My baby sister called yesterday; she has been visiting her spiritual home in Forest City, New Brunswick, and is finally heading back home to South Carolina, so we get a visit on her way.
For clarity's sake, know that I say "baby sister" because she's six years younger than me. She'll always be Baby Sister to me since I still sometimes think of her as eleven, which is when I was obsessed with portrait photography and she was the only person I could
bribe persuade to pose for me. Or as eighteen, throwing dirt clods at me by the road somewhere north of Las Vegas when we were finally so fed up with each other on our cross country wanderings that summer, that it needed physical expression, and she was afraid to hit me with her fist because she knew I would hit her back, and with a dirt clod, she at least had the chance that maybe she could duck my return volley. She didn't.
Or as six, when it seemed it was her singular life's goal to scribble all over every blank area in any of my books because, in a family with a paper mill manager's privilege of a 300 pound roll of newsprint that lived in the basement to unbridle any artistic impulses, I can only guess that my clean book margins represented one less scary trip down the basement stairs for her to make. She had a thing for freshly painted walls too, but they are long gone, and a few of the books still live on my shelves. I think of her every time I read A Child's Garden of Verses to The Boy.
For about a month now, off and on, I have been making chenille flowers for a Flower Trellis Scarf for her, and by now I have only gotten as far in the instructions where it says: "Okay you knitter, now go and find -- if you can -- your size H crochet hook and make an open net onto which you will sew all of those flowers you've knitted. ::sneer:: " Or something like that. I am stuck at the "find the size H crochet hook." I have a whole set of Boye crochet hooks in the many fabulous anodized colours, but guess which one is AWOL from the pack?
Size H. The pink one.
Funny how that works, isn't it? And I had been sort of aiming to have it done by the time that she gets here so that when she looks at all the wool and half-finished sweaters and shawls and socks lying about the place like the dead passengers in the ballroom scene right after the ship turns over in The Poseidon Adventure, and she says "Why don't you ever make anything for me?" I can hand her this gorgeous chenille thingy that will be absolutely perfect with her wardrobe AND weather friendly for that swamp of a town she lives in in South Carolina.
I am a complete smart ass.
But the joke's on me, because she's coming in two hours, and I can't find the size H crochet hook. I suppose a pile of formless chenille amoebic something-or-others won't have the same effect.
Maybe I'll let her throw them at me.