It was very early Wednesday, the morning after the presidential election, when I journeyed to California. I awoke to news of the surprising and, to me, extremely upsetting election results. Joining that news was an email from someone close to us saying that his health had suddenly declined and he will not be with us much longer. My trip to California was to attend a family wedding, now it was also to be a journey to say goodbye to someone who is dear. I was shocked by an overwhelming sadness, and in the 90 minute drive to the airport tuned out the news and inattentively listened to an audiobook for distraction.
Checking in at the Midwestern regional airport seemed surreal, TSA-Pre was not operating so I had to unexpectedly submit to the unpack-the-bags-and-strip-down process while feeling the numbness of grief. The row of televisions in the terminal were all tuned to Fox News. I huddled by myself in a quiet corner, not knowing who about me was celebrating and who was mourning the results. The awaiting passengers were unusually quiet; I thought this must be how it was to be in an occupied territory, everyone trying to remain unobtrusive and saying nothing, not knowing who is with you and who is against you.
As we were called to board, Hillary Clinton was about to appear and make an address. 
All the televisions went black. Coincidence? As I settled into my seat, I overheard the woman behind me say, “It has started. I am over 60 and never been patted down before, they pulled me out of line and frisked me. It’s already started.” The woman was Hispanic. Who knows why someone is targeted for extra screening, I have been targeted more than once, but on this day her suspicion was not that she was randomly selected but that it was racial profiling. At the airport in Chicago it was quite the opposite, people were chattering everywhere, and everywhere people were expressing shock and surprise at the election results. When I took my seat on my connecting flight, the woman next to me was speaking Spanish on her cell phone. She hung up and said to me, “Guess I will have to stop speaking that language now.”
By the time I had landed, my phone was filled with text messages and my in-box with emails from friends and relatives expressing anguish with the results. People I met with on my trip all expressed shock, grief, and yes, even fear. In the days following I passed through what might be described as the stages of grief. I still cannot quite bring myself to resignation and certainly have not reached an understanding. I have to believe that most people share common values and hopes–that except for the extreme fringe–this electoral college win was brought about by a frustration with middle- and working-class stagnation and the notion that the peoples’ voices were not being heard. It is too much for me to believe that the bulk of these voters condone–let alone believe–the divisive and angry rhetoric that dominated this campaign. The only resolution I have reached is to do what I can do: support organizations that share my values, show kindness to those in my community, write letters to my elected representatives to express my views, and VOTE.
Joined by my friend Jamie, one of the first stops on my trip was to visit with my dear friend’s surviving sister. She had set aside yarn for me to pick up, she also had boxes full of crafts supplies and was looking for an organization to take it. We volunteered to take all of it, loading up Jamie’s car with boxes and bags to be donated. Before traveling to California I had identified 3 local groups that could use yarn, thanks to people who responded to inquiries on social media knitting boards. That evening, two days after the election, we found comfort in sorting the boxes and bags into appropriate piles for the donations. We sorted basic natural fiber yarns in heavier weights along with knitting supplies for students learning to knit in a local school district. We separated out the finest natural fibers for a senior center, thinking perhaps that seniors on fixed incomes would appreciate fine yarns–yarns they might not usually be able to afford–for their knitting project: knitting gifts to accompany Meals on Wheels holiday dinners. Finally, we sorted out all the textural and interesting yarns for an arts center for people with disabilities, thinking they would be perfect for weaving and crafting. The following day we made two deliveries and worked on arranging the third. It was healing to be able to do something for others, this was something positive that we could do and something that honored my generous friend’s memory.
The wedding was beautiful. It was also bittersweet given that my brother was no longer here to see his lovely daughter happily wed but, with the void filled by so many other family members, it was impossible to remain sad. I have never before seen a mother-of-the-bride and bride dance, but it was touching and seemed so very appropriate. There is nothing like family coming together to celebrate and share a happy event, no matter what else is happening outside the circle of loving joy.
Before returning home, I visited my friend with the declining health for what may be my last visit. We parted with a hug and an, “I will see you on your next visit.” I can only hope. As if there was not enough loss in the world, on the final day of the trip a friend received news that her brother had passed away. It was all and all, a journey filled with the sense of recent loss, old loss, new loss, and loss to come.
Awaiting my final connecting flight, I felt the full weight of sadness and sat silently in the waiting area unsuccessfully fighting off the cold virus that was overtaking me. After boarding, I dropped into my seat on the tiny commuter jet in the exit row across from a late middle-aged man. The flight attendant came by and, anticipating she would ask if we were ready and able to help in case of emergency, I looked up and said, “Hi, how are you doing?” She replied, “Not good, but do you know what makes me feel better?” I responded, “Visiting the exit row?” The man pointed to the empty seat next to him and said, “Have a seat.” She laughed and sat down, saying she would only feel better if we joined her in a song. And we did. The worst rendition of Let it Be ever sung, but the mood of the passengers shifted from sullen fatigue to relieved cheer. Waiting for our bags on the other end, I asked a young woman about the cute dog she was carrying and soon a large group of people were talking about dogs and this and that.
Perhaps it was a vivacious flight attendant, perhaps it was a cute little dog, but the journey that began at this airport days earlier in stunned silence ended in convivial conversation. In kindness given and in kindness shown, perhaps there can be something found amidst loss, a growing flicker of flame in the darkness.
but even those who had never been to this retreat did not feel like strangers for long. After the business of checking in, it was not long before people laid claim to their bit of space and settled into spots to begin knitting. Conversations started up quietly among neighboring knitters, tentatively beginning with the simplest of starters such as, “Where are you from?” “What are you working on?” “What yarn is that?” Beginning as a low hum, it was not long before the room was awash in animated conversations combined with laughter, climbing to a pleasant rumble of happy voices.
with antiques. Our room was a spacious and comfortable chamber one flight up and to the front of the house. The remote location was about a 10 minute drive to restaurants and a bit further to the Louisville tourist attractions, but it was a peaceful and quiet place located on acres of gardens and forest, a perfect place to end the day.
a B&B. Trial by fire, it certainly was not beginners luck in their case. But they may as well find out now, a B&B is a roll of the dice as to who will be joining you. Sometimes it is an interesting group, sometimes a pleasant group, and sometimes it is a stiff and less than comfortable group, but there you all are, strangers sharing a breakfast table and attempting polite conversation. I come to breakfast at a B&B not knowing who and what I will find, but never have I felt the need to be armed amidst the scraping of silver and the rattle of plates.
Kentucky and it put a lot of people out of work. Apparently those who could continue to make “medicinal” spirits–and the doctors who were willing to prescribe it–did quite well financially, but many historical distilleries closed permanently or were reopened under new ownership when prohibition was finally over. We briefly visited the second floor, which had an extensive exhibit of guns and rifles as well as some knives and toy soldiers, but interrupted our visit to see a performance by a costumed storyteller. When we arrived the theater was filled, they put some chairs in the front for us and we settled in front row seats for the performance. Before beginning her story, the storyteller welcomed those who were with the NRA convention. Fortunately she was a really good storyteller and I got lost in her story about Norse gods, not thinking about all the guns that could be behind my back.
we bought our tickets and were assigned a time for our tour, leaving us plenty of time to look around the museum. A large group was beginning our tour just as we entered, and we probably could have asked to join it, but we contented ourselves with wandering around the exhibits and awaiting our turn. When it was time for our tour to begin, we were surprised to find that we were the only two on the tour. A nice young man patiently stepped through the complete tour, patiently pausing to answer questions and add some narratives. At the end of the tour we were treated to miniature souvenir Louisville Sluggers. We had been warned that the customized and personalized bats being sold were for display not for use. Although many usable as well as souvenir models were available for purchase, we contented ourselves with the little but free souvenir bats. I have since learned that they do not allow the souvenir bats in passenger’s carry-on bags and that the Louisville airport has a huge display case of confiscated bats. I imagine they eventually return them to the museum, rotating the same bats between museum and airport in an endless loop.
plans designed by Thomas Jefferson. Abraham Lincoln knew the family and had stayed at Farmington for several weeks before marrying Mary Todd. Unfortunately the home was closed but the grounds were open and we walked around the lovely gardens. It had been a hemp plantation, a very labor intensive crop, and the family were slave holders. Lincoln observed the institution of slavery while visiting this plantation and it may have shaped his 
opinion of slavery and guided some of his future decisions. Across from the mansion
meal in Kentucky, discovering 
but after eating those chocolates and having the nice bourbon glazed salmon the night before, I am envisioning culinary explorations. I may have to wait a year or so before I can dip in without the spouse protesting the use of fine bourbon for the pot, but the staff assured me that bourbon lasts indefinitely. Eventually his interest will wane or his back will be turned; sooner or later the bottles will gather dust in the bar and be ready for a trip to the kitchen.
might-like-to-do-this whim. Still, I may keep my eye out for used looms or opportunities to borrow one. There were also beautiful hand carved yarn bowls in lovely smooth woods that tempted me. There were beautiful ceramic ones too, but being a bit of a klutz I think wood might be more practical than ceramic. For my wish list, I might consider that a yarn bowl would fit under a Christmas tree more easily than a loom and would certainly be a better fit for Santa’s budget.
it can quickly go from firm cake to free form mess if not caught and remedied right away. From my visit at the Strauch booth I learned that a jerky swift is the enemy, a precision crafted one with ball bearings and made in a choice of beautiful woods is the answer. When I tried winding with both the Strauch swift and winder, it ran as smoothly and swiftly as a freshly tuned Italian sports car. There will be one in my near future.
ideas, or I may have to keep an eye on my fiber in case he does. A vendor from Sweden brought some traditional pelts that were sheep fleece on one side and painted skins on the other. Not only were they very unique and beautiful, they would be the perfect thing to hunker down with on a cold winter’s night. Or so I thought until I asked the price. Unfortunately, with a price tag over $1000 USD they were not throws I could leave about, not the practical relax, munch popcorn, and watch TV lap blankets of choice. Made from traditional Gotland sheep, these were heirlooms. We also saw rugs, artistic felting, a hand spun skein competition, and lots and lots of raw and hand-dyed fleece.
crafts but I was empty handed. Halting at the exit gate, I returned to one of the many friendly booths who’s yarn had stayed in my mind, 
official dog who works for the organizers bring three sheep out to a spot in the pasture. The competing dog is released while the rider on the horse and official dog withdraw. The dog races from handler to cluster of sheep, skirting the perimeter of the pasture so s/he can sneak up on the sheep from behind. The dog must herd the sheep to a set of gates and bring them through the gates, bring them to another set of gates and herd them through those, return to the handler, separate one sheep out from the other two for a set amount of time, and herd all three of them into a little pen. The handler, meanwhile, issues all commands using a whistle. Once in the pen, the competition is over but the dog can then proudly herd them toward a little pasture outside the field of competition where they are greeted by a second “official” dog. The official dog brings the befuddled sheep into the final enclosure. The dog has eleven minutes, and if s/he does not finish, the official dog is sent out to end the run and bring the sheep to the outer pasture. This is humiliating for the competing dog. Each dog starts with 100 points and points are deducted during the course of the run. It is both a judged and a timed trial.
behaved the dogs were as the hung around the area waiting to participate. Most of all, we were impressed by dogs knowing what to do in such a huge open space. We wondered where they were able to train for such a thing. Unlike the Sheep and Fiber Fair where the spouse good naturedly wandered about for my sake, I think we both enjoyed the dog trials equally.
coffin.” A woman walking nearby overheard and, rather than being offended by myoffhand remark not meant to be heard by others, laughed and agreed with me. Together we got closer to examine it. Sure enough, it was a wicker coffin. I replied, “Now we know you can find anything at this market.” The vendor joined us and offered a deal on the slightly used coffin. I have heard of used car salesmen, but used coffin salesmen? He had acquired it from someone who had found it in his barn. The original owner was the third generation on his land and did not know much about it other than it had been used by those who had come before him. Obviously it was not used for burials but for laying out the dearly departeds for visitations. As unique a find as it was, I could not think of a good place or purpose in my home for a lightly used wicker coffin. However it did bring one thought to life; so many of these items had their own story. Sadly, most of the stories are lost; all that remains are artifacts lost in a sea of dust covered stuff.
organized, but this was a quest for focus not a quest for self realization. The baskets were handcrafted in the USA by Longaberger, they are viewed by some as a collectable but by me as an organizer. Most of them were less than $20 but I did not want a collectable basket so much as I wanted a clutter corral to collect my clutter; there could be other options–less collectable perhaps–but for less money. A bit further on I found another Longaberger basket and would have been happy to stop right there had it not been for the extra zero on the end of the price tag, $60 when I would have happily paid $6 or even $16.
Monday morning early the spouse boarded a cab for the airport, shutting the door on his vacation and leaving me behind in an empty apartment. Meanwhile, my daughter had put off all her appointments and responsibilities the prior week for her parents’ visit. She had no time during my additional days and, other than a couple of late afternoon outings, we saw each other every evening for dinner, and sometimes even that was rushed. I am fine spending time on my own, and even traveling on my own. However, I was completely deaf in my left ear and it was very disorienting trying to interpret sound. I was fine in a quiet environment but when I went out amidst the traffic and city noise my brain had trouble processing the sounds, it was all a dizzying auditory confusion. Not that I could understand German any better with two ears, but the city noise itself was an incomprehensible jumble. Other than the times I went out with my daughter I spent quiet time indoors, reading, knitting, and resting. I always pack enough yarn and projects to outlast a zombie apocalypse, but this time I did so much knitting that even I had to buy more yarn.
my own. With more than two hours before I could get into the apartment, I sat a solitary figure as rain fell from gray skies, hearing little and unable to understand what little I did, drinking the cup of tea slowly to fill the time. I had no internet access in the cafe and, although would be anxious until it was sorted out, had no means to undo and redo my travel arrangements. It was a very sad and lonely moment, a moment in which I could have let the wave of self-pity wash over me and carry me away. About an hour in, I gathered myself–stepping out of the wave of self pity that had by now had reached past my ankles–and found a local grocery store to buy supplies for my lunches, breakfasts, and tea times. Comforted by doing this small action, I walked slowly towards the apartment in hopes that I could settle into my new place when I arrived. The key turned in the lock, the apartment was silent, cold, and empty but ready for occupancy. The Internet was working and my devices connected as I walked through the door.
Here and There, Now and Then 