A washrag isn't a finished object

But, sadly, all I've finished in the last 6 weeks has been said washrag. I am not terribly proud, well, only a little, that I finished something. It was started last Thursday during a quiet morning of jury duty, and the finishing--mostly just binding off and weaving in ends--was done on my lunch break today. It has since been gifted, along with some locally made goat's milk soap, to a friend and co-worker who was just a few hours away from being offered the perfect job for her family. I hoped something pretty and sweet-smelling might ease her anxiety for those hours. The camera is juiceless, so just imagine a feather and fan washcloth knit in white and pale green and brown cotton.

Although I have no knitting, I do want to quote a small book. It was recommended to me several years ago by a dear friend, but I haven't been able to find it in print anywhere. The other day I found it on Half.com and ordered it right away. Mr. Cygknit brought it in with the mail last night, and I sat down and read it while he told me about his day.




There has been some discussion in this house about Hanukkah bushes, which Mr. Cygknit was raised with, Christmas trees, which I was raised with, and the absence of either, which our religion would prefer, I think. Our discussions on this topic weave through the holiday days each year, finally dying with New Year's. Each Thanksgiving I dread the inevitable gentle disagreements we have, until we find a balance between what we can't live with and refuse to give up. This year, my perspective is all wonky as I struggle with my hormones. I don't really know what I want, except to have some definitive idea of what a family tradition is for us.

I read this excerpt from There's No Such Thing as a Chanukah Bush, Sandy Goldstein tonight, and wanted to share this little bit. As I have said before, I am taken with knitting content in books. This time, the subject matter applies, as well.

Mom went to the sofa and began knitting. The apartment was very quiet. I moved the candle around on the table trying to find six colors I liked. Red, white, blue, red, white, blue. White, white, white, red, red, red. They all looked terrible!

"Can we have a Chanukah bush?" I asked softly. I felt warm tears float up into my eyes.

"There is no such thing," she said. Her knitting needles clicked quickly. I pushed the candles around some more. I decided to try again.

"But Sandy Goldstein has..."

"What Sandy Goldstein has is a Christmas tree. And you know Jews do not believe in Christmas."

My tears were the large kind that creep slowly down the cheek. They rested on the corners of my mouth.

"Sandy's Jewish," I said. My nose was all stuffy. Mom didn't seem to notice.

Her knitting needles were really clicking fast. Then, suddenly, they stopped. Mom sighed a very deep sigh.

"You're right, Robin," she said. "Sandy is Jewish. But there are many ways of being Jewish. In our own family there are men who wear hats, always, to show their respect for God."

"Like Uncle Bob?"

"Yes. And there are men who worship in synagogues where the men pray bare-headed."

"Uncle Marshall?"

"Yes. And your father prefers to cover his head during prayer. All three have found their own way to be Jewish. If Sandy Goldstein's parents feel they can live with a Christmas tree, then that is their business. But I will not have one in my home."

I stuck white candles into the menorah. I hate white candles.

This excerpt in the third of nine chapters, and is not intended to be a spoiler. The story as a whole is very nice, and I even found myself exclaiming aloud at one point. For adults, it is really no more than a 20 minute read. I found both the subject and the knitting fascinating, how Mom shows her anxiety through her knitting, and how Robin perceives this. I wonder what my own child with think as my needles click away?

If only I could decide about the "bush" this year.