Author: Dunrie

I wish I’d written this myself.

….This New Year, I wish you more blank slates. May you have more blank white pages sitting in front you with your favorite pen nearby and at the ready. May you have blank screens in your code editor with your absolutely favorite color syntax highlighting. May your garage work table be empty save for a single large piece of reclaimed redwood and a saw.

Turn off those notifications, turn your phone over, turn on your favorite music, stare at your blank slate and consider what you might build….

Go read the full post on Rands in Repose The Builder’s High

Sometimes people fancy themselves to have an inner compass or a true sense of direction. Sometimes they do.

Part One – Wayfinding with Dad

My dad fancied himself a preternatural woodsman. Someone who could enter the forest near our northwoods cottage and orient up and around rock outcrops, cedar thickets, and swamps. When we went up for long weekends or weeklong vacations, we went on day hikes for recreation. Sometimes we brought lunch, other times we hiked one way and got picked up by Dad’s Jeep or my aunt and uncle’s station wagon with a cooler of cold pop and beer and some sandwiches and chips at the far edge of our walk

Well, on these hikes, Dad liked to take “shortcuts” where the trail meandered off of a true straight line (skirting some swampy land or rock crest) and as often as not we’d end up turned around, frustrated, and sniping at each other as we wasted time, lost. I remember crying as a girl, asking why he acted this way, wishing he were safer and more predictable, easier to follow and more trustworthy.

My mom loved photography, and there was a little airport near our cottage and she arranged a trip in a small plane to photograph the cottage and the Peninsula from the air. I went with her and so did my cousin Matt, both of us were shutterbugs like Mom. Well, my sister and my cousin Joel went with Dad on a hike. They were going for Cabot Head, a limestone boulder on top of a bluff, said to look like the Great Lakes explorer. And, well, Dad took a shortcut and so they ended up bushwhacking through sodden fens and soggy woods. Apparently any time the two kids complained, my Dad had zingy one-liner retorts. They named the marl-goo they were walking through the “pushee” (rhymes with slushee), and then when it was covered by a layer of water, it was the “unpushee”. One of his lines was that the only thing worse than the pushee was the unpushee.  At one point as they slogged through the marly goo, their sneakers getting almost sucked off with every step, they looked up and saw Cabot Head gleaming at them from atop a cliff. They never made it to Cabot Head that day, but they did make it back for a shower and some lunch. We joke maybe they can be found in the photos we took from the air.

All of Dad’s freelance “trailfinding” kind of turned me off off-roading in any real sense. I liked trails, marked trails. I liked knowing where I was going and about when I’d get there. I thought I’d learned the lesson and would play it safe.  It was a good thing our northwoods cottage is located on a Peninsula, so we couldn’t have gone all that far without hitting some water or a road.

Part Two – Circles in the Snowy Woods

No longer kids and either in college or just out, but before we married, had families, and found other ways to celebrate New Year’s Eve, my cousins, my sister and I spent New Year’s Eve up north a couple of times. The shoreline cottages were empty of all their summertime visitors, only a few locals stay around all year. It is cold and clear and quiet, and we felt proud of our macho woodsman ways.

Gillies Lake doesn’t always freeze by New Year’s, but this year it did and so my two cousins and I walked around the edge of the frozen shoreline. It’s much easier to walk on the frozen ice than along the limestone shore with lots of craggy white cedars and people’s cottages and boat launches. Gillies Lake is shaped like a figure 8 with several bays, the largest one forming the top of the 8. Our cottage is at the bottom of the 8. We got bored about 2/3 of the way around the top bay, and so decided to cut through the woods as a shortcut back to the fat part of the eight. We knew pretty much where we were going, it wouldn’t be far to cut off the little peninsula and save us some walking. I think my father was alive at that point, I know he would have approved regardless.

You already know what comes next.

The woods up there have sporadic cedar thickets in them that are basically like little cedar stockades – an impossibility of hard dead branches and close-set trunks that you can’t push through. If you try, the branches break and find some soft spot on your face – ears, nose, eye lid, something – to poke or scrape, and then you bump out to one side or another in an end-around. Maybe there were one too many cedar thickets, or maybe there were rock outcrops, or maybe there was someone’s cabin we didn’t want to invade. Anyway, we bumbled around in the snowy woods for a while and then we saw a trail of footsteps and jumped on that. Our ticket home! Well, we followed that trail until we saw where we’d come in to join it. By the end we were going around in a circle in our own footsteps, stamping a third time on the same place. Once we noticed that, we found our way back to the water’s edge and home.

Part Three – Technological Intervention and Finding my Way Without It

So, once small, handheld GPS units came on the market, I put one on my Christmas list. It would save me from getting lost, I could finally avoid that familiar frustration of wandering, of wasting time. Of course, it only could if I brought the thing when I went hiking around. On one solo day hike near the cottage, the trail I was on was flooded. I didn’t want to get a “hotfoot” so I skirted the water and then tried to bushwhack back to where I knew the trail should be. Except it wasn’t there. I thought I saw a tall-ish tree in the distance, and thought there was a tall-ish tree along the trail so went there hoping to find the trail. Nope. Nothing. No trail. The GPS was at the cottage.  And this was embarrassing. I was in very familiar territory, or I should have been.

I knew I wasn’t in any real danger. I was well fed, near cottages and homes, and near my trail. It was daylight. I wasn’t hurt or injured in any way.  I was between a road and a cliff, so I had two really good boundaries that could help me orient should I happen upon either one of them. So I walked, heading for clearings in the sun-dappled woods since I knew the trail was in a more open place. Eventually I circled around enough that I did find a trail. Not the one I was on or trying to find, but another one that I knew and was able to follow to get back to my road and back to the cottage.

After all that, after finding my way (not magically or automatically or even in a linear way), I relaxed about getting lost in the woods. Dad was always confident about finding the shoreline, eventually. And I had the same feeling. Maybe neither one of us had much wayfinding ability, but I inherited enough of his confidence both to get myself lost and to find myself again. I prefer to wander solo, tho, not with groups of family members and young kids.

Happy New Year!

Wishing you all the best in 2014 – may you find your way to as much of an adventure as you want, bounded by beauty, family, tradition, and nature.

I love weddings. No matter the type of ceremony, religious or secular, indoor or outdoor, traditional or invented, in my experience there is just one wedding that is repeated over and over again. They all make me cry, in joy and a little longing for things imagined, things lost, and the potential of it all.

So when I watched the father-daughter dance at a friends’ wedding last Sunday, I cried for the tenderness and pride he showered on her, for the lack of a father-daughter dance at my own wedding, for the loss of my father. And instead of mourning him, I realized that to honor him I should cherish myself as he cherished me. Essentially, it is up to me to keep that feeling of love alive.

Dad, you would have been 76 this past week. Happy Birthday. I bought myself a gigantic bright orange purse from you on your Birthday. I hope you like it. It makes me smile, and that’s what you would have wanted.

When I was young, we had to choose an instrument at school. I chose the flute, and was in the middle of the large pack of young ladies in band.

Eventually I dropped out during high school, pursuing other activities instead. Although I was a mediocre musical student, I have always been grateful for my musical education. My experience gives me a sense of the excellence and precision in the music I hear and a working knowledge of the instruments and mechanics within the group. And it helped give my brain something to do while I listen to the music with my heart and body.

Yet, I haven’t always been as appreciative of my choice of instrument, and I have wondered if I chose poorly. The flute…well…it’s a lot girly. And I am tall and knew others regarded tall girls as unfeminine. In that context, I can interpret my choice of the flute as some kind of rejection of who I was at that time (tall, awkward, different) in favor of some ideal diminutive, soft femininity. Basically, I have wondered if the flute was my beard.

Well, last night I attended Gabriel Kahane and yMusic‘s concert at the University Musical Society on North Campus of UM. yMusic is an ensemble of three string and three wind instrument players. One of the musicians, Alex Sopp, played the flute, piccolo, and a longer flute (the bass flute?). Listening to her play, as her notes dashed and trilled and leapt with precision and grace, I knew the real reason for my flute crush. The flute is a beautiful instrument, and echoes the happy music of the birds in the forest (e.g. the beautiful call of the wood thrush).

So thanks, Alex, for helping me forgive my younger choice and reconnecting me to that sound.

A flute isn’t necessarily a beard. It is its own beautiful source of grace and lightness. As my dad would say, recalling a quote attributed (unproven) to Freud “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”.

I’m knitting a laceweight shawl/wrap. It has been both fun and challenging. The stitch pattern is easy (diagonal paired yarn-overs every 45-some stitches), but the needle is small and the yarn is very fine.  I cast on 481 stitches to start, and I am knitting with a size 3 needle and will knit something like 1,500 yards of laceweight yarn. Just based on the number of stitches – 481 * 200 rows = 96K stitches….it is an ambitious project. Even though it will be small and light, that’s about double the yarn yardage for a sweater.

I started to use a lifeline in the project after I dropped stitches at the lacy/yarn-over part and could not recover. A lifeline is a thread “sewn” through the row that lets you rip back a good place and restart if things go awry. I’m using dental floss, but really any yarn would do. It’s a very handy technique. As I’ve knit this wrap, I have dutifully been moving 2 lifelines up the shawl.

I brought this project on our trip to France this fall–knitting on the plane and in the car. I had hoped to finish the wrap ahead of my trip, and I imagined looking chic at an amazing French meal with the wrap cozily around my shoulders. Well, I did not finish in time, and so I resigned myself to enjoying working on my project in France instead of wearing it in France.

I was down to the last 50-some rows, 75-80% through by the time the trip was finished. We got to the airport, and as normal, went through security. We were in the separate line for NYC- and USA-bound planes. Since soon after 9/11, I have been able to bring knitting and its needles on plane trips without incident. So, it did not occur to me that the knitting in my carry-on could cause a problem. Well, my heart dropped into my ankles when the X-Ray operator asked me what the pointy things were in my backpack. I searched for the words in French – we never learned “knitting needles” in French class. I said it was “to knit” or “tricoter”.

I pulled the needles out of my backpack, of course the needles were through something like 60K stitches of laceweight yarn and weeks of work which might unravel completely if separated. The operator did not know if they were permitted, she had to talk to her supervisor. She said that they had different rules in Nice, even if we normally were permitted to carry on the knitting in the US, it might not be allowed here. The supervisor came over, they spoke rapidly in French and I could not keep up, but I heard “aiguilles a tricoter” (knitting needles).

I imagined having to pull my needles out and hand them over to French TSA. I imagined my project fraying back to some earlier date, turning into a big knotty mess I’d need hours to triage and repair.

In the end, they said that my knitting needles were “special” and they let me keep them. Perhaps the operator recognized the delicacy of the puff of knitting attached, or perhaps knitting needles are allowed after all.

Only after the terror subsided did I realize that I had two lifelines in place so even if I had to remove the needles and hand them over, most of my knitting would be intact, the wrap would have survived.

New lessons for the paranoid knitter:

1. don’t take anything for granted. put a lifeline in before going through security, just in case!
2. consider bamboo over metal needles for travel, it may look less scary on an X-ray screen!
3. knitting needles are “les aiguilles a tricoter” in French.