GNU Knitting


Mom’s Tomten sweater with a tree of life from Barbara Walker – root system by me.

I have always been a teach-an-individual-to-fish kind of person. In my knitting circles I recently witnessed a brouhaha over reverse engineering a knitted garment and whether to share the process notes. It got me thinking about the value of shared knowledge. What am I willing to figure out? What would I just as soon pay for? What am I willing to share? Under what circumstances am I needing to be paid for my work?

I find there are several formative experiences that weigh into my responses to those questions:

First, I came of digital age when Open Source was called GNU. Anyone could tweak or add to commonly available applications; the least buggy, most useful versions would persist. Entry into the process was open to anyone, but improvements happened slowly, as needed, by people willing to innovate.

Second, I am a big fan of Ursula K. LeGuin’s “The Disposessed,” a novel about a working communal society.

And third, one of the most effective teaching strategies I’ve used is talking through my process out loud. The formula I used was, basically, “I see _____, and I think _____, so I decide to _____.” (Those of you who know me realize that it was never exactly that simple.)

Figuring out how to use a new technique is a lot more fun than figuring out the technique itself. I am more likely to read about grafting one knit piece to another, and then apply that knowledge to the next sweater, scarf, or shawl I make. I use sequences and series from color theory or beginning calculus to inform how I merge Fair Isle and Shetland lace motifs. Origami and geometric shapes also appear in how I structure sweaters. Fractals and flow transformation come into play as one shape or pattern morphs into another. I might start off with little diamonds which gradually elongate to become leaves. Leaves broaden to become waves. I try out an effect first with lace, then add color, then add traveling twisted stitches to become brioche. The story is often the same rocky Maine coast, but the presentation is eternally different. This, for me, is play.

When I can’t figure out the How of something, I will pay for a pattern. I rarely make the item I paid for, mining it, instead, for information. I wanted to knit an afghan modeled after the Drunkard’s Path Quilt but couldn’t figure out how to embed a quarter circle in a square. I came upon a blanket made of knit squares that contained circles of color and bought the pattern for that and borrowed that strategy. Other times it has been more hype than usefulness as I found when the asymmetrical garter stitch shawls started to become popular. It was as I had suspected a matter of increasing on one side every row, and decreasing every second row on the other side. There it turned out the information worth buying was the percentage of yarn you needed to reserve for the bind off.

There are several folks who started off sharing techniques as they matured into accomplished designers. Bad Cat Designs, Brooklyn Tweed, and Lily Chin all started off with informative blogs explaining what they did. It was illuminating to follow their thought processes. Their early designs and advice left plenty for the knitter to figure out on their own, but provided a great start for how to consider the technical aspects of the craft. I made sweaters for both my mom (pictured above) and my son following Jared Flood’s (Brooklyn Tweed) post about modifying Elizabeth Zimmerman’s Tomten sweater for the adult wearer. String Geekery published a stitch pattern called Coffee on her blog. I flipped it upside down, reversing some of the decreases, and am using it in a shawl. I will be morphing the Coffee into a smaller, frothy-er motif. The finished piece will be called “Café Cassé.” I am grateful to those who share their knowledge. I recognize it as a way to organize thoughts, the last step in the process of “learn one; do one; teach one.”

I try to pay forward what I’ve gotten. I give away a lot: shawls, hats, baby sweaters, and advice. I give to people who need the comfort of an unexpected gift, a virtual hug. I give knowing the gift has value because and the receiver couldn’t or wouldn’t make the thing for themselves. I use the baby sweaters and hats to try out new designs; they are often prototypes. I give a shawl to each graduating niece, in the color of their choice and the fiber of mine, with or without beads. I give the nephews cook books.

Graduation Shawl – beaded, merino-cashmere 90/10

I charge for what gives me stress – if too many people are involved, or there is nothing left to tweak or learn, or there is a deadline. I knit my sister an entrelac sock for Christmas. I figured the second sock would take me at least another six hours of knitting those tiny squares, and couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. For the second sock I used the same yarn and a different pattern that focused on short rows instead. Recently she asked what it would cost a friend to have me knit a pair, both in entrelac. Twelve hours, I said. Then $120, she said. I haven’t heard back. If the friend lived nearby, I would happily coach her for free if she wanted to knit her own pair, but to knit them myself, again, I would need the incentive of money. People will say that isn’t the way to sell things; the market won’t bear the cost. True. That doesn’t bother me. Happily, I don’t need to make a living. But think about what cart wranglers at the grocery store make. 

Each September I sit with other Wednesday Spinners at the Common Ground Fair and teach people to use a drop spindle. It is my weekend to share an important part of my craft, and work with others to better appreciate the joy fiber arts can bring. I meet each learner on their own terms. With some it is just learning to spin the spindle and draft the wool to make a rough sort of yarn. With others it is chatting about the structure of each hair and the physics of spinning. I work with all ages of folk from 4 to 80 on up. I have a blast. I was taught to spin by a woman who felt it was an essential bit of knowledge for everyone. I am compelled to pass that on. The same feeling of outreach applies to knitting. But if I have to prepare a special presentation, balance a class with a variety of skill levels, teach an agreed upon set of skills in a specific period of time, then it becomes a job. I still enjoy the class, but the preparation that allows me to have fun is the work and I want compensation for that.

It turns out I am delighted to share my time or knowledge with anyone, as long as I can manage the schedule myself. I’ll coach you along your journey in person, email, or skype. If you’re having a baby, I’ll give you a one-of-a-kind sweater or hat. All else arrives serendipity, with maybe a touch of kismet thrown in.

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Anatomy of a design project

This is an invitation to knitting friends to join me in a project. This is not really a KAL, but an opportunity to enjoy a bit of random creativity, put some good words out into the universe. I am AcadiaS on Ravelry; share there or here with what you make with these ideas.

Yesterday I saw a post about math and knitting. My heart bumped. I followed the link to this page by Naomi Parkhurst. My heart bumped again when I discovered that this was about coded knitting. Words of power hidden in a craft practiced publicly like Madame DeFarge, like Rose Greenhow, like the women of Native Tongue.

Not only does Naomi Parkhurst provide the patterns she creates, but she reveals how she does it. It is a straight up matching code, where letters of the alphabet are matched with numbers which are then applied to a charting grid. The example she gave for “sunshine” used base-6. (You can read all about it on the above link.)

I had to try it. These are my notes on Naomi’s process. If you are interested in engineering your own patterns, you’ll have to read her blog as well.

But what words to use? A poet friend shares a daily post “UNITY, COURAGE, VIGILANCE” as encouragement during these times of turmoil. They sounded like the perfect words to use. I’ll give her the project when I’m done. The the next aspects to decide:

  • What base to use? I chose base-6, because that’s what Naomi used. Also because that guaranteed there would be no stretch longer than 5 stitches in any single repeat.
  • How to deal with zeroes? Since in the lace rendidtion of this process marks the end of each digit with a YO, leaving zeroes as they are would create a double YO. Naomi suggests other alternatives.
  • How big a block to graph? I started out with a block 9 stitches wide. UNITY resulted in 4 pattern rows with 4 ‘rest’ rows that could be either garter or stockinette based. COURAGE became 5 pattern rows and VIGILANCE became 6 pattern rows. This was problematic for knitting them side-by-side as I would need some buffer rows to make each block 6 pattern rows high. The alternitive would to be consistent in number of rows and variable stitch width. UNITY stayed at 9, COURAGE was 10 and VIGILANCE 12.
  • What to make? I considered scarf variations, a stole, a cowl a hat. Grafting or not, mirroring the patterns. How much and what kind of yarn was available (OK, it’s not like there is a dearth of yarn to choose from). I had been discussing the Sufi story of the sultan who had a ring made with the words ‘This too shall pass.’ To continue my round of mystical thinking I chose a circular scarf. 180 stitches on size 7 needles provides enough to repeat VIGILANCE 15 times in a round (so that word does not get mirrored because it’s an odd number), COURAGE 18 times, and UNITY 20 times. My plan for the moment is to do each word 3 vertical repeats for a total of 72 rows, probably buffered with garter stitch.

Here are the charts I’ve made:




Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Querying Gender

This week a group of boys in England wore skirts to school in protest of a “no shorts” policy. Oregon drivers can officially circle “X” on their licenses as a gender choice. Myra Breckenridge is no longer the only transgender name we know, not by a long shot.

I’d like to be able to say “This is what it means to be female. This stuff is what it means to be male,” but I can’t. I have no idea what it means to be anything except what I am in my own head. The smattering of gender trappings learned and rejected by a child of the 1950s – clothes, makeup, being safe, who may hit whom, bathroom protocol, war mongering – have blurred in the intervening decades. Women throw right hooks in the movies, but it is always accompanies a frisson of surprise. Husbands raise kids while their wives are bank managers. Ditto the frisson. Do women wear hats and hose, men put on ties, to go shopping on Saturday afternoon?

As a forty-five year old mom I had no problem marching my six year old daughter into the boys’ department of Filenes. Mid-riff baring shirts, skimpy shorts, and underpant revealing skirts found in the girls’ department were not going to happen for her no matter what common culture said was appropriately feminine dress. Rugged, skin covering clothes were practical for a kid given to skidding on her knees. So were pockets. Was this cross-dressing? Would there be long term effects?

During college orientation at URI in 1972, a boy asked “Are you a liberated woman?”
“Come to bed with me and prove it.”

The exchange was mostly about gender, even though it was cloaked as sex. It was about framing as a dichotomy a question that was really multi-faceted. It seemed typically masculine, this bestowing of and either-or choice, ignoring the wealth of possibility in between.

One night, sitting with Dad when he knew he was dying, he said, “you can either be independent, or you can learn to blend in and be happy. You’ll never find a husband if you don’t.” Interesting assumptions, just like the boy twenty-five years before, as if the only choices were immersion or independence, husband or loneliness. Who needs a caretaker? Why should gender dictate choices?

I hadn’t discovered any of the hard boiled lady detectives yet, nor any of the gender fluid starship captains of Melissa Scott. John D. MacDonald had famously said that he didn’t like women in his novels because they slowed the action down. Reading The Left Hand of Darkness and a handful of similar short stories, raised the question of why gender matters at all.

I’m writing a book with a protagonist whose gender is undisclosed. I started thinking about this character in the early 1980s when I was living in a country where the cultural trappings of gender are different, but no less rigid than in the US. The character needed to be separated from the binary of social propriety. Perception of gender in the States has changed, broadened, become more polarizing. Today, lack of gender is itself a political statement. Why is there this pressure to adhere to one gender or another as if they were political parties? Why not be unenrolled or independent? What would that look like? Why let others define a limited field of choices?

Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

How soon can I get it?


A simple image, but hard to remember. Knowledge doesn’t come instantly. Practice doesn’t make perfect, it just makes better. There is no line in the sand, because sand shifts.

My kids have entered the Peace Corps and I have quoted this wisdom from Piet Hein, WWII freedom fighter and mathemetician, in the days before they flew off. Reading the blogs of other new volunteers, I can see it is a lesson they are learning. Things do take time when the familiar clues of progress are absent, when the language is different, when the expectations of others are out of sync from the expectations of self. Time collapses in retrospect and there is a bit of wonder that becoming comfortable with all the newness could ever have taken so long.

In schools there are still analog clocks on the wall over the door. Kids still watch the clock, but the coordination between minute and hour hands is virtually meaningless. They sneak peaks at phones, or computers to find out what time it is. Time varies from culture to culture. It is fluid. Not just the passage of time, but our understanding of it. As clock styles have changed, so has perception of time’s passage. In the analog world the minute hand has to traverse a portion of the circle that makes up a clock face. A quarter of an hour somehow feels different than fifteen minutes. Seeing numbers flip over is different than seeing the second hand sweep around and the minute hand clicking forward. A new stream bed of time is cut through a digital day.

Posted in Transitions, Travel | Leave a comment

The Right to Question

While this is a modern picture, this face of the building has not changed in 35 years.

While this is a modern picture, this face of the building has not changed in 35 years.

It was in 1984. University students across Morocco were on strike, so it must have been some time in February. Teachers were required to put in an appearance and spend some time in empty rooms, normally filled with 80 or more students. Looking busy was essential.

The Chair of the English Department asked to speak with the teachers responsible for teaching first and second year students grammar, composition, and comprehension. He was a Moroccan, recently returned with a Doctorate in Linguistics from a school in the US. He was the third Chair in five years, and had taken charge of the upper level students, mostly 4th years who would be leaving for teaching posts in the spring.

The man had quirks, to be sure. He was insecure and had reason to be. His wife, an American teacher in the department, helped fascilitate all meetings. Feuds with faculty members, both Moroccan and native English speakers, became common. Staff had left abruptly just three months after he had assumed the Chair. Those who had to stay because a spouse worked in another department, were desperately unhappy. Rumor had it that soon the only jobs to be available for expatriate English speakers would be in the language lab, where accent and cadence were important.

I was part of a group of four women who had been working together for nearly five years, teaching the basics to first and second year students. Two of us were French who had spent much of their lives in England. One was Welsh, and I was American. Although grammar, composition, and comprehension were billed as separate classes, we taught them as interrelated. We prepared all our lessons together, using the same texts, many of them from Time, Newsweek, or English papers, and teaching with a Chomskyan view of language. We stressed the importance of asking questions, both for clarification and to delve more deeply into the nuances of English as a language.

This all proved to be a problem for the Chair. He liked Chomsky well enough from a linguistic point of view and when handed out via lecture, but was entirely against this business of encouraging students to ask questions. They expected answers and became surly when they did not get them. They relied on logic to take the place of dogma and would actually argue their point of view. He thought a more prescriptive strategy better suited to students just starting out at university, a strategy that relied more on memorization and acceptance.

He outlined his ideas in our meeting. “No,” said the group leader.

“Do you deny that you teach them to ask questions?”

“Of course we teach them to ask questions.”

“But surely you see this is wrong?” The Chair seemed shocked.

No one, it seemed, disagreed with the facts. Early teaching of question asking techniques resulted in students continuing to ask questions as they got older. The problem was that one side saw this as a good thing, and the other saw it as bad. It smacked of religious fervor on both sides. It was surprising, to me, that he found questions evil. I believe the Chair was equally surprised.

I am sure it was not the first time I encountered this dichotomy of thought. Whether my Dad would go to Hell for having smoked (Toby Tobacco in Sunday School said yes!), or questioning God’s motivation in sending one or another band of barbarians after His Israelites (Reverend Welch said questioning God was “just not done!”) were two of my early experiences. The Civil Rights movement and Vietnam War were keystones of my youth and both had a religious aspect to them. This hatred of questioning was, however, the first time I had seen such tempers rise in a strictly secular circumstance. Passions burn hot when individuals, or groups, feel threatened in either their lack of knowledge or way of life. Those feelings can be aroused in any arena.

While the Computer, Burger, and Cola Wars are half joke, half serious, I am surprised (dismayed? astounded?) these days by authentic passion surrounding ideas that I had thought long since put to bed, like racism, equality, gender, unalienable rights.

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Changing the world–a two sided equasion

EPSON MFP image“ ‘I wish I had known I wasn’t going to change the world,’ I’ve heard others say.” – – shared this morning in the FaceBook group Peace Corps Northeast.

The writer goes on to describe the small ways her host community was affected by her presence. But like all equations, it doesn’t do to look at just one side. By entering the Peace Corps, she has affected the world in a small way. She has changed herself as well in more dramatic ways. Big World + small changes = One Person + big changes

Both my kids are going into the Peace Corps, and, of course, I have been trolling the net for advice to give them; this is an article I will forward to them as an outside-the-family source.

EPSON MFP image Certainly my days in El Menzel, Morocco did not seem world changing at the time. Certainly I provided a model of “American” that was different from the popular view at the time. I was modestly famous for my speaking colloquial Arabic, riding an illegal moped, being a regular at the public baths, wearing henna in my hair, having a father who spoke a bit of classical Arabic. There is no telling how much of an impact all this made, nor how long lasting that impact was.

This notion of not changing the world is common among returned volunteers. It reflects youthful perspective. It looks for change in others, holding the self as a constant. It was years before I realized that the effect that changed the world was in me. Peace Corps volunteers are not just ambassadors of American culture and values, not just guests at the table. When they leave their host countries, they return to see their own communities with fresh eyes. They develop different standards of poverty, wealth and industry. And perhaps they learn an appreciation for charity and grace.

A couple of years ago I found myself in a class with three other women who had also been Peace Corps volunteers. One had recently taken a young man from Ghana under her wing. He was newly arrived in the Boston area, enrolled in one of the many colleges, and missing home. He welcomed her as a surrogate mom. She had just realized that her own welcome in her host community was much less due to her American-ness, and much more to her youth. The adults of the community helped her assimilate because they recognized a kid out of culture. They treated her as they would any young person far from their family’s guidance. Volunteers are blessed with learning how to “adult” not only in their own community among peers, but in an entirely foreign community. When they return to the States, they will forever hold those two cultures in their hearts.

Used Things MarketSome of the cultural differences are superficial. There were adult interactions I had never really experienced in the States. On my return to the US, it was like going abroad for the first time, learning a new culture; being a stranger and yet at home. I had trouble buying things. Not just because the shelves seemed overcrowded with variety, but because I didn’t know how initiate a transaction. None of the polite social exchange, chit chat, oblique approach to purchase that was familiar in Morocco, worked in Bangor, Maine. Meeting new people was difficult; no one shook hands. I had learned to cook and buy food in a place without refrigeration. Markets there used kilos and sold things in small quantities for daily purchase. Farmers markets were not yet a thing in the States, and the closest open air market I knew of was hundreds of miles away in Boston. Bathing was also a challenge. I had gotten used to having a serious wash once a week in a steamy public bath, chatting with friends, helping scrub their kids, being scrubbed myself. A solo daily shower seemed just odd.

There were, however, more fundamental changes in dealing with others. Knowing what it was like to not even recognize that there was a subtext to some social situation, I was more likely to explain interactions, rather than leaving someone floundering. While my kids and students benefited from this, the risk came in teaching Grandma to suck eggs. This was a useful skill when it came to helping folks transition from the world of typewriters and file cabinets to the world of computers, internet, and virtual communication. Knowing how to explain the unknown, the unimagined, to a person who expects to be in charge and is uncomfortable at being clueless is invaluable.

Time alone, surviving mistakes, learning culture all contributed to an talent for shared self reflection. It became clear to me early on that I alone was responsible for the trouble and frustration I faced. I had made that choices that led me overseas. I chose to let it get to me, or not. I was also responsible for putting my feet on the path that led me to joy and delight. I needed to remind myself of that then, when living as an expat; I remind myself of it now.

The Peace Corps was less about how a volunteer could function as an advocate for change in the world, and far more about becoming the change in the world that Gandhi advocated. My children have heard my travel stories: years spent in Morocco (in the picture I am second from the left), both during the Peace Corps and for quite a few years after COS (close of service); growing up in Kenya and Jordan with parents active in American Friends Service Committee; travel through Europe, learning languages. I am a huge fan of international living. It is weird, then, that for the past 30 years I have lived in rural Maine, traveling only for conferences. Beyond a brief trip to the Maritimes I have never really traveled with my kids. Now I look forward to visiting with them in their new homes.

Posted in Morocco, Peace Corps, Transitions, Travel | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Rafe–For Want of a Toe

Rafe sat on the bench, a neckerchief stuffed in the gap where her toe once lived, waiting her turn. Other recruits drifted past, peered at her bloody rag. Some kept their distance. Other fetched up in little knots, glancing her way every so often, the sound of their chatter kept low and private. She wondered how many other recruits managed to lose some body part on their first day. She wondered if it meant she’d be booted out as too incompetent to train.

With the medic’s tent at her back she could either sit bolt upright or slouch forward with her elbows on her knees. Lying down seemed too much like defeat. To keep pressure off her wound she sat with a rigid back and glowered. The little bottle the medic had given her to dull the pain sat on the bench next to her, still full.

This city of tents was so unlike home, she had hoped to find a place for herself. Now it felt like more of the same, still strange, still unwelcome, still having to watch her back and her mouth.

“So, how did you manage it?”

Rafe started at the voice. She had been so drawn into herself that she had missed the medic sitting down on the other side of the bottle of medicine. Worse and worse. Not the makings of a soldier, for sure. “Excuse me?” she asked.

“How did you manage it?” The medic did not seem much older than she was. He was built like a beech sapling and radiated something that broke up tension, and lifted the spirits.

“We were playing mumbledy-peg and I suppose I got cocky. Lesson learned. Won’t happen again.” Rafe sighed. Even as she had spoken, she could hear the tone of voice she had used with her mother, offering up yet another insincere apology, accepting blame for something that was not her fault.

“I get that. Happens all the time. You recruits jockey back an forth, find your place in the pecking order. I deal with cuts, bruises, broken bone, the whole gamut, every time there’s a new influx. So I get how you lost your toe. Nothing odd about that at all.”

“What?” She looked him in the eyes and scrunched her face into the stupid look that sometimes worked with Ma.

“Let’s start again.” The medic held out his hand, smaller and less scarred than hers. “I’m Blue Thane. Medic. For you recruits.” He spoke clearly and waited between sentences, making sure she understood.

Rafe nodded and Blue Thane continued. “You lost a toe. The bleeding looks almost stopped and you’ll be fine. She didn’t take either of the edge toes. Your balance won’t be affected, so no worries there. It wouldn’t be enough for you to get boosted out in any case. We like scrappy kids. You make fine soldiers and generally survive to make the training worthwhile.”

Rafe got a bad feeling. The medic was talking about the other thing that happened. This was, indeed, going to be like Ma.

Blue Thane stayed casual and comforting. “I’ve just spent the last half hour digging pieces of steel and wood out of three of your pals. Legs, hands, and one serrated rib cage. That,” he paused again until he had her eyes on him, “that, young lady, is what I want to know. How did you manage it?”

“Why do you think I did something?”

“It was pieces of the same knife that took off your toe. Several someones saw it explode.”

“And you won’t help me unless I confess to it?”

“Jale’s Needle, no. That’s not it at all. I’m a medic. Live and let live. Sew ‘em up so they will live.” He spread his hands to show how empty they were. “We’ve got folks of all kind here, who come in as recruits. Some on the run, some doing walk about, some just looking for adventure, or to prove a point. There are some here who are wary of witchcraft. You know, magic.”

Rafe’s confusion changed from feigned to genuine. “A witch? Magic?”

“Surely you’ve heard of witchcraft and magic.”

“But they’re not real. Are they?”

“No, of course not. But you did have something to do with the knife exploding.”

It was no longer a question. How had she admitted to that? Rafe looked at the medic’s face. His brows did not fall into the resting scowl she saw in her own face when she looked in a mirror. In fact, he seemed to have just heard a joke and was trying to decide if it was one she would appreciate. He reminded her of Grammy Heddle, definitely not afraid, and maybe even someone who could help. “Can we talk about this inside your tent? It’s not exactly something I want everybody to know – for sure. No matter what they might suspect.”

“Sure, we can do that.” Blue Thane got up and led the way into the tent and Rafe limped in after him. “I’ll just leave the flap open, if you don’t mind, for light. No one can see in.”

Rafe wondered where to start. It was not as if she had needed to explain herself back in Riverside. The neighbors took care of that if there were ever foreigners who saw something they didn’t understand. She looked around the tent. “Do you have anything you don’t mind getting broken?”

Blue Thane fished a cracked mug out of the trash. “Will this do?”

“Put it on the stool.” Rafe opened her mouth. “Ahhhh,” she said, moving her voice up and down, trying out different notes. She found one she liked and got a little louder. Pop. The mug shattered into a pile of dust.

The medic looked from her to the dust.  “Huh. I knew a girl in a tavern up north who could break wineglasses when she sang. How about this?” He picked up a wooden spoon and placed it on the stool.

Again, Rafe searched for a pitch, and found two. The handle fell off, then bowl of the spoon split in half. She watched Blue Thane to gauge his reaction.

“Why did the cup disintegrate but the spoon broke cleanly? Clay versus wood?”

“Partly. But the cup was already cracked. It had lost integrity.”

Blue Thane wiped off the stool and gestured for her to sit. “Can you do this to anything, or just certain materials?” He laid out his kit and removed the wad of cloth from between her remaining toes.

“Pretty much anything.”

“And you do it with just your voice? You don’t do any little hexy thing?”

“Just my voice.”

“I don’t imagine they ask you to sing at parties?”

Had he just made a joke? Yes, he had. Rafe giggled and shook her head.

“So what happened with the knife? Why did it explode? It was solid, not cracked. It had integrity, as you say.”

“I was surprised. I didn’t expect her to take off my toe.”

“I don’t supposed people bothered you much back home. I assume they knew about this.”

Rafe nodded.

“And that’s why you ended up here?”

She nodded again.

“What would have happened if you had stayed — wherever you came from?”


“The blacksmith would have taken your tongue, or cut your throat?” He seemed shocked.

“No. Da was a blacksmith and I would have been next, until Ducky got big enough. Or longer if Ducky wanted to go sojourning in the world. I guess Jenna will have that job now.”

“Jenna is your sister?”


“And Ducky?”

“Brother.” This all seemed unnecessary to Rafe. “Will I need to leave?”

“What? No. There are plenty of people with Graven’s Guard who have quirky little talents like yours. It just means you’ll have extra work, training so you don’t go exploding things accidentally. As a rule, we like to damage the other side, not our own.”

Posted in Rafe, Transitions | Leave a comment

Alone time–naturally.

Alice lay in bed listening. There was the thwap of the overhead fan. There was the hum of the refrigerator. There was the faint wind-chime from the front porch. There were the crows on the front lawn. No video game explosions, no slamming doors, no one-sided phone conversations, no computer buzz, no deep sighs from anyone in time out. Alice waited, listening. There was the click of a coffee maker turning off, and the smell of Fair Trade brew wafting upstairs.

Alice pulled her Kindle from under the pillow and propped it open on the bed. For half an hour she read undisturbed. No cheery face popped into the room with a book of their own for her to read. No distraught faces sought judgment or declaration of fairness. She read until she had to get up to use the toilet. How many years had it been?

No one visited her in the bathroom. It really had been years since she had peed alone. She thumbed through an entire article in the National Geographic. The picture of a school room in Kenya contained the only children she had seen today. Was this a miracle or a disaster? Was she one of the Left Behind? Did she care?

Alice got up from the toilet and turned on the shower thriftily rinsing her hands in the spray. She brushed her teeth while the shower heated. Stepping into the shower, she noticed the water was hot. Really hot. Hot like the first shower of the day. Hot like no dishes had been done. Hot like the washing machine had not even been turned on. Hot like the shower at the Hilton. She washed her hair, lathered her body, and shaved her pits.

And still, no one interrupted her. She searched for the feeling of guilt a good mother should have, a little relieved to find the barest of twinges.

Alice dressed alone. She took actual time to brush her hair. She put on shoes over her socks and went downstairs.

The coffee was still hot and fragrant. Her mug was on the counter. There was plenty of half and half in the fridge. There were four bagels left in the bag instead of the usual half of a broken one. The butter in the butter dish was not festooned with crumbs, or jam, or with a knife stuck in upright. Alice started to wonder if this was, in fact, her house. Maybe she had been kidnapped by good fairies and rewarded for her years of service.

Alice picked up the mug and saw the sticky-note on the counter. “Gone to Mom’s for the weekend. Phone is unplugged.” There was an arrow pointing to the back of the note. “Fiona and Jill will pick you up at 6:45. Happy Birthday!” Released!

“You wake up, and everyone in your family is gone. There’s a Post-it on the kitchen counter. What does it say?” 712 More Things To Write About by The San Francisco Writers’ Grotto. 2014 Chronicle Books LLC.

—- I am going to try to post a response to a prompt from this and 642 Things To Write About at least once a week. The prompt will always follow the response. While the prompts are from The SFWG, the responses are my own. Some of these may be expanded at a later date.

© 2016 Susan Dewey

Posted in Fiction | Leave a comment

Morocco 1978–Eid el-Kebir

The hosts were my neighbors. They had saved their invitation for this special night that would be just for family. I was the only outsider present. Being wedged into a corner was a place of honor. There was no escaping the seat and get up to help anyone, fetch tea, pass finger bowls, dish up saucers of salads. In the center of the table was a roasted ram’s head, charred, hairless, bug-eyed. A tasty mixture of brains, garlic, spices, had refilled the open cavity. I was as unprepared for this as, perhaps, you, dear reader, were.

The table was piled with small schlade, plates of salad – orange, carrot, and cinnamon; eggplant fried with garlic and tomato; tomato, cucumber, and mint; artichoke, lemons, and olives – baskets of fresh bread for eating the schlade and brains. A lamb couscous and brochettes were to follow, rounded off with tea and cookies. I would not go hungry, but avoiding the ram’s head was not an option. Composure fraying, nerves on edge, I reached for a piece of bread and dipped.

The family drew close, watching for my reaction, and delighting in the prospect of a gustatory treat.  The four kids assured themselves that I was going to surprise myself by what I had missed, once I had tasted. And it was OK. There was no gagging. I dipped back in for more, along with everyone else. With so many sharing, there was no undue burden to eat more than a token number of tastes.

It was like many things experienced during my years abroad – far less exotic than most hope when they fish for stories about adventures in North Africa. The banter was no different from what went on around a Thanksgiving or Easter table Stateside, when a foreign exchange student was present. Fatima with her high pitched voice told them to back off. Si Ahmed vowed that this was all in good fun. While different in the specifics, this, and many of the other experiences, had their parallels in life in the US.

Even the story of the Eid was familiar to someone raised hearing Bible stories. It commemorated the time when Abraham had been commanded to sacrifice his son to prove his love of God. A ram appeared as a last minute reprieve. Certainly an event worth celebrating. No less mystical than a rolled back stone and an empty tomb.

I enjoyed the meal, the last of that holiday season. I attended other Eids, but this was the only one with brains. I can’t say I was sorry, but I would have been all right with more.

“What was the strangest thing you ever ate, and how did you react?” 712 More Things To Write About by The San Francisco Writers’ Grotto. 2014 Chronicle Books LLC.

—- I am going to try to post a response to a prompt from this and 642 Things To Write About at least once a week. The prompt will always follow the response. While the prompts are from The SFWG, the responses are my own. Some of these may be expanded at a later date.

© 2016 Susan Dewey

Posted in Family, Food, Morocco | Tagged , | Leave a comment

Night Watch

Winter FireThen he turned to Wilf. “Look, boy. You go tell your Da that I want a word with him. And your Uncle Ducky as well. And maybe that Molly.” As Wilf hustled off Old Farley turned back to Rafe. “You’ll stay a bit, aye? I’d just as soon make sure no one got the idea to go prospecting in the night.”

Rafe nodded. “Whatever you need. I’ll just get a few things from the forge.” She moved toward the shore, alternately building speed and sliding on the leather soles of her boots.

The last slide brought her to the snow at the edge of the river. Blade stepped forward to meet her and Rafe laced her fingers through the halter, turning him back toward the town. “It looks like we’re not through with winter camping, yet.”

Once in the forge, Rafe packed up a clay tub with coals from the fire that was kept smoldering all winter. She entered the stall Blade used and retrieved the tent she used in bad weather, and her bedroll stuffed with gear. There was a puff of dust as the trap door in the floor of the alley opened and Wilf’s head appeared. Sticking up, from behind his head, was the pommel of Rafe’s sword.

“Hangman’s Drawers! Did you invade my quarters?”

“To get your harness and bring it to you.”

“And did you enjoy the admiring looks of the young ladies as you made your way through the Common?”

“No, Auntie. My hands were full and it just seemed easier. And I thought you might need, you know, a weapon or two.”

“For what? We are just making sure no one gets overcome by curiosity and accidentally tumbles through the hole in the ice.”

“Old Farley mentioned prospecting.” Wilf slid the harness off his shoulders and rested the tip of the scabbard on the toe of his boot.

“Old Farley is a worried soul. I can’t imagine the wagon or the skull did anything to cheer him up.”

“Give over my harness and go fetch a pail of stew and a loaf of bread.”

“Molly’s got that taken care of. She said she wouldn’t let you starve, though the rest of us could go to perdition if we didn’t have enough sense to bring our own dinners. Da told her if she’d taken over the job of provisioning you, she could provision us all. I think she weasled a pie as well.”

Rafe looked past Wilf to see Harland Grott poke his head through the trap door. When he was high enough to lean on his elbows, he swung a pack to the floor and stopped. “I wonder if you can use an extra pair of eyes tonight?”

“What’s in the pack?”

“I thought I’d dust off my winter camping gear, and maybe bring a small beverage. Relive old times on campaign.”

“That gear must be fair to mouldering, even if you retired after they carved this smile in my face.”

“Oh, I keep my hand in. Especially late winter when the game starts moving about. A bit of hunting. Fresh meat for the pot, makes a fellow welcome. You know.”

“Fine, then. But take the bottle back. This is no time for a frolic, just a bit of watching and then to sleep.”

Harland removed two bottles from his pack and tucked them into last fall’s straw in the byre. He hitched one strap over his right shoulder and sauntered out the open door without stopping at the waiting sledge.

Rafe glanced at her nephew. “What is wrong with you, boy? You got worms crawling around under your face?”

“Are you just letting him join us?”

“And why not? Is there some reason he shouldn’t share in making sure no one falls into the hole at night?”

“Auntie, I thought we were going to talk about what happened to the river water, what we were going to do about it?”

“You think just our family can decide that? If it were a decision thing like that, surely your good mother would be part of this. No, this is about the Foals and their kin, making sure they don’t get to market with goods that weren’t theirs to begin with.”

“But Harland Grott. You know he’s from away, don’t you, even though he’s made a home here?”

“So’s your Uncle Barton. What of it?”

“But he married Auntie Finn, and he’s family.”

“There’s a lot of ‘buts’ in your head, boy. Now we’re back to family. You’ve heard the saying ‘keep your friends close…’?”

“And your en…”

Wilf stopped when Rafe held up a finger, moved it to her temple and winked. She retrieved the bottles and moved them to the byre across the aisle. She strapped on her harness and moved outside to finish loading the sledge. Molly came across the yard from the Pig and Toad, carrying a pail in each hand and a pack on her back. Rafe sniffed and smiled, wedging the stew in amongst the camping gear. Wilf removed the pie, still steaming, from the top of Molly’s pack and set that in one of the pail lids. Rafe nodded at her nephew. “Duck inside and grab that sack of winter mash for Blade, and we’ll be off. The others will join us at the river.”

That night, as they sat in front of the tent, Rafe missed fires under the night sky, sparks flying up to merge with the stars. The stories they told were no different than the ones told around the central fire in Winter Home, or Winter Quarters with Graven’s Guard, for that matter. But the cold air and hot stew, the smell of the pie mixed with smoke, knowing there would be toasted bread for breakfast, and even the thin sound of Blade whuffling in his oats, felt more like home than she had found since standing next to the Memory Oak that first day when she had dumped Wilf on his back.


They set up three watches. Wilf with Ducky took the first watch, Harland and Molly, the second. Rafe took the last watch with Boyl.

The second watch started as Hopeworth’s Mill rose above the horizon. Molly rose quietly and squeezed through the tent flap, taking a blanket and leaving Rafe bundled in her furs. Rafe heard the girl crunch through the snow and greet Harland, already at the fire. After a few minutes, Harland said something in an encouraging tone and Molly laughed nervously and objected. Harland spoke again, reassuring. Molly acquiesced. There were more footsteps, and the tent flap opened and Molly squeezed through again.

“Just as you said, Auntie. He said there was no need for me to be up sitting in the cold and dark. Night watch was not near as glamorous as I thought.”

“Sleep tight, then. I’ll see to this.”

Rafe shrugged into a a heavy white sweater. She traded her red hat for a white one and rolled out under the back wall of the tent. She loosened her joints and wormed her way to the corner where she had a good view of the fire. Harland was sitting with his back to the fire, but pointed toward the tents instead of the hole in the ice. She waited and he waited.

When he rose, it was only after Molly had started to snore. To Rafe it sounded like a girl practiced at sneaking out at night, but it seemed to satisfy Harland. He dusted off his seat and knees and started to stroll toward the edge of the river.

Posted in Country Life, Rafe | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment