Riding Elevators

Doors are opening, doors are closing, 
People come and go. 
But I'm still riding elevators...

I suppose it might tell you something if I confess that I recently had a fascination with a hotel elevator. I’m not quite sure what it might tell you though. But it’s true.

A short time ago, I attended a conference held at the Galleria, in Houston. If you have no knowledge of the location, it’s a giant mall. In fact, it’s the largest shopping center in Texas and fourth largest domain nationally. There are two hotels, one on either end of the mall, and the middle is about 400 great stores. There are restaurants as well. I found there was no need to leave the place at all.

One of the hotels has a convention type facility located directly across the mall and most of the meetings are held there and in that hotel. Attendees stay in either that hotel or the other one at the opposite end of the mall. I have always managed to lodge in the hotel closest to the rooms holding the sessions. That is until this year. I don’t know if I was ‘overflow’ or if I accidentally asked for the wrong hotel. Whatever the reason I ended up at the far end compared to where the majority of my friends were staying.

Actually, I had a far nicer room than I’d ever had at the conference hotel. It was newly renovated and was spacious and clean. And the elevators were the most unique I’d ever seen.

Upon check-in the clerk told me to go to the elevators and using the keypad enter my floor number. I did as instructed and there entered my fascination. On the outside of the elevator bank was a number pad. Above the number pad was a screen. After your floor was entered a letter and arrow flashed on the screen instructing you to the elevator that you would enter. There was no panel above the lift to show what floor the car was approaching or where it came from.

I punched my number and entered when the doors opened. Inside there were no buttons but the open/close doors and the emergency buttons. It was eerie. It wasn’t until the second or third trip up that I noticed a thin strip beside the door that noted what floor was selected.

One night I came in after dinner to go up to my room. As I approached the number pad I was puzzled. My number wasn’t listed. Instead it was a keyboard that resembled a telephone dial pad. I stood there for a couple of minutes trying to decide what to do. An Asian man, wait-staff probably, approached me and asked if I had a problem. I explained that I needed to get to the 17th floor. He looked at me as if he couldn’t quite believe anyone could be that dense and explained that all I needed to do was punch the number one and then the number 7. Oh.

Feeling completely ignorant I climbed in and went to my room. Embarrassed, I thought about why the obvious hadn’t occurred to me. My logic, although there wasn’t much, was that some elevators are programmed to only go to certain floors. And I was positive the first time I punched in there was a number 17, not a combination of numbers to make the number 17. Yes, that was probably it.

The next day I went on a hunt to find the original keypad I had punched upon arrival. It was gone. Apparently I just thought I had pushed a button that said 17. Then again maybe the Saki Sangria had something to do with it. Regardless, I really loved those elevators.

Waiting to put my feet on the ground 
I'm tired of going up and down 

I’ve wanted to make this little bird for a while now. My friend’s birthday was coming up and I decided she needed one. I’d found a bowling pin that she wanted but I wanted to yarn bomb it. The bird was perfect!

I made the first one just to see how to do it. He’s kind of cute.

First try. Rainbow bird.

Then I gathered the materials for hers. I really like how it turned out. She took this picture. I think she liked it too!

Bird of Paradise? Bluebird of happiness? Rachel's choice!

Never here or there, 
On the ground or in the air.
But I'm still riding elevators...

Why Can’t We Be Friends?

Sometimes I don't speak right
But yet I know what I'm talking about.
Why can't we be friends?

A lady I’ve known a long time now works with me. She’d moved away, and had many changes in her life. By chance, we traveled together recently. And we reconnected. Catching up with people you knew, still know, but don’t know, is oftentimes very interesting. We went through the “how have you beens”, “how are the kids”, and “where is everyone now type questions”. We laughed as we visited and caught up. Then we began discussing people we both know.

“Well”, she said. “N is really a nice person. Her son is getting married soon.”
 “Really?” I replied? “N is not a nice person and here is why.”
“Oh, I can sure see why you’d not like her!” she continued.

“Have you seen C lately?” I asked.
“C? Well, yes I’ve seen him but let me tell you what happened.” she replied.
“Oh! I never would have thought that! I understand why you aren’t impressed” I said.

The conversation continued on, with acquaintances, like a tennis ball, being batted between opposing sides. Some of the people she really thought a lot of were in the negative numbers as far as I was concerned. Likewise, several of the individuals I regarded highly were real losers in her book. But we are still friends.

It worked this time. I think the proximity of the people we discussed played a part. And it could even be that we are mature adults. Ha! In earlier times, though, it may not have. When I was a kid it was an unwritten playground rule: If I don’t like them you can’t either! That stood until everyone was invited to the birthday party and we all became fabulous buddies again!

Adults aren’t the same. They can hold grudges and sometimes it’s the mutual friend (or enemy) who gets stuck in the middle. It’s a full-time job to be friends with two people who have a grievance against one another. The shared friend can end up becoming a referee and has the potential of facing a whole lot of drama. When possible I stay far away from those situations. If it happens I try to be congenial and noncommittal to all parties involved.

In a recent situation, a friend is going to rent from another friend. I haven’t really been put in the middle, and I won’t be. But both have come with little complaints about the other. I just nod or shake my head and stay a bit reserved. I might offer a “ask her” or a “tell her” now and then but that’s the extent of my advice. I think (and hope) they’ll work everything out.

In the meantime, I’ll be friends with my friends and I’ll be friends with you, provided the friends of yours that I don’t like stay their distance!

Why can't we be friends?
The color of your skin don't matter to me
As long as we can live in harmony

I can’t seem to find time to play with yarn.
By the time I get home, get supper organized, prepared and on the table it’s around 8:00. Even with help it just seems to take a long time.

I usually don’t even do the dishes. My sweet daughter in law is taking on that chore. After that I just want to sit, maybe watch a show then go to bed. I could pick it up during TV time but I’ve recently found that blasted unnecessary evil, Candy Crush. I have to make a choice!

It shouldn’t be a hard choice. Candy Crush is NOT my friend!

Why can't we be friends?
Why can't we be friends…

Don't Fear The Reaper

All our times have come 
Here but now they're gone… 

When I was younger I watched The Newhart Show on television. It was a sitcom set in a small town in Vermont. Bob and his wife ran the Stratford Inn. I always referred to it as the Vermont Inn and told anybody who would listen that I’d really like to go there someday. I wanted to go in the fall so I could see the leaves as they changed. Fast forward many years, and what did my sweet husband plan for a surprise? That’s right. A stay at the Vermont Inn!

Actually, and I didn’t realize it at the time, there really is a ‘Stratford Inn’ located in Middlebury, Vermont. It’s the Waybury Inn  and is the picture you see when the show comes on.

While we were there we visited a cemetery. We hadn’t planned to see a graveyard but as we were having lunch the waitress told us we really needed to go. So, being the obedient tourists we are, we set off to find Hope Cemetery in Barre, Vermont.

We drove out to the cemetery along a tree covered road. It was a cloudy day so the overhanging branches added to the gloom and mystery of the journey. At last we reached the edge of the cemetery. To say it was amazing is an understatement. So what is so remarkable about acres of ground filled with dead bodies? The over 10,500 monuments made of Barre Gray granite.

The tree-lined road to the cemetery.

Approaching the headstones.

The edge of the cemetery.

Many of the people buried in Hope Cemetery were of Italian heritage. This is because Italian immigrants came in to work in the stone cutting industry after the cemetery opened. Only memorials made of Barre Gray are permitted there and larger than average monuments are allowed. Strangely enough, many people erect tombstones years before they die. That way, they are able to see how they will be remembered and enjoy their own monuments. If that’s not creepy then I don’t know what is!

We started looking around in amazement. There was a huge piece of granite with stairs carved into it. When you got to the top it was a marker for an entire family.
 

A side view of the monument.

The stairs carved into the granite.

The names of the family.

Family name and name of the sculptor.

The monuments usually reflected the interest or some personal aspect of the person buried. There was a race car, an airplane, a cat and even a chair. Several had scenes carved or sandblasted on their surface. There was a country road with a fishing pole on one side of the gate and a rifle on the other. There was a truck, an 18-wheeler, complete with a shell emblem on the side. There was an office scene with a typewriter, books and glasses. There was even a motorcycle rider.

The race car.

The airplane.

The cat.

A full size chair.

Country road.

Shell 18 wheeler.

Office scene.

Motorcycle rider.

Many of the stones had a rendering of the interred. Numerous memorials had grief stricken or religious figures included. All have intricate detail. One huge shrine was a couple, sitting up in bed. She was on one side, he on the other with their hands touching while they gaze at each other.

A baby.

 

A cloak folded on the stone.

A chain on a couple's headstone.

Intricate lacy looking detail.

Good night John Boy.

We explored, driving along the roads by car and then investigating on foot, moving from stone to stone, in awe. The clouds had closed in and it was starting to sprinkle. I was looking around and I said to Alan, “Probably the only thing I haven’t seen is a ball of yarn!” About that time I stepped backwards, almost falling. I looked down and then at Alan in complete surprise. “Come here!” I said excitedly. There, on the ground where I had almost gone to my knees, was a flat marker. On the marker was a name and a picture of a ball of yarn attached to knitting, still on the needles.

Can you imagine the theme from the Twilight Zone?

The rain started to come down. I got a chill and didn't know if it was from the discovery or the weather. It reinforced that it was time to go. It was getting just a little too eerie!

Here but now they're gone 
Romeo and Juliet 
Are together in eternity... 

I’ve been playing around with the paperclip loom and finished some funky, fiber art bracelets. I posted a picture on FaceBook and someone wants to buy them! I’m surprised!

Funky woven fiber bracelets

If you do ever get to Barre, Vermont, it’s well worth your time to tour Hope Cemetery. There are so many amazing stones. You may even find a kindred spirit!

We looked backward and said goodbye 
We had become like they are 
She had taken his hand...

Come on baby...don't fear the reaper…

Rock-A-Bye-Baby

On the treetop... 

I sat in the chair, slowly rocking, letting the rhythm relax and take over. I held a sweet baby in my arms and I smiled as I breathed in the aroma of Johnson’s baby lotion. At first he fought me. He didn’t think he was sleepy. Or maybe he knew it but he didn’t want to give in because of what he might miss. His little body would slacken. His head would nod and his eyelids would slowly close. Suddenly he’d cry out or jerk, just to wake himself up. He’d look around a bit or fuss then he’d relax again. Finally, the continuous motion of the rocking chair got the best of him.

As I sat there with the warm bundle against my chest, I listened to the precious baby snores and sleep sounds. For a moment I was transported back in time when I was rocking a baby a lot like him. That would be his daddy, my baby boy.

I rocked all my babies. It’s something I liked to do. Some self-proclaimed experts say it’s the right thing to do and some argue that it’s wrong. I don’t care. I was rocked and for me it was natural.

I pondered cuddling my perfect little dark haired girl, nestled on my shoulder, and how the motion seemed to  comfort her if she cried. I remembered gazing into the eyes of my first son as we rocked and how I watched and laughed as he wiggled his eyebrows at me. I smiled as I envisioned my last baby, holding him tight while we rocked, his tiny fingers twirling my hair until he was able to drift into slumber.

I still rock, with the Littles, or without. Even though the Littles aren’t so small anymore, they still like to sit with me. We rock, or not, for short times anyway. And I’ll enjoy it, as long as it lasts.

Now there’s George. I’ll rock him, anytime he’ll let me. I don’t know who is comforted more by the rocking; me or him.

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock... 

I seem to have lost my knitting mojo, as well as the time to find it again. Oh well. All the kids want or need potholders so I’ve managed to squeeze in a few in my spare time but that’s about all.

I can knit and rock, babe in arm. I just haven’t. It will wait for another day, another time. Maybe.

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, 
And down will come baby, cradle and all...

Say You, Say Me

Say you, say me; say it together 

Another funny thing happened during the door debacle at Callye’s house. Loud noises startle people. When that happens sometimes an expletive pops out. We may (or may not) have uttered a couple of words not used in everyday conversation, especially when there are Littles about.

After things settled down, while waiting for cookies to bake, Belle came to me. Looking straight at me with her big almost black eyes, she smiled and asked: “What does fark mean?” My mind started whirling. Oh my goodness. Fark. Does she mean fart? She couldn’t mean another ‘F’ word, could she? I didn’t say that at the huge bang, did I? Surely not. Maybe. If I’m honest I have to admit it has happened. But I don’t think it happened today. Oh no.

Beautiful Belle and the lispy Barbie!

Trying to deflect the conversation I said: “Fart? You know what that means silly girl!” No, she said. “Fark.” “Fart?” I asked again. “NO! FARK!” Okay. I’m trying to think, wondering how to explain that sometimes big people say bad words, but little people never should, when suddenly I have another idea. Hoping for the best I say, “Where did you hear that?”

She holds up the Barbie type doll she has in her hand, presses a button somewhere and the doll begins to sing a song. It’s a bit garbled and hard to understand but there it is. Fark. The doll plainly says something that sounds like fark.

The infamous singing Barbie!

Whew. That was close! Relieved, we listen again and again and finally decide the doll is singing the word Spark, albeit with a Barbie lisp.

The real words to the song!

But it goes to show that they hear everything! So be careful, especially if you’re startled and accidentally say “Bleep”!

Say you, say me; say it for always 
That's the way it should be 

It was a great weekend for a knitting get together. It’s an annual thing that we call WHIBSIB which means what happens in Buda stays in Buda with Buda being the name of the town where we gather. It’s ladies from across the state and we laugh, eat, knit, swap stories, yarn and books, win prizes, give prizes and just generally have a great time. There weren’t as many of us this year as usual but we still managed to have a great time!

Here we are at dinner! 15 of us anyway.

I started a quick knit on big needles. They laughed at some of my big needles but I like them. Instant gratification!

Giant needles!!

Say you, say me; say it together 
Naturally…

I Can See For Miles

I know you've deceived me, now here's a surprise 
I know that you have 'cause there's magic in my eyes 

We finally got to take the playhouse to the Littles. They hadn’t seen Junior in a while so they asked if he could come along. He loves the Littles so with Junior in the backseat and the playhouse on the trailer we headed out.

Junior absolutely loves Callye’s cookies. He can smell them from the other room. And if you open a bag with cookies he’s right there waiting. He doesn’t care if they are decorated or not! Of course there are always cookies in various stages available. He’ll eat the old ones and help clean the place up!

Junior as a cookie. He didn't get to eat this one!

After a great supper that Callye fixed, Alan and Bernie decided to take the playhouse to another location because it couldn’t be unloaded right then. Junior went with them. I was sitting at the counter watching Callye make her famous cookies. Bryce was engrossed in a computer game and the kids were playing. Suddenly there was a huge boom. We looked at each other and Bryce jumped up from his chair. The Littles in the house came running and we were expecting a scream or at least some tears. But there were none.

As Callye and Bryce ran towards the doorway to see what happened, I hung back with the kids. The wooden front door was open with just the glass storm type door leading to the outside at the end of the entryway. They didn’t see anything but my son-in-law opening the door and examining the glass.

Who put that door there anyway?

Bernie and Alan made the delivery and had just come back. Junior, probably anxious for a cookie treat was running full blast to get back inside the house! How was he to know there was a glass door? He’d never experienced such!

The huge boom was Junior, hitting the door! The glass was knocked out of the frame, but luckily it didn’t break and Bernie was there to catch it. Alan and he managed to repair it. Junior was embarrassed and it took some coaxing to get him to come inside! He wasn’t even tempted by one of his favorite treats, Callye’s cookies! He didn’t seem to be hurt, except for his pride, and he was pretty quiet after the whole experience.

The next day all was well. Junior slept. He’s recovered, except for a bit of a sore nose! I wonder if they need a dog star for the next Windex commercial.

If you think that I don't know about the little tricks you play.
And never see you when deliberately you put things in my way.

It’s time for the WHIBSIB knitting retreat! I am ready to get away, take it easy with friends I seldom get to see in person and not think about all those little things that make my stomach hurt. The main worry is which yarn to take! I’ll start something that’s a no-brainer so I can talk and have fun and not worry about messing something up. I’m going alone this year so I’ll have the solitary drive of about six hours to get ready! Buda…here I come!

I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles. Oh yeah…

Remain Nameless

I wish to remain nameless 
And live without shame… 

I once had a discussion with a former supervisor. I had received a promotion of sorts and I asked what my title was. I was told I didn’t need a title. Surprised, I asked why. He said titles don’t mean a thing. When one did a good job people recognized that and titles weren’t needed. So I asked if I could call him Head Custodian instead of Superintendent. That’s when I found out that a title did indeed mean something!

In the end I got my title. It was some long, wordy, nonsensical jargon that was created in retaliation for my comment. (Do bosses retaliate? That could be another post for sure!) Anyway, when I was asked or wrote it down it was laughable. It couldn’t fit it into my elevator speech! An explanation was always needed for clarity.

As most people do, I changed jobs. According to statistics, these days people change jobs on the average, 11 times in a lifetime. I haven’t. In fact, I wasn’t expected to ever leave the one I had. But it was time. Departure also meant losing my trumped up title.

I realized quickly the new employment was a dead end position. That’s not to say it’s a bad job or that I have no ambition. The structure dictated the rules. There was one head honcho, one number two honcho and about five regular honchos. Then there were the worker bees. I was a worker bee.

I’m still a worker bee, and I do have a title along with all the other worker bees; the same one in fact. This title is short and means about the same as the fabricated title of yore; absolutely nothing. It fails to describe what I do for the company which is what I thought was the purpose of a title. In fact, couldn’t a clear job title describe a person's expertise with greater specificity, therefore explaining that person's role more clearly? Alas, it’s not to be.

Enter new management. New leaders bring change. The structure is basically the same but suddenly there are assistant regular honchos. How does one become an assistant regular honcho one might ask? Good question. The job posting/interview process is followed but it’s quite easy to spot the recipient. And if there are two favored recipients they become co-assistant regular honchos. They get titles like Co-Assistant Honcho of Creating Tasks or Assistant Honcho of Browning the Nose. Do I sound envious? Believe me. I’m not!

Lately there’s been the novel idea that it would be useful for everyone to know everyone else’s specialty in the organization. Could that not be accomplished with job titles that actually mean something? Maybe I should make a suggestion to the Assistant Honcho of Contemplation.

You can call me anything you want.
You can call us what you want.

If you’ve seen any news about America at all you know it’s been a tough week. First the senseless bombing in Boston then the tragedy of the fertilizer plant blowing up most of the small town of West, Texas. It’s stressful, even for spectators who aren't directly involved but view helplessly, the endless pictures on social media or listen to the newscaster offering ceaseless updates on situations that aren’t improving. Even if you’re far from the location you can’t help but feel the sadness and devastation of all those affected. And I knit.

This doesn't capture the bright orange color. Montego Bay Scarf.

There’s also some good. Like Mr. Rogers says, look for the good. People are being kind and generous to one another and helping each other to get through the turbulence. It makes me wonder why it can’t always be that way, just treating people as you’d like to be treated.

Cause what's in a name, 
Oh I still remain the same...