This is without a doubt the most "old lady" post I have ever written. But then I am two-and-a-half years older than when I first started blogging! *smile* Firstly, I can tell I have graduated into something because I like his photo of my sitting room at night even with the ungraceful pots sitting on the ledge. I had just brought them in from the frost and am still deciding what to do with them-- Secondly, I'm all out of sync. I'm supposed to be showing my tablescape because I have been missing joining the party lately, but I am just going with the flow these days. Thirdly, the topic is indulgently "old-ladyish."
My daughter and sons get out of joint when I refer to myself as an old lady. They'll get a concerned look on their faces like they aren't quite sure how to respond, and end up saying "You're not an old lady." I'm certainly not a young lady. And I am a tad insulted that being old may be considered too negative to admit.
But I don't want being an old lady taken away from me. I've worked hard and long for it! And it ain't so bad. Now, being aged, as in ancient, . . . well . . . ask me later.
So here's the old lady part. I found the most darling hand knit baby sweaters at the thrift store and brought them home even though I have nobody small enough to foist them on anymore. I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you if you don't already know, but knitting baby sweaters is not what it once was. There is the occasional sweet and enlightened young mother who will indulge and even appreciate such a sacred heartfelt gift, but there are even fewer who will cherish them. Hence, being able to find these beauties AT GOODWILL!!
It's just the way of the world, and not to be mourned, and not even that new. I remember being given a sad old package of the most unsightly and misshapen baby things when my firstborn arrived, presumably to be worn by him. They were his father's own, and had been saved and cherished by his mother, and were handed over with great love and care, and the minute she wasn't looking I got rid of them. I don't say this with pride, but only self-forgiveness after sincere regret, and from a wiser place (which you can only arrive at when you are old).
But I love tiny hand-made baby sweaters. So now they are only for me. Or for decor. Or for the bears. My little grand-girls still play with those.
I think of their exquisite beauty.
And I think of the exquisite love. . . .
This one is a little larger and found in the same place and maybe "worn?" by the same child.
I never made sweaters for any of my grandchildren even though I am blessed with one or two daughters-in-law who would recieve them graciously. This one I made for my daughter when she was three. It's mohair. It itched and she hated wearing it. My grand-daughters have worn it a few times while visiting and while still small enough. It gives me pleaure to see them in it (I have one last three year-old left), and I have joy remembering life when I first made it, and then it is tucked safely away again. Nobody is going to get it until they are old enough. And as it turns out, that has to be pretty old . . . .
At the same thrift store I found this fabulous vintage thermal all wool ivory blanket that has also obviouly been put away somewhere for fifty years. Our friend Susy at The Feathered Nest says these things wait for me, and I think she's right! Or at least I hope so!!
Old wooly blankets . . . ,
old wooly sweaters . . . ,
old wooly bears . . . .
I rest my case!
So glad you stopped by anyway!