A princess came to my house on December 15, 2012. From felt stockings strewn upon the floor, before a fireplace she browses then names the best, when asked to choose. To make one immediately she agrees and we descend to a place where making-things reside.
A making-thing found that day… that time and in that place, was a bolt of canvas. She says…“I’ll trace the shape”… she did…and I cut. She says…“It should be pink” and I squeeze the tube. The magenta paint, she says, …“is yucky”… I add white. She says…‘red and white make pink, my daddy says”… I added red and she agrees.
“Here’s a brush”...I say and she strokes the shape with heaps of glowing paint; she says, …”you do the back “…I did.
She says…“I’ll make some marker dots on a picture…I say…“make some on the stocking”…she prints her name. “Do some more” I say…she prints the names of her family and her dog. She says, …make me a heart”… I say, …“you make one”…she says…“I can’t…I cannot”. “But you can”, says I…‘“like this…a number 3 tipped over on it’s face…below the middle put a dot… connect the number to the dot”. She did, then made some more on other things.
Puzzling over a join of front to back, needles fail…too dull…too thick. I try the drill…usually works for making holes…I’m relieved. She doesn’t like the holes, “the other doesn’t have holes… I do not like holes… I do not want holes”, she says. “We need the holes to lace the parts”, I say. She says, … you do not even have a Christmas tree” …I say, ...we have five”. She says, … you don’t have any inside your house”…I say, “two are inside, remember”.
Exit the princess; she ascends the stairs to have a snack and visit Grampa, watching the game. Below, I look for a lace to join the stocking parts; my lot of cords… gut…leather… twine…kite-string …none suitable, I need one of agreeable color, thin enough to thread the only just-rite needle I have.
But wait…the loss of that single needle amid the substantial snarled mound of material now changes everything. An opportunity to think in another direction is one I’m familiar with. Envisioning what another person would be looking to use, it becomes obvious…yarn.
Yarn… again I’m lamenting our move to Fargo, soon to be two years ago; it required the slash of my stash to just above impoverishment level. I face the fact that yarn may have been one of the things I was willing to let go.
I now too, need the relief of upstairs with the princess, the game, Grampa and whatever is transpiring. Upstairs, new exciting things are happening; the princess is engaged with an IPad scoop game and very adept at it. Not only can she score high with scoops and burgers, but is able to sort though all the applications picking suitable ones and suggesting new buys which require consent by password protected Grampa. Angry birds come up, she needs little time to precision lob those rocks or whatever it is she‘s hurling to crumble the structures. I think the missiles are more sinister than rock.
Snack offerings have not yet hit the mark; the princess likes small squares of chocolate wrapped in red foil but Grampa’s stash is gone. The dilemma becomes how to place my image of snack into the mind of the princess. I peel a tangelo and set the segments on the island. The princess doesn’t bite; she delivers them in a bowl to Grampa, always most appreciative. She then peels one for herself and favors it with grapes and a frozen corn muffin she finds in the freezer section of fridge. She says I should put a frozen muffin in the microwave. Usually the princess eats peanuts at our house but they too are gone; she settles in on some fried potatoes dressed with ketchup shortly before her daddy returns and says how hungry he is and the rest of the family will be by this time. The princess leaves with him.
I saw her last on December 16, 2012, line dancing in a recital at an urban high school; she was wearing a yellow gold costume, a trim of diamante’ with tutu and leggings.
A making-thing found that day… that time and in that place, was a bolt of canvas. She says…“I’ll trace the shape”… she did…and I cut. She says…“It should be pink” and I squeeze the tube. The magenta paint, she says, …“is yucky”… I add white. She says…‘red and white make pink, my daddy says”… I added red and she agrees.
“Here’s a brush”...I say and she strokes the shape with heaps of glowing paint; she says, …”you do the back “…I did.
She says…“I’ll make some marker dots on a picture…I say…“make some on the stocking”…she prints her name. “Do some more” I say…she prints the names of her family and her dog. She says, …make me a heart”… I say, …“you make one”…she says…“I can’t…I cannot”. “But you can”, says I…‘“like this…a number 3 tipped over on it’s face…below the middle put a dot… connect the number to the dot”. She did, then made some more on other things.
Puzzling over a join of front to back, needles fail…too dull…too thick. I try the drill…usually works for making holes…I’m relieved. She doesn’t like the holes, “the other doesn’t have holes… I do not like holes… I do not want holes”, she says. “We need the holes to lace the parts”, I say. She says, … you do not even have a Christmas tree” …I say, ...we have five”. She says, … you don’t have any inside your house”…I say, “two are inside, remember”.
Exit the princess; she ascends the stairs to have a snack and visit Grampa, watching the game. Below, I look for a lace to join the stocking parts; my lot of cords… gut…leather… twine…kite-string …none suitable, I need one of agreeable color, thin enough to thread the only just-rite needle I have.
But wait…the loss of that single needle amid the substantial snarled mound of material now changes everything. An opportunity to think in another direction is one I’m familiar with. Envisioning what another person would be looking to use, it becomes obvious…yarn.
Yarn… again I’m lamenting our move to Fargo, soon to be two years ago; it required the slash of my stash to just above impoverishment level. I face the fact that yarn may have been one of the things I was willing to let go.
I now too, need the relief of upstairs with the princess, the game, Grampa and whatever is transpiring. Upstairs, new exciting things are happening; the princess is engaged with an IPad scoop game and very adept at it. Not only can she score high with scoops and burgers, but is able to sort though all the applications picking suitable ones and suggesting new buys which require consent by password protected Grampa. Angry birds come up, she needs little time to precision lob those rocks or whatever it is she‘s hurling to crumble the structures. I think the missiles are more sinister than rock.
Snack offerings have not yet hit the mark; the princess likes small squares of chocolate wrapped in red foil but Grampa’s stash is gone. The dilemma becomes how to place my image of snack into the mind of the princess. I peel a tangelo and set the segments on the island. The princess doesn’t bite; she delivers them in a bowl to Grampa, always most appreciative. She then peels one for herself and favors it with grapes and a frozen corn muffin she finds in the freezer section of fridge. She says I should put a frozen muffin in the microwave. Usually the princess eats peanuts at our house but they too are gone; she settles in on some fried potatoes dressed with ketchup shortly before her daddy returns and says how hungry he is and the rest of the family will be by this time. The princess leaves with him.
I saw her last on December 16, 2012, line dancing in a recital at an urban high school; she was wearing a yellow gold costume, a trim of diamante’ with tutu and leggings.
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