Vintage Crocheted Apron

Day 145: "Copyright 1946 by The Spool Cotton Company, price 10 cents." That's the stats from a book of patterns "Featuring 14 New Pineapple Designs" which was gifted to me by a member of our Morris dancing side. I paged through it briefly at the time, more intently once I'd arrived home, and knew as soon as I saw it that I simply would have to make this dainty, delicate little apron for entry in the Washington State Fair. I reinterpreted it slightly, using black ribbon instead of white for the trim to bolster the suggestion that it would be worn by an upstairs maid. Maybe I've been watching too many Victorian dramas lately, but I love lace despite what my rugged, outdoor persona might suggest. Even as a costume, I couldn't pull off the look for longer than thirty seconds holding perfectly still with my mouth arranged properly by having repeated, "Prunes, prism" three times before the sitting. I can't disguise my stride or body language; sooner or later (sooner, most likely), years of wearing boots and plodding uphill shows through. The appreciation and construction of lace (the more delicate the better) are what I refer to jokingly as my "pink and fluffy side." Sometimes it peeks through the angular greens and browns of my root lifestyle. So what purpose will this vintage re-creation serve once its Fair days are done? I do not know, but as long as it is in my possession it will serve to remind me of the highly romanticized but gentler and more courteous times of my grandmother's era, and how vainly she tried to instill in me the deportment appropriate to a lady. For all of having missed her mark in that, her skill at lace-making and her love of lace transferred at least in part to my hands and heart.

Genetic Predisposition

Day 104: Mount Rainier National Park, Sunrise Community Kitchen, circa 1933. The young woman in the foreground is my mother, the babe-in-arms my uncle-Gus-the-Lake-James-Ranger. It was Gus who set me on the course of my life when I was but nine years old, having obtained permission from his superintendent for me to stay with him in his duty station for ten days. My father had died in the spring, and Gus (ever my idol) was doing his part to help me adjust. In those ten days, I determined two things: that I wanted to climb the Mountain and that I wanted to grow up to work in the Park. My first stint at Carbon River as a volunteer preceded my first successful ascent by a year or two, but I went on to summit five more times (a total of six), and my readers know to look for me at Longmire today.

Aside from having a Park Service bloodline, I feel a strong bond with the broader NPS "family," and I know many of them are likewise moved by a sense of kinship, as well as being united in a common cause. When one of us is attacked or oppressed, it affects us all. Recent events have shown how we will rise to meet the occasion, "rogue rangers" defending our own in their private time. There aren't many organizations which generate that depth of community connection. Parkies together!

Nostalgia Garden

Day 200: As I walk around my yard, I can't help but notice how strongly my choice of plants has been influenced by what was in my grandmother's garden. When I began selecting perennials for the beds, my "must-have" flowers were almost exclusively those I had seen in cultivation before I had attained the ripe old age of five. I recall clearly sitting on her back porch step, enveloped in a thick perfume of Lily-of-the-Valley, and braiding coronets of the stiff, arching stems of Bridal Wreath Spiraea. No garden of her era was complete without Bachelor's Buttons and Columbine, nor without single Hollyhocks growing against a sunny back wall. Ironically, it was my grandfather who was the gardener; my grandmother simply reaped the rewards, and although the garden dwindled after Grandpa's death, my association with sweet-smelling, beautiful flowers is firmly tied to her.

And The Stockings Were Hung

Day 68: Since November 30, I have turned out ten pair of socks in women's sizes 6-9. I don't recall an occasion when I have worked as steadfastly at the needles over such a prolonged period. Even though both friends who placed their orders told me that I didn't need to rush, I felt compelled to get the job done quickly so that they would have them in time for Christmas gift-giving. There were a couple of days when I turned out less than a whole sock, but others when by bedtime, I had completed a sock and a half.

I credit my swiftness to knitting in the European style ("picking" as opposed to "throwing"). In picking, the yarn is held in the left hand. The right hand stays almost stationary and the yarn is brought forward to purl by a simple movement of the left index finger. It makes ribbing a breeze! Interestingly enough, I was taught by my paternal grandmother to pick, although I learned most of my other needle skills from my mother's mother. She insisted that I throw, so until I was on my own in the world, I abandoned picking and struggled with the tedium of throwing the yarn with each stitch. Once I reverted to the European style, knitting became a much more enjoyable task. Socks remain one of my favourite projects, but maybe I'll take my time with the next pair.

Hollyhocks In The Forecast

Day 303: When I moved into my home, one of the first plants I wanted to add to my garden was Hollyhocks, the single variety with the saucerlike, open-faced flowers. Seeds weren't easy to find. Seed companies offered doubles in many colors, but singles were a rarity. I would have been willing to settle for any shade (even pink!), but in a stroke of great good fortune, what I found was a black-flowered type. I bought a packet, planted them that first spring, and settled in to wait the two years Hollyhocks require before putting on their first blooms. That was over 25 years ago, and every year, my black Hollyhocks have delighted me, growing somewhat wild and unmanaged (if perhaps not as abundantly as I'd hoped) against the south wall of the house.

Hollyhocks remind me of my grandmother. It was against the wall of her house facing a small-town alley that I first encountered them. Like mine, they were allowed the freedom to do as they would, forming clusters here, a solitary plant there, their bright faces always turned to the sun. But equally, I enjoyed them in the autumn when I would collect their unusual seed pods, cracking off the brittle husks to reveal the ring of "coins" inside. I would try to open them so that the circle of seeds remained intact; not an easy task, and one at which I seldom succeeded. As I gathered these today for sowing next year, my mind swept back to those blithe afternoons and I realized something in hindsight: my clumsy harvesting efforts were no doubt why my grandmother had so many Hollyhocks at the back of her house.