|From Irish Clover|
A lovely mostly stockingnette Green Gable nestled into my knitting bag next to the Widdershin III. I'm knitting it in a luscious Malibrigo silk and wool blend which my LYS scored before the awful Malibrigo warehouse fire. This is my first experience with Maligrigo and it is yummy. I can't wait to wear this ultra tangible yarn.
|From Irish Clover|
All the stockingnette must have been what my knitting soul needed. By the end of the trip, as I drove home, my thoughts began to turn to lace. The simple knitting and the trip home was just what I needed.
Home. What a simple word, yet, still slightly complicated. As I prepared for the trip, the idea of going home struck me as extremely odd. Here I am a woman in my 30s with a family and a full time job who has lived in the same city for the last 14 years; and I was excited about going "home," to the place where I grew up. I have officially lived longer in my current city in the delta than the place where I went to grade school and high school, yet the city where I was small will always be home. What struck me even more was the realization that Little Clover will probably always call the delta home and this is one of many ways in which his differences as an individual is obvious. He will hold a fondness for our town I could never have. Our thoughts of home, in regards to a place, will be somewhat out of sync.
Fortunately, I think memories filling our homes will be more closely aligned. We had one of those nights last night that will dwell in my memory at least. Our evening as a family consisted of Italian and Little Clover playing for a while, then us sitting down to dinner together. We told stories of our weekend and exchanged jokes and banter as we shared our meal. Then, as the evening drew to a close, Italian and I shared an a few moments with a new Nina Simone cd, some wine, and some dancing. These simple ordinary events really are what define a home.