Something this new normal has taught me is to not anticipate anything. For example, the Giants beat the Dodgers last night 6-2, dude! Four double plays by SF’s defense permitted Tim Lincecum to exit that game with a win, and Justin Maxwell is quickly earning some sort of permanent roster spot, not sure where. After dropping nine of their last ten, at least San Francisco won’t be swept by Los Angeles, and who knows; maybe Bumgarner will work out of his funk, besting Kershaw this evening. After how this year has started for me, anything goes.
Anything goes; that’s how the new normal seems to be settling. Last week was spent working on fairly straightforward baby quilts for my eldest, which I’ll present her with this weekend. But I’ve been perusing improvisational quilts on the web, and when I think about it, my first quilt for Dad was pretty close to improv; the squares were actually rectangles, and I knew nothing of a quarter-inch seam. Last night I threw a bunch of scraps onto the quilt wall, and while basting another baby quilt, occasionally I needed a break from the baseball; I would check upon that new creation, lying quietly in wait for me. I liked it more every time I peeked.
This morning, the size and scope of that project appeared a wee bit daunting, until over breakfast I had the fabulous notion to use the princess scraps for my three nieces, making them their own place mats. (Staring at the quilted place mat underneath my bowl of cereal was an inspiration, I must admit.) With tea in hand, I went right into the grotto, and within a short amount of time I came up with this prototype for Snow White.
I still have Belle and Cinderella to sort. I also want to make some Dr. Who Bolognese sauce for dinner, and read through some of The Hawk. It’s not the life I was living just a month ago; a month ago I was spending most of my time at Dad’s care facility, holding his hand, making sure Roxanol was being administered in a timely fashion (every hour or two, depending on Dad’s pain). Dad wasn’t overly chatty, and at times he didn’t make sense. But I have a couple of firm memories that I’ll expound upon in future posts. It’s like scattering pieces of fabric willy-nilly on the quilt wall permits me to slot away those moments with Dad that have woven their way into the very recesses of my soul. Maybe that experience had to occur before I added more to The Hawk, although when it comes to that novel, I wonder just how much more will end up being written. Of course, there’s the end, for I’m about halfway through it. That’s the improv nature of that novel’s release; it’s actually not done. And I’ll be the first to admit that in publishing Part One, I wanted to make sure a fire was lit so I would complete that behemoth. Sometimes one needs a flame burning to get the jets in action.
But sometimes it’s the softest whisper to inspire; for the rest of my life I will never forget my father calling me by my childhood pet name, one that only he used. His voice was altered, but his grip on my hand was ferocious. And even after nearly forty-nine years, to my father I was still his little girl. He called all of us ladies who visited, even the carers my age and older, his girls. We were pretty girls, sweet girls, beautiful girls. Somehow, someway that essence is meant to work its way into the lives of Eric, Lynne, Samuel, Renee, Stanford, Laurie, Marek, and Seth. I don’t know where or when, but eventually. It’s due to the improv nature of the new normal, you know….