writing, not drowning

Resolving not to . . .

You know that thing about piecrusts and promises? The same could be said about New Year resolutions, so I am making no promises to myself this year. That way, I avoid setting myself up for self-recrimination or bitter disappointment. (And who needs them on New Year's Day?)

With one exception - I firmly resolve not to knit any of these for my family or friends. And, much as I love vintage patterns, I can just hear the sighs of relief:

Meanwhile, here is Leonard Cohen - because I can think of no-one with whom I would rather start the year:

Advance Notice: 60 going on 16 has been officially designated an Olympics 2012-free zone. Just so you know . . .

 

Blessings

I'm not usually lost for words but found myself struggling to find anything to write about this Christmas. As a family, the usual midwinter celebrations were overshadowed by the loss of one of my nephews a fortnight ago and his funeral a week later. He would have been 50 today, Christmas Eve. I was in my brother's home the day my nephew was born - in his parents' bedroom - and held him in my arms when he was less than an hour old.

Many tears were shed at his funeral, not least by his two stunningly beautiful teenage daughters, but afterwards, when friends and family gathered to celebrate his life, there were smiles and laughter. There were tales of one escapade after another and how he had made us laugh, often. His oldest friend sent a wonderful tribute from the USA, where he now lives - a string of hilarious anecdotes from their growing-up years. 'He was,' said the friend, 'the funniest man I ever knew.'

And that, I thought, was quite a legacy.  

* * * * *

Festive preparations were, inevitably, sidetracked. I was already planning to spend Christmas with my family in the Chilterns but had to bring my departure date forward by four days to attend the funeral. Only when I unpacked did I realise how distracted I had been, with lists, presents, addresses, suitable clothes and much else besides left behind in Devon. Heigh-ho. It was not the end of the world. And at least I managed to remember to put the Mr C, the cat, and the Edinburgh Boy in the car.

My daughter and son-in-law worked right up until Friday evening, so I have spent the past week being mamma in the kitchen, cooking hearty meals for the returning workers. Tomorrow my son-in-law takes over at the stove, apart from pudding, which is down to me. But, as we are not keen on traditional fare like Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies - and as a non-meat eater turkey is also off the menu for me - I'm making  triple chocolate brownies from Isidora Popovic's Popina Book of Baking. They are utterly scrumptious but very rich so best saved for special occasions. There will be a touch of nostalgia for too, as Isidora's recipes take me back to our old home territory of Portobello Road, where she set up her first market stall ten years ago.

And then we will try very hard to unwind for a couple of days, before a round of visits to other members of the family and to friends.

Meanwhile, back in Devon, one of my canine guests, will be sporting the fruits of my crafting labours on Christmas Day, because, yes, I do make things - I knit and sew but tend not to write about my efforts because this isn't, by any stretch of the imagination, a domestic arts blog, of which there are very many - and a good many excellent ones. Anyway, I hope Little Miss P appreciates her present. For a small item, it was a bit of a pig to knit and I had to check on Ravelry to see if any other member had made it and whether they had also encountered problems. To which the answers were yes and yes - but one or two had posted useful tips and I just managed to finish the coat in time to gift wrap it and leave it under her owners' tree before I left for Christmas.

So here is Little Miss P having a final fitting and, could she speak,  I am sure that she, together with the Ednburgh Boy, would want to join me in wishing you the blessings of the season, wherever you are and whatever and however you are celebrating.  

Thank you for being such loyal readers during what has been something of an stop-start year for 60 going on 16. Next year, I hope to get back into my stride, thanks to the yoga and the choir and all . . . and the fact that at my (much-delayed) first annual post-Massive Inconvenience check-up, the consultant was delighted to tell me that I remain cancer free. Tomorrow, we might just be raising a glass to that.

Earlier today, I watched - as I do every year - the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College, Cambridge, and this year's festival included BC: AD by the late poet, U A Fanthorpe, read by a young undergraduate. Fanthorpe was a Quaker and this clever, thoughtful poem reflects her particular and quiet faith. Even though I do not follow the same path, I was drawn to its deceptive simplicity. As with all good poems, it presents us with the familiar in an unfamiliar way and is absolutely to the point. If Fanthorpe's poem is new to you, think of it as a virtual gift from me.

BC : AD

This was the moment when Before 

Turned into After, and the future's

Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

 

This was the moment when nothing

Happened. Only dull peace

Sprawled boringly over the earth.

 

This was the moment when even energetic Romans

Could find nothing better to do

Than counting heads in remote provinces.

 

And this was the moment

When a few farm workers and three

Members of an obscure Persian sect

Walked haphazard by starlight straight

Into the kingdom of heaven.

U A Fanthorpe 

The soul sisters, the beret and the earth beneath their feet

Like many of my close friends, Ms Salad Days is a woman of Africa - the blood of so many nations flows through her veins that she is unsure of the precise total. 

She was born in Claremont, South Africa, but left her homeland as a child, sailing to England from Cape Town with her family. Table Mountain was her last sight of her birthplace and, to her regret, she has never been back. Both her parents are now dead and the extended family scattered around the globe. And, almost certainly, there is no-one left in Claremont who might remember that long-boned, dark-haired child with skin the colour of café au lait who sailed away more than 50 years ago.

So, when another woman of Africa, my  Friend in Transit (who is now, permanently, my Friend in New Zealand) mentioned a few weeks ago - before her final departure from South Africa - that she would be staying in Claremont before she left, it seemed too good an opportunity to miss.

I asked her to send me  a small handful of earth from Claremont. But being the thoughtful soul that she is, she didn't just go out and pick up any handful of earth, she collected the handful from the Arderne Gardens, together with two leaves that had fallen from the Arderne's world famous Morton Bay fig (Ficus macrophylla) - the biggest tree in the Western Cape and one of the four largest in South Africa.  I hadn't told her but she instinctively knew that Ms Salad Days is a great lover of trees.

"The family would definitely have known the Arderne Gardens," said my Friend in New Zealand, "and Ms Salad Days' parents probably took her there."

When the earth arrived, I put it in a small silver box from India (another link for all three of us) and gave it, with the leaves, to my Salad Days Friend, when she was here for a day recently. And she produced for me a fabulous cable-stitched beret that she had knitted with a yarn that blended all the colours that I love, colours that speak of the sea.

 

It was one of those rare moments in life when everything falls into place and happens just as it should.

 

A scarf fit for a Labrador

It took just one look at the delicious sea glass scarf on Jane Brocket's yarnstorm blog to get me back into knitting, a craft I once loved but which had been sadly abandoned in the years of working flat out, running my own business.

One major change since I last knitted has been needle sizes but, having worked out that 15mm needles are huge and that I didn't possess any, I managed to track some down in our nearest market town. Wool is easily ordered online - I got enough for two scarves from Consider the Lily - and, once it arrived, I was away. I had forgotten the wonderfully meditative nature of knitting, at least if it's straightforward and, before I knew it, the first scarf was done. My beautiful black Labrador, the Edinburgh boy, insisted on modelling the version knitted in Jay; the two chocolate labs said it wasn't their colour anyway. Version two in Sea Breeze is under way and there are probably more to come.

While I was waiting for the scarf wool to arrive, I decided to turf out wool and patterns that had been put away so many years ago. They included a beautiful jumper designed by Jamie and Jessie Seaton who, before they set up Toast, sold knitting kits. This jumper has a black background and dozens of classical motifs in jewel colours. And somewhere across the front are the words 'Da Me Basia Mille', from a quotation by Catullus. I now feel inspired enough to pick up where I left off and finish it. I will, of course, get some strange looks from the locals, if they happen to know their Latin. In which case, they will be wondering why a woman who's old enough to know better is walking around inviting people to give her a thousand kisses . . .