Crocheting Grannies, and Other Stuff
Fri., July 11, 05:42 PM
Blankets, that is. I suppose I should mention that; as I typed in the title, I thought, “crotchety granny?” Crotchety I may be, but I’m not a grandma yet. I am, however, definitely crocheting.
I was glad I had taught myself, because if I learned it once, I can do it again. I unraveled so much I felt like Penelope waiting for Odysseus. In spite of myself, I have completed three “carriage blankets.”
I made a classic granny — four squares by five squares — which was my original intent, and it will be ready for the baby whenever s/he gets here. Then I did a modified granny, something I had only seen other people do. That’s when you start a square and just continue until it is the size you want. (The lady I learned it from made one big enough for a full size bed.) It came out quite well, and I gave it to the gal down the street who has just had her third boy. I tried a ripple blanket, which nearly drove me nuts, but it’s all right; single crochet ripple stitch is very forgiving, as long as you remember to keep the sides straight. But suddenly there’s a queue; where did all these babies come from?
Jake is next. My cousin D is a grandmother! How could I not make a blanket for him? I made one for his mother as well as his uncle. Now is the time when understanding relationship and family trees comes in handy; this little boy is my first cousin, three times removed, and I am thrilled.
Since I found out about Jake, I have learned that three other women we know are pregnant. Whoo! I make all baby things of washable yarn, because a new mother does not have the time to fuss with hand washing; I include a lingerie wash bag in each package… How could I know I didn’t buy enough?
After a week when I could not get out once, I have ridden the trike twice in two days. I hate waiting too long, because I always have to work back up to my last strength. I don’t us too many fancy calculators on it, just the time and average speed. If I can go out for twenty minutes — one-third of an hour — and average, say, ten miles an hour, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure how far I traveled: 1/3 x 10 = 3.3. I did twenty-one minutes today and averaged 10.2 mph, so I did almost four miles.
It is always harder to go out when Husband is at home, because he may use that time — if he realizes that I have gone — to sneak the things he is not supposed to do. I secured the cellar door when I rode, and I secured it again when we did some grocery shopping. It looks as if he tried and realized he couldn’t get out.
I don’t worry about his going outside and wandering. That’s too much trouble; he would have to get dressed and get his cane or maybe his walker, and it is a long way to get anywhere from here. But the cellar is another story. He still has stashes of contraband down there. Monday, when I was feeling yucky (it was very humid), I took a nap and woke up to see the door to the basement open. “Where’s the cat?” “Huh? I don’t know.” (Cat is no dope; he ran into the garage and found the big bag of cat food.)
Husband carried a couple of shopping bags upstairs — one step at a time, of course — filled with candy. I thought I had gotten it all; that stuff must be at least three years old. He has hidden it in his room, probably in locked cabinets, because I can’t find it. I shall just have to wait until it makes him sick.
Y’know, life wasn’t this tough when I had three babies under three years old.
On Wednesday afternoon, when Husband got back from day care, M.D. and Son-in-Law were here to tell him goodbye before they leave for “the final frontier.” (Don’t get me started about this non-recession.) He actually sat in the room with them, though he didn’t contribute much to the conversation. He had some idea about what was going on, however. When they were ready to leave, he got up and kissed her goodbye. At least he finally understands and has stopped asking me to fix it.
