A matter of National Importance

Gentlereaders,

It isn’t often that I use this forum for something other than pure entertainment purposes.  But today I feel I must.  Indeed, I believe I would be shirking my responsibilities as a quasi-public-pseudo-personality if I did not bring an important issue to your immediate attention.

But I must warn you.  The issue I raise today is of paramount importance.  In fact, it may be the most pressing issue of the day – and yet our political leaders appear ambivalent to the pending crisis.  We stand, as it were, on a precipice.  And it is my great fear that we find ourselves today standing precisely where the Romans stood as Nero fiddled into the night.

We are losing the pastry race. 

I know that those are bitter words to swallow. 

Allow me to explain.  I am in the throes of OFB 2012 (“Operation Fat Bastard” ©TSMK).  Like many non-recurring charges on a corporation’s balance sheet, OFB is a one-time event that seems to occur on a yearly basis.  If memory serves, OFB 2012 is sixth consecutive observance of this once-in-a-lifetime occasion.

To mark this auspicious occasion, participants spend absurd amounts of time running on moving belts while pondering the mysteries of chafed nipples, and attempting to avoid hernia while lifting heavy objects. 

Like all semi-religious observances, there is also a certain amount of fasting involved.  Not your average – don’t eat a single thing – kind of fasting.  Just the kind of fasting where you don’t eat anything that you actually enjoy.  Ten pounds of raw spinach?  Knock yourself out.  A single morsel of chocolate?  Only at the risk of eternal damnation. 

The goal of OFB, like all such observances, is to perform penance for prior sins, and to maintain a certain level of grace in the eyes of a more evolved being.  But, of course, with denial of the flesh comes temptation. 

And it is precisely that temptation that has caused me to become aware of the pastry-debacle facing our nation today.  For essentially every first-world country has a signature pastry.  But as far as I can tell, we have none of any meaningful importance. 

I have the solution.  For I have, in a fit of anaerobic light-headedness, had a mouth-watering vision of splendor. 

We need a chocolate-covered bagel-thing.  In its ideal form, this delectable morsel would have the chewy saltiness of a traditional kosher-salt bagel – but would covered (nay – drenched) with a chocolate ganache.  With a bagel such as this, we could take over the world. 

In other news – tonight I will finish what is (I think) my fifth pair of socks.  And this pair is for me.  The pattern is Java – found on Knitty.  Rather than run the ribbed cables out to the end of the toe (and run what seemed like a decent risk of running out of yarn – I’ve used the pattern’s decreasing structure but some left over Socks that Rock yarn to do a contrasting toe.  I like these quite a lot. 

And in other news, Gigi is now the proud mother of eight young kits.  She would have written the second installment of the Ballad of Buster and Gigi, but she’s been quite busy chasing Buster for child support while nursing the hungry kits.  So she asked me to provide the update – along with a picture of the growing brood.

This brings our herd of angora to 14 - and I'm already quite eager to spin some of the wool from the dark kits in this litter. 

~TSMK

And The Winner Isn't...

Ann from the Midwest.

Nope. Not Ann. Which isn’t to say that she didn’t put in a great entry. In fact, her entry was quite persuasive. But there was a problem with it. A big problem. A problem that, on principle, I’m not prepared to accommodate. For you see, Ann wanted to use her present early. Three days early to be specific. Anyway, before I tell you more about Ann, let me tell you about the second most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.

It was slightly more than nine years ago (nine years and three days, to be exact) – that our destines began to converge. It was night. I was sleeping. I do that sometimes. But on that particular night my sleep was interrupted. The darkness of my room was shattered and there, backlit by a blinding light, stood Mrs. TSMK.

“I think my water just broke”.

To be sure, there are worse ways to wake up. For example, you could wake up to the unexpected smell of smoke. Or perhaps the unexpected smell of cabbage.

But when you’re a soon-to-be-first-time father, and you hear something like that in the middle of the night… boy it wakes you up in a hurry.

Despite all the childbirth classes and books we’d devoured over the last several months, the level of uncertainty in this announcement was something I hadn’t anticipated.

“What do you mean, you think your water just broke?”

A lengthy discussion followed which you, gentlereader, will be spared for reasons of its graphic content.

With trembling digits, we called the obstetrician to inquire of recommended next steps. Mrs. TSMK did not seem to be in active labor and, it being the small hours of the morning, we were recommended to come in on the first ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle – where we planned to deliver. That ferry was set to sail at 4:45 a.m. – roughly four hours away.

Satisfied that we’d made a plan – and that we were likely to have a rather eventful day – I asked Mrs. TSMK if there was anything that I might do to make her more comfortable.

“Juice” she said.

And so, dutiful expectant father drove to the grocery store, bleary-eyed but hypervigilant, to acquire the particular brand of juice which had recently become her favorite.

Roughly 30 minutes later, I arrived back home. I turned my key in the lock, opened the door, and noticed something new. Something I’d not heard before: an oddly vigorous chuffing noise coming from upstairs. As if someone was panting. Loudly.

The ferry wasn’t set to depart for three more hours. But apparently, Mrs. TSMK wasn’t prepared to wait to begin the day’s festivities.

Fast forward three hours. We’ve been doing our best to remember every breathing childbirth technique we learned in the class. We’re actually doing reasonably well with them – but things are getting more intense with every contraction. We’re on the ferry, but sitting in the car is too uncomfortable for Mrs. TSMK – so we’re walking around on the car deck. Ferry workers are peering at us from around corners. They’re wondering whether they’re going to begin the second run of the morning already behind schedule due to a medical emergency. I’m wondering the same.

We drive off the ferry in Seattle, and I manage to hit every pothole over the 15 blocks or so to the hospital. Moments after arrival in the triage area of the obstetrics unit, Mrs. TSMK is wisely beginning to believe that better living may be achievable through modern chemistry. Her prior (and in my opinion, unnatural) insistence on natural childbirth is beginning to wane. And that’s when the nurse made the call.

Moments later, it happened. I met the second most beautiful woman in the world. Her name was Betty and she was a leggy redheaded supermodel disguised as a short Asian woman. She strode into the room with an air of confidence and, without hesitation, drove a needle into Mrs. TSMK’s back. Within moments, the sun rose in the sky. Birds began to sing and little children of every race and creed all over the earth began to hold hands and sing. Mrs. TSMK was no longer in pain. The world was a better place.

She rested and slept. And just a few hours later, I was a dad. It was, without question, the scariest and best day of my life.

So what does that have to do with Ann? Well, since that day nine years and three days ago, I’ve had the chance to have similar days on two occasions. And each time I’ve been struck by the kindness and compassion of the people who have been part of those days. Ann? Well, Ann is getting ready to do this for the 7th time! And Ann has developed a penchant for wearing brightly colored socks into the delivery room. She is due on December 22, and asked if she might receive a Christmas present of some such socks.

But I can’t allow Ann to win – because we have a hard and fast rule in our family that no one – for any reason – is permitted to open a single present before Christmas Eve. Now, if she was prepared to delay her delivery until the 24th, I could probably make an exception. But these things aren’t always possible – there could be no guarantee.

And so, Ann can’t win. But I couldn’t just leave her hanging either. And so, Ann, I’ve made you your socks. Here they are – knitted from Noro Kureyon yarn with an entrelac leg. I hope they’re colorful enough for you. And I hope that they give you some measure of comfort as you welcome your child into the world. Give him or her my best.

As for the winners – well, I’ve picked them out as well. I got a lot of wonderful entries and requests and, like with most of these giveaways, it was hard to pick who would win. But someone has to – and there were two entries in particular that grabbed me.

Carmen – you sent me a photo of Emma, who will celebrate her first birthday a few weeks before Christmas – and asked for a pair of hand-knit slippers. Well seeing as I’m the father of three boys, I don’t often get the chance to make things for little girls. I’m seizing the opportunity. Now to pick out a pattern.

Jessy – you sent me a limerick about how you give away everything you make and don’t have much handknit of your own. It was funny and made me laugh. But then I noticed a small tag at the bottom of your email. I followed the link, and it took me to your team page where you raise money for the March of Dimes. Good deeds should be recognized. Thank you for all your hard work. You didn’t tell me what you wanted for Christmas, but I’d like to make you something anyway. I’ll come up with a few ideas and run them past you to get your approval.


~TSMK

14 Days of Safety

Heraclitus supposedly said something that one can never step into the same river twice. 

Bob Dylan made sure we knew that you don't need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows.

Both were in my mind this week, as the whole TSMK clan schlepped across the US to spend a few days in the land of my youth.  Not quite a land of milk and honey - more one of sweet tea and pecan logs.

Most of my family is no longer there.  I have extended relations in the area, but most I probably couldn't pick out of a crowd.  The older ones I was close to have all passed away.  The younger ones have moved away.  But Mrs. TSMK's folks still live in the area.  And so we make something of a regular pilgrimage to see her mom and dad.

Her mom lives on the St. John's river.  You can't quite see the paper mill from her house, but Bob was right; weathermen need not apply. 

We drive past the mill to go and visit her dad, who lives a bit closer to where we grew up.  It is a sprawling complex with a cheerfully morbid sign out front that tells you precisely how long it has been since there was an industrial accident at the facility.  In all the times we've visited, we've never seen it reference more than 21 days.  Think about that the next time you're squeezing your Charmin.

On the last day of our visit, I excused myself from the family to run an errand.  Before we'd left home, I'd done a bit of web-surfing to see if there were any interesting yarn shops nearby.  As it turns out, there was one about 30 miles away that looked fairly interesting. 

I set out for the store with the iPod plugged into the disappointing stereo of the rented minivan, looking forward to an hour or two away from my wonderful, but somewhat loud, sons.  I turned out onto the dirt road leading away from the house and dialed up the playlist we'd recently created for a party at our house: pizza and homebrew in celebration of the anniversary of the coronation of Charles the Fat as King of Italy.

Have you forgot that once we were brought here we were robbed of our names?  Robbed of our language?  We lost our religion, our culture, our God.  And many of us, by the way we act, even lost our minds.

The road stretches in front of me.  On either side, single-wide trailers and stick-built homes on cinderblocks.  In the distance I can see vultures circling.  I hope they're not looking for me.

Yo ye Pharaohs, let us walk through this barren desert, in search of truth, and some pointy boots, and maybe a few snack crackers.

I stop at the flashing red light where the two-lane meets the county road.  Looking to my right, I see an odd sign at the intersection.  My pulse increases slightly and my palms start to sweat.  Am I the only one here without a gun?  Do I need to be packing heat to go to the yarn shop?

Though I might be straight as an arrow, he's busy shaking hands with my monkey.

The county road is flat.  Seriously flat.  Flatter than the water I cross during my work commute.  Almost as flat as the affect of the waitress at lunch yesterday.  The one who looked like she desperately wanted to be Sookie Stackhouse.  Who called us "you'uns" and deftly executed the triple-negative: "y'all don't want no refills neither?"

Left alone with big, fat Fannie.  She was such a naughty nanny.  Big, big woman, you made a bad boy out of me.

The rental is foreign.  I realize this with a start as I sit at a stop light.  I'm surrounded by cars but mine is the only one not sporting a domestic nameplate.  Possibly also the only one without a bumper sticker espousing either family values or a conservative political candidate. 

I don't want no lonely lustful woman's irate husband after me.

I stop at a familiar green logo.  As I walk through the door, I can smell the coffee.  It smells as it does in Seattle.  The decor is the same, only the pastries have been changed.  I place my order.  I place it again.  Failure to communicate.  I'm speaking in Seattle.  He's listening in Green Cove Springs.  I slow down and order a third time.  He chuckles and asks me where I'm from.  What do I tell him?  Am I from here?  I was originally, but now I'm not so sure.  Heraclitus was right.

And did I mention she's a world famous billionaire bikini supermodel astrophysicist?

The coffee is delicious.  My mood is lifting.   

You shouldn't come around here, singing up at people like that.

I arrive at the yarn shop. It is a nice place. The knitting selection isn't huge, but it is tidy and they have some interesting things. They are friendly. Quizzical but friendly.

Another man comes in the shop. An older guy. Does he knit? No - he's just following his wife. The shopkeeper offers him a comfortable chair and a copy of either wine spectator or field and stream.

I pick out a few items - including some very cool sock yarn that I've not seen before. One skein is an astonishing shade of green. I look forward to wearing those socks to the office in an act of sartorial disobedience.

After a brief discussion with the clerk about the merits of knitting socks with circulars or double-points, I get back in the rental and start heading back to the river.

Getting my dinner from a garbage can.

Back on the main road, it seems like everywhere I look I find a warning about trespassing.  Is this really a significant problem?  Are there people lining up to trespass on parcels of sand and scrub pine?  Do people hop over fences to purloin mangy-looking dogs?  I'm confused.

You keep trying.  Ended up in the middle.  Had an enigma - ended up with a riddle.

I pull off the main road and make my way back in through the oaks and spanish moss.  With the wind coming from the north, I lower the windows and enjoy the breeze.  I can't smell the mill. 

First one says she got my child, but it don't look like me.

I pull into the drive.  Refreshed by my errand, but wondering about my place.  Am I still Southern?  Was I ever?  If I'd stayed here, instead of moving west, would I have a concealed weapons permit or a bumpersticker?  Would I work in the paper mill?  Would I still enjoy sashimi?  Would I still knit?

And then I step back, take it all in, and realize that my place is crystal clear.  I am here.  Now.  These oaks aren't going to climb themselves.
~TSMK

The Long Dark Night of the Sole

I sleep soundly. In fact, I’ve slept through a great number of loud and calamitous events. Archimedes is credited with saying something along the lines of “give me a long enough lever and a firm place upon which to stand, and I can move the earth.” Myself, I’m more of a “give me a decent pillow, a science channel marathon about the pyramids or UFOs and a flat place to stretch out and I can lose an afternoon” kind of guy.

All of which makes what I’m about to tell you just that much more troubling. For recently, my sleep was interrupted. Not just once but multiple times. In one evening. Let me explain.

Last week, I had the good fortune of heading south. Like a sloth-afflicted sparrow, I boarded an Alaska Airlines flight – bound for San Diego. As is my habit, I was heading for a three day conference on securities law, held every January at the Hotel Del Coronado, on Coronado Island.

The hotel is a hauntingly beautiful old structure, perched right on the edge of the Pacific. And though my conference keeps me in a conference room all day for each of the three days, there is always some time to spend poking around on the beach before or after the sessions. I like the beach. You can find sand dollars if you’re lucky. And if you’re really lucky you won’t step in the ick that seems to wash ashore from Tijuana just across the border.

Well, this year, I had no time for the beach. When not in class, I was on a mission. Mrs. TSMK had sent me with specific instructions. And, unlike her mission of choice the last time she accompanied me on this trip, my mission did not involve long hours spent observing the nearby Navy seals playing shirts versus skins football on the beach.

No, this mission was more important. I was going ghost hunting. For in my carry-on bag I had brought all the tools of the trade. A K-II device to measure electromagnetic fields. A fancy thermometer to help me identify hot or cold spots. And, of course, a digital voice recorder to help me capture any electronic voice phenomena.

[Note: if you decide to fly out of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport carrying the foregoing items in your carry-on bag, be prepared to have an interesting conversation with the TSA agents at the security checkpoint.]

When I checked in to the Hotel, I asked to be placed in one of the haunted parts of the hotel. The desk clerk narrowed her eyes slightly, and after a few keystrokes, told me I would be staying in the western side of the oldest part of the Hotel, on the third floor.

I trudged up to my room. I wanted to hunt for ghosts immediately. Unfortunately, I’d been at work from early morning to midday, and had then been traveling for several hours. Unless my paranormal prey was holding a hoagie, I wasn’t going to be satisfied. I needed food.

[Note: As far as I could discern, the pizza place was not haunted.]

I made my way out of the Hotel, onto the main street. After a brief walk, I found my objective: pizza. I placed my order – a small pizza with bacon, onion and mushrooms – and telephoned home to learn the news of the day. Then, while waiting for my pizza, I got out my equipment and did a bit of looking around.

I returned to the hotel, pizza box in hand. After eating a slice or two too many, and working on a sock for Mrs. TSMK, I collapsed in a heap on the bed.

The sock is an interesting pattern – and by interesting I mean maddening. It is a toe-up design, and every fourth row has a twisted rib, requiring you to cable (forward or back – depending on the row) every other stitch. I’m doing it on two size 1 circular needles.  On every fourth row,  I've got a cable needle in the mix as well.  This way lies madness.



I woke the next morning, mouth tasting of garlic from the night before. Showered, dressed and properly caffeinated, I dutifully attended the conference.



[Note: As far as I could discern, the conference room itself was not haunted – although there were some truly disturbing sounds coming out of one of the stalls in the mens’ room during one of the breaks in the program. I chose not to try to debunk those sounds.]



After finishing my classes for the day, and a fair amount of work I’d brought along from the office, I set about investigating my room. I found no unusually high electromagnetic fields. I searched in vain for inexplicable temperature anomalies. I heard no unusual noises.

Slightly discouraged, I dressed for bed. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. The light clicked on as I entered – part of the Hotel’s “green” initiative – like not washing the towels every day unless requested. I washed my face, left the bathroom, and settled down to find something on the television. Something that would keep my mind off the fact that I was trying to knit tiny cables with fat fingers. After working for about an hour, I set the sleep timer on the television, turned out the light, and proceeded to drift off while listening to the history channel interspersed with ads for what I understand is a revolution in home fitness – the Shake Weight.

I awoke at just after 1:00 a.m. The television was off but the room was illuminated. Confused, I sat up to have a look around. The bathroom light was on. I rolled out of bed, convinced I’d forgotten to turn it off. I stumbled to the bathroom and pressed the button to turn it off. With the room now properly dark, I got back under the covers.

I awoke again at just after 1:45. The light was back on. Again I trudged to the bathroom to turn off the light. Again, I climbed back under the covers.

I awoke again just before 3:00. The light was back on. I left it on, and tried to sleep.

At 6:30, my alarm went off. The light was off in the bathroom. I stood near the bathroom door. I jumped up and down on the creaky floors, trying to get the door to sway. I looked for air vents in or near the bathroom that might cause the door to move or the shower curtain to flutter. I could find nothing. Try as I might, I could not debunk my experience. I could not account for the behavior of the light.

Excited about my encounter with the inexplicable, I called Mrs. TSMK. Halfway through the conversation I realized that she would never again accompany me to this conference – at least not if we stayed in the same Hotel.

I dressed and rushed downstairs for the conference. The day flew by, and soon I was back in my room. I had made a plan. This night, I would set my digital voice recorder to record any noises that might happen during the night. I was so excited I could barely sleep. But sleep eventually came after innumerable rows of that blasted sock – which was finally nearing completion.

The night passed without incident. I slept soundly, disturbed only briefly by the sound of what I can must assume were two consenting adults in the next room. I woke in the morning, turned off the voice recorder, dressed, packed my belongings, checked out of my room, and attended the last day's sessions at the conference.

When I arrived back home, I check over the voice recorder.  I was hopeful that the recorder would have picked up something, anything, that might explain the strange events of the prior night.  But what I found made my blood run cold.

After reviewing the audio footage, and filtering out some of the background noise, I found I had captured three distinct messages.  Messages, it would seem, from beyond.  The first is simply mean spirited. 

The second was confusing and, it would seem, irrelevant. 

The third, well, it would prove prophetic.

I finished binding off the cuff of the sock, and fearfully approached Mrs. TSMK.  But the voices from beyond were right.  The gusset is too narrow.  The sock doesn't fit.

Damned spooky if you ask me. 

~TSMK

Christmas Socks

If you’re like me, you enjoy Mr. Bean.

And if you’re like Mr. Bean, you’d enjoy a pair of Christmas socks.




Mrs. TSMK, like me, enjoys Mr. Bean. And so, since I’m not certain I could keep her Christmas present a secret, I’ve let her in on the gig. I’m going to make her some socks. In fact, she helped me pick out the yarn.

This past weekend, we went to my favorite LYS and she picked out a couple of skeins. I’ve started the first pair, and will post pictures shortly.

In the meantime, I finished another holiday gift. This one is for a secret Santa event. I know the identity of the recipient, but the number of participants is large enough that I’m comfortable posting a slightly less obscured photo than might otherwise be the case.

The pattern is Migration Lace Scarf, by Fearless Fibers out of Oregon. I knit it from Curious Creek Meru – on size 6 needles – with 45 repeats of the main motif.

All told, it blocked out to 8 inches by 72 inches. I’m pleased with it, and hope its new owner will be as well.






~TSMK

The magic number

16,495

That is about the number of stitches in your average small-gauge hand-knit sock. Give or take a few hundred. I made a pair (that’s approximately 32,990 stitches for the pair) for my Dad last Christmas. I didn’t stop to think about the number of stitches. I simply cast on to those tiny needles and went for it.

16,495

That is slightly less than the distance, in feet, of a 5k footrace. I’ve only run one. It was with my Mom a few years back. We ran the Freeze Your Fanny 5k that is held in Lewiston, Idaho every February. Honestly, it wasn’t that cold, though it was odd. A cowboy poetry festival was being held at our hotel. There were handlebar mustaches everywhere. I think I may have even seen one on a woman in the lobby. I didn’t stop to think about how many feet we would cover in the race. I just laced up the shoes and set off on the course.

16,495

If actuarial estimates are to be believed, this is roughly the number of days I have left in my life. Give or take a few hundred. It isn’t a small number, but I wouldn’t mind if it were bigger.

I’ve been thinking quite a lot about this number over the last few weeks. We had a death in our family three days ago. My Mother’s sister. She had been ill for some time, but I think we all expected that she would recover.

I made her a scarf for Christmas this past year. I expected to post photos of her wearing it, along with a brief account of how she once tried to teach a Siamese cat how to roll dice so that the two of them could play board games together. But with her illness we never got around to taking the photos. Now it is too late.

If, when she were my current age, she’d had 16,495 days left, she’d still be with us today. She wasn’t so fortunate, however. If I only live to her age, then I’ll lose out on about 6,200 of those days. You wouldn’t be satisfied running 3.3k of a 5k race, or knitting just two-thirds of a sock.

I have a friend and colleague who practices in estate planning. She says she helps people prepare for the inevitable. We’re all heading to that point, or so she says. She’s probably right.

The troubling thing to me isn’t that we are all heading down that path, however. The troubling thing is that none of us really know just how long it will take to make the journey. I recall reading once that Charlie Munger said the bit of knowledge he wanted most was to know where he was going to die. When asked why, he answered that it was so he could avoid going there.

Almost two weeks before her death, my aunt had extensive surgery. She knew it would be difficult, and that there were significant risks. She spent the day before the procedure sitting quietly in my living room, chatting with family and watching my sons play. I hope that she enjoyed that time; she never left the hospital after the procedure.
The cliché response of course, like some kind of ill-advised motivational poster hanging outside an office cubicle, is to want to be certain that you live each day like it might be your last.
This is a bad plan.

If I were to live each day like it were my last, I’d probably spend a fair amount of it gorging myself on donuts and pork rinds. The remainder would be spent engaging in various types of high risk activities. While this behavior might be momentarily satisfying, it seems likely that it would only increase the chances that you end up with two-thirds, or perhaps even one-half, of a completed sock.

I think it may be better if I spend some portion of each day focusing on those things around me that enhance daily life. Things that comfort, like the soft caress of Mrs. TSMK’s hand on my shoulder as we drift off to sleep. Unexpected moments of beauty, as when flowered perfume wafts from a beautiful stranger as she and I stand side by side and wait for the cross-walk symbol to change. Things that serve no purpose but to provide joy, such as the frenzied four-legged dancer that greets me every evening when I return home from work.
That is how I will spend my days. In the knowledge that they are numbered, but with the commitment to make each of them memorable in some small way.

~TSMK

Promise of future posts

With the Christmas season officially over (Mrs. TSMK - a/k/a Mrs. Grinch -has now removed all our holiday decorations) I will shortly begin posting about holiday gifts given this year. In the meantime, a few teaser photos (with more and better photos to come).

~ TSMK