A Frosty Retrospective

Well, here we are in the waning days of February, and at this point I think it’s undeniable that we’re also finishing up The Winter That…Wasn’t. I say this because in a typical year the cold period (such as it is in lovely Chapel Hill) is usually winding down right about now--as evidenced by pleasantly warming temperatures and the first brave (if somewhat reckless, depending how fickle Mother Nature behaves in these transitional weeks) flowers and buds popping out around town. But in 2020 those things began happening toward the end of JANUARY, which was super-freaky at the time, for sure, but also not quite believable, like “Yeah, yeah, daffodils and dogwoods, I see you, but don’t get used to hanging around, ‘cuz you’re gonna be awfully sorry…and frozen…when things get back to normal!” But that’s just it…the entire season was mild, which to me made it feel like some kind of weird, I don’t know…post-Fall limbo?

1983

As the odd situation dragged on through the first several months of the year, it slowly started to dawn on me that we might make it through the whole Winter without seeing even a solitary particle of white stuff to appease the Frost Giants…or what have you. And imagine my surprise when I found myself feeling…disappointed about that. I mean, this is ME we’re talking about, the person who detests being chilly…who’s struck by Spring Fever around Valentine’s Day every year (not coincidentally, when pitchers and catchers report to camp)…who moved to NC at least in part to escape the boundless freezing precipitation and endless shivering. 

And yet…I realized that if we did somehow manage to avoid the s-word, it would mark the only time in my existence—to the best of my recollection, at least—that I’d ever experienced a flake-free year. Huh. That in turn led me rambling down Memory Lane, to reminisce about some of the more noteworthy storms in my lifetime, of which 3 sprang instantly to mind. So, join me if you will for a stroll through the archives, as we examine a few snowy incidents from my past:

The first occurred in 1983. I’d gone to school as usual in the morning, and all through the day what had started out as a vague curiosity about a possible impending weather event built into excited chatter based on the prediction that we could be hit with a foot or more of accumulation. However, my biology teacher, whom we knew to be a meterological hobbyist of sorts, flatly refuted the forecast. “We’re getting 36 inches,” he stated…undeterred by the vocal skepticism of his class. And whattya know: the professionals woefully underestimated the totals…and Mr. Hoffman was bang on target.

1996

Thus blanketed by mounds of snow, our area was gifted with an unplanned week-long vacation...but the effects went much further than that. For example, my father had undergone a knee operation, and my mother was told she had to either take him home slightly ahead of schedule, or be prepared to leave him in the hospital until they dug out. (She opted to retrieve him early.) Even more…exciting…our next door neighbor evidently cut themselves with a sharp knife and called 911. But we lived on a cul-de-sac, in a rural setting, which realistically wasn’t going to glimpse a snowplow for several days, minimum. So the ambulance stopped at the top of our road, and paramedics rode a snowmobile the rest of the way to the house, then loaded the injured person onto a SLED, and dragged them back to the vehicle. I’m telling you, this was pretty wild stuff for our quiet little corner of the world, folks!

That brings us to 1996, the first time I think I heard the term “snowpocalypse” applied to a wintry scene. In this case, the story unfolded over the course of a week, in which the clouds delivered a foot of fresh powder…several different times! Given that I was living in Maryland—rather than, say, the Midwest--localities simply didn’t have the resources to launch a targeted clearing effort on the existing snowfall before the next round arrived…so it just piled up some more. I was working for a school system at the time, and you can guess that we were closed for the duration. I remember a conversation with my mother, who was sweetly concerned that I—a single woman living alone—would somehow be stranded without access to food. I reminded her that while this might be an issue for her, still living in the same house in which I grew up, in my location I could literally walk (or, you know, cross country ski, if necessary) out my front door…and stomp 50 yards across the street to the Safeway.

2009

Even better: a couple I was good friends with also were enjoying the unexpected time off, and we hatched a plan to take an impromptu trip to the nearest ski resort. While the initial excursion miiiiiight have been…um…”ill-advised”, as it involved white-knuckle navigating through blizzard conditions to reach the resort, we were abundantly rewarded by having the slopes pretty much to ourselves (yeah, yeah, because no one else was foolish enough to risk it, whatever), with pristine fluffy natural cover on the hills, the likes of which is rarely seen by East Coast skiers. We proceeded to do it again twice more during our little hiatus…thus spoiling me for any other kind of ski-bunny adventure, to be honest. Oh well, it was awesome while it lasted! 

Finally, we jump to 2009-10, which represented the first time the boys were around for significant snowy shenanigans. That season made an impression because we got socked by a major storm in December, causing everyone to dust off the “snowpocalypse” designation again—it had been a while, after all, so I guess we can forgive the newspeople for repeating themselves. But then, we got another biggie in February—and if I remember correctly it had been frigid enough that not all of the leftovers from the first go-around had melted, so it just landed on top, and inspired the journalists to scramble for an updated hyperbole…which ended up being “snowmageddon”. 

Of course, by this time it was my sons’ turn for an extended midyear break, so stop me if you’ve heard this before, the academic year was suspended for, blah blah blah, however many days it took to get us dug out. I do recall, though, how much FUN they had--riding their sleds, building snowpeople, romping with the neighbor kids, having snowball fights, etc. I also remember the less…entertaining….aspects of such an episode, like the extraordinary amount of shoveling required to clear our driveways and part of our dead-end street (the upside being that we residents all helped each other, so it ended up being somewhat social as well. Silver lining!). Not to mention the preposterous process of outfitting my little yetis with all the gear they needed to withstand their time in the tundra…several times a day with the “on again, off again” nonsense as they came in and out of the house to eat, rest, dry off, thaw out, etc.

2020

This brings us full circle back to present day. Lo and behold, no sooner had I lamented our lack of flurries, than we were lightly brushed by the…I don’t know…Ice Fairy?...who pirouetted through, waved her crystal wand, and bestowed upon us just a taste of Winter. In my opinion, it was actually perfect: picturesque drifting down from the heavens, just enough on the trees and grass to be photogenic…but not so much on the roads as to impact our daily activities very much. (And yes, of course the NC Powers That Be canceled classes…for one day before any precipitation fell at ALL, and the second day for the dusting that showed up. Having spent the last 5 years here, I can’t help but be amused by this…while also shaking my head.)

So, this fulfilled my requirements for a not-completely-lame Winter, even if just barely. It’s hard to explain, but in my mind I was beginning to feel like we hadn’t earned Spring, in some way. However, NOW we can move forward in good conscience toward the season of baseball, balmy days, and brisk breezes. (Sure, I do understand that’s not how it works…but nevertheless…) And I don’t know if you noticed, but this cycle—at least in Maryland—seems to come around every 13 years…kind of like climate clockwork! Hmm…so we’re technically still in the Mid-Atlantic region…let’s appreciate our good fortune for now, and make a mental note to brace ourselves for the next epic tempest…in 2022!

Sampling Savannah (Part 2)

Unfortunately for us intrepid Savannah tourists, Sunday featured a whole lot of water falling from the sky. (Which by the way I also hadn’t packed for…sigh. You’d think I wasn’t a veteran traveler, for crying out loud…) However, the Moms on a Mission were not to be deterred from venturing forth into the city and having All. The. Fun—albeit seeking out more sheltered options to try to prevent the dreaded Drowned Rat Syndrome. (Again, lacking the proper gear, this couldn’t altogether be avoided. So, damp clothes and dripping hair became the natural order of the day…and yet, she (we) persisted…)

Just how inhospitable was the weather? Well, we even resorted to driving the van we’d rented…the one that had sat dormant while we hoofed it all over town on foot on Saturday. The party bus first stopped at the American Prohibition Museum, a site one of our group had found and suggested because it got good reviews and sounded like something that would interest us (i.e. a close-knit band of uber-nerds…or, you know, “my tribe”…).

And let me tell ya, she—and the critiques—hit this one out of the park. I realized I didn’t actually know that much about America’s dry period, and we’ve already established how much I love to learn stuff, so I found the information itself absolutely fascinating. Plus, they did a fabulous job on the presentation, using plaques you could read, videos that illustrated some of the events and personalities of the time, actual artifacts and photos from the era, lifelike wax figures that lent realism to the stories, and costumed docents who added layers of details to the exhibits.

Because I can’t help myself and am dying to share what I picked up, here are some of my favorite take-aways:

--the law was in effect for about 14 years, from 1919-1933

--Savannah’s waterways were actively employed for the smuggling trade, and the city in general tried to dodge the rules as much as they could get away with (yay, rebels!)

--Maryland was one of the holdout states that never enacted its own statute

--the unintended consequences (that eventually led to the regulation’s downfall) were staggering, including the meteoric rise of organized crime (Al Capone et.al.), detriments to public health from concocting and consuming poorly made, unregulated, and/or dangerous substitutes; the rejuvenation of the Klan, who twisted the prohibitionists’ reasons for the war against alcohol to justify and further their own anti-immigrant, white supremacist agenda

--it was basically unenforceable, due to a lack of manpower and resources in the overextended FBI

--of course, a direct result was the proliferation of secret speakeasies, some of which were…let’s say “classier than others”, but there were myriad ways people got around the ban

--based on all the previously legal activities that were now forbidden, there were more arrests and folks being brought to trial, which taxed the judicial system and led to the inception of plea bargaining and probation, to ameliorate crowding in the already jam-packed prisons

--and finally, I was highly amused by the moguls of the nation’s large beer companies, who ingeniously turned to manufacturing other products, to wait out the suspension of their primary livelihood. See if you recognize some of these: Coors (started a ceramics division, still in existence today!), Pabst (cheese, which it then sold to Kraft when Prohibition ended), Yuengling (ice cream and dairy), and the ever-visionary Anheuser-Busch (ice cream, soft drinks, truck parts (!), and the first non-alcoholic beverage).

Whew! Yes, it was a LOT to take in, but highly entertaining and well worth it. We weren’t done yet, though, as there was another tour we wanted to squeeze in, that only offered one timeslot. So we slogged a couple of blocks to the First African Baptist Church, where we settled in and prepared for a very different but equally enlightening educational experience.

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but what we got was a 45-minute interactive lecture given by a young man with a bountiful gift for storytelling. At the outset he stated, “I don’t like to see people just nodding at me, ‘cuz that means what I’m saying isn’t really making an impression.” So he left deliberate pauses in his narrative, for us to finish his sentence or answer a question. If we got too quiet for his taste, he’d prompt us to respond to his latest comment with a, “Yes, no, maybe?”  (It. Was. Awesome! I wish there’d been a test, because he was an exceptional teacher, and I was ready!)

Anyway, he told us about the institution’s founding in 1773 by a freed black man, although given the timing, all of its early attendees would have been enslaved people. At first the worshippers gathered on the banks of the Savannah River, until the congregation grew too big for this to be feasible, at which point they solicited contributions from members—who donated from their paltry earnings, sometimes meaning funds they’d been saving to buy their own freedom--and began to build an actual sanctuary.

Eventually they needed even more space, so they expanded the lower level, and added a balcony. When we trooped upstairs to see the newer section, our leader made a point of debunking a common stereotype: that enslaved people couldn’t read or write. In fact, he assured us, many were allowed to learn, if their masters leaned toward the progressive side, and those who gained the skills then taught others. He used this to preface the fact that each pew in the balcony bore symbols that at first glance could be mistaken for simple scratches, but were in reality Hebrew and Arabic characters. Amazing.

It was just one of a plethora of intriguing tidbits about the church and its followers. For example, in the main sanctuary, somehow the oak pews and floors, as well as the stained glass windows, remain in pristine condition. (I mean, they seriously look like they could have been installed, like, yesterday.) And then, for the grand finale, our guide addressed a famous highlight of the church’s background—the assumption that it acted as a stop on the Underground Railroad and assisted slaves in escaping their southern owners. He smiled enigmatically as he declared, “Now, I can’t confirm anything about that. You see, no written records of such events exist…because that could get you thrown in jail or killed. But here’s what we do know…and you can draw your own conclusions.”

So we sat, mesmerized, as his true talent for weaving a tale unfolded before us. First, he pointed out that the floorboards in the basement (where we were currently located) beneath the church proper were made of Georgia White Pine, rather than the hard oak upstairs. It’s softer, more pliable, and more moisture-prone, so it had to be treated and dried out before being used to build. However, that meant it wouldn’t creak—for instance, when someone was trying to move silently across it…perhaps to hide? Next he described the crawlspace underneath our feet, presumably designed to allow airflow for the floors to stay dry and resist warping…but also theoretically big enough for humans to hide in…if the need arose.

And finally, he drew our attention to the identical, clearly defined patterns of holes drilled into said floors at intervals around the large room. These, he explained, took the shape of the BaKongo Cosmogram, an Ethiopian religious symbol. So, if someone were to kneel down next to one, lower their head, and appear to be praying, it wouldn’t ring any alarm bells…like it would if they were actually communicating with someone concealed in the crawlspace. You see what I mean? Absolutely compelling stuff.

After that, our brains were chock-full of newfound knowledge…but our stomachs were profoundly empty. Thus we braved an annoying downpour (complete with sneaker-drenching puddles, if you weren’t alert enough) to find a suitable lunch venue. We ended up at Two Cracked Eggs, a quirky joint serving southern delicacies like shrimp and grits, corned beef hash, and biscuits that were almost as big as our heads (plus warm coffee, which at that moment for me was the true selling point).

Warmed up and sated…but still somewhat bedraggled, we headed back to our rowhome to regroup and relax. This quickly led us to a unanimous decision to just stay in that evening, throw together a meal from the varied contents of our refrigerator (homemade tapas FTW!), lounge around in pjs, and enjoy each other’s company before we all went our separate ways the next day. Since there was a temporary respite from the showers, I opted for another brief walk around our charming neighborhood to admire the dazzling architecture and delightful atmosphere one final time. 

Alas, Monday morning arrived all too quickly, and our fabulous whirlwind getaway came to an end. Even though I’ll miss these lovely ladies until our next trip, I’ll console myself by recalling the abundant laughter, special bonding, and precious memories we made together in Savannah. Another super-successful mini-vacay with some of my favorite Mom Friends…and a shoutout to Savannah for the heartwarming southern hospitality. Besides, we’re already scheming for 2022, so let the countdown commence! 

Savannah Saga (Part 1)

At long last, after much parleying, planning, and preparing, the highly anticipated Playgroup Moms' Getaway II arrived. This year's version would have us uniting in Savannah, coming from our various compass points in several different modes of transportation. To wit: the gang from Maryland booked a flight together; one pal from Wisconsin had her own airplane odyssey (including a bummer missed connection); the Atlantan opted to Greyhound over for the "sit back and relax" factor...and as for me, I chose to motor the 5+ hours from North Carolina because...well, in retrospect, I'm not totally sure why...but that's how just how I roll? Sure, I do love traveling, and driving doesn't bother me. But I'm gonna be honest, after about the 3-hour mark I was like "Ugh, are we there yet?" (Stop me if you've heard this before: Diet Pepsi saves the day...)

Eventually, of course, we all convened at our (gorgeous, incidentally) AirBnB rowhouse, at which point it hit us...we're all heeeeere! After two years, we were finally together again, and sooooo excited to see each other. To get the party started, we toasted with some chocolates that one of the thoughtful husbands had sent--so that was an appropriate and delicious beginning to our long weekend o'fun. Then the wheels started turning...specifically "Now that we're settled, where should we eat dinner?" (Yeah, we're nothing if not practical...and food-driven...)

After agreeing on a local establishment that sounded yummy--and seemed to be close by, according to the ever faithful Google Maps--we set out on foot to attempt to actually locate it. Which ended up being a comedy show in and of itself, as a small cohort of very intelligent, competent, and generally street savvy women literally wandered in circles, staring at the screen, wondering why the mystical eatery wasn't appearing to us. Seriously, it got so silly that we even stopped to ask a group of GIRL SCOUTS if they knew where it was. (They didn't, sadly...or just didn't want to assist us because we didn't have cash for cookies? Sigh...)

Of course, we did eventually stumble onto the correct block (mumble mumble...right around the corner from our accommodations),...but we'd forgotten to take into account the fact that it was Valentine's Day, meaning there was no room for our sizable band that evening. However, those treat-hawking young ladies had been stationed right in front of a Kroger's grocery store, so the backup plan quickly became "buy food and eat in". Done, and done!

And it worked out beautifully, since that allowed us to hang out, chat, and catch up all in the comfort of our own kitchen...right up until we took ourselves off to bed...because believe me, we had a BIG DAY of activities coming up, so we figured we'd need our rest.

In fact, the next morning--after partaking of some of our supermarket delicacies for breakfast--we hit the ground running...or, you know, "strolling", as our first order of entertainment was a walking tour of the downtown historical district. We meandered under the soaring canopy of trees lining the quaint streets, listening to the engaging guide tell stories about Savannah's past, including its involvement in both the Revolutionary and Civil wars--all of which was utterly fascinating. As a first-timer to this picturesque city, it seemed to me like every building was an architectural work of art, and every block boasted either its own grandiose church, or a charming park, complete with a significant statue commemorating one famous person or another.

Not to mention the edifices that were actually important, such as Juliet Gordon Low's house (founder of those non-helpful Girl Scouts...just kidding about that last part!) and General Sherman's headquarters (we northerners nodded politely and kept our mouths shut about that one!). It was my favorite kind of thing: both educational and amusing. I mean, how could you possibly miss with a leader who--upon spotting an apparently familiar local man, who wears a flowered jumpsuit and George Washington-type wig and offers to take selfies with tourists--dryly commented, "In Savannah, we don't hide crazy....we put it out on the porch and hand it a cocktail!" Priceless, I tell ya!

At the conclusion of our wonderful excursion, we moved on to the next endeavor...lunch...and preferably inside! You see, despite the weather forecast promising us a sunny 60*, the reality turned out to be much nippier than that...and quite blustery to boot. We were...honestly somewhat miffed; after all, we came to the SOUTH, for crying out loud, so what gives, Savannah? Anyway, suffice it to say that several of us...me included....had packed slightly more....optimistically than conditions warranted. (Yeah, yeah, I was freezing--are we surprised? But we shivered...and sucked it up...) Luckily we found a quirky little joint called Kayak Kafe where we enjoyed a tasty meal full of organic, freshly made goodness. But then we went and undid all our hard-earned toastiness by standing in a fairly extensive line for Leopold's, a beloved ice cream parlor we'd been told was a must-sample. (Also incredible hot cocoa, so I was able to re-warm. Win!)


Thus fortified (again) we continued our pedestrian spree by visiting the breathtakingly beautiful St. John's Cathedral and bustling, scenic Forsyth Park. Whew--that was a chock-full day of sightseeing, folks! We hoofed it back to our rental to regroup and spend a bit of downtime...before we had to eat again, of course. This time we'd managed to secure a reservation at the tiny Tulum Cantina, where we noshed on excellent Mexican fare to finish off our Saturday.

Happy-but-tired campers, we now find ourselves ready and yes, eager to repeat the sleep portion of our agenda...so we can get up and do some more cool stuff tomorrow. Whoo hoo! Or, good night, Savannah...zzzz

Working on my chill (spoiler alert: I have a loooong way to go!)

So, it's been a minute (or, you know, "5 years"…yikes!) since I showed my face--or the rest of my creaky middle-aged body, for that matter--in a yoga studio. Initially I had to stop going when my left hand started acting up, such that putting any weight on it, like in the downward dog pose, for example, caused me agonizing pain. (Very much NOT what you’re seeking in an activity that’s supposed to enhance one’s overall sense of calm, centeredness, and physical well-being, amiright?) And unfortunately, right on the heels of that issue, other body parts started clamoring for attention…luckily only one at a time, but it was still enough…internal complaining…that I didn’t feel like I was going to benefit from trying to go back.

But hey, for whatever reason, the new year ushered in a fresh burst of optimism. So even though I’ve accepted that at my age there will probably always be some random joint or muscle or whatever giving me grief, I figured what the heck, let's give it another shot. (I mean, what’s the worst that could happen--it hurts and I need to quietly excuse myself? Eh, I’m also old enough to be beyond embarrassment about these kinds of things, so can live with that…)

Now, don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t prepared to do anything crazy-pants, like sign up for an entire series of classes. (Because that’s me: breezy, plan-less, no-commitment chick, right? Ha! Never mind…) Instead I checked local businesses for drop-in prices. (And let me tell ya, folks, there are a plethora of options around here. Sheesh, you can’t swing the proverbial stick without hitting a wellness-related establishment of some kind…’cuz apparently, that’s just how we roll in Chapelboro, y’all…)

I found a couple of intriguing sessions, where you either paid a flat $5 fee (perfect for “testing the waters”, so to speak), or offered a donation of your choosing, with the suggested amount being $5-$20. I registered for the less expensive Community Class, which according to the website would be taught by an instructor-in-training (hence the reduced cost, I’m sure). I decided that, given my own potential…complications…that could crop up during the lesson, I was totally okay being a guinea pig for someone else to hone their technique on…or what have you. After all, it’s yoga, for crying out loud—how bad could it be?

 So I dusted off my mat (literally, since it’s been spending the long interval away from its true purpose by acting as a…tushie cushioner…during bootcamp, outside on the grass or a gritty basketball court) and showed up for the evening hour of zen. Our leader first shared that her theme for the practice would be: showing some love for…your feet! Seriously….could it BE more perfect? (Thanks, universe, I get it--I’m supposed to be here…)  

We began by sitting cross-legged....weeeeell, in theory, at least, because I quickly discovered that was gonna be a HARD PASS, as the hips were vehemently making it known that they were having none of it. Ohhhhkaaay, then…not such an auspicious start, but moving on to the next…oh, hello, knees, how YOU doin’? They, also, had many things to say, which went something along the lines of, “Ow! Not cool! What is this torture? We hate this! What'd we ever do to YOU?" (I swear, they're sooooo melodramatic...) Aaannnnnd, this was quickly followed by "A pleasant good evening to you, shoulders!" who replied in a similar vein "What. Is. The. Meaning of This? Dislike, Dislike! Cut it out right now!"

So yeah, there was…all of THAT.  Meanwhile, I’d instigated a silent dialogue with…all of the protesting parts, in which I admonished them “Shut up, we're stretching! It's helpful and necessary for flexibility and good health, and blah blah blah. Get with the program!” (What, everyone engages in internal shouting matches with their recalcitrant appendages, right? It's totally normal! Mmm…let's go with that...thanks for playing along...)

Although this was not as distracting as you might imagine (probably because I talk to myself all the time, so I’m used to it…wait, does that make me sound weird? Oh well…) I still found myself struggling with some aspects of the poses…such as “balance”. This was disturbing to me because when I used to incorporate yoga regularly into my life, I enjoyed (but probably took for granted, to be honest) a pretty good sense of equilibrium. However, I must dejectedly report: that’s pfffft, GONE…yet hopefully only temporarily? Memo to me: start working on building it back up, stat!

And then of course there’s all the (attempted) reaching of...things. Or…ahem..not so much. (Actual translation: hahahahaha  you want me to put my hand where? Nice try, lady. Let's try something else, shall we?) In short, I'm not as limber as I believed I was...even with what I thought were realistic expectations…siiighhh (Yeah, yeah, I suppose that happens when you're lazy about incorporating the bending and whatnot into your daily routine. Who knew? Right…absolutely everyone…my bad…)

Returning to the tootsies that were meant to be the focus of this endeavor, the movements seemed to aggravate ye olde plantar fasciitis, but I'm hoping that's a transitional side effect and will fade back into the background over time if I resolve to make this a weekly event. BUT, with all that being said, I’d definitely deem it a positive experience, overall. And I strongly felt like...it could eventually lead to restoring some of that erstwhile grace and flexibility that I didn't even realize I was missing…but now am motivated to replenish!

So to sum up: tomorrow I do expect to be sore…in various hot spots. And then, I'll plan to do it all again next week, and see what happens from there. Nama…staytuned! (Sorry!)

A tangled web we weave...sort of....

Since we're currently immersed in my least favorite season, "Chilly and Dark", it seemed like a good idea to use the extra hours stuck inside to start pondering one of my...well, let's not call them Resolutions, because that implies too much commitment. So, Potential Action Items?...nah, too corporate. Self-Improvement Goals? Maybe...eh, let's just go with "stuff I want to try this year, which may or may not work out, and that's totally fine, so no pressure or judgment"...which is a terrible title, but sums it up nevertheless.

First stab, so to speak

Anyway, as I was saying before I hijacked my own train of thought, I wanted to explore some kind of hobby to occupy the longer evenings at my disposal, since all of the activities I normally like to engage in happen outside. One thing I kept coming back to was knitting, but I've never had any interest in learning this skill, primarily because you have to, you know, MAKE things like sweaters or blankets or whatnot, which doesn't really appeal to me. But then...the universe intervened...or at least the Internet. You see, an author I follow on social media started posting all of these cute projects she'd created...with crochet. First, adorable hats and scarves (which still doesn't resonate with me, since I don't wear either of them), and then even more precious wee stuffed dolls and such...until poof, she thoroughly snagged my attention with her rendition of...Baby Yoda.

Even though I still couldn't quite envision what my purpose was going to be for applying this technique, I was ready to give it a shot. (It did occur to me that perhaps I could make little beanies for newborns, and donate them to local hospitals...which actually fulfills a couple of items on my List, so...we shall see...) The next step, at least in my case, was to find and sign up for a workshop of some kind, to get the basics actually shown to me by a live person, in an interactive format. (I'm not sure if it's due to my age or just my personality, but I'm not someone who prefers watching tutorial videos online. Sure, I'll look up stuff if I need to problem-solve or whatever, but not to master something for the first time. For that, I like my instruction to be hands-on...ha! Sorry...)

It turns out that Michael's offers such sessions (no big surprise), so even though the nearest one was in the capital, I considered that "close enough for jazz". (As Husband always says, probably based on the Van Morrison song...which yes, I DID just have to look up. The things you never thought to question about someone you've known for 25 years...until you use them in a blogpost. Sheesh!) Thus I registered for the class, and dutifully purchased my recommended supplies. (Yay! Bonus field trip to craft heaven!)

Playing around at home

On the day of the big event, I headed over to the neighborhood (that would be Northwest Raleigh, for those curious) a bit early to scope it out, since it was new territory for me. And I discovered that Brier Creek is the most fabulous shopping center that I never knew about, just over 30 minutes away--and filed that for future reference. (See? Even more knowledge gained. I'm telling ya, it was an educational day, y'all!) When I showed up at the designated time, there was only one other student, which made for a cozy group. This ended up being super-helpful, since I had an inordinate amount of difficulty grasping the very first stitch the teacher showed us!

Seriously, for about a half-hour, I was frustrated enough to wonder if this was even worth it, if I simply lacked the aptitude to pick it up, if I should quit, excuse myself, and slink out in disgrace. (In such an up-close-and-personal setup this obviously would have been difficult to do without making a scene, but it's a testament to how annoyed I was that I considered it.) Fortunately, it eventually did click, and I was at least able to string together a series of the most basic stitches. Whoo hoo!

I mean, I'm not saying they were particularly pretty, or demonstrated flawless execution, or anything, but let's be honest: the bar was verrrry low at this point in the game. From there (after I think both the instructor and I breathed a shared sigh of relief) we moved on to single crochet and double crochet, both of which I was able to accomplish (again, at the Pass/Fail level) with supervision. (See photo above for the finished...product? I TOLD you it's not that attractive...or neat...or on its way to being much of anything at all. This is one of those times we must remember: baby steps, my friends...)

Making great chains! And nothing else yet...

Regardless of how hard I'd had to labor to wrangle my yarn into that one small accomplishment, when the 2 hours were up I left with a sense of pride and yes, excitement to practice, improve, and create something recognizable and even--dare I hope--useful. Therefore it felt like a success that I could build on by working on it in my free time, which was the original intent, right? So, in order to try and cement some of the lesson in my brain and fingers, I went home and attempted to replicate what I'd been taught...with mixed results. Clearly I proved I can whip off chains of those first building block stitches...which can't actually become anything without the other 2 more advanced add-ons...that I was unable to demonstrate on my own.

Siiighhh...but honestly, that's kind of what I expected. I imagined I'd have to seek out other resources to continue to progress, because let's face it, a couple of hours one time isn't likely to be enough to just run with a new skill...unless you're some kind of prodigy, which we've already established that I'm most definitely NOT. But having completed this introductory step, I now have other options available to me, such as the aforementioned YouTube, but also playdates with pals who also partake in the yarn arts, and local meetups with other crochet groups--all of which might be able to show me again how to do those pesky stitches I'm struggling with, and nudge me along when I inevitably get stuck.

So, yeah...in terms of how this fits into the Big Picture for 2020...let's say, at the moment I foresee an undetermined end...and a winding path...and no expectations about the outcome, but just enjoyment of the journey. Yep, sounds about right for the new year--okay, let's do this thing!