Christmas Morning

Sneaking downstairs while everyone sleeps, just to see the tree alight, the packages wrapped and piled around its base, the "fireplace" we made from cardboard boxes and construction paper.

Last night I read Clement Moore's poem and the passage describing Christmas at Fezziwig's from Charles Dickens "A Christmas Carol" to the excited kids (and the cat) while the smiling face of their father encouraged me on.

As Peggotty, I say this every morning at Tableau, before we open the Dickens Fair proper. This morning, the words ring truer than before: "This will be the best Christmas ever!"

Yuletide blessings to all.

Talk to the Bird

It has been, I hope understandably, more than a little crazed in these parts. So here is a photo that I took back in August of a pelican on the Santa Cruz Pier. He will be your temporary host today.

Silly Heads

Tiny Victories and Broken Hearts

This morning, Arabis was dry on awakening.

"Do you want to go use the potty?" I asked her and instead of the usual adamant refusal, she agreed. Afterward, there was much jubilation and a group performance of the "Peeing in the Potty" dance.

I am cautiously hopeful that we may actually potty train before her fourth birthday.

***********

From the other day, before I forget, Arabis was methodically conducting a search of the front area where we have our living and dining room.

"I can't find him!" she almost wailed, a bit plaintively.

"Who are you looking for?" I asked her. "Can I help?"

"I'm looking for Wolfie and I can't find him!"

I swallowed my my tears and scooped her up into my arms and tried to explain again that he was gone and not coming back. And that I missed him, too. We went and cuddled on the sofa with Izzy, his sister, for a bit. Then all was well for the time being.

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Punk

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Punk
Originally uploaded by Artemis Rich

Courtesy of Dr Peabody's WABAC Machine, I give you "A Portrait of the Author as a Young Punk."

Taken at Tim Kingston's flat in San Francisco, October 1989. I adore my new scanner!

Wolfie Update

Wolfie in the Sun
Originally uploaded by Artemis Rich

Home from the vet. Mojo was able to get off work early (he works only about a mile away from the veterinary office) and I picked him up from work and he and Arabis went to the park while I took the Wolf-Cat to the doctor.

And brought him home.

We have a bit of a reprieve and a modicum of hope.

Before anything else, I'd like to say that Doctor Hack of Codornices Veterinary Clinic in Albany is wonderful, as are the staff that I interacted with. Doctor Hack was ready as soon as I arrived and spent about 45 minutes with Wolf and I, going over his past history and checking him very thoroughly. He was compassionate, gentle and genuinely concerned.

Wolfie's weight is down to 7 pounds, 5 ounces. He's always been rangy for a Maine Coon, topping out at a healthy and trim 14 pounds. Today he was an emaciated wreck. I don't know if you've ever seen a cat with sunken eyes before, but it's an alarming thing.

I had been monitoring Wolfie's hydration level since the morning, checking him periodically, and by the time we got to the vet, he was showing signs. Dr Hack agreed and Wolf was given 120ccs of subcutaneous fluid and they took blood to run a full screen and a urine sample.

Dr Hack and I will talk in the morning and decide what the next step is based on the results of the lab work. If an ultrasound is necessary, they have an in-house radiology technician on Saturday, so we can act swiftly.

Wolfie was a champ the entire time. He took to Dr Hack and allowed himself to be handled (this is the cat with "CAUTION" written on the top of all his past charts). He was not so docile with the technician, however. I supposed he decided that after the indignity of the rectal thermometer, nothing would phase him.

On the trip over, Wolfie sat calmly and quietly in the carrier, like a Chinese lion statue, occasionally licking my fingers through the bars of the door and responding with small mews whenever I would talk or sing to him. None of this is normal behavior. Car trips usually inspire him to sing the entire cannon of Klingon Opera as he knows it (my boy soprano).

In the back seat on the drive to Albany, Arabis sang two songs, the first being adapted from Dora the Explorer with the refrain changed to: "Where are we going? (clap clap clap) To Wolfie's doctor!"

And from Wonder Pets: "Wolfie is sick. Take him to the doctor. This is sewious. We have to help him. To save the Wolfie. Wheeee! Wonder Pets, Wonder Pets, we're on our way. To help the baby Wolfie and save the day. We're not too big and we're not too tough but when work together we've got the right stuff. Gooooooo, Wonder Pets!"

My daughter. I think I'll keep her.

"Shall I just make him as comfortable as possible tonight?" I asked Dr Hack as we left.

"We're not entirely at that point yet," he replied. "Let's see what the labs say tomorrow."

He ate little food when I brought him home and I'm going out to buy him some chicken later on. So we wait.

Thank you for all your candles lit and thoughts sent. I am holding them close, for both of us. As my friend Vulkie says, "(Maine Coons) are not really cats. They are super beings inhabiting feline bodies." It's true. I try to explain him to people who have never spent time with a Maine Coon and they don't believe or understand the stories. The best description I can come up with is this: you know how cats see things that people can't? Maine Coons see things that other cats can't even see.

I can't write anymore without breaking down. We're not out of the woods yet, but the forest is a bit lighter. The only member of the household unhappy with this is Isabelle, his sister, who looked disgusted that I brought him back home. She'll get over it.

Wolfie

Wolfie
Originally uploaded by Artemis Rich

I think my boy is dying. He has stopped eating today. I am taking him to a vet this afternoon, recommended by my old vets in the City. Until then, we wait.

We'll have been together 15 years this month. In just a couple of days, in fact. My heart is breaking and I have to hold it together for Arabis, who doesn't realize anything is wrong. I started crying on the phone with the vet receptionist but she was really nice.

My fuzzy love boy, the Maine Coon of my heart. Please send prayers and light candles to Bast, St Francis, whoever you have ties to. Please.

"Feel the Power of Your Vote!"

There is a poll worker in my precinct who has been a volunteer for at least as long as I have lived here (eight and a half years). He is an older black man, with a shock of white hair and a ready smile. Mojo likens him to an economics professor for some reason.

When Mojo got to the polls at our local fire station at 7:00 AM, the man was there, greeting everyone and keeping the mood upbeat and jocular during the hour that Mojo had to wait. Twelve and a half hours later, when I went to cast my vote, he was still there, standing outside and greeting people, finishing the last of his cigarette.

"Are you here to feel the power of your vote?" he asked as we approached the door. Mojo and Arabis talked to him while I registered and went in with my ballot to make history.

As I filled out my form, I could hear Mojo talking to a female fire fighter and her asking Arabis if she'd like to see the engines. From there they disappeared down a hallway while I finished up.

"This is the part that you've got to love, girl," the man told me as I took my ballot to him. "You hold on to that and get ready to cast your ballot. Are you ready to feel the power of your vote?"

I felt like I was at a revival or old time rally like you see in black and white movies.

"I am," I told him.

"Hold on to that with both hands and feed it right in here and FEEL THE POWER OF YOUR VOTE!"

Afterward I wandered into the garage portion of the fire station where an EMT/firefighter named Linda was helping Arabis climb behind the wheel of a fire truck. We talked for a while, I mentioned that I had a friend who was a firefighter in Piedmont (Hey, Dave: Linda in West Oakland says "hi" and that you're awesome!). Arabis wanted to climb up the big ladder on the other truck, and Linda said if we wanted to come back one day that she could climb across it as it lay flat (so it looks like we have a day trip planned sometime soon).

Everyone was happy and laughing and filled with hope. I live in a low-income, predominantly African-American neighborhood with a historically disappointing voter turn out. I over heard the poll workers talking, saying there were only about 350 registered in my precinct and they had already seen over 300 people today. This is unprecedented. The fact that Mojo had to wait an hour this morning is unheard of. That even I, less than an hour before the polls closed, entered to a full house and more people still coming in, gave me hope.

That is what I am struck by. A sense of hope that we have not felt for so many years. I am optimistic and tried to instill some of my excitement in Arabis as we sat watching the returns later that evening.

"We're electing a new president. We're making history."

The Mother, the Maiden and the "Other One"

We're not even dressed up for Halloween, just carrying on the family business: my daughter, my mother and me.

In Lieu of a Real Post - MEME!

Take a picture of yourself right now.
Don't change your clothes, don't fix your hair... just take a picture.
Post that picture with NO editing.
Post these instructions with your picture.

Brian Dall'Armi

I wanted to get out a public post for any of our lost and scattered Tribe who may google Brian's name in search of information.

Photo by Peter Overstreet of Brian and Cat Taylor, February 2007

Brian Dall'Armi
5 August 1946 - 9 August 2008

Brian died last night a few minutes before midnight. Nell was at his side.

I spoke to Nell for almost an hour today and here is what she wanted me to tell all of you:

"Brian got away in time to make the 12 o'clock show. There won't be any arguing over who will drive (the band) because Ricker will take over as he always did, and Bob Thomas and Brian will be goofing off in the background. Most likely, they'll both be kicked off the stage at some point.

I can hear Ricker yelling at them now: 'No Middle Eastern hootchie-coo on my stage!'

Bob and Brian will sneak off to the coffee house in the sky and sit around the table telling stories and laughing. No one else will be able to get a word in edgewise!"


The Brian Dall'Armi Memorial Tour will include stops in Vallejo, the Northern California Renaissance Faire at Casa de Fruta and the Great Dickens Christmas Fair. Exact dates have not been set at this time, but expect the Vallejo memorial to be anywhere from two to four weeks away, perhaps the beginning of September. Once plans have been solidified, I will update everyone.

Nell thanks you all for the visits and the emails she has received. She read the emails aloud to Brian in batches and is awed and blessed by the love that is coming from our community, our family. Many stories made her cry, more made her laugh and a few she hadn't even heard before.

She also wants to thank everyone for their offers of help. She has more than enough food in the refrigerator and even more in the freezer, and asks that everyone save their food and beer offerings for the memorial. She did mention most emphatically: NO CASSEROLES!

Please feel free to contact Nell by email but to refrain from calling as she still has many details to iron out and needs to keep the phone relatively open. If anyone would like her email, please comment here with an address I can reach you at privately and I will send you that information.

I was able to spend the afternoon with Brian and Nell yesterday. Many of the Brunos and other friends have been coming by in the last five days to sit by Brian's side and play music for him.

Brian was loved and respected for his many talents and he will be sorely missed. Another fiddler has joined that amazing band in the afterworld.

Let's Go Fly a Kite

Arabis' first kite. Excuse the crappy camera phone photo.

Happy Birthday

Three years ago, at 10:35 PM, my beautiful daughter was removed from my body and held above the surgical drape on my abdomen. I remember crying and speaking to her, whispering into her ear in Armenian, because that was the first language I wanted her to hear. I whispered her gypsy name to her: the name that will never be used, that only I spoke, she heard, and the earth knows.

It's so hard to believe that three years are past. I can't imagine what my life would've been like without her upbeat energy and goofy smile.

I love you, my heart. Many, many happy returns of the day.

This Is Not A Knitting Blog (But It Plays One on the Internet)

My mother had a big health scare recently, which resulted in the serious neglect of this blog. Not to go into too much detail, she was three weeks in hospital and three weeks staying with me, so that I could give her daily antibiotic infusion therapy (trained by the in-home nursing staff) and aid in her recovery. She is back at her home and doing better now, so I am making tentative forays into the vast territory that is the internet.

While my mother was in residence, I didn't knit at all. There was no time. From sunup until far past sundown I was on my feet and working non-stop, tending to her and Arabis. And for the three weeks prior to that, while she was in hospital, the needles lay quiet as well. Now that my life has wound back to its normal levels of insanity, I cast on an adorable pattern for Arabis late last month: Emma's Unmentionables from the newest Knitty.

I have found it to be a refreshingly easy and straightforward knit. One error in the pattern, when you attach the legs to the body, but that was easily spotted and remedied. I began casting on the first lace ruffle one night at midnight which I know is never a good idea. On a whim, I reread the pattern the following morning. While the pattern calls for the body of the work to be done on a US 5 needle, the lace is to be worked on a US 6. Very subtle difference that I didn’t even notice on first reading. So I knit the lace as loosely as possible and it looks fine.

Before grafting the crotch stitches, the final step of the pattern, I tried the garment on Arabis and when I took it off her she had a fit.

“Mine, Mommy! Mine, mine, mine!! Want to wear!!”

In record time the stitches were grafted and she wore these for three days before I hid them to wash.

I have, of course, started a second pair, of which is about 75% done. This pair is in a lovely wisteria color, using the suggested yarn and the larger sized needles for the lace. I'm in love with this pattern and the compliments I've gotten on the finished garment have been wonderful.

Here's a link to my project page for all you Ravelry nuts out there. I really need to make a pair of these in black. They'd be a hit with the goth toddler crowd.


Pattern: Emma's Unmentionables from Knitty
Needle: US 5 (3.75mm) circulars 16 inch and 20 inch, two US 5(3.75mm) double pointed needles
Yarn: TLC Cotton Plus Solid in Kiwi (3643), 3 skeins
Size: 4T

Totland: Where the Fun Never Ends

So on our foray out to walk amongst the people, the Minion and I go to Totland. You folks remember Totland, right? Home of the Berkeley (S)Mothers. We go to Totland because the Minion has requested it: "Wan' go PLAAAAAAY! Wan' go SWIIIIING! Wan' go TA-LAAAAND!"

The Minion is a swinging fool. She swings for 25 minutes. I know, because I had this feeling and checked the time a few minutes into our foray. From that time to the end, when she finally consented to be removed, was 25 minutes. I can feel it in my shoulders, the repetitive motion of pushing a 32 pound toddler as high as she can, non-stop. At the top of the back-swing just before the descent, she likes to throw her head back and yell "Upside-down, Mommy! Upside-down!"

Because it is her favorite thing.

We are making more inroads with the "big" swings, but they are slow. Our conversations tend to be something like this:

ME: Do you want to use the big swings today?
ARABIS: Um...okay, mommy.
ME: Be sure to hold on.
ARABIS: Um...okay, mommy.
ME: And sweetheart,
ARABIS: Yes, mommy?
ME: Be sure to tell me when you want to get off, okay? Don't just jump off.
ARABIS: Okay, mommy.

I know we're in for it. So she swings and I stand half behind and half next to her, reminding her every few swings to tell me when she's all done. She smiles that beatific smile she has and replies in the affirmative. The next minute she has flung herself from the swing and flies through the air, landing on her hands and knees.

"All done, Mommy!