The origin of knitting goes way back. As you might imagine, knitting, in it's most basic form - is really just intertwined yarn or fiber, to create a piece of knitted fabric, formed to shape, by the stitch type and size, etc.

The oldest artifact with a knitted look is a type of sock, created in a process called Nalebinding, which seems to be a knit fabric made by combination of knitting and sewing. Looks dang hard, if you view the photo of the artifact.

So apparently, most histories of knitting place its origin somewhere in the Middle East, where it then spread to Europe by Mediterranean trade routes, and then to the Americas with the advent of European colonization.

The earliest known examples of knitting have been found in Egypt and cover a range of items, and include complex colorful wool fragments and indigo blue and white cotton stockings, which have been dated between the 11th and 14th centuries.

Much of this info is thanks to Wiki:
The earliest known knitted items in Europe were made by Muslim knitters employed by Spanish Christian royal families. Their high level of knitting skill can be seen in several items found in the tombs in the Abbey of Santa María la Real de Las Huelgas, a royal monastery, near Burgos, Spain. Among them are the knitted cushion covers and gloves found in the tomb of Prince Fernando de la Cerda, who died in 1275. The silk cushion cover was knit at approximately 20 stitches per inch. It included knit patterns reflecting the family armory, as well as the word baraka ("blessings") in Arabic in stylized Kufic script. Numerous other knit garments and accessories, also dating from the mid-13th century, have been found in cathedral treasuries in Spain.

At this time, the purl stitch (the opposite action to the knit stitch) was unknown and purely stockinette fabric was produced by knitting in the round on multiple knitting needles. Sometimes the knitting was cut open, a process now known as steeking.

Several paintings from Europe portray the Virgin Mary knitting, and date from the 14th century, including Our Lady Knitting by Tommaso da Modena (circa 1325-1375) and Visit of the Angel, from the right wing of the Buxtehude Altar, 1400–10, by Master Bertram of Minden.

Knitting was such a vast occupation among those living on the Scottish Isles during the 17th and 18th centuries that whole families were involved in making sweaters, accessories, socks, stockings, etc. Fair Isle techniques were used to create elaborate colorful patterns. Sweaters were essential garments for the fishermen of these islands because the natural oils within the wool provided some element of protection against the harsh weather encountered while out fishing.

1939 to 1945: Knitting For Victory: Make do and mend was the title of a booklet produced by the British wartime government department, the Ministry of Information. Wool was in very short supply, and the booklet encouraged women to unpick old unwearable woollen items in order to re-use the wool.

Knitting patterns were issued so that people could make items for the Army and Navy to wear in winter, such as balaclavas and gloves. This not only produced the much-needed items, but also gave those on the "home front" a positive sense of contributing to the war effort.


I love the resurgence in interest of the craft of knitting. It really is a timeless art, one of many, that I hope will not be forgotten.

Madonna Knitting, by Bertram of Minden 1400-1410

1855 sketch of a shepherd knitting, while watching his flock.

A World War I poster encouraging people to knit socks for the troops.

Poemzebra

The cold hard noose of winter is loosening up. The vast piles of snow we have in the city are less ominous. Streets are melting clear. The sun is back and I don't care what you say - it feels like spring already. I saw brown dead grass along the freeway today on my way to work and it sent a thrill through me that only a Minnesotan can understand.

It was a good winter to practice bucking up. We hold fast, we persevere, here in Minny. We get through. I know, I know, it's not over yet. But I can clearly see spring at the end of the tunnel. And it looks good.

The year went by awfully fast. I just checked my posts from last year, and I was writing about a number of things, including my Dad, who was on the ill-ish side for a while. I have a whole post to write regarding when he collapsed at home and the subsequent miracles (of both the heavenly and medical variety), but that will wait till another day. I have to add here though - that since the November Miracle, both Mom and Dad have regressed in age about 20 years. Pretty cool.

We had an amazing Christmas on the Sechser side, with almost all of the family. I noticed when Mom added a comment to someone's facebook page, she wrote: "24 grandchildren, 9 kids and 9 spouses." Hmmmmmm. Well, I've been spouseless for three years, but I'll give her a break on that, she probably just forgot.

I have a brand new first grand-niece. Eric and Tasha's little girl, Madison. Wasn't it only yesterday that Eric was toddling around our house, posing, smiling good naturedly, while we made him wear a long hair lady's wig?

John finally got another dog. While my heart still hurts whenever I think of Alf, (another post, in my head, not yet written) Jake is a sweetie too. His family couldn't keep him after they had twin babies who needed medical care. He could not have been adopted into a better home, and I'm glad that John has him. Miss Vegas Kitty likes him too, although she doesn't like to admit it out loud.

So, I'm looking headlong into spring with the anticipation of all that it brings - need I say more?

All is well in my world. As usual.

In Which I Write About A Rhyming Poem of Garrison Keillor's

Garrison Keillor wrote this poem. And it's a rhyming poem no less, thereby reducing it, by default, to a lowish stature in the grand world of poetry. I like poetry, and good books, and I know that the poem is not particularly good writing, (although I think Keillor's books and other creative/entertainment talents are way beyond awesome).

But this poem, with all of it's wobbly weaknesses, speaks volumes; about life and dreams. Unfulfilled dreams. Living your life well, and happy and good, and not complaining that you had your heart set on something else. This is how we roll, here in the Midwest. This is our way.

It reminds me of the restlessness of my ex too, a man who pursued his ambitions and challenges every single day, driving up north every weekend to build hand scribed log cabins in his spare time, after working hard all week on a construction crew in the city. He was not searching for 'mountains by the ocean shore' but for something else, maybe something he didn't even know. I am more like the wife in the story, content to persevere wherever I find myself.

I cried the first time I read this poem, and every time since. It twists my heart. I have attached a copy of it, below.

A Letter From Copenhagen, Part 2

Our people aimed for Oregon
When they left Newburyport--
Great-grandma Ruth, her husband John,
But they pulled up in Wobegon,
Two thousand miles short.

It wasn't only the dangers ahead
That stopped the pioneer.
My great-grandmother simply said,
"It's been three weeks without a bed.
I'm tired. Let's stay here."

He put the horses out to graze
While she set up the tent,
and they sat down beside their blaze
And held each other's hand and gazed
Up at the firmament.

"John," she said, "what's on your mind
Besides your restlessness?
You know I'm not the traveling kind,
So tell me what you hope to find
Out there that's not like this?"

The fire leaped up bright and high,
The sparks as bright stars shone.
"Mountains," he said. "Another sky.
A Green new land where you and I
Can settle down to home.

"You are the dearest wife to me.
Though I'm restless, it is true,
And Oregon is where I'd be
And live in mountains by the sea,
But never without you."

They stayed a week to rest the team,
Were welcomed and befriended.
The land was good, the grass was green,
And slowly he gave up the dream,
And there the journey ended.

They bought a farm just north of town,
A pleasant piece of rolling ground,
A quarter-section, mostly cleared;
He built a house before the fall;
They lived there forty years in all,
And by God persevered.

And right up to his dying day
When he was laid to rest,
No one knew--he did not say--
His dream had never gone away,
He still looked to the west.

She found it in his cabinet drawer:
A box of pictures, every one
Of mountains by the ocean shore,
The mountains he had headed for
In the state of Oregon.

There beside them lay his will.
"I love you, Ruth," the will began,
And count myself a well-loved man.
Please send my ashes when I die
To Oregon, some high green hill,
And bury me and leave me lie
At peace beneath the mountain sky,
Off in that green and lovely land
We dreamed of, you and I."

At last she saw her husband clear
Who stayed and labored all those years,
His mountains all uncrossed.
Of dreams postponed and finally lost,
Which one of us can count the cost
And not be filled with tears?

And yet how bright the visions are
Of mountains that we sense afar,
The land we never see:
The golden west and golden gate
Are visions that illuminate
And give wings to the human heart
Wherever we may be.
That old man by dreams possessed,
By Oregon was truly blessed
Who saw it through the eye of faith,
The land of his sweet destiny:
In his eye, more than a state
And something like a star.

I wrote this poem in Oregon,
Wanting the leaden words to soar
In memory of my ancestor
And all who live along the way.
God rest their souls on a golden shore,
God bless us who struggle on:
We are the life that they longed for,
We bear their visions every day.

--Garrison Keillor

I Dig Minneapolis

Okay, shutty up. I know, yes, this is another post about snow. But think of it this way - you don't have to read another dating post. ;)

This is a pretty good pile of snow we received in the storm. 17" in Minneapolis, with plenty of blowing to create drifts. Back in the 1930's when the city laid out these blocks on paper, someone had the foresight to (or made the mistake to) give the west half of my block larger front and back yards, and the east half (my side) got what was left over. Thank God. I have enough mowing to do in the summer up at the lake, and I view my Lilliputian yard here as a wonderful thing. That sentiment doubles every time I need to go out and shovel my walks and driveway.

Actually I enjoy shoveling (and mowing). And yesterday evening, when the falling snow seemed to be in the winding down stages, I went outside to see what sort of dent I could start to make in it. I shoveled my way out the front door (I had already tried the back door and it was blocked closed by a good size snowdrift), down the front steps, and ever so slowly the very short front walkway. I got to the sidewalk, and was able to clear a path as wide as my shovel, down the middle. We're talking deep snow here. I went inside feeling fairly certain that I could shovel out the rest, and my little driveway, on Sunday.

Sunday: had a cup of coffee and then bundled up in fleece pants, jeans, 2 shirts, a hoodie, scarf, hat, warm coat, boots and mittens. Not exactly a fashion statement. Hah. As I take a last sip of coffee, I see someone snowblowing the rest of my front walk. I peek out to see this same guy snowblowing all the front sidewalks.

When I open the garage door from inside my house, I am looking at a cut out view of the snow on my driveway. 17" inches of solid snow to clear, plus the dreaded snowplow leftovers - those big snowcrete banks the plows block you in with as they go by. I will not look at, nor think about that snowcrete pile until I get there. As a matter of fact, the only way to tackle this is to divide this massive amount of snow into a imaginary grid. My job is to focus on removing enough snow for my car to get through to the alley. That is 5 shovels wide, by 4 shovels high, by I lost track of how many, rows long. A lot. I tried to be crabby, but seriously it is a GLORIOUS morning here. Blue sky and sunshine everywhere. And I really hate to say this - but this snow - it was the perfect type for shoveling! Not too heavy, not too light. Not loaded down with moisture, but just exactly the right amount so it formed a nice block of snow with every scoop. Very satisfying.

I am actually debating whether I will be able to remove all this snow, yes, there is that much. And my car is blocked in the garage until the snow is removed. I really like the idea of being able to do this on my own though, so I keep shoveling. I'm careful to try to lift correctly; my back is already starting to tighten up a little. 4 scoops down = one foot cleared. Move over, 4 scoops down = one foot cleared. Move over... I keep at it. When I see that I've cleaned off the first two feet of the driveway, I know I can do it myself. Shovelful by shovelful.

I have it about halfway cleaned off when a truck drives past me, down the alley. It's my neighbor, on the corner of the block. He's on the big yard side. There is a snowblower sitting on the open tail gate and the driver motions to me from inside the cab - "I'll come and do yours next".

What a nice offer! And I notice his coat is the same coat I saw on the mysterious snowblowing volunteer earlier, clearing every one's front walks. People are nice here. It is part of what makes Minnesota - Minnesota.

However, I'm on a mission now: a personal quest. I challenge myself, in the name of single women, in the name of hardy Minnesotans, hell - in the name of perseverance, and personal strength - YES I can shovel it with the best of 'em! I want to shovel myself out. Just to say I can, just to say I did it.

My corner neighbor returns with his snowblower, along with two other neighbors wielding snowshovels (but in good way), and all three offer to help me clear the rest of my driveway. I thank them, but send them on to the next neighbor. It feels good to toss that last shovelful, and head back into my house. Aching back and all.

Up next, a good movie and hot chocolate laced with ibuprofen.

One Shovelful At A Time, Sweet Jesus

My sidewalks and driveway are shoveled clear. Whew. It wasn't heavy snow, but it was deeper than I'd thought and I'm glad to finally be done with it. My shoveled areas here are a little on the sloppy side; the neighbor's walk was neat as a pin with it's broom swept trails, and as I cleared my driveway, I couldn't help but notice the drive directly across the alley from mine had apparently been licked clean, or vaporized with a blow torch.

House maintenance is sometimes a tough gig for a single female. My dad bought me a 'lady tool kit' earlier this year; a purple canvas tool bag, filled with a variety of hand tools with purple handles, which has come to my rescue several times already since I received it. Men's gadgets are cool, it's just that I never think to go and buy them.

I have plenty to do indoors today: cookie baking, gift wrapping, and writing out Christmas greeting cards, and also just generally relaxing. I had actually planned to go out shopping for the last few gifts I wanted to pick up, but so far the streets and alleys have not been plowed by my house, so Miss Vegas and I are cozy-ing in for the day.

Another thing mom and dad bought me when I moved into this house is a big counter-top mixer. That was three years ago, but I've been busy and didn't open the box until a few days ago. I'm looking forward to making some delicious treats with it. Mom, who is an excellent cook and baker, also recently gave me a rosette iron and a cookie press. So - I'll be venturing into baking territory this weekend.

The snow started to fall early yesterday and continued all day, and through the night.

When I went out this morning to shovel, everything outdoors was softened, covered with a thick blanket of snow. The cars parked on the street looked like puffy white cartoon-mobiles, the curb lines and sidewalks, even the streets - were softened, hidden beneath all the snow. My shovel scraped the sidewalk, guessing at where the edges were. Scoops of snow flung aside, revealing the steps up my front walk.

The snowstorm temporarily disengaged the physical boundaries of my neighborhood, a lot the way divorce dissipated the outlines of my life. I'm still discovering where they are. And it's been fun finding out.

Lucky Me

I don't remember the first Thanksgiving I spent as a single person. I know my friend Jobird H. invited me to Thanksgiving with his family, but I didn't go. I may have been wallowing in self-pity, not sure, but I'm guessing I spent it by myself, in my new home. It was probably all right. Maybe even enjoyable.

Thanksgiving number two, I drove to Fargo, to be with boyfriend number 1. He had the nicest family, they were all great. He was himself. We parted ways about a month later.

Thanksgiving number three: I was living at the Cowboy's house, and we worked our Thanksgiving dinner in around a couple of days when he returned from Texas. We went to Molly Cools for seafood on Wednesday night, and he left the next day. The weather was uncertain. Our future was uncertain. We parted ways shortly after that. I was back in my own house before Christmas.

Hey, I never said this would be as interesting as Elizabeth Taylor's memoirs. Just bear with me here.

Thanksgiving number four: I am about as happy as I have ever been in my life. Things are good, life is wonderful, and I have an awful lot to be thankful for.

I thank God when something good happens to me. I talk to God a lot. I really don't pray gracefully or in a very reverent sort of way. I pray fervently though, and candidly.

(I also pray fast, and can recite a rosary in record time. I'm not sayin' I'm proud of it, and it's not to achieve some kind of speed award, but just an adaptation to fit it into my busy life.) I often ask God for some help, or a push in the right direction. There are times too, when I've had to completely give up on trying to sort through a problem, and instead, just hand it off to God. This is something you learn as you to do as you get older and wiser. You have to be okay with bending your ego.

His answers have very simply fallen into place in my head. Solutions that I never would have thought of.

I've had a lot of good answers from God this year, gigantic stuff. Miraculous stuff.

Thank you Lord, for the big stuff. And the small stuff. And for family and friends. I've been blessed to be surrounded by people with huge, wonderful, caring hearts, who love me.

For this life I live, with all of you - I'm lucky, I'm grateful. I'm thankful.