Learning to Knit and Remembering

The Big Bowerbird has moved on from face washer and made herself a pair of hand-warmers   I hope she remembers this time, sitting on our old couch, bathed in golden sunlight, learning to knit. A tumbling of calls for Nenek, the knitting and slipping of stitches, the studious concentration, the joy of watching a project take shape.

There are so many treasured memories I have left somewhere behind in my childhood, now many are just brief glimpses, lingering like a forgotten dream. I remember mum trying to teach me around my daughters age, and really not having a strong aptitude for it. A wonky blanket for my dolly.  I wish I could snatch out clearer pictures from that foggy past. Here I am again, fumbling along. I think mum's more patient this time around, and perhaps I am too. It's almost summer, but I think I will keep knitting, lest I forget how to all over again.

We gave a small donation to the Remembrance Day Poppy Appeal today. I just donated some coins, as I don't like the waste that all the fundraising trinkets create. A beautiful old man placed poppy stickers on the children and was so thankful. It was as if I'd filled his tin with notes. I felt it was the least I could do after getting lured into buying a ticket for the obscenely large Oz lotto draw. I then had to explain to the children about war, and what sometimes happens to soldiers who come back from war, and what happens when they don't. Lest We Forget. Nenek's dad was away so long at war that she didn't recognise him on his return. How lucky we are to live in such comparatively peaceful times. Luckier than winning 1st division I would say.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

 John McCrae, 1915

You can plant a virtual poppy to remember a loved one, or find out how to donate here.