baker’s dozen masks and a dirty diaper. This, after I had already done the initial post-snow-melt cleanup not too long ago. Since the advent of mask-wearing, it seems that there are those who simply remove their masks and toss them anywhere. Like plastic bags, masks blow around. The elastic gets tangled in bushes, even on weeds. There were so many masks, I had to count. The usual number is closer to six. I don’t understand why a mask can’t go in the trash if it is not longer wanted. At the moment, I have several masks in the car, some of which could be tossed. Nevertheless, I don’t toss them out the window.

Cigarette butts are another cause for thought. I am confident that nowhere in “lets learn to smoke” groups does anyone discuss what to do with the butt. No one smoker teaches another how to field dress a cigarette. I learned this from our training at the local Renaissance Faire, others learn it when they join the military. Having once done a neighborhood cleanup with a veteran who insisted that every cigarette butt gets into the trash bag, I have gotten really good with my nifty nabber trash picker-upper. Once I sat at a red light, idly watching someone at a bus shelter. He finished his cigarette, got up, walked to the gutter, and tossed the butt. He had been sitting right next to a trash can. He could have ensured the cigarette was out and reached over to deposit it in the can. I shake my head.

The whole experience drove me over the edge yesterday. I. Was. So. Angry. Not only did I have to contend with the litterbugs, but with a whole section of erosion barrier surrounding the lot that somehow disappeared in the night. Really. There is about a 30 foot gap on one side. A two inch deep furrow now exists where someone had to dig under the barrier to free the fabric. Then, of course, I had to deal with The Hubs and his reaction. It was not good. It never is. I shall spare you the details, dear reader.

Between the discovery and dealing with The Hubs stood the day. I went to the gym feeling despair about the human race in general. In the world, I had to see the mess that is too much for one person. In the gym, there are those who finish with a machine and leave. The expectation, the culture of this particular gym is that you finish, then use the spray and wipes provided to wipe your machine before you leave. Rack your weights? Not always. Throw your empty shampoo bottles in the trash? No. Leave them in the shower for someone else to manage. After all, that’s why there is a cleaning crew. They get paid to do this. In the library, don’t log off, simply push the button and turn the computer off. Why wait while the computer processes a logoff command?

You can see, dear reader, that I am devolving into a rant.

What I did yesterday was to eschew the treadmill and get to every machine that I normally use over a two visit routine when I include the treadmill. I loaded up the weights and worked hard. A good sweat helped with the anger. I am still disappointed in humanity. The gloomy cloud still hangs overhead, but luckily, it is considerably less dark than it was yesterday. A library friend once commiserated, saying that some people’s children have no home training. In our city, where the teen pregnancy rate has been incredibly high for the past 20+ years, babies have been raised by babies. Should we be surprised, then, if babies throw bags of trash out the window of the car or exhibit other asocial behaviors? We have generations of children who have not grown up.

No, I can’t change the world. I can change my attitude.

Strangely enough, encouragement came from an article in today’s sports section of the paper. While it has little to do with hope and despair, nothing to do with dealing with the world, it does have to do with attitude and connection to the moment, and in that, I have taken some comfort. I am not a huge basketball fan. I came to it far too late. However, I have come to appreciate the Bucks Giannis Antetokounmpo. While I can appreciate his ability on the court, it is his presence off the court that means more to me. I found comfort in his comments about being in the moment. He came to the NBA after a childhood selling pencils on the streets of Athens, Greece. He’s claimed by three continents: Africa, Europe, and North America. The people of a small-market city claim him as their own, yet hold their collective breaths knowing that while he calls Milwaukee home and signed the big contract claiming Milwaukee home, he will eventually be lured away to a bigger market. What makes this 27year old so special is his attitude. On the court he is a chest-thumping passionate basketball player. Off the court, he stresses humility and gratitude. How can one not appreciate that?

So today I take a page from Giannis’ book and focus on the moment. I can’t do much more than what I already do, though there is more to be done. I cannot call out everyone who tosses trash, doesn’t clean his machine, or shuts down a computer, but I can recognize the the moment. Maybe in my heart I can forgive. Maybe I can take my mental hands off the metaphoric throat of the offender, recognize the moment and move on. That might be some sort of patronizing, priggish sense of noblesse oblige or maybe that’s a survival skill. I shall have to ponder this.

I came across a portion of former president Obama’s discussion at the University of Chicago’s conference on the effects of disinformation* on the TV news. In the CNN clip, Mr. Obama said that the conflict in Ukraine is a bracing reminder for democracies that had gotten flabby and confused and feckless around the stakes of things that we tended to take for granted,” including the United States.

On one hand, Obama said what has been on my mind for the past five or six years. My fears have centered around the idea that there is so much “wrong” out there in media-land, that we no longer fight it. Yes, there is a difference between mis- and dis- information. The difference is plain for those who think about it. On the other hand, we have, I suspect, fewer and fewer people who think about it. I could be wrong. I hope so. It might be that those who are doing the thinking are outnumbered and shouted down by the nattering nabobs of disinformation. I’m thinking of Qanon followers here.

Still, Anne Applebaum, author of Twilight of Democracy, the seductive lure of Authoritarianism, points out in the same conference that “disinformation has always been with us, and how technology has made the work of would-be demagogues easier.

In the 1980s, when the Soviet Union wanted to create disinformation, they built a case over several years. Now they can do exactly the same thing, except it takes 10 minutes,” said Applebaum, a winner of the Pulitzer Prize. “This is the dark side of globalization. We all now live in the same information market.”

Actually, I think Soviet disinformation has been around a lot longer than her comments about the 1980s. Given that Ms. Applebaum was born in 1964, she didn’t live through the time where the Soviets doctored photographs to eliminate people who had become persona non gratia n the party. It became a running joke. How could the Soviets claim that the uses of electricity were discovered by a little old lady in Leningrad? We even saw echoes of Soviet Russia taking credit for gains in technology in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn, when ensign Chekov talked about something being invented by “a little old lady in Leningrad.” The old series The Man From U.N.C.L.E was tongue-in-cheek rife with these references–and we even saw some of these in the feature film of the same title in 2015. It is true that Ms. Applebaum is a strong researcher of things Soviet, but in this moment, she may have engaged in a tad bit of misinformation. It’s easily done in the pressure of public speaking.

Still, she is correct in saying that it takes only a few minutes now to globalize a lie. Besides text, the process of altering photos and video is done far more easily and far better than it was done in the 1950s.

It is also incredibly easy to get off the track here. In the end, I believe President Obama is correct. Those of us not in the arena need to speak up. We need to make connections to oppose disinformation as much as we can in order to protect what we have in the way of democracy. This is an incredibly difficult job these days, when those who fear to relinquish their white, nominally Christian power have louder voices. In this discussion, Obama pointed out research that showed how the attitudes of perpetual FOX News viewers changed when their diet of information-gathering changed. Would that more of that could be possible.

Even I, in the moment, chose to escape thinking about this any more. I riffed, instead, on the word “feckless.” For a bit of time, I wondered whether we had a word, “feck,” in order to have the word “feckless.” (Much like whether there was a word “ruth” in order to have “ruthless.”) Of such moments is my habit of avoiding hard thinking made of. It’s like considering the misinformation of a local weather report that might predict sunny and warm weather today. If the weather is actually cool and cloudy with threats of rain, has the forecaster lied? No. He simply made an educated guess that turned out to be wrong.

On the other hand, disinformation is deliberate. It is putting out there that no, Russia is merely staging exercises and has no intention of invading Ukraine. No, Russia has not lost Kiev, she is merely moving on to focus on the areas of the Donbas. Oh, and no, there have been minimal fatalities among Russian troops. Certainly. And Hilary Clinton heads up a group of cannibalistic pedophiles operating out of a pizza place in D.C.. Moreover, I shall be voted Ms. America tomorrow and pose for an O magazine cover next week .

I suspect that disinformation is here to stay. When we can manipulate minds so quickly and easily, why would that change? How can we counter something so pernicious? I sometimes despair that it is no longer the case that we shall know the truth and the truth shall make us free. When even the term “alternative facts” becomes commonplace, where do we go to discover the facts?

*https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2022/04/barack-obama-interview-disinformation-ukraine/629496/

Ken Burns’ documentary on Benjamin Franklin has aired the past two nights; it has been an interesting encounter. I knew a lot about Franklin’s experience during the time of the revolution and in the Continental Congress, about his writing of Poor Richard’s Almanac, and of course, about the kite experiment, but I am happy to have learned more. Yes, he was charming and enamored of the ladies, but I didn’t know much at all about his personal life. I didn’t know about his son, William, who remained a loyalist throughout the American Revolution and, on behalf of the crown, terrorized the people of New Jersey during the war. That, and much else was new information.

The extent of Franklin’s science experiments was also interesting, as was his resistance to patenting his inventions in the spirit of benefitting others rather than simply making a profit for himself. That he charted what we now know of the Gulf Stream was also news to me. All in all, Franklin was a singular person.

I have read enough history to know how the southern states manipulated the writing of the Constitution, holding the union hostage in order to maintain their economy based on the enslavement of Africans. Without the south, the union could not have come about. Yes, Franklin held five people in slavery–something more I did not know—but he could see where the union needed the south in order to exist. Over time, Franklin evolved into a leader in the Philadelphia Abolition Society, and cleverly published a letter to The Federal Gazette parodying the southerners’ rationalization of their use of enslaved people by flipping the script, having Muslims enslave Christians, justifying their use in a similar manner. *

Still, I was struck by the argument that the federal government could not address the issue of slavery. The government passed the buck, saying that it was a states’ rights issue. Is this because so many of the founders were slaveowners themselves or was this because they simply didn’t want to deal with it? I vaguely remember reading something to the effect that Franklin, among others, thought that slavery could be eliminated gradually and legally. As I write and search, I can see that this single issue is the irony of our founding: that we can write that “all men are created equal” and still allow slavery is monumental enough that it is difficult to address here. **

Nevertheless, I made the cognitive leap from slavery to women’s rights. Though the Supreme Court ruled that abortion is legal in Roe v. Wade, the battle continues under the banner of states’ rights. Moreover, we must also battle for the right to have access to birth control. It was interesting to discover just the other day, that there was someone else (besides my son) who does not patronize Chic Fil-A, the Hobby Lobby, or Home Depot because of their stance on women’s rights. Really, they don’t need my hard-earned dollars, I don’t care how good that restaurant smells when I leave the gym.

Finally, the few hours spent watching yet another Ken Burns documentary were worth it. The next, exploring the actions of the United States during the Holocaust should be revelatory. There is much for which this country should be accountable. I am hoping we can do better in this current crisis in Ukraine.

*https://sniggle.net/historicus.php

**https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/founding-fathers-and-slaveholders-72262393/

I have been diligent about getting to the gym at least three times a week. Little by little I have been making progress. At first, just doing 30 minutes on the treadmill was a chore. I had to use the old-lady shower stall post-workout, and even, at one point, take advantage of the pull down seat. I have to confess I was pooped. I felt embarrassed and ashamed, but determined to hang in there. These days, I spend time on the treadmill and add at least five other weight machines. Yesterday, I tried the elliptical again.

The elliptical is a pig. The first time I tried it, about six weeks ago, it was a disaster. I could hardly get the flywheel going, and frankly, I felt that my knees were up around my ears, my core was so floppy. I spent about a minute just trying to figure out how to get the thing going. Post failure, I debriefed with a friend who has always been a gym rat. What was I doing wrong? Nothing, actually. I simply didn’t have the oomph to get things going. Yesterday was a small triumph. Not only did I easily get the elliptical going, but I managed some time–how ever small—before I felt my knee start to bother. With that concern, I stopped, but I am encouraged. If I work more on the lateral sides of my knees, I might find myself able to go longer than a few minutes. I am envious of those on the ellipticals who simply churn away for long stretches of time. They make it look so easy.

Nevertheless, I refuse to fall into the trap of comparing my efforts to those of others. This much I know: I don’t have to be the best. I simply have to be better than I was the last time I was at the gym. I the time I have been taking advantage of my Silver Sneakers membership, I have made progress. My doc is proud of me. My friends are proud and so am I. I am one feisty old lady lately and more often than not, I feel the swagger. With that said, I am looking forward to Monday’s trip to the gym.

Yes, the focus on searching for the right essays to revisit is still on. On the other hand, the Hubs (bless his heart) has clarified his thinking on flags. Make flags to share with friends to show support. No, he did not intend for me to think that he wanted a cottage industry. On the other hand, you could have fooled me. This makes me very happy. I knit warm things to give away to either friends or to pass on to services that will get them to people who need them. I simply enjoy giving things that might be useful to someone. So huzzah for all of that.

Moreover, this means that I will have the chance to enjoy making flags without sacrificing the other parts of my life that I enjoy–the gym, the library, coffee with friends. Color me with a smile in my heart. And yes, I will enjoy the sewing. It might help me get my mojo back after the great Le Bête debacle of 2020. I certainly have enough things I have to alter, given my latest body shrinkage. (also a huzzah for all of that).

Today, I am short on time, I admit. The Hubs finally got his COVID booster, which meant time in the local clinic. Then he decided he wanted to go grocery shopping, a task he had delegated to me given his deteriorating heart. Ok, thinks I, how long can this take? Four hours later, we got home. It turns out that he was pursuing a particular bargain, and when said bargain was not available at location #1, we set out for location #2, across town. I am grateful that location #2 had what he wanted. I was not looking forward to location #3. Imagine a right triangle, with #1 and #2 as the legs and #3 as the hypotenuse. Yes, I like to drive, but this was beginning to feel a little ridiculous. When we got home, dear Hubs admitted he was more tired than usual. Do you think? That was the most he has walked in weeks. No wonder he is tired.

Of course, it could also be a side effect of the vaccination.

Nevertheless, here I am in the library, enjoying a little time among the books, the computers, and the staff. Right where I like to be. I admit I am a little tired as well. It is more difficult for me to walk slowly than it is for me to be quicker about it.

Or it could be that I stayed up late to watch the Oscars.

In the end, life is good and I am grateful. All is for the best, for the moment, in this best of all possible worlds.

Life is what happens when we make other plans. At the moment, I am looking at the entirety of this blog and thinking about how I might revise, review, then submit some of these better entries into a publication elsewhere. I have had a few other things published, writing on demand for both national and state music educators magazines, so I think it is possible to try again. Out of 678 entries here, there might be a few worth expanding on.

Then there is the latest project, initiated by the Hubs and now delegated to me to work on: Ukrainian flags. Ok. I have had some experience in flag making and know some of the ins and outs of making banners. Been there. Done that. If I can get this under way, I want the profits to go to Ukrainian relief. The Hubs would like to make that 50% of the profits. We are still talking that one over. Since it is I who am doing the work, I think I should be able to determine the percentage. We shall see where this goes. I suspect that if the Hubs has his way, this will simply be a cottage business for a while.

On the other hand, there is what I have come to enjoy as my daily routine. I have discovered I like going to the gym, then to the library and then wherever my little heart desires. Coffee with friends? You bet. Within my window of my time, let’s go! I have to consider how much of that time I might lose with this other effort. Change is difficult. Many years ago I engaged in an interesting on-air interview with the NPR program Planet Money. Our topic: turning a hobby into a business. I had considered starting to make clothes for plus-sized women. I thought it was a good idea for a retirement project, but then, after talking with the Planet Money people, decided against it. Frankly, I have little fashion sense and my son has implied that my color sense is worse.

Sigh.

Back to the drawing board.

Flags, particularly two color flags, are relatively easy. I know what I need to do is keep track of my time, then figure time plus materials into the pricing. But on the other hand, how to market all of this? I am beginning to feel like Tevye the milkman: on one hand; but on the other hand; but on the other hand. I think, in the end, I shall dive into this with some help on the marketing end. Certainly there is someone online somewhere who can help me with this–and of course, there is always the Hubs, who really does have some business acumen. Then we shall see where this goes. If not, at least I will have lovely blue and yellow fabric to work with. Hats anyone? Summer dresses?

As always, there are myriad possibilities.

I went to my 10 year high school reunion many years ago. On one hand, nothing had changed. The A-listers were still the A-listers and we were all the rest of us. The one thing I do remember was a comment from a friend who said that I had gone out and done exactly what I said I would do. I became a band director. Then I learned that several friends were sure that I was bound for law school. I thought that was an interesting observation. I never thought about law school–or anything else for that matter. I knew I was college-bound and my goal was to be a successful music major.

Little did I know how difficult that would be. Without a high school class in music theory, life in theory class was, to put it lightly, a challenge. Then, in our little college, I didn’t have a woodwind teacher for my private lessons. Frankly, my private lesson teacher was competent, but not adequate to my needs. Moreover, he was the one who told me I should want to at least be “adequate.” That statement plus the difficulties in theory almost did me in. My theory teacher told me I should transfer to a larger school so that I would learn that I had no talent. Interestingly enough, I outlasted her. There was a new teacher the next year who gave me a second chance and encouraged me. What a difference a year made. I am forever in his debt.

But why teach?

In my world, there were few options for girls. Mom was a clerk-typist. I could be a secretary if I took the right high school classes. While the typing and the note-hand classes I took were certainly practical, I hated typing with its emphasis on speed, and while note-hand (a slightly different form of shorthand) taught me a method to use in taking notes, I discovered that some things from the class plus my own method served me far better. Really, being a secretary was not my thing.

Another pathway for girls in my generation was either nursing or teaching. My seventh grade teacher planted the teaching seed with a quip about being a teacher means one would always have a job. Since job security was important to me, I remembered his comment. Of course, the comment was in the 1961 context of what would happen if the Russians took over. Teachers would still have jobs. More life experience and further reading taught me that that teachers would keep their jobs only if they were party members and followed the party line. Oops. I am no follower of someone else’s party line. I remember applying for a position at a Catholic school. When I came to the question about following the precepts of the Catholic church, I had to check “no.” Sorry. Far too Luth’ran for that.

My big sister, whom I worshipped, was in nursing school right about that sixth/seventh grade year. On the occasional Saturday, I could take the bus to her dorm right from music lessons and visit. Lunch in the cafeteria with all the student nurses was a real treat. I got to see her dissect-a-cat project, then brought home a kitten in a jar of formaldehyde, a gift from a student whose cat project was pregnant. For science-geek me, that was something. Nursing might be a pathway. The world will always need nurses. I was particularly good in science, especially so in the biological sciences. Chemistry? Not so much. Perhaps I needed something more concrete to work with. It was chemistry class that pushed me into music and then into education.

Chemistry class consisted of 28 boys and four girls. Our teacher was good at snarking at the girls, since of course, it was the girls who were bad in the lab. Yes, my partner and I blew up our first lab, but we weren’t the only ones who had issues gathering oxygen–we were just the ones who heard about it. A lot. Would I have done differently with a different teacher? I don’t know. In general, teachers at the time were more into criticism than into praise.

In the end, teaching seemed to be the place. It didn’t matter to me that the band was a place dominated by men. I knew of one lady band director. Maybe that was enough. I came into the band room at a time when of all the high school bands in the nation, fewer than 10% were taught by women. Today? Today the students don’t blink at a lady band director. There are still some grandparents who have issues. I may still have a letter sent to me by a school board in the state that said “Thank you for your application. We are really looking for a male.” Too bad I didn’t know what I could have done with that letter at the time. I simply moved on.

Yes, over a career spanning 48 years, I had a level of job security. True. But if I had to do it over, would I do it differently? I don’t decry my years in the classroom. I worked hard and tried to do some good. I have replaced myself in the classroom several times, having nurtured (or maybe been part of the inspiration for) several former students into the profession. At least three of them went on to lead the band themselves. There is that.

Still, much of those choices came from not knowing what other choices there were. Moreover, I didn’t know my own strength in other areas. I took it for granted that I was a good reader and that I love to read. That, of course, builds vocabulary, internalizes a grammatic structure, and builds a foundation of general knowledge for critical thinking. I may have done well in law school. On the other hand, now I would like to go into foreign service. I might have had the opportunity for travel that I have always wanted to do. Nevertheless, I have had many wonderful moments in the world of music, moments that are deeply touching. I am grateful to have had them. My life has been one of rich experiences. I would have missed all that.

So why teach? It’s not a case of making lemonade out of the lemons of limited choices. It’s a case of discovering a calling that was born out of, first, a pragmatic need, and second, of a desire to prove to the rest of the world that I could do this. I have had more than one teacher tell me I had no talent, but on the other hand, all it took was one who believed in me and one who took the time to appreciate what I could do. Because of these people, I could develop into my audacious self and take on the world. Why teach? Why not?

Even though I live on the shores of a Great Lake, we were brought up to conserve water. We didn’t leave the water running when we washed dishes or brushed our teeth. We shared bath water. That may have been because of a small household water heater, but yes, I had the experience of following one sister or another in the tub. We survived, though I hated following the sister who shaved her legs in the tub. Ick. We did not let the rinse water run when we washed dishes. Often enough we were reminded not to waste water. I was surprised to learn that in at least one of the western states, residents in the city did not pay for water nor did they have water meters. My Colorado friend complained that the city was going to install meters and charge for water starting back in the mid-1970s. Really? I remember that as a city, we conserved water in the summer. Lawn watering was restricted to odd and even days depending on the date and one’s address. I don’t remember anyone complaining about odd/even lawn watering. It was for the greater good. So much of what we did was for the greater good. Consider it a remnant of the generation of lawmakers and citizens who sacrificed so much during the years of WW II.

Robert Heinlein is still one of my favorite science fiction writers, author of Stranger in a Strange Land, the story about Valentine Michael Smith, the only survivor of an ill-fated expedition, born on the ship Envoy, raised by Martians on Mars, then brought back to Earth to observe Terran civilizations. One of the salient rituals of Martian culture is the water ceremony. When nurse Gillian shares a glass of water with Michael, she becomes his first “water brother.” While much of Stranger in a Strange Land is dated and some of Heinlein’s writing pedantic, I remember well the day in 1973 when a group of us went out for lunch on a teacher professional development day.

As a group, we hadn’t spent much time at all discussing books. We never knew each other’s taste in reading and since I had been busy in grad school in addition to running a high school music department, I wasn’t able to read nearly the number of books I read now. However, at the urging of a friend, I did read Stranger in a Strange Land. It’s a long book, the first of the long Heinleins.

We were delighted to discover that most of those at the table had read the novel when one of the group asked another to pass the water. Instead of passing the pitcher, she reached for the friend’s glass, then filled it, and as she returned it said “share water,” the first line of the water ceremony. The recipient replied with the next line of the ceremony: “never thirst.” From there the ceremony grew around the table. Each of us had read this cult classic, remembered the ceremony and shared it. For that moment, we were all water brothers.

Stranger in a Strange Land said much about Terran society of the time. Heinlein’s later works said much about feminism from his point of view—something closer to how he thought women felt about sexual equality which, at the time when I read his novels, was considerably farther from my own thinking. I learned that Heinlein was contracted to write a “boy’s book” and a “girl’s book” each year. These are the shorter novels, and really, the boy’s books were far better than the girl’s books. However, that’s an entry for another time.

What counts for today is water. I have written before that I believe that fresh, potable water is, in the long run, a matter of national security, not only for the US, but for Canada as well, given that we share four of the five Great Lakes. I believe that we are obliged, as neighbors and members of the greater community to share water. At some points, we should become water brothers: Share water. Never thirst.

I was plunked in front of the TV last night with one foot up on the ottoman, looking at my foot in its purple sock. Now this was not the usual purple sock. This was a purple sock I knit for myself, and yes, it’s twin was on the other foot. I sat there, taking time to notice all the stitches linked one to another, the shape of the heel flap, and especially, how warm and cozy these socks are. They fit like a hug. I think I am rightfully proud of my efforts. I wondered if I could calculate how many stitches I knit into these socks. If A(the number of stitches cast on)X B( the number of rows in a four inch swatch)= C–the number of stitches in a four inch swatch, then I could extrapolate that somehow into the number of stitches in a 12″ sock. I think.

In my browsing through books at the library, I came across a title, Knit Your Socks on Straight, a how-to book about knitting socks on two needles. I plunged in and knit the first pattern, a tutorial that used ordinary worsted weight yarn. Worsted weight probably because it would go fast and the knitter would see results far more quickly than if s/he had started with far finer sock yarn. I used odds and ends of worsted, thinking that while the cuffs and top were of one color, no one would notice if the foot itself was another color. What was important was the weight. The result was a pair of socks that had green tops and yellow feet.

I loved those funky socks. Then one day, not all that long after I had knit them one sock disappeared into the vortex at the back of the dryer never to be found. I searched everywhere. I searched in the sleeves of t-shirts, in the corners of the sheet that also happened to be in the wash that day. I searched in the dark recesses of the place by the clothes chute and between the washer and the dryer. I searched under the cutting counter. No luck. My lonely green sock still sits in the drawer, waiting for its mate.

Since then I have knit several pairs of socks from that book, having invested in my own copy. I have been trying to work up the courage to try one of the more challenging patterns, but have yet to do so. However, I have taken another pattern and tweaked it to do something that suited me more. Happily, that turned out well and I am proud of the change. I have come to love my hand-knit socks, even if they turn out to be a little on the large size. All of them are wonderfully warm and absolutely have been well worn this winter. But I still missed my worsted weight socks. Last week I decided to stop waiting for the other initial plunge sock to reappear and I took out the extra purple worsted weight yarn I had and knit another pair.

They are lovely. Of all the yarns I have used in the sock knitting adventure, I love the worsted weight socks the most. They are the socks that fit the best. It was satisfying last night simply to pause and admire my own handiwork on a humble purple sock. The worsted weight socks are the equivalent of comfort food. Warm and cozy.

Knitting keeps my hands busy. If I am knitting or reading I am not rummaging in the kitchen looking for something to eat simply because I am restless and need something to do. Of such need are knitting projects born. I have knit a lot over the years, but lately, each project has been intended to teach me something new, some new technique or a new stitch. Each new project has had a different challenge.

And what have I learned? I have learned to knit on three needles, then on four. I learned how to cable stitch, make a wrapped rib, how to do a super-stretchy bind off. I have learned that I cannot cast on loosely, so I cast on over two needles held in the same hand, one the size demanded and one a little bit smaller. I have knit enough mittens on multiple needles to feel that the two-needle mitten is somehow less lovely when at one time I was delighted to have mastered that pattern. I am working on reading graphs and getting a little better.

What next? I am still considering the more challenging two-needle socks, thinking about knitting an entire afghan (even though I have already crocheted several) and then plunging into knitting socks on multiple needles. The challenges abound. I haven’t done a sweater in years and years. It makes no sense to me to invest in the amount of yarn and time it would take to knit myself a sweater when I rarely wear them. Really, sometime in the course of perimenopause, someone turned up my personal thermostat and now I wear cottons year round. My sweaters come out only in the coldest of winters.

The interesting thing about hand work of any sort is that there is always another challenge, always something new to learn. The fun of it is that no matter how many times I have to go back and fix something or how many times I simply unravel and completely start over, in the end, I have something useful, whether I have made it for myself, for a friend, or put it in the box to donate somewhere where there are people who need. After all, I really believe that something knit by hand is warmer than something commercially knit. Warmer, because it contains a different sort of effort, and yes, some love.

It has been a crazy few days, hence the too long break from my page. On the other hand, I am always up for thinking about books. I recall what is probably an apocryphal story about the composer Vaclav Nelhybel, who, when he first emigrated to the US from Czechoslovakia, happened to hear a school band playing a concert in the park. He asked his companion what this was all about. His companion replied that schools in the United States had wind bands as part of the curriculum. Students generally began around age 11 and proceeded to play at least through high school. HIs response? Oh! Market! Nelhybel went on to be a well-published composer of works on a variety of levels for band and orchestra.

What does this have to do with young adult readers? Somewhen in time, perhaps a couple of decades ago, someone discovered the YA market. In recent years, this market has exploded and publications abound for this audience. Recently the library has sponsored a vote for the local YA novel of the year. Of course, I had to dive into the list to see what was available. It was a mixed bag, with a few winners, the occasional prosaic read (not quite meh) and the “this novel definitely was not written for me.” Two of these were wonderful reads, well worth my time. I would encourage anyone to pick these up: Angeline Boulley’s The Firekeeper’s Daughter and Traci Chee’s We Are Not Free.

First, Angeline Boulley. Set in Sault Ste Marie, Michigan, The Firekeeper’s Daughter features Daunis of the Ojibwe tribe, a recent high school graduate who has postponed starting college to care for her fragile mother after a family tragedy. From the beginning, this narrative grabbed me. I loved its first person voice and the beauty of Boulley’s writing. I appreciated the author’s focus on Native traditions, on the relationship between the children and their elders, and on the narrative’s fast pace. Daunis has not had an easy time fitting in, but her prowess on the ice as part of the local hockey team is legendary and the latest recruit on the team catches her eye. She suspects he is hiding something, and winds up being involved in rooting out the source of corruption on the reservation. I even found myself fascinated by the cover art:

The only disappointment I feel is that this book is to become a Netflix movie. That indicates to me that it will be watched rather than read, and it is in the reading that this book comes alive. Yes, there is value in the production, but I cannot imagine that the film will be nearly as good as was this read.

There have been books about the internment of the Japanese in the US at the outset of WW II, but so far, for me, the best has been Traci Chee’s We Are Not Free. I’ve read the classic Farewell to Manzanar and George Takei’s recent graphic novel, They Called Us Enemy, but We are Not Free has been the most engaging. The story picks up in San Francisco’s Japantown just before the bombing of Pearl Harbor and follows fourteen teenagers through the years of the war. Rumors are rife early in the narrative, about problems to come as each of the teenagers are introduced. When the worst happens and they are forced to camps in Utah, they form their own community and support each other. The most salient feature is the anger they feel that burns off the page, unlike other narratives I have read. Their anger is almost palpable. Who could blame them? They were second-generation, Nisei, who were born in the US and had neither knowledge of nor loyalty to Japan. The narrative includes the time until they were released around 1945. It was easy to care about these young men and women, easy to get involved in their lives and that need to know more pulls the reader through the book.

Some time ago, my students recommended The Sun is Also a Star by Nicola Yoon. At the time, I was swamped and never got around to reading it. Then I found a copy on the dollar cart at the library. Of course, I picked it up. Daniel, a Korean boy on his way to an interview for admission to Yale, and Natasha is twelve hours away from being deported back to Jamaica. The story is a series of improbable events and what one might consider fateful crossing of paths between the boy who wants to be a poet and who believes in fate and the girl who believes in science, in numbers and facts. I found the writing delightful. The criss-crossings of these two, their interactions, and ultimately their ending, was simply fun. I understand now why my students enjoyed this one so much.

Finally there was the prosaic, Pumpkin by Julie Murphy. This is the third of a series of three titles: Dumplin, Puddin, and Pumpkin, that deal with students who are “other.” They are not the the A-listers, or the cheerleaders, but they are those whose lives are also important in the scheme of high school social life and who intend to challenge the system and live their true selves. Picture Waylon Brewster, ginger-haired, and openly gay in a small town in West Texas. He wants to move to Austin with his twin sister and go full-out Waylon in ways that he feels he cannot do in Clover City. His ultimate goal is to be part of his favorite TV show, The Fiercest of them All. When things go badly in life, he records an audition tape which, of course, goes viral. As a joke, he is nominated for prom queen. Likewise his twin’s girlfriend, Hannah, is nominated for prom king. This is where things get interesting as being nominated for prom court is far more than posters and campaigning at this high school. In truth, I think more high schools should adopt the same process. It might bring more meaning beyond a single night and a dollar store crown. While Murphy’s prose is not as elegant as Boulley’s, her intent is worthy and the story is entertaining. For students looking for something entertaining to read that is not the tome that these other titles are, Pumpkin is certainly worth their time.

The novel not written for me? One of the Good Ones by sisters Marika Moulite and Maritza Moulite. It isn’t at all the issues involved in the plot, but the way the narrative jumped around. I know that the first few chapters of any book is the author merely clearing his throat at the outset of the conversation between reader and author, but the jerkiness of the narrative was bothersome for me–written more, I think, for younger people who are used to this sort of writing. There will come a day, I am sure, that I will go back to this novel, but after the elegance of so many well written books, this one was jarring. I intend to have better luck on the second try.

So there it is. . .the writer’s response to Market! I have gone on to other genres and other authors since this plunge into the YA shelf. More notes from the book log are to come.