Yo Mama

My sister and I were always freakishly close, so most of my childhood memories are shared with her. Especially the good ones.  But it seems that we remember several of them differently. Like the time we lived in a very old farmhouse with some other families (it sounds romantic to call it a commune, so you can if you want), and one morning we woke up to a sheet of ice covering everything and we sent our friend down the long driveway to the road to get the mail. We watched out the window while she slipped and fell and slid down the driveway on her ass, and it struck us as so funny that we laughed so hard we had to sit down on the floor, holding our stomachs. Here’s where our memories diverge; one of us laughed so hard that she peed on the floor. My sister thinks it was me. I, of course, have the vivid (and accurate) memory of it being my sister wetting her PJs. We’ll never agree, but secretly she must know I’m right.

But we agree on one thing, our mom is crazy and wonderful. She’s always been crazy, and we always knew it. We love the memory of Mom picking us up at the bus stop dressed in a trash bag (it was raining) and being thoughtful enough to bring along bags for us too. I’m especially fond of the mental image I have of her setting up her easel downtown on the sidewalk, dressed in old holey overalls, and a straw hat,  working on a painting of the courthouse. And Jase and I both loved it when Mom would come get us from school, just because she missed us and it was a pretty day.

I’ve finally found my groove on her Mother’s Day socks. I’m finally feeling the love. I got some new Panda Cotton (the colorway is called Fall Herbs) and a new pattern (Cookie A’s Hedera).

You know how sometimes, when you’re knitting for someone, it’s like a focused meditation on that person? It’s like that. I’m remembering her fried bologna sandwiches; the smell of oil paints; the time she cut our dining room table in half and attached it to the wall; her constant possession of a Volkswagon Beetle; the time we broke down in Yucca Arizona; the way she used to sing to us at night, rubbing our backs and singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow or Christmas Island (year ’round).

I’m knitting my mom some socks (finally). And I’ve got enough good memories for every single stitch.