I went to North Carolina this weekend, for my uncle’s funeral. Though the occasion was a sad one, it is also always a happy thing for me to go there, and to see my family. There aren’t words, really, for the experience of going back to the place of my deepest family roots (though I myself have never lived there). I moved a lot as a kid (thanks to being an army brat) – and this place, where my family has lived for three centuries, always felt like a sort of touchstone for me, a place I could always return to, to remember where I come from and who I am. I got home late last night, but I’m still feeling the Carolina love.
Olivet United Methodist Church Cemetery
Of course there was knitting, too. Though not much, really. There just wasn’t time for it, except on the plane. And though I certainly have plenty of work to do on the lace socks (still unfixed) and men’s zippered raglan, I found myself packing something entirely different at the last minute. Headed to the land of cotton, I was struck with the urge to work with that fiber. Pictures soon of the results. Cotton is always such an interesting tactile experience for me. I really, really like it – there is something very earthy about it to me, not to mention sentimental since I’m from CottonLand. But I always, always enjoy returning to wool when I’m done. My hands just love the substance of wool.
In other knitting news, I won a contest!! I’m so excited! I never win stuff (okay, I did win $100 worth of denim when I was 18 – but we’re talking yarn here. YARN!). And I love Dave’s taste in yarn, so I’m uber-excited. Wheee!
And in non-knitting news, I have a public service announcement regarding under what circumstances it is appropriate to call me “honey.” You may call me “honey” if you meet one or more of the following criteria:
- You are my husband.
- You are my parents.
- You are a southern woman.
- You are a very elderly woman, southern or not.
- You are a woman who sees me crying or in crisis (in which case it doesn’t matter if you are southern or elderly).
- You are one of my very close friends, male or female.
- I ask you to pass me the honey, and you make a little joke, “Here’s the honey, honey.”
That’s the list. If you are a security worker at the Detroit Airport, and you are a man, and you have the authority to search me or my bags, it is never appropriate to call me “honey,” as in, “Have a nice flight, honey.” Unless you fit one or more of the above seven categories. Which you, sir, did not.
Y’all, seriously. This was not even in the south. Blew my mind and left me speechless. A Detroit security worker. I mean, really, is that in the training manual?
Okay, enough ranting and reminiscing. There’s knitting to be done.