Fricknits

Haiti: What I Want You to Know

Eight years ago, as newlyweds, Mr. Frick and I traveled to Haiti.  I went first, spending a couple of days in Port au Prince preparing for the arrival of the rest of our group- students and teachers from the school where I teach, which maintains a relationship with the rural mountain community of Buteau. My "hotel" was close to the airport and the massive slum called the Cite-Soleil. As there is hardly any regular trash removal and Port au Prince is built on a mountainside, everything washes down.  I've also never seen such mosquitoes. I would jump in the shower with my 99.9% DEET, and as soon as the water went off, slap that stuff on like crazy. Those suckers were hovering there like hummingbirds, just outside of the spray.

This is a tap-tap. This one is actually pretty nice (a Daihatsu!). Tap-taps are the transport of choice in Haiti, as most folks don't have cars of their own. They're bright and loud and dangerous (apparently folks fall off of the tops of them all the time) and they have names and slogans painted on them like "Full Love, Full Life" and "Sexy Girl" and "Merci Eternel."  To read these slogans, you wouldn't know that the people here were citizens of the most impoverished country in the Northern Hemisphere...but that's because our notion of what makes a hopeful life are very, very different from the Haitians'.

When Mr. Frick and the rest of our group arrived we headed into the mountains to Buteau. Mr. Frick, lover of languages, devoted himself to trying to learn Creole, much to the amusement of local kids who flocked to him to engage in "conversation." I told the story long ago here.  The people in rural Haiti are subsistence farmers. They are not starving and they do not lack for clean water, which they gather in cisterns. Their homes are incredibly sparse and they live miles away from medical help. Women walk down the mountain to give birth in Leogane.  The kids of Buteau kicked our kids' collective ass in soccer.  They also led us on a totally terrifying tarantula hunt one night.

I spent a LOT of time putting Band-Aids on kids.  As you can tell by the look of this kiddo's leg (and bare feet), living on a mountainside in a hut isn't easy on you.  I never heard a single complaint, though. The boy whose eyesight I swear was saved by foaming disinfectant and daily application of Band-Aids had fallen while running after a ball.  His big brother brought him to me twice a day- what I'd asked him to do in my halfassed French.  When we first arrived, the kids flocked around us repeating "Give me my shoes, give me my shirt," tugging at everything we wore. After a time, it got irritating. I'm not apologizing for the fact that, before we left, I taught a bunch of them to say, "Please give me your shoes, please give me your shirt." I said, "The whites will give you anything if you say please." (We had an African-American student with us. No matter. We were all as white as Santa Claus there.)

Eight years ago we left everything we had-sleeping bags, mosquito nets, toiletries, shoes- except the clothes on our backs with this little girl and her family. They lived right below the church where we slept.  It's gone now, as is the school we built desks for. I can't imagine her house stands.

Please, please, PLEASE. Act. Give to the Red Cross.  Give to Doctors without Borders. Buy patterns on Ravelry that are specially tagged as part of the Haiti relief effort.

But also...please...learn something about Haiti. Not just the statistics that become part of every disaster relief plea, every news article tied to this tragedy. Learn something about this neighbor of ours.  Knowledge is power, but knowledge is also responsibility.  We can be the people who care, who know, and who understand, but only if we read and educate ourselves.  Giving is good.  Giving is NECESSARY.  But giving will not be enough in the long term.  Haiti needs to become part of our national consciousness, not just because of its current heartrending circumstance, but because it is the only right way to go.

Thanks for indulging me.

My Hoarder's Heart

The other day, the Fricklet and I ventured out to the grocery store (a post in and of itself...) and when we returned, Mr. Frick  met me at the door with a nervous expression and said, "Okay, you're not going to like what you see in there."

Of course I pushed him aside (using the baby as a cow catcher of sorts) and burst into the living room.  And I did not like what I saw in there.

See, a hugely pregnant summer at home with a non-napping three year old had broken down my Parenting Principles and I'd resorted to small acts of bribery.  Namely: Dum-Dums.  Dum-Dums, I maintain, are a perfect form of bribery because they're so small- just a tiny amount of sugar that could get the Biscuit to agree to sit in the grocery cart (oh, you would have laughed to see me trying to hoist all 42 pounds of him in there), endure a trip to the bank, or go quietly from the playground when Mommy had had enough.  One day I opened the "hider" (Biscuit's word for the cabinet over the fridge, which also contains messy paints and extra Play-Doh) and found that there were no Dum-Dums left, so I sent Mr. Frick to get some more.  And because it is Halloween season, there were only bags of 200 available.  And because he is Mr. Frick, he thought it would be...well, I'm not sure what he thought it would be, or if he was thinking at all, but he gave the ENTIRE BAG to the Biscuit.  And so that's what I found in the living room.  The Biscuit, sitting on a pile of 200 Dum-Dums.  And so the bribery jig is up.

But here's the funny thing that's revealed itself over the past couple of weeks.  He doesn't really want to eat them.  He dumps out the bag and looks at them.  He puts them into other containers, like the salad spinner, his Legos box, and the baby swing.  He sorts them by flavor and color.  He opens the wrappers to look at the colors and then closes them up again.  He asks you again and again which is your favorite flavor, and just when you think he's going to offer you one, he says, "I will save it for you for later" and returns it to the bag.  He carries around little lollipop bouquets, reciting the flavors again and again.  He even pretends to KNIT with them, as pictured above.  Is the "S" word coming to mind?  What can I say but, "That's my boy!"

I have a hoarder's heart.  And this first month with the Fricklet has proven that in so many ways.  My nighttime nursing chair is right beside the ELFA unit that holds most of my stash, and I find myself gazing at it in the wee hours, daydreaming about projects that I could use it for.  And that, for now, is enough.  Because my hoarder's heart also knows that every moment I have with this baby, even the agonizing ones, is one I will later pine for.  Because the Fricklet is very likely our last baby, I have already changed my last newborn-sized diaper.  I have  snapped certain little already-outgrown suits on a tiny body for the last time.  I have chosen my last name.  I have had my last "first look" at the face of a person I made.  And I know these "lasts" will just keep coming over the next few months.

Sometimes I catch myself saying, "I can't wait until..."  Like I can't wait until the Fricklet truly smiles at the Biscuit.  I can't wait until they're both sleeping through the night.  I can't wait until I've really got this nursing thing down.  And I really have to stop myself from wishing away this time.   Because unlike yarn, these are not things you can buy or track down on Ebay.  Once they're gone, they're gone.

...but I can't wait until I can get some more frickin' knitting done.

Two Hearts

Today I feel like I have two hearts.  One is full to the brim with joy and love and pride in my sister and her little Boden, who arrived eleven days early this morning at 5:55 am after just three pushes- so ready to join the world and our family.  (Spherey was delivered with great fanfare.)  I hope he'll forgive me posting this particular photo.  It's just that his mommy makes this face all the time, so it's one I know and love!

The other is broken.  I called to give the good news to my grandfather, who graduated from Tech in 1939, and he told us of the horrible events unfolding in Blacksburg.  There was panic while we waited for news of my cousin, who is a senior there studying aerospace engineering.  And when our panic was relieved, there was still such heaviness, lightened only- and I must say, quite effectively- by the baby's cries, his tiny hands, his early nursing gusto. 

T, we love you and are so thankful you are safe.  Bodie, welcome.  My heart is so full of contradictions today, but even so, it is not confused.  This world is not safe, and nothing is sure.  We have to raise each other up- it's the only way that works. 

Hokie-Hi.

So It Goes

I once saw Kurt Vonnegut speak at the Washington Press Club.  After his talk, the floor was opened to questions, and here are two of the few that there was time to ask:

"My birthday is November 11, too!  Do you have any thoughts on the significance of that date?"

"Can I hug you?"

Poor Mr. Frick had been sitting on his hands, afraid that his question about the movie adaptation of Mother Night might be too sophomoric.  Gather ye Vonneguts while ye may, people. 

Doldrums

Ordinance 175389-J: It shall be unlawful, illegal, and unethical to think, think of thinking, surmise, presume, reason, meditate, or speculate while in the Doldrums.  Anyone breaking this law shall be severely punished!

Ordinance 574381-W: In the Doldrums, laughter is frowned upon and smiling is permitted only on alternate Thursdays.  Violators shall be dealt with most harshly.

Ordinance 794132-F: Whilst in the Doldrums, a knitter might knit, but will not be able to think of anything witty or interesting to say about said knitting.  She will move sluggishly from project to project to project, putting each down in turn as her fingers hurt, or she feels sleepy, or she is, on one specific and alarming occasion, too tired to knit. 

Ordinances 175389-J and Ordinance 574381-W originally put forth in Norton Juster's The Phantom Tollbooth.  Ordinance 794132-F is my own. I need another couple of days to break through this little corner of seasonal hell.  Meantime, you can find me on Flickr.  -Chief Head Lethargarian

Color and Chaos

A little while back I posted my Meathead and so many of you commented about the buttons that I figured they were worth a photo.  These buttons were all my mother's, and had been stored in a huge Ziploc bag, with individual baggies for each color.  We had a five year-old visitor this weekend, so I thought I might dump them all into a bowl so she could play sorting games with them.  Turns out she was more interested in such typical five year-old pursuits as The Alias Game ("Now I'm Paulie!  No, Darla!  Call me Quincy.  Why, hello there.  How do you do?  My name is Shawn Colvin."); No, I Won't Eat Your Pancakes; Why Are You Taking Pictures of Yarn, Julia; and I Don't Like Your Vaccum Cleaner.  However, I still managed to take lovely, artsy photos of the buttons, and of Biscuit's own set of huge plastic ones.

Aren't they nice?  What a good little blogger I am.  How orderly is my life.  How crafty.  How clean.  The Biscuit is such an angel.  Why, as I write this, he is busy building a replica of Abe Lincoln's birthplace out of hand-hewn blocks his daddy made in his garage woodshop.  After which we plan to cover pinecones with peanut butter and birdseed while wearing hand-stitched smocks and hang them from the tree in the backyard with grossgrain ribbon while I trill away like Snow White, a squirrel perched on one shoulder, a reed basket over my arm.

You know what's coming, right?

Gratifying, isn't it?  This is my dining room table.  Total chaos.  But this is my life, and the longer I look at this photo, the more I see the truth of it.  There's knitting- one of four Jess Hutch projects I'm working on for the holiday, a package ready to send out to Kelly who was my 1,001st commenter, my Meatead, Mr. Frick's Furious George album, Biscuit's toys, a pamphlet on grieving, ornaments waiting to be crafted (look to the upcoming Yarnival! for instructions), packages from Robyn and my delightful secret pal, and a bit of my dear Hanny, because a bit is all I get these days, with my best girls scattered hither and yon.

I'm going to start taking more of these kinds of photos.  Because when I look back, it won't be the pristine white background that gives me the warm fuzzies, will it?

Coming soon to Fricknits: Is green the new purple?  How did Fricknits get stranded?  Who doesn't love a robot parade?  And yes, Virginia, there will be knitting.

The Waiting

As I write this, I'm waiting.  Waiting for the another page to load so that I can leave Margaux a comment about her gorgeous Swallotwail.  Waiting for Activity Period to be over so that I can walk down the street to Marvelous Market and get myself a little something for lunch.  So while I wait for the page to load, I'm glad to be able to write a post.  And while I walk down the street, I'll be cursing the cold that keeps me from being able to knit the miles of I-cord I need to complete for garlands before Christmas.  Was I always such a multi-tasker, or did motherhood- and its neverending demands that I keep up with This (dirty diaper), That (laundry), and The Other (oh, yes, the cats), all at once- do this to me?  I can't wait anymore.  I must be always doing.

Or maybe knitting did this to me.  I can't sit down without needles in my hands.  Watch a movie?  Without yarn in my lap?  No way.  I knit while watching my son eat dinner, in between wiping his hands off (he's a bit compulsive) and jumping up for more "dippy" (ketchup/marinara/syrup).  I knit while reading before bed.  I knit during carpool (two repeats of Branching Out a day).  When I have to sit too long at a stoplight, my hands start to twitch.  I'm sure you know the feeling.

Maybe I've been thinking so much about waiting lately because we're all still wrapped in the iron blanket of events of the past month.  There's no rushing this.  Grief, healing, recovery takes time.  We are forced to stop in our tracks.  Even those of us who initially responded by doing, doing, doing now find ourselves a bit bewildered and frozen.

Jess, over at Fig and Plum, posted the other day asking for favorite Etsy sellers.  As I spent a happy hour (or two) surfing through the listed favorites, I noticed that the items I was most drawn to were postcards, notecards, and stationery.  This wasn't a conscious thing, but rather a pattern that emerged as I followed link upon link.  My shopping cart started to fill up with cards from PhotoBird, The Black Apple, and Young&WithIt Industries, all of which arrived yesterday.

And while it may be silly to think that a minor shopping spree has visited itself upon me in order that I might embrace Larger Truths, I do think that my desire to snatch up stationery may just mean it's time to slow down and practice that art that my grandmother and mother still hold dear- letter writing.  It's not as tap-tap-tappy quick as email.  You can't knit while you do it.  You have to wait, wait, wait for your recipient to find it in her mailbox.  But at the end there's the gift of the handwriting- the personal mark- and the time it took.  So here's my first New Year's Resolution: I will write at least three letters a month in the coming year.

Waiting is so hard.  We waited for today's good news about the Kims, and we still wait to hear about James.  Today my students, who are also Tim's (Mr. Frick's best friend is also my co-teacher), planted 600 bulbs on the playground in honor of his wife Melissa.  They laughed and pulled at the oniony skin while they waited their turn, but when they stepped out onto the dark earth to plant them, it was with quiet reverence.  And now we wait until April, while winter does its slow work. 

 

It will be beautiful.  Well worth the wait.

Oh, My Aching Forehead

Tomorrow I promise one truly beautiful knit made for two truly beautiful women.

A little something to keep you occupied in the meantime.

One caveat: Learn from my mistakes and JUST QUIT before you get to the banging-head-on-desk stage.  Especially if there are impressionable youngsters present.

Next to Godliness

So many gods, so many creeds, so many paths that wind and wind, while just the art of being kind is all the sad world needs. -Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I have never been one for church.  I suppose I liked Sunday School enough.  There were cotton balls and popsicle sticks and graham crackers and plenty of places to hide and snicker in the church basement.  The service, though.  That was another matter entirely.  And not just because my buns ached from the hard pew (they did) or the sermon was dry (it wasn't) or the crotch of my tights were hanging somewhere around my knees (weren't yours?).  No- it was because it just didn't make sense to me. 

I wasn't particularly captivated by the stories in the Bible, though I can go toe-to-toe with our school chaplin when it comes to recounting them.  I did love the Christmas holiday and the dresses my mother made us for Easter, but it didn't take me long to figure out that the magic of those holidays was in the hands of my family-  that crafted the ornaments on the tree, braided bread into wreaths, held me up to place the star, stitched each seam into place- and not in the palms of an invisible Him. 

And so, early on, I decided that I was an athiest.  (I use the softer "heathen" for my mom's sake, and though she still threatens to baptize the Biscuit in a secret bathtime ceremony, I think he might foil her plans by peeing in the bath water and then threatening to drink it from a cup.)  And this is why it was so funny this weekend to be constantly mistaken for a minister's wife.

Mr. Frick officiated a wedding ceremony on Saturday.  I won't give you all the details, though some of them are great, like the fact that a dog named Oscar Nascar was mentioned in the homily.  I will just say that I was SO proud of him and the entire experience served to reinforce my belief that kindess and family-however you want to define it- are at the core of all that is good, and there's no way you or even an army of Hims can convince me otherwise.

Amen.