Wednesday, December 5, 2012

I watched The Snowgoose this past Saturday.  It is a movie that touched me, oh so many years ago, when movies were made to play at such strings within each heart.  But this attachment started even before my viewing of that movie.          
            I already hungered to read (I suppose since my mother read my now-long-dead brother and me the story of Rascal from Reader’s Digest), and each month I had found stories from the back pages—and one month, a December—for that was the month that heart-feelings were then still allowed—for the first and the last time, the Digest chose to publish fiction, The Small One and The Snowgoose—and Paul Gallico.
 I already knew this author, although I did not recognize it at the time:  I had grown with Walt Disney and his own complement, which included The Three Lives of Thomasina.  Soon Gallico would go on to mega-stardom in Hollywood with The Poseidon Adventure, which I did watch, then read—unmoved, disappointed.  But that was later;  for now, at this long-ago Christmas, I read about a small boy and his donkey—more detail escapes me—and about a man who chose to die so that he might be made whole and about a tangle-hair orphan who understood that need—and that man’s love—at last.  I wept, as I wept now.  I torn out and kept the illustration of the girl, Frith, with me for many years.  Someday, perhaps a son or a grandchild shall happen across it and wonder.  Perhaps he will have read this and smile with tears as I do now.
But there is more:  there is the movie.  I must have been sixteen, and my father, who shared my love of sweet and sentimental, watched it with me.  (How sentimental? Once he had played the theme music from “The Vikings” for a Seattle uncle-by-law—a "man of the world" because of money and company held—and I could see that uncle raise his eyebrows and turn from the spectacle.  But I knew;  I understood.  The eight-track tape was mine, after all.)  We both appreciated the movie:  Richard Harris had already reached our isolated farmstead via his impassioned poetry reading on The Tonight Show.  I only wished then that Philip’s portrait of Frith and Fritha was more like the by-then-tattered clipping I cherished.  We both waited with anticipation for the rerun.
My father and I shared little else than this ability to live inside a well-crafted story, to experience it.  Once toward the end of his life and when I was full of myself, with self-righteous indignation about a topic he held dear, he turned on me and said, “You are the most critical person I have ever known.”  Those words stopped me, and incensed me, and wounded me.  My father and I kept uneasy guard against each other from that point.
Then I did not understand what connections my father had to speak so harshly to his only daughter.  I do not know everything now, but I do understand why he connected with The Snow Goose.  While I only saw a sad ending, and a death of a man and a girl’s releasing a snow goose to the wilds at that end, my father saw the isolation, the need for love and empathy, the need for acceptance.   These were also my father's needs.
When the Internet made  available so much—that which had been only a wistful, passing thought—along with other favorites, I looked for The Snow Goose—and cursed Richard Harris that he held this movie captive within his lifetime—looking to others to forget such tripe, such motley, hackneyed work (if I had within me the powers to quote Shakespeare at this time, I would—to curse Harris by his own presumed standard).  I knew that a California university housed it in its archives—and that for me to indulge my desire I would have to go there and be permissioned a private viewing.
Even I recognize the impossible.  But I never stopped searching, hoping that one day and by protest, the barriers would break.
And protest there has been for a number of years (if Harris were alive, I would say, “You do understand protest, I believe, Mr. Harris?  Wasn’t it your own Irish indignation that brought you your following in our own war-torn country? And what about your own supposed scorn of sentimentality?  Why did you and Jenny Aguiter accept that cameo in another sentimental children’s movie, even after you had moved on to sophistication—and Miss Aguiter to . . . well, I wouldn’t mention what;  let it suffice that you can find much in today’s “cloud” of information). There are others who have desired this movie—perhaps, I should say, have needed this movie.  I have signed petitions and made comments with these others. 
And the wall began to show chinks falling, breaks appearing.  Two years ago, a man in Utah offering an obviously pirated edition at an outrageous price—I almost caved, but I thought of the theft and resulting profit and steeled myself.  And then, this week, the break:  I went to fill my queue at Netflicks (sometimes I forget and go weeks and months without movies—until I catch the charge on my bank statement) and on a whim, searched for “Harris, Richard” and “Snowgoose.”  No Snowgoose, but then I took a chance and Googled the same.  And there it was, so here I am—with two purposes.
First, and this for those of you still as “unconnected” as I, yet with a similar childhood experience, go to YouTube and search fruitfully (if you don’t mind the grainy quality:  perhaps quality will replace unconditional re-viewing of this movie on my “bucket list”).  And second for my father, who would have been one hundred years old today, I understand; I accept your criticism; and I wish I could share this movie with you again.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

The pooling was too much: a beautiful pattern deserves the right platform. This is Maritime Felted Tweed by Rowan--a wool, alpaca, and viscose blend. I'm not sure about the propensities of viscose: I only hoping I will not have to darn or replace heels.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Grumbling not an option

I realize I seem to be forever talking to the wind, but writing--just the process--reassures me I am articulate and worthy. If an administrator--and remember, I AM a teacher librarian extraordinare, according to all OPI pep talks--fails to see any need for me to be a major support system ("ah, I guess you take any projects that kids want to do about librarianship") and to get students engaged in true research rather than becoming "cut-and-paste" kings and queens (thank you, Cybil, the term is apropos, although you did not intend it for that purpose), then I realize I need to write. If a certain elementary teacher whispers behind my back (but within obvious hearing distance) that "the librarian" who would make her have her students cite resources on yet another full-blown, full-bore (as in "boredom")research project is so oblivious she (me, the librarian, of course--couldn't be anybody else, could it?:-)) doesn't have a clue that she (the delightful, experienced teacher, of course--I believe "legend in her own mind" does come to mine) didn't make the poor children do citations because "they really don't need to--my research projects teach SO much" and delightfully giggles because she is SO worthy and the librarian so out of the loop and without any understanding of what third and fourth graders need to accomplish, then I realize I need to write. Now I look back at my title and realize I am grumbling--but at least I know no one reads this--yet I have written about it.
On a lighter note, I have finally pieced together enough of Lykkefanten's (I love it! "Elephant" in Danish) Viking socks I can proceed--I need to get the needles into my hands so that I can take out stress in a productive manner. . . and I am using the designer Lorna's Lace (new kitty consumed tag--I think it ended up being "Spring Bouquet") I mentioned in an earlier blog: pretty close in colorway to the pre-existing "Rings of Fire" socks I knitted from Plymouth Happy Feet. The Lorna's Lace is pooling on the cuff, though; I may have to rip my cuff out, divide the yarn and knit every other row (seems as if every time I work over 72 stitches in this yarn, I have that problem).

Monday, September 5, 2011

Watercress and Color

This month's Mystery sock at SKA is indeed a mystery. The powers-that-be are demanding chartreuse for a sock that presumably will resemble its moniker, "Watercress," when all clues are collected and incorporated.

But it's not just the texture or the pattern: it's the color. Two or three miles up the road from where I prefer to live (if jobs and other mundane matters did not interfer) is the head of Newlan Creek. The Forest Service has managed to render the road untravelable for all but the most foolhardy (and they with four-wheel drive), but I can still ride or walk there. All that water that continues down to the reservoir and beyond starts with a spring . . . and around that spring is watercress. You can slurp (yes, slurp: there is no more correct way to describe getting on hands and knees and drinking) up water and nibble on cress. All that aside, it's the color of the plant that is important.

It IS NOT chartreuse!! It is emerald on the topside where the water hits and paler mint green on the bottom. The veins are dark and foresty, the total with occasional flecks of . . . yes, yellow!

I look at my cast-on and think of nothing so much as . . . lettuce. But of course, naming a pattern "Lettuce" would damage its appeal irreparably. . . so we will have a thousand or so earnest knitters with toes clad in identical socks, CHARTREUSE, of course. At least we will recognize each other on the streets.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Not Mariah--but . . .

The great guru of dyeing (NOT dying) is coming to Billings: the lady from Lorna's Lace, of course (remember: names do not roll easily from my tongue--I am not a knitting name dropper.) All the somebodies will join for a dip into dye on next Saturday, and of course, they will wax eloquently about all the colorway possibilities before they do so.

Design a yarn that will rival Bear-n-Berries--and certainly take its place as the "oohoo" and "ahhh" skein in the bags and baskets of the lucky few? I can, and now all alliteratives aside, I will speak the word "chinook" and all the color memories it evokes. I will remember a tattered Montana history book where I learned that the chinook tugs and wrestles the ice from the frozen earth in only two places: Iceland and Montana. I will remember the frost blue of ice, polished by the summery gusts. I will remember the hints of chocolate, of earth however briefly reborn. I will remember the soft gold of the January sun (a whole season away from its meridian) and the winter white and storm grey of the clouds that promise that this installation of spring is, alas, but a temporary respite. These are the colors of Montana in true sock season.

So. . . Lorna's Lace lady, take the palest blue from your Edgewater as well as its brown, search out your gold, white, and grey, and mix them in goodly quantities; stand back in awe and breathe the name--Chinook.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

The cock crewth ;-(

I have learned the danger of too much posturing, preening, etc.: the tam that I made with Shetland, that WAS faved, has now been "unfaved." What a strange thing we are doing to our language; where word transformation was once restricted to the likes of Shakespeare and Poe, the common man can now add a affix to any word that is in the ballpark, change its usage from noun to whatever (or vice versa), and deliver such among standard speakers of the English language with impunity and intrepidation (;-)). I used to grit my teeth at "enthused" and "reverenced": I now have a entire catalogue of "uns" and "ins" with which to deal.

Niece-in-law wrote back with second card: it was a case of mistaken identity. Spencer therefore has a slate-blue Baby Surprise (made of Baby Bunny for summer comfort) on the needles. I'm also toying with a baby gansey pattern that came out of the January 1988 McCall's Needlework: it is a pattern I knitted for my younger son, but now I've become more particular to gauge (especially since it is not to be draped around my own unwilling offspring). I tried some Alexandrie and some Dolly last night (and the Baby Bunny was what the clerk sold me, reassuring me that it would be perfect): I usually am guilty of knitting too tightly, but that 7 1/2 stitches per inch on Size 4's is beyond me (fingering does NOT accept that looseness). I already have tinkered a bit with the pattern, but can only do so much because of the aran patterns in the yoke. I have a feeling that this is going to end up a total redesign (sorry for that corruption of the King's English) or . . . !

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Babies coming!

I remember reading Robert Lawson's classic, Rabbit Hill, as a child: a rabbit named Georgie, young and excitable, goes on an errand--to fetch his crumudgeon uncle. On the way, Georgie sing-songs, "New folks coming, New folks coming."

That's what I feel like: the next generation is coming with eclat. Spencer was born on the 13th of January; who-sit in early May. My needles haven't cooled--although I'm not really sure of the effects. Spencer's mom sent me a thank-you note for overalls, when what the tyke really got was another of the Alice Starmore wee bonnets: I don't know if she is sleep-deprived or not so subtlely telling me that something larger and not so old-fashioned would have been more appreciated. Forewarned, I face-booked Carrie, my niece, and asked her if she wanted to forego the bonnet/sweater routine as done by her slightly old, slightly eccentric aunt: she responded with a responding, "Let the bonnets begin!" Sooooo.... Spencer may end up with store-bought while who-sit toasts in fine wool. I went through my stash and found some Nomotta that was made in the United States sector of Germany!!! This stuff must be older than I am, but it's beautiful: I think it came from my aunt Connie's stash originally. I found a Piecework cardigan (Summer 2007) that uses a combination of stockinette and reverse (sleeves are done on the bias) with ribbon roses: simple but elegant. And then there's the Peer Gynt sweater for Christmas :-)!

I thought to make socks for sale but no one bought into my "see 'um, buy 'um" on-approval plan, so I donated one pair (Socketta) to the school carnival, gave a pair to sister-in-law (humpf! don't read too many blogs back), and have a pair sitting on the shelf for the next gift. I got some lovely merino, though, from Bristol Dyeworks, that I am definitely keeping: it's in a colorway called "Autumn" that reminds me of camouflage! It's nice enough to make me endure the tedium of the squiggle cable pattern.

Sweater tonight, socks this weekend . . . and then maybe the mystery shawl for which I have been saving patterns?