There was Something Lurking
Over the last several days the sewing studio has really been finishing up some great projects. It was a great feeling knowing that there were no UFOs, aka: unfinished projects. This morning I came down and was about to turn on all the lights when I felt something lurking. I pushed the feeling aside. I knew I had about 45 minutes before I would have to head upstairs and swap out the laundry from the washer to the dryer. There was a pattern I had dug out to use some of my darker scraps for a scrappy quilt top. The 45 minutes flew by and laundry was calling.
My habit is to put the laundry in the dryer and then get out enough clothes hangers as to what the 
laundry load required. Getting the shirts out of the dryer and immediately hanging them up has just about done away with any pressing. As I walked into the closet, the feeling of something lurking was strong . . . about as strong as sniffing a jug of vinegar. And . . . there it was.
A bright red shopping bag. A bright red shopping bag that used to sit beside my favorite chair in years past. A bright red shopping bag that got moved once upon a time to make room for a family gathering. It got moved right into recesses of the closet. The bag had sat next to my chair so each night I could crochet a block for a future afghan. Each block was crocheted with a different pattern. Where had the years gone? I believe the moment I was patting myself on the back for having finished all of my started projects, the bright red shopping bag had an opening to get it to the forefront of my mind. It had done the trick.
Blocks of many patterns that have stood the test of time to be joined for a finished lap robe.
I brought the bright red shopping bag down here into the sewing studio. It was rather like opening a mysterious gift. Sure enough. There were 24 completed blocks. Perhaps enough yarn in the bright red shopping bad to make just as many more. It did make me sad. Over the last five years, I have not been able to use my right wrist as I once had. The orthopedic surgeon said the wrist is much like the cone for the ice cream, meaning the hand, to sit upon it. My ice cream had slipped off of the cone. I can do many things with my right wrist, just not as well as I used to. I have learned to eat soup with my left land. I have learned to use my left hand often when the right hand tells me “Sorry lady, not today.”
We are not crying over spilled milk, or for that matter, yarn that may not be used for crocheting. I fired up the steam iron and gave each precious block a bit of steam for them to be blocked. I will weave the blocks together with the remaining yarn and it will make a wonderful lap robe. That wonderful lap robe, less the bright red shopping bag, will be right next to my favorite chair. In thinking about all the crocheting I have done since I was a young bride in Riesel Texas, I have nothing that I saved for myself . . . up until now. Orlin had taught me to crochet after we were married, living in Riesel, Texas, to help me pass some time being so far from family. Oh for great memories. There will be no more feelings of lurking to be had.