Quiet Sunday

 I didn't do much today.  It was misty damp in the morning and nice in the afternoon so I took a walk but that was the extent of my activity for the day.

The zinnias are still blooming a little.  This pink flower is waiting for a goldfinch to come nibble its seeds but I haven't seen any in a while.  Oh, I take that back, I saw a few of them the other day but they'd already shifted from bright yellow to that drab avocado yellow that is their winter coloration.  They had no interest in the zinnias.

In the afternoon I watched the Great British Baking Show reruns on Netflix and practiced knitting on the cast sock without looking.  I'm not very good at it and I'm really slow but if I concentrate I can knit around just by feel.  One of the past Guild members could knit without looking and while walking around.  She was a teacher and used to knit when she monitored study hall.  I'm not that talented.

 

13 September--Barbara Malcolm, Better Than Mom's. 

It took Naomi an hour to decide what to wear.  Even though Brady had told her where they were going, even though she knew it was not a fancy place, even though she saw Brady five days a week at four-thirty in the morning when no one was at their best, she still was nervous about not being dressed right.  On Friday night, she told Fay that she and Brady were going to dinner on Saturday.  She had gone down to Fay’s apartment with a plate of barbecued pork fried rice for Fay’s supper and when Fay answered the door, she was amazed to see her friend’s hair all messy.  Fay’s hair was never messy.  Naomi was convinced that she used an entire aerosol can of Aqua Net every single day to glue her hair into its retro sixties party curls 'do.  No amount of weather could force that hair to move; it stayed put through humid days and downpours, through blizzards and driving winds.  Naomi wondered if there was so much hair spray on it that it might not burst into spontaneous flames in the heat of the summer. 

“What are you doing to yourself?” she asked in amazement when she saw Fay’s disheveled appearance. 

“I am knitting.”  Fay stepped back from the door and Naomi could see that she held a pair of metal knitting needles and trailed a long string of fuchsia, orange, and blood red yarn behind her.  “Come on in.” 

Naomi waved the food under Fay’s nose.  “I made fried rice; come eat before it gets cold.”  She walked into the kitchen, assuming that Fay was following her.  “You got any soy sauce?  If you do not, I have some in my pocket.” 

No one answered.  She could not hear footsteps behind her. 

She turned to see that Fay had sat right back down on the ratty couch and was hunched over the yarn and needles, chanting with gritted teeth, “Knit two, purl two, knit three, slip, slip, knit the slipped stitches together…” as she read out the instructions from a book laying open on the coffee table; then, “dammit,” and proceeded to rip out the stitches she had just made and start over. 

Naomi stood in the doorway, hands on hips, shaking her head.  “You are going to break a tooth if you keep grinding your teeth like that.  Come on in here and eat your supper that I made for you.” 

When Fay did not get up or even acknowledge that she had heard, Naomi walked over to her and put her hand gently on the pattern.  “Honey, step away from the knitting.  You are going to give yourself a stroke.”  

“I have to get this first.” 

Naomi sat down next to her friend, put her arm around her shoulders, which felt as tight as guy wires, and said softly, “This is not how knitting is supposed to be.  Those ladies in the diner were laughing and joking, not gritting their teeth and swearing.” 

“I know, I can get this, I know I can.  Just give me a minute.” 

“No, no more minutes until you eat something.”  Naomi gently took the metal knitting needles away and laid them on the coffee table, careful not to disturb the three stitches that were all that was left from Fay’s latest knitting attempt.  Then she slid her hand up under Fay’s shoulder and lifted her to her feet as she stood up.  She kept her hand on Fay as she led her almost like a sleepwalker into the kitchen and deposited her in the chair in front of the still steaming plate of food. 

Today's toss was some more old pasta, some that had been opened and not used in years and years.  I can't imagine that it'd taste good if it got cooked, so into the trash it went.

Another week has gone by.  I am amazed at the speed that the weeks move, especially as days seem to drag.  Tomorrow's weigh-in day when I learn how much cheeseburger and fries damage I did on Monday.  I've been pretty careful the rest of the week so I should be okay.  Fingers crossed.

--Barbara