Making a Corn Husk Doll

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On March 17, I attended a book talk at our public library. At the end of her presentation, author Naomi Helen Yaeger taught the audience how to make corn husk dolls because there’s a reference to them in her book Blooming Hollyhocks: Tales of Joy During Hard Times. I decided to stay and make a doll. I figured it was a good way to honor my New Year’s resolution to behave more like a child.

Because of Yaeger’s crafty idea, the librarians had set up tables and chairs for people who attended Yaeger’s book talk, so we had a nice surface to work on. Yaeger provided moistened corn husks, pieces of yarn, and instructions. All I had to do was relax and have some fun.

Using one piece of corn husk, I rolled arms for my doll then slipped them between several pieces of husk that would become the body. Using pieces of yarn, I tied off sections in order to create the head, torso, and hands. In no time at all, I had my very own corn husk doll.

A work in progress

While I made my doll, I thought about my Girl Scout days because we often did craft projects at our meetings. Making a corn husk doll is the kind of project my Girl Scout leader would’ve loved. She could’ve talked about how toys, like dolls, were important to children throughout history and across cultures. My mother-in-law, Audrey, was born in 1931 during the Great Depression, and she and her parents lived with her mother’s parents until 1938. Occasionally, Audrey’s grandfather would help her make a doll from a thick piece of kindling wood pulled from the box next to the old cookstove. Together they would pound nails into the wood for arms and legs, then pound tiny nails into the wood to create a face. I imagine when the doll broke, they reused the nails for the next kindling doll. Nothing was wasted during the depression.

As I worked on my corn husk creation, I remembered another doll, which I hadn’t thought of in years. The doll came in a kit, so it had to be assembled. The picture of it on the package had an old fashioned, handmade look, similar to a Raggedy Ann doll, which I liked. I don’t remember much about the kit, except there were lots of pieces, yarn was involved, and the minimum age recommendation on the box was a few years above my age. I was eight or nine. It was a Christmas gift from Santa, whom I didn’t believe in anymore, so I knew my mother had bought it. I hadn’t asked Santa for the doll kit, but I liked the present and was excited to put it together. My mother told me she’d have to help because it was too difficult for me to do on my own.

Of course, I wanted to make the doll on Christmas day, but my mother was busy cooking a big turkey dinner with all the trimmings, so I knew not to ask. Over the next couple of months, I occasionally asked her about helping me with the doll, but she was always too busy or too tired. My mother had four children and a big old house to look after, plus she worked as a waitress, an exhausting job, and my father didn’t help with the household chores, typical of the times. But he worked hard as a mechanic, and in the evenings after supper, he worked side jobs in his garage to earn extra money to support his family.

At the time I didn’t think about it, but before my mom bought the doll kit, she’d always made sure Santa delivered toys that my siblings and I could enjoy without adult supervision or help. I don’t know why she picked out something I couldn’t do on my own. Had she liked the doll on the cover of the kit? Did it remind her of her childhood? Had she wanted to do a mother-daughter project with me? I could call and ask her, but I don’t think she’d remember. But I remember because a couple of months after Christmas on a cold winter’s night, I told my mother a whopping, premeditated lie about that doll kit and got away with it.

After the supper dishes were done, I went outside to play. Several inches of packable snow had fallen during the day, and I was itching to make a snowman. I don’t remember my siblings being with me. Because if they’d been outside with me, I would’ve been busy playing with them. I wouldn’t have had time to concoct a devious plan to trick my mother into helping me make the doll.

Under a starry sky in the frosty air, I rolled and shaped three large balls of snow in decreasing sizes. As I stacked them to make my snowman’s body, I thought about the unmade doll languishing in my closet. As I created the snowman’s face from a carrot, some rocks, and pieces of sticks, I formed a plan to convince my mother we needed to make my doll that very night. As I placed a stocking cap on the snowman’s head and wrapped a scarf around his neck, I wondered if I would be brave enough to carry out my plan.

I went back inside the house and found my mother, and I began to lie. “Mom,” I said, “I’m supposed to bring something to school tomorrow that I made at home, something like a craft project, for a special show-and-tell.”

My mother glared at me. I believed she could see the lie on my face. (She had my siblings and me convinced she could always tell if we were lying.) Her brown eyes hardened. She pushed her lips together. She held her next breath, as if to build up steam. When she spoke, I was certain she’d ground me for the rest of my childhood.

“Why did you wait so long to tell me this?” she snapped. Her angry eyes held mine, but I couldn’t look away. When my siblings and I misbehaved, my mother’s stare could wilt us like spent flowers after a late spring frost. But if turned away, she might think I was lying. Committed to my plan, I pressed on. “I forgot,” I said.

And my mother pressed on. “Just what do you think you’re going to make? It’s almost time for bed.” She ranted about responsibility and my lack of it, but she never asked if I was telling the truth. I couldn’t believe she fell for it. Didn’t guilt fill my face? Wasn’t my voice shaking with fear? Wasn’t she going to realize I was lying, and yell, “Liar!” But none of that happened.

I kept with the lie. At that point, admitting I’d been lying would’ve been just as bad as if she somehow found out in the next few days that I’d lied, and so far, the lie was working. “What about the doll kit I got for Christmas?” I asked.

I was certain my mother would finally put two and two together, narrow her eyes, and ask, Did you come up with this story, so I’d make the doll? Instead, she growled, “Go get it.”

Creating the doll from all the pieces turned out to be complicated, and it was my mother who put it together. I placed a finger here or there to help hold something in place as she assembled the doll, but mostly I watched. I was in third grade at the time, but I was old enough to know that if the assignment had been real, it was my mother’s craft project, not mine.

As my mother put the doll together, her anger waned. The finished red-headed doll was adorable, but fragile, a doll meant to live on a shelf. In some ways that describes my relationship with my mother when I was a child.

Before sending me to bed, she reprimanded me one more time for procrastinating, then added, “Don’t forget to take the doll to school.” I nodded and left the kitchen as quickly as I could. The entire time she’d worked on the doll, I was sure she’d figure out that I’d lied. I went to bed expecting to hear her stomp upstairs and call me a liar. I woke up in the morning expecting her to call me a liar when I came down for breakfast. None of that happened.

I put the doll in a brown paper bag and carried her to school. She sat in the bag on a shelf in the cloak area. I didn’t show her to anyone. At the end of the day, I carried the bag home and placed it in my closet. I didn’t want my mother to see the doll and start asking questions about the show-and-tell that never happened. Already in too deep, I would’ve lied about that too. I kept the red-headed doll out of sight, not because I was filled with guilt about lying to my mother, but because the longer the lie went on, the bigger I felt my punishment would be when I was eventually found out. For the first few days, I half expected my mother would call my teacher or run into her somewhere and ask how she’d liked my project. Days passed, then weeks, then months, then years. I was never punished for lying about the doll, but the dread I lived with for months was its own type of punishment.

I’d like to say I never lied to my mother again, but anyone who’s ever been a kid or teenager knows that would be a lie. However, I never told a blatant, red-headed-doll-type of lie again. Rather there were things I just didn’t tell my mother, unless she confronted me.

I don’t know what happened to the red-headed doll. You’d think after her dubious beginning, I’d know how her story ended, but I have no idea. I hid her away in a bag in my closet to forget about her.

As a child I couldn’t believe my mother bought such a hasty, clumsy lie. But as an adult I know how children will suddenly remember they are supposed to bring something to school the next day, something they’ve known about for a week or more. When I look back on it, my mother probably thought I stammered and fidgeted because I’d forgotten about my school assignment and had to tell her at the eleventh hour.

I also couldn’t believe my mother agreed to bail me out and make the doll. She was big on letting her children suffer the consequences of their actions, or in my case inaction. When my mother didn’t call me a liar after the tale I told, I’d expected her to say, Well, since you forgot about it, you can go to school without a project and explain it to your teacher. I’m not sure why she didn’t tell me to suffer the consequences, but I have a guess. In the 1960s, my mother worked outside the house, while all my friends’ mothers stayed at home. Good mothers, especially those with working husbands, were supposed to stay home, and cook, and clean, and raise perfect children. Perhaps she felt my failure would be laid at her feet. A stay-at-home mom would’ve had everything under control.

Over the years my siblings and I have confessed some of our youthful misdeeds. We’ve told our mother how we’d hide the clean laundry in one of our closets when we forgot to fold it and put it away. We’ve told her how we — and not our Old English Sheepdog — broke the window in the kitchen storm door. We’ve told her how we used to sneak bottles of Coca-Cola out of the fridge and share them in one of our bedrooms where we kept a bottle opener. And we’ve laughed about these escapades with our mother. But I’ve never confessed about the red-headed doll, and I never told my siblings about it, at least not at the time. One of them might have let it slip.

I’ll never tell my mother about my whopping lie. I don’t think she’d remember the incident. But more importantly, if I told her I lied because two months had passed since Christmas, and I really, really wanted to make the doll, she’d feel bad. She’d see it as another indictment against her days as a young mother when she was often overwhelmed, tired, and angry, and living with my father, who was difficult. If I told her about the doll now, she’d feel guilty about not having made the time for me, about my having to lie in order to get her to keep her promise about helping me make the doll. She’d regret not having been a better mother. We’ve had these kinds of conversations before; there’s no need to have them again. Mom did the best she could, which I’ve come to realize was sometimes pretty good..

My finished corn husk doll in her Sunday best apron made from my quilting scraps.
My doll’s permanent home

The Games Children Play

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On St. Patrick’s Day, I went to the public library to listen to author Naomi Helen Yaeger read from her book Blooming Hollyhocks: Tales of Joy During Hard Times. Yaeger’s book is a warmhearted biography about her mother’s childhood in Avoca, Minnesota, during the Great Depression and World War II. [To read my review of Yaeger’s book, click here.]

One of the selections Yaeger read was about St. Patrick’s Day. The small town of Avoca had a mix of Protestants and Catholics. The Irish Catholic children celebrated the day by wearing green to school. Yaeger’s mother Janette, and her family were Methodist and not Irish, and so Janette didn’t wear green to school on St. Patrick’s Day. Her classmates who wore green teased her, telling her they could pinch her because she wasn’t wearing green. Janette, who didn’t want to be pinched, told them, “You stay away from me.”

Author Naomi Helen Yaeger reads a selection from her book, March 17, 2026

As I listened to Yaeger read this selection, I remembered wearing green to school on St. Patrick’s Day. My great-great-grandfather was Irish. But I couldn’t recall anything about the pinching of classmates who didn’t wear green. Later, I called my sister who is four years younger than me, and I asked her if she remembered the game of pinching classmates who didn’t wear green on St. Patrick’s Day. She did, very clearly. Ironically, she had just jokingly reminded her daughter, who is thirty-something, to wear green on St. Patrick’s Day so she didn’t get pinched. Long past her school days, her daughter laughed and shrugged off the advice.

A few days later, I asked my other sister who is a year younger than me if she remembered the pinching tradition, and she did. So why don’t I remember it? Someone suggested that if I always wore green, I wouldn’t have been pinched, so I might not remember the game. And I know I wouldn’t have pinched anyone who didn’t wear green. I was often teased and called names when I was in elementary school, and it was hurtful. I made a point to avoid certain classmates and to behave kindly to the rest — pinching someone wouldn’t have been okay with me.

This seemingly harmless childhood tradition upset Yaeger’s mother when she was a child. It probably wouldn’t have occurred to me when I was young, but as an adult listening to Yaeger read her mother’s words, “You stay away from me,” I thought about the darker side of games like these. (My oldest grandchild confirmed being pinched for not wearing green is still a thing.) I don’t think children see it as a statement about being Protestant or Catholic, British or Irish. Nor do I think children know anything about the history of the British occupation of Ireland and its brutal consequences. But the St. Patrick’s Day pinching tradition pits one group of children against another group of children based on the color of one’s clothes on a certain date. Perhaps, one could argue it’s a small thing, a fun game played for one day a year. But it also singles out a group of children who, for whatever reason, don’t wear green on March 17.

Of course, to escape the fate of being pinched, a child could simply wear green to school on St. Patrick’s Day. But that’s not harmless either, compelling someone to either fit in or get pinched. Some youngsters probably had fun with this — chasing each other and laughing — like it was a game of tag. But other children probably felt like Janette: “You stay away from me.”

I wonder at all the subtle and not so subtle “seemingly harmless” ways children are taught to marginalize others who are not like them. I like that Yaeger included this story in her mother’s biography. It’s a story that takes us back to the days of our youth, while at the same time making us think about something differently as grownups.

[To read the reviews of both a nonfiction and a fiction book dealing with the Time of Troubles in Ireland, click here.]

Book Review: McGarr and the Legacy of a Woman Scorned by Bartholomew Gill

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McGarr and the Legacy of a Woman Scorned is Bartholomew Gill’s seventh mystery featuring Peter McGarr, a detective chief inspector with the Irish police.

What is this book about?

Peter McGarr and his wife Noreen are on vacation in a part of Ireland filled with sunshine, beautiful sandy beaches, and rich black earth. Peter and Noreen agree there is no other place like it in Ireland. Although, McGarr is a bit bored, as any self-respecting, workaholic detective would be. Then, Fionnuala Walton, who is in her sixties and owns a prestigious horse farm on a large piece of prime real estate, is found murdered, shoved down a flight of stairs.

Of course, McGarr is asked by the local police to help with the case, proving once again to the crime-reading fan that a detective should never go on vacation because a dead body is sure to be discovered. (Sometimes you have to love a trope.) McGarr is more than willing to help. He suspects Fionnuala Walton was murdered by one of her sisters, her niece, or one of the Daughertys who own the farm adjacent to Fionnuala’s. An incident that occurred thirty years ago has made the Waltons and Daughertys both allies and adversaries. Fionnuala’s sisters have their own reasons to be angry and bitter about Fionnuala. And the niece is engaged to one of the Daughertys, perhaps shifting her sense of loyalty away from her aunt Fionnuala.

Because the McGarrs aren’t known in this part of Ireland, Peter enlists the help of Noreen by having her rent a room — using her maiden name — in a B & B run by the Daugherty family, whom he considers prime suspects. Noreen, intelligent, quick-thinking, and gutsy, is game. Their vacation is over. The hunt for the killer is on.

Why I liked this book.

Gill has written another moody, suspenseful police detective story. This mystery, like Gill’s others, weaves past events into the present and serves up a twisting plot and an interesting cast of suspects, while DCI McGarr picks apart alibis and uncovers motives until he confronts the killer.

Thoughts about story and character development in Gill’s mystery series . . .

Gill’s seventh McGarr book was published in 1986. I’ve been following a few aspects of Gill’s stories as they develop over time. First, there is McGarr’s drinking. He’s a man who carries a flask and has a bottle in his desk, who can’t enter a pub without having a drink, who accepts a drink while questioning a suspect, and who cozies up with yet another glass at home. For six books, I’ve been wondering if McGarr can keep this up without it impacting his marriage and career. At the beginning of this book, while McGarr and Noreen are on vacation, he has abstained from drinking. Noreen and Peter’s coworkers had begun to worry about his drinking. But as those conversations took place off the page, somewhere between the six and seventh books, we must imagine how those talks went down, which I like.

Noreen has a big role in this book. (So far, in most of the other books, she has remained in the background.) While spying on suspects for Peter, she finds herself attracted to a handsome, flirtatious man who is one of the suspects. She’s twenty years younger than Peter and has begun to wonder if she rushed into marriage with him. He’s a complacent fifty-year-old man who drinks and smokes too much and takes his young wife for granted.

There are still no female detectives in McGarr’s office. There is only Ruthie, who is smart and dedicated, but relegated to her desk. I’m waiting for a female detective. Perhaps in book eight.

[To read my reviews of the first six Peter McGarr mysteries, click here for books one and two, here for book three, here for book four, here for book five, and here for book six.]

My Resolution to Behave More Like a Child: Dessert First, Then Lunch — It’s What a Kid Would Do!

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February 9th was a teacher in-service day, so I had my four grandkids. I took them to McDonald’s for lunch and $1 ice cream cones.

I also have a fifteen-year-old poodle, Ziva, with multiple myeloma. She is in the early stages of the disease, but she also has some other health issues. Her vision and hearing are iffy, she has some dementia-like issues, and her osteoarthritis makes her mobility a bit sketchy. But she still enjoys a very short walk and loves car rides.

So, when I took my grandkids to McDonalds, I invited Ziva to come along. My husband carried her down the basement stairs, and I lifted her into the van.

The temperature was in the 30s, so I knew Ziva could sit in the car for a bit while we ate at McDonalds. But I didn’t want to leave her in the car while we ate happy meals and ice cream cones.

Once inside McDonald’s, we approached the counter to place our orders. “How can I help you?” the clerk asked.

I had an idea.

I looked at my grandkids, and asked, “Would it be okay if we all got the $1 ice cream cones and ate them here? Afterward we can order our lunch to go and eat it at home? So, Ziva doesn’t have to be in the car by herself for so long?”

The grandkids looked at me like I was crazy for asking. I pressed on as though I had to convince them. “Is it okay? We could call it a ‘backwards lunch.’ Does anyone object to having dessert before lunch?”

“Not at all,” said a voice filled with chuckles. The oldest grandchild, whose face lit up with conspiratorial glee, had spoken. The other three laughed. They’d caught on that Nana was playing the straight man in a comedy routine.

We ordered five ice cream cones and sat at a table overlooking Lake Superior. We had a lovely conversation about this and that while licking our ice cream and crunching our cones.

After dessert we ordered lunch and headed home. The grandkids carried our food into the house while I lifted Ziva out of the van, then carried her up the basement stairs.

Ziva stretched out on her bed in the living room. Car adventures tucker her out. The grandkids gathered at the table, where we ate the first part of our lunch last.

While they jabbered and looked at their Happy Meal toys, I thought about my childhood and desserts.

“You can’t have dessert. It’s too close to supper. You’ll ruin your appetite,” said the adults in my life when I was a child and they didn’t want me to have goodies before a meal.

“If you don’t have room for your supper, you don’t have room for dessert,” said the same adults in my life when they wanted to make sure I cleaned my plate.

For added drama, they might add, “There are starving children in Ethiopia who’d love to have that food.”

So, I’d eat my food. (Unless it was split pea soup or ring bologna, then I’d stare at it, shifting it a round with a spoon or fork, trying to make it disappear.) And I’d wonder why the children in Ethiopia were starving. (In the early 1970s, I couldn’t google it.) But I didn’t ask because to question adults when they dished out words of wisdom (a.k.a. a lecture) was considered disrespectful, and usually met with, “Don’t talk back!” or “Go to your room!” I had a friend who suggested to her mother that the food she didn’t like be packed up and sent to the starving children in Africa. It didn’t go well. My friend was sent to her room for the rest of the day.

Not spoiling one’s supper by eating dessert first, cleaning one’s plate, being forced to eat things one didn’t like, and holding one’s tongue while a parent prattled on were all standard customs when I was a child.

Dessert was a special treat in my childhood home. Mom occasionally bought cookies, ice cream, or potato chips and French onion dip, technically not dessert, but oh so yummy. My dad was a mechanic and my mother was a waitress, so with four children, money was tight. Desserts and salty snacks were considered luxuries, and my mother wisely spent most of her grocery budget on food for our meals. My nana Kitty’s house was a dessert desert, unless you count the raisins or saltine crackers she tried to pass off as goodies. On the other hand, my grandma Olive’s house was dessert oasis filled with freshly baked cakes, cookies, or pies, and she always had ice cream in the freezer. But Grandma Olive lived 350 miles away, and we only saw her for two or three weeks a year.

Our neighbors had dessert after every evening meal. I don’t think Shirley ever baked anything, unless it was a ready-to-pop-in-oven item, but her husband Bill expected a sweet after supper. So, Shirley bought cookies, Danish, ice cream, and pies. My mother bristled at this, saying that having dessert every day was unhealthy.

My sisters and I never cared that Shirley and Bill’s children had dessert every night while we didn’t. We envied them because they had a built-in dishwasher! While my sisters and I cleared the kitchen table and washed and dried all the dishes and pots and pans after a meal for six people, the neighbor kids unloaded and loaded a dishwasher after a meal for five people. Bill went to work in a suit and tie, and Shirley was a stay-at-home mom. Bill made more money than my mother and dad did together. And even as a child, I knew this was why they could afford daily desserts, a dishwasher, and Scrubbing Bubbles, while my sisters and I dreamed of Oreos, washed dishes by hand, and scoured our kitchen sink with Comet.

Occasionally, we’d plead with our parents: “Please, can we get a dishwasher?” To which, my father always answered, “We don’t need a dishwasher, we already have three of them.” Of course, he was referring to my two sisters and me. We didn’t think he was funny. But as an adult when I think about his retort, it always makes me smile. And if I’m in the right mood when I think about it, I laugh out loud.

My parents never owned a dishwasher until I moved out of the house. When I became a parent, I followed my mother’s example about desserts, instead of Bill and Shirley’s. And as soon as I could, I bought a dishwasher.

But I never made my children eat things they didn’t like. I remembered the horrors of being made to chew and swallow ring bologna and split pea soup, both of which I detested. I remember my sister and I helping our youngest sister hide, then dispose of red kidney beans on the nights my mom served chili. Our little sister would be forced to sit at the table long after everyone else was done with their food. Her brown eyes filled with tears as she stared at the kidney beans, but she refused to eat them. Our hearts broke for her. Even our dog, Fritz, often sat nearby in a show of support. We always managed to find a way to get rid of those beans. Sometimes Fritz ate them. Sometimes the beans were surreptitiously wrapped in a napkin and tucked into a nook under the table then later thrown in the garbage.

My parents weren’t trying to be cruel. It’s how they and most of their generation were raised. If there was food on your plate, you ate it. It didn’t belong in the garbage. Their parents all grew up during the depression. Nothing was wasted. My grandma Olive saved every scrap of leftovers, even if the scraps only amounted to several bites. She stored them in small plastic containers that once held margarine, which she’d washed and dried, along with plastic baggies. Everything was reused. About once a week, my grandmother would serve a meal by using up all the leftover food in the fridge. Grandma Olive and Grandpa George weren’t poor. They could’ve afforded to toss leftovers and buy more baggies. They were against throwing out anything that was still useful. Nana Kitty, who did live on a tight budget, shared Olive and George’s viewpoint. “Waste not, want not,” Nana would often say.

My grandkids and I ate our ice cream cones and all of our food. Still, I wisely kept my thoughts about dessert and food and wastefulness to myself. My grandkids probably would’ve considered any words of wisdom I might have on these subjects to be a lecture.

Book Reviews: It’s Cold Outside — Are You Looking for Something to Read? Six Books to Consider!

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Below is a list of wonderful books to warm you up on a cold day or night. Curled up under a quilt, I read them while sipping hot tea, hot chocolate, or the occasional cold beer. I loved each of these books. (Listed alphabetically by author’s last name.)

Incident at Twin Lakes Resort by Colleen Alles is a fast-paced, thought-tickling, engaging novella.

It’s Labor Day weekend in Michigan. Cassie, a naive twenty-one-year-old senior in college meets up with her new boyfriend, Ethan, at a rustic lodge on the shores of a sparkling, picturesque lake. They’ve only been dating for a New York minute, but he invites her to be his plus-one for the holiday weekend at a retreat sponsored by the law firm where he works. The firm’s getaways are designed to give employees a chance to bond. Cassie, who is excited to be invited to the retreat, quickly discovers most of Ethan’s coworkers and spouses are jaded by their past experiences at the outings. Her hopes for a romantic weekend with Ethan are dashed by the drunkenness, back-biting, and cynicism of his coworkers, and Ethan’s hot-and-cold behavior. Looking for kindness and connection, Cassie befriends a new mother with an infant and one of Ethan’s male coworkers, who has come to the retreat alone.

I loved this book because while it might read like a placid little story about a disappointing romantic weekend, it has thematic chops. We are asked to think about the choices we make, about what it means to be happy, and about how success is measured. Alles’s choice of Cassie, a naive young woman, to narrate the story is perfect. She is the fish-out-of-water character in this story. She is youthful innocence peering into the world of jaded adulthood.

Incident at Twin Lakes Resort won the Etchings Press novella prize in 2025, and was published by that press at the University of Indianapolis.

33 Place Brugmann, a novel by Alice Austen, takes readers back to 1939. Nazis and fascists, after stripping people of their freedoms and humanity, plunge the world into WWII. As they conquer Europe and send people to death camps, readers can’t help but think of current times and ask themselves, “Can this happen again?”

The story begins in Brussels just before the Nazis invade and occupy Belgium in May 1940. It follows the lives of fourteen residents who live in the apartment building at 33 Place Brugmann. The Raphaëls, a Jewish family of four disappear during the night, along with Mr. Raphaël’s art collection. Masha Balyayeva, a Jewish refugee from Russia, soon leaves for France, where posing as a Christian, she joins the French Resistance. The Everards, DeBaerres, Colonel Warlemont, Miss Hobert, and Sauvins remain at 33 Place Brugmann. War, hunger, and fear reveal the best and worst in the residents. As WWII drags on, Jewish people are arrested and transported, food shortages worsen, and bombs fall. The remaining non-Jewish residents of 33 Place Brugmann still have plenty to fear. Perhaps a neighbor or co-worker will turn them into the Nazis because of something they’ve said or done. Who can they trust? Who might betray them?

I loved this book because of its tightly-woven plot, its beautiful writing, and its richly-drawn characters. My favorite character is Charlotte Sauvin, who is seventeen years old when the story begins. I also loved this book because it accomplishes what excellent historical fiction should always do — make readers reflect on current times and timeless themes while learning about the past.

Recognition for 33 Place Brugmann — A New York Times Editor’s Choice, Shortlisted for the National Jewish Book Award

The Book of Ruth, a novel by Jane Hamilton

“Weddings don’t have one thing to do with real life” (p. 143). This one quote says it all and could easily be the tagline for Hamilton’s deeply moving story.

This novel is a literary delight. It’s a bit of William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying and a bit of John Williams’s Stoner and a whole lot of its own hauntingly told tale. Ruth narrates the story, and through her Hamilton creates an astonishing voice. Readers follow Ruth through her relationship with her mother, May, then with her husband, Ruben, whom everyone calls Ruby. After Ruth marries Ruby, they live with Ruth’s mother, a situation that slowly spirals out of control. May detests Ruby, and after he and Ruth have a baby boy, May belittles Ruby, sabotaging his relationship with his wife and son. May’s, Ruth’s, and Ruby’s relationships are beset by verbal abuse, violent outbursts, drinking, and addiction to pills, personifying the weariness of poverty, grief, and broken dreams.

I loved this book. It’s a sad tale, like a Biblical tragedy. But Hamilton’s beautiful writing, universal themes, and captivating story carry readers through to the end.

In 1988, Hamilton’s novel won the Hemingway Foundation/PEN Award for best first novel. In 1995, it was an Oprah’s Book Club selection.

We’ll Prescribe You a Cat by Syou Ishida is a warm-hearted novel with a touch of magical realism.

In a group of loosely connected stories, a series of frustrated, anxiety-ridden characters driven by desperation seek help from a mysterious clinic. Some of the characters are deeply distressed about their jobs, others have strained relationships with their families. Some of the characters have trouble at work and home. The clinic is nearly impossible to find, but when they do locate it, they expect to meet a traditional doctor who will provide therapy and dispense medicine to alleviate their symptoms. Instead, they are shocked when the doctor prescribes a cat for a specific length of time, along with instructions for how to care and use their particular cat. To begin with, each of the characters are reluctant to take their cat home, then fail to use their “medicine” as prescribed, causing “side effects” and follow-up visits to the mysterious clinic.

I loved this book because it’s sweet without being saccharine. It avoids predictability, providing twists that I didn’t see coming, and not everything is tied up with a neat little bow. It has touches of humor unique to having been prescribed a cat for what ails one. It was fun to meet the different cats, who all have their own personalities.

We’ll Prescribe You a Cat was a bestseller in Japan, and it has been translated into over two dozen languages.

Rescuing Claire, a novel by Thomas Johnson, transports readers back to college life in the early 1970s, to the days of free love, drugs, the Vietnam War, campus protests, civil rights movements, women’s rights. Johnson nails the chaotic vibe that rippled through college campuses. I was twelve or thirteen years old at the time this novel takes place, old enough to have impressions and memories of the turbulent years of the counter-culture and social revolution, but too young to have participated.

Henry Fitzgerald lives and works in Northern Wisconsin, where he co-owns a lodge with an older couple. His days at the University of Wisconsin-Madison are behind him. But on a crisp autumn day, he receives two letters, one from his wife Elizabeth “Airy” Fitzgerald and one from his former college girlfriend Claire Cohen. Henry gives little thought to his wife’s words, but he takes issue with Claire’s letter. It’s been six years since he’s seen Claire. Her letter is friendly and upbeat as she reminisces about their past, but Henry disagrees with her version of their romance. So he takes a step back in time and tells us his story.

Henry is engaged to Airy, an archaeologist, who is often away on a dig somewhere in the world. He falls for Claire, a coed, who has an arrogant boyfriend named Nicky Waller. Henry’s brother, Milton, an attorney in Madison who champions the legal rights of economically and politically disenfranchised people, warns him to steer clear of Claire. Eventually, Claire goes to work for Leonard Lent, a slimebag. Henry decides he must rescue Claire from Leonard’s clutches, so he forms a dangerous liaison with Norman O’Keefe who wants to kill Leonard. Artfully developed, the supporting cast of characters come to life in the book.

Henry isn’t the most reliable narrator, and perhaps he doesn’t outright lie, but he has a skewed view of the facts. He doesn’t always come off well in the telling of his story because he is forthcoming about his faults and honest about some of the stupid stuff he does. He is likable, infuriating, astute, witty, and annoying in turns. But he is never dull.

One of the best things about this book is the first-person narration — I never tired of listening to Henry tell his story.

I See You’ve Called in Dead, a novel by John Kenney, is a funny, bittersweet coming of middle-age story that explores themes of male friendships, life’s disappointments, starting over, and mortality.

Buddy Stanley has reached his early 40s, and life isn’t going his way. He writes obituaries for a newspaper, a job he once liked but now sees as a sign of failure. It’s the kind of newspaper job up-and-coming journalists might cut their teeth on, but not one they want in perpetuity. Buddy’s marriage ended in divorce two years ago. His ex-wife has moved on with a tall, sophisticated British man, but Buddy has parked his life in a stall of melancholy and regret. Hoping to help him out, one of his friends sets him up on a blind date. When his date finally arrives, it’s to let him know she and her former boyfriend are getting back together. Depressed about his life, Buddy goes home. After a few too many whiskeys, he decides it would be fun to log into his work account and write his own obituary. After having his bit of hilarity, he reaches to delete his fabricated obituary, but in his tipsy state, things go awry, and he accidentally, irretrievably publishes his obituary online. His best friend Tim is concerned about him. His co-worker Tuan is angry and worried at the same time. Howard, his long-time boss and friend, is disappointed. He knows he’ll have to fire Buddy, even though he doesn’t want to. Howard’s bosses and the head of HR are incensed by Buddy’s flagrant disregard for company rules.

I loved this book because as I followed Buddy through his existential death and eventual “rebirth,” I laughed, and cried, and cheered. I also loved the New York-ness of this novel, a place where quirky people do off-beat things and converse in the language of sarcasm.

I See You Called in Dead was an NPR 2025 “Books We Love” selection, a USA Today April Pick, and a 2026 Gotham Book Prize Finalist (winner to be announced March 31, 2026). John Kenney won a Thurber Prize for his novel Truth in Advertising.

Something for Valentine’s Day: Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare

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I sometimes hear poets and non-poets disparage sonnets, calling them outdated and contrived, too formulaic. They speak of the form and the rhyme schemes as restrictive. But I like good sonnets, and I’m particularly fond of Shakespeare’s sonnets. To do a sonnet well, is to master meter, rhyme, and language. By my way of thinking Shakespeare’s greatest sonnets are a form of freedom inside of a container.

As Dame Judi Dench reads this sonnet, she will steal your breath away and strum the strings of your heart.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all the world’s friends and lovers!

[To hear Dench read this sonnet on YouTube, click here. Start the clip at 1:10.]

Sonnet 29

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,

Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

(Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

       For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings

       That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Something Published: Sometimes You Need to Trust a Stranger

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My mini essay “Sometimes You Need to Trust a Stranger” appears in the February issue of Northern Wilds Magazine as part of their “Winter Mishaps” theme pages.

To read my short essay, click here! Scroll down until you get to the fourth story. Enjoy the rest of the “Winter Mishaps” stories by Erin Altemus, Joe Shead, Naomi Yaeger, and Chris Pascone.

My Grandpa George’s gas station and garage, circa 1930. Grandpa George helped a lot of people over the years.

Update on My Resolution to Behave Like a Child More Often

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Some of you may remember that after I went sledding with my two youngest grandkids a few weeks ago, I made a New Year’s resolution to behave like a child more often. I’m still working on it, unlike resolutions of the past, which I’d have tossed into the trash bin by now.

On January 20, I went roller skating with all four of my grandkids. I was sixteen years old the first time I went — still a child then — so this counts as behaving like a child now. The last time I went I was in college, and probably about twenty-three.

I fell a lot the first time I went roller skating. I’m sure the seat of my blue jeans kept a good part of the roller rink floor buffed and shiny. But despite all the falling, I loved it, so I went skating once or twice a week. My skills improved, and I rarely fell.

Before my skate date with my grandkids, I made the mistake of telling someone, “Yes, I’m going to skate too,” while my husband was in earshot. Afterward, he asked, “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“I used to roller skate a lot in high school and college,” I said. (A lot is a relative phrase.)

“That was decades ago,” he said. (Ouch!)

“It’ll all come back, like riding a bicycle,” I assured him. (It didn’t all come back, unless I compare it to the first time I went roller skating.)

“You’re going to fall and get hurt, maybe break something,” he said.

“I’m not going to fall. I passed that stage years ago,” I said. (I fell seven times. Five of the falls were gentle with soft landings; the other two smarted and then some, one left a respectable bruise on my forearm. Good man that he is, my husband never asked how many times I fell.)

Walking into the roller rink was kind of like a trip back in time. It’s the same rink where I skated with my college friends, but the inside has been refurbished and updated. The walls and ceiling surrounding the rink feature bold graphic art scenes painted in vibrant colors that glow under black lights. The old bumpy greenish-blue floor was recently replaced with a beautiful, smooth wooden surface. There are new booths, benches, and carpeting, but the layout is still the same. I have no idea if the roller rink I frequented in Milwaukee County when I was in high school still exists, and I don’t remember its name.

“Are you going to skate with us?” This question was repeatedly asked by my two youngest grandkids, even as I paid for five skaters, picked up my skates at the counter, then laced them up while seated on the bench with my grandkids. I don’t know if they worried about me being too old, or if they kept thinking I’d change my mind. I like to think they were amazed Nana could skate. Well, sort of — after watching me fall.

The moment I stepped on the rink, I realized my return to roller skating wasn’t going to be smooth. At first, I spent all of my time concentrating on maintaining my balance, waiting for the memory in my leg muscles to wake up and recall how to skate. When I didn’t stay upright, getting off the floor was a challenge. Trying to stand on a slick floor while wearing wheels on your feet is the stuff slapstick comedy is made of. Once I fell too far away from the wall and struggled to stand, so I began crawling toward the wall. My oldest grandchild skated up and gave me a hand.

I’d forgotten how heavy roller skates are. Lifting my leg up to do a crossover or to push off, felt like pumping iron. Resistance training. Good for the bones. My doctor wants me to do more resistance exercises because while my bone density test wasn’t bad, it wasn’t great. She’d be proud of me, I thought — skating around the rink with the equivalent of ankle weights laced to my feet. Then again, she might have something to say about me breaking a bone. She’d probably be Team Husband.

After twenty minutes, I felt more confident, and as I slowly, cautiously, precariously skated around the rink, my mind wandered back to my high school skating days and a boy named Mark, who I had a crush on through most of my junior year.

School crushes are funny things. Some of my infatuations were all consuming. I daydreamed about those boys from the moment I slid out of bed in the morning, until sleep swept away my romantic fancies at night. Like Randy in seventh grade, whom I never worked up the nerve to speak to, but whose name filled the pages of my diary, and whose image occupied my nearly every waking moment. Sometimes I had crushes on boys at the same time: one at school, one in my neighborhood, and one at work. Some crushes expired faster than an egg salad sandwich left out in the summer sun. My crush on Mark started in our American literature class during our junior year and carried over to the roller rink, but I didn’t particularly pine after him when he was out of sight. He was funny and talkative. We were school and skating friends.

I was out of Mark’s league. He was handsome, tall, and muscular. He had thick blond hair nearly touching his shoulders and cut like a rock star’s. I don’t remember the color of his eyes, but they were often filled with mirth. His sense of humor ranged from puns to bawdy, from slapstick to stand-up. He smiled constantly and laughed easily. In a category for “Student Most Likely to Become a Comedian,” Mark would’ve won.

I’m not sure how I started roller skating, but I never had a date at the roller rink. Instead, lots of kids from my high school and surrounding schools would show up on the evenings designated for teenagers. It was one big group date. Mark never came with a date either, but on almost every teenage skate night, he was there. Sometimes during the day at school, he would ask me if I was going to the rink that night.

We often skated side by side, making small talk. Rock ‘n’ roll from the 1960s and 70s pulsated through the air. The mirrored disco ball tossed flashes of color across the rink. Sometimes there was a couples’ skate, and he would take my hand. For the length of a slow song, I’d imagine we were boyfriend and girlfriend. Other times, he’d ask another girl he happened to be skating next to when the DJ called for a couples’ skate. Mark was kind to everyone. Of course, I was disappointed when he didn’t ask me every time because it meant he didn’t have a crush on me.

During the summer, after my junior year, I went to Europe for a month, and my family moved. When I returned home, I settled into a new home, a new school, and a new town. I developed two crushes, one on a boy across the street and one on a boy at school. I never saw Mark again.

In the late 1990s, I learned Mark had died of cancer in 1995 at the age of thirty-six. One of my high school classmates, who’d become a dental hygienist, told my sister, whose teeth she was cleaning, to let me know. She knew that Mark and I’d been buddies. Did she know that I’d had a crush on him? Did she think he had one on me? I’d rarely thought about Mark after I moved, but I was sad when I heard he’d died. He’d been so full of life. He’d married and had children.

Over the years, I’d occasionally think about Mark. Something would spark a memory that reminded me of my junior American lit class or the roller rink. For example, I can’t hear or read about A Raisin in the Sun without thinking about Mark and a play he wrote for a class assignment, which featured me and some of our classmates. Of course, Mark being Mark, the play was humorous, but in a kind way, a gentle satire that kept us all in stitches.

A few months ago, I was looking through my junior yearbook — nothing to do with Mark — and I came across a long entry penned by him. I was stunned by what I read both on the page and between the lines. His words were an unabashed admission of affection and love, but at the end of his heartfelt reveal, he’d sandwiched the word lies in parentheses as if shrugging off the whole letter as a joke, giving himself enough plausible deniability to save face if I didn’t return his feelings. Why had I missed his declaration of romantic affection? Probably because I was convinced that he’d never be interested in dating me. Turns out he felt I’d never be interested in dating him. Why had I thought he was joking? Probably because he never flirted with me, and he was always joking. What about his writing “I love you” and “I’ll miss you if you move”? Lots of my yearbook entries were filled with words of love and miss-you-over-the-summer sentiments, from both my male and female friends. I have several yearbooks filled with gushy prose to prove how sappy my classmates got when signing yearbooks. Some things are easier to write than say.

I kept skating, mostly upright now. “Y.M.C.A.” played, fast-paced and upbeat, the kind of music that would’ve sent me zipping around the rink when I was a teenager, but not anymore. I skated as if I were keeping time with Perry Como’s rendition of “Moon River.” When we left the rink, I told my grandkids, who had a blast, that we would come back in February and March on their school breaks. I plan to skate again, so I hope my legs won’t develop amnesia. I don’t know what my husband will say, but I know what my father would’ve said, “Old enough to know better, but young enough to do it anyway.” Hopefully, I’ll stay off the floor.

I will think about Mark again, and his life cut short by illness. I will smile at the thought that he had an unrequited crush on me too, but Mark and I were never destined to be together. We weren’t each other’s one that got away. If we had dated during our junior year, we most likely would’ve spoiled a fun friendship. School crushes are funny things. They’re often ignited by a physical trait: a dimpled cheek, sky-blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across a nose, luxurious wavy hair, a lopsided melt-your-heart grin. They consume our lives for a moment, but like a match, once struck, they often burn out quickly.

I remember Mark fondly because we were friends who laughed, and talked, and roller skated together. He’d be pleased to know that I still think about him now and then. How I sometimes tell the story about a boy from my American lit class who climbed out of a classroom window on a warm spring day, joyfully followed by me and most of the class. (No, we didn’t get into trouble. Teachers were also charmed by Mark.)

It’s what we want when we’re gone, that people will remember us and tell our stories.

Thirteen Months to Publication

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Working copy of my book. I made the quilt too.

In the fall of 2024, I sent Silent Negotiations, my collection of short stories, to Cornerstone Press at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. In December of the same year, the editors at Cornerstone notified me they wanted to publish my book, and the publication date would be February 2027. It was the best Christmas present! And for a few weeks, I walked around in a euphoric bubble. But the publication date was over two years away, so I settled into a calmer mode of waiting. At times I’d forget about my upcoming book for a couple of days. With a publication date in a faraway galaxy, there wasn’t much for me to do. Then suddenly, because objects are closer than they appear, I’d fret about the book and think, “Will anyone want to read my stories? Is there something I should be doing right now? Where will I have my book launch, and will anyone come?” Then sometimes I’d get excited all over again, thrilled that my stories, which took me five years to write, will have a home together in a book.

On January 23, after I’d spent several days reading my stories one more time, I emailed my manuscript to Cornerstone Press. Don’t worry. I didn’t fiddle with them. I’ve heard other writers warn against overworking one’s stories. Besides, I’m happy with them. Instead, I looked for typos and questioned commas. I read out loud, listening for the awkward sentence, a word choice that wasn’t working, an ambiguous pronoun. I double checked stories to make sure they were coherent with correct timelines. I changed very little, but I’m glad I read them one more time.

At this point in time, I’ve made the stories the best I can make them. I think I’ve found all the errors that can escape an author’s eye, even after many readings. Because I know what my stories are about and what my sentences are supposed to say, I often read past mistakes — reading what I believe is on the page and not what is actually there. Of course, to help with this, I’ve had numerous people read my stories. It’s always a good idea to have someone read your story, essay, poem, article, or book before sending it out into the world.

I want to thank all the people who read my works in progress. Your input made my writing better. Each of you brought a unique perspective to my stories, and often found problems other readers didn’t. Now, I’m looking forward to working with the wonderful editors at Cornerstone. And I’m excited to see what the graphic design team puts together for the book’s cover!

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Below, in alphabetical order by authors’ last names, is a list of short story collections published by Cornerstone that I’ve read and enjoyed! To check out these books and other short story, poetry, and memoir books published by Cornerstone, click here.

  1. Colleen Alles, Close to a Flame
  2. Jeff Esterholm, The Effects of Urban Renewal on Mid-Century America and Other Crimes
  3. Steve Fox, Sometimes Creek
  4. Nikki Kallio, Finding the Bones
  5. Kim Suhr, Nothing to Lose
  6. Kim Suhr, Close Call
  7. Marie Zhuikov, The Path of Totality
Author photo for my book: Ziva and Me! I sent my final manuscript to Cornerstone on Ziva’s fifteenth birthday. Photo credit: Max Youngquist

My Shetland Yarn Becoming a Scarf

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My Shetland yarn, 80% acrylic and 20% wool, is soft, warm, and gorgeous. I’m using the knit stitch for every row, which gives a simple knit, purl design that allows the beauty of the yarn’s color gradations to steal the show.

Last September when I traveled to Shetland, I bought some yarn at Loose Ends and Anderson & Co., both shops in Lerwick.

Shetland is known for its yarn shops, knitted goods, and expert knitters. I was in Shetland September 15 – 20. If I’d gone eight days later, I could’ve taken part in Shetland Wool Week, an annual event, which runs in late September/early October. But having never been to Shetland before, I went to experience its natural beauty, so I spent lots of time outdoors. According to the guide books, the month of September is a quieter part of Shetland’s tourist season. The weather is more unpredictable, and the puffins, a popular attraction, have flown to warmer climates for the winter. But fewer tourists mean less congestion, and that appeals to me.

In late September/early October, Shetland’s weather begins to turn, and it becomes a place of cold temperatures, gale-force winds, sideways rains, and thick gray skies, so sight-seeing tourists shy away. It’s a great time of year to have a knitting conference filled with indoor gatherings. Of course, stormy weather can show up anytime in Shetland, but it becomes more prevalent as September runs into October and winter settles in. Shetland winters are perfect for knitting, as demonstrated by the large quantities of knitted goods to be found in shops, museums, and heritage centers throughout Shetland. After all, I bought four skeins of yarn with the idea that I would knit scarves during northern Wisconsin’s upcoming winter. I also bought three wool sweaters in Scotland because I’m never going to knit a sweater.

Home textiles display in Scalloway Museum, Shetland. As a cottage industry, woolen goods have been and still are an important source of extra income for many Shetlanders.

I knit beautiful scarves, as long as the pattern is simple and repetitive, and there are no cables involved. Or lacy-like patterns. Or miniature figures or graphic designs prancing across the scarf. Also, no increasing and decreasing stitches. But otherwise, I make nice scarves because I select pretty yarn.

I don’t knit sweaters, slippers, or hats. Only scarves. Although, in the past I have knitted a few dishcloths. But that’s like knitting a miniature square scarf.

Long ago, I tried to knit something more complicated. When I was a senior in high school, I signed up for a community ed class so I could learn how to knit something other than scarves. I selected a pattern for a simple pair of slippers. Because the class was in the fall, I decided I would give the slippers as a Christmas gift to some lucky family member. I went to class and learned how to read a knitting pattern, how to increase and decrease, and how to gauge stitches — in theory. By the end of the class, I had two forest-green slippers — in two different sizes. Since none of my family members have mismatched feet, I couldn’t give the slippers to anyone. Eventually, I threw them away.

Unst Heritage Center, Shetland. Some woolen goods, like these scarves, are still made on a handloom and can be found for sale in shops throughout Shetland. I bought a rose-colored lambswool tartan scarf in Edinburgh. Mine was made on a factory loom by Lochcarron in Scotland.

I never again tried to knit anything that required I gauge my stitches so the left side of something would match the right side of something. I gave up after one try. I’m like that with some things: I’ll quickly throw in the “mismatched slippers” and call it a day.

I took one year of high school math. I studied hard, but I struggled and I hated it. Thankfully, at that time the state and my high school only required one year of math. As sophomore I took German instead of geometry. I did the same with downhill skiing. I tried it once. I fell every time I went down the slope, and I nearly broke my arm while using the tow rope. I never went downhill skiing again. My attempts at cake decorating, shorthand, sewing clothes, woodworking, and agility training with my dog Ziva met the same fate.

But I can be tenacious. My younger sister learned how to ride a bicycle before I did. I couldn’t get the feel for balancing my body on the bike. But I wanted freedom from training wheels, so I spent hours practicing in our driveway. The first time I went roller skating, I fell again and again. But during the moments I managed to remain upright, I loved it. So, I kept going. The same for cross-country skiing. I kept falling and getting up, wondering if I’d ever maintain my balance on the skinny skis, but I loved it. So, I kept getting up. For years bicycling, roller skating, and cross-country skiing were some of my favorite pastimes.

There are almost 300,000 sheep in Shetland, and about 23,000 people! We saw sheep everywhere. This guide to sheep markings is displayed in the Unst Heritage Center.

I took three years of Spanish in high school. Although I sometimes struggled with pronunciation and didn’t grasp the verb tenses, I took Spanish in college because I loved learning a language. I still remember the day, when the Spanish verb-tense thing clicked for me. Professor Stevenson stood in front of an antiquated blackboard in Old Main delivering a lesson about verb tenses. He wore a pair of dress trousers, a white shirt, and a bow tie. I sat in a modern desk, taking notes. I wore a pair of faded, patched blue jeans and a pale-yellow T-shirt with the rainbow-colored word Adidas printed on the front. I’m sure my face lit up like a light bulb. At the same time, I realized that was how verb tenses worked in English. I was giddy with Spanish and English grammar knowledge for the rest of the day. I enrolled in Spanish II the following year.

Unst Heritage Center. While some of the woolen goods in the museum are for display only, the Unst Heritage Center does sell pieces that are handmade by local crafters. The woman working in the museum on the day we visited was busy knitting.

So, what makes the difference between something I’m willing to keep working at and something I give up on? It depends on the amount of joy I experience in between my feelings of frustration and inadequacy. If there is something I love about the new activity I’m learning, I keep going, even if I look foolish while others are quickly grasping the skills. I don’t care about becoming an expert. I just enjoy my level of competence. I never learned to roller skate backwards or do spins. I never became a fast cross-country skier. I’m not fluent in Spanish. I’ve never again attempted to knit anything other than a scarf, but I love knitting them. I’ve made them for my grandmothers, mother and mother-in-law, sisters, nephews, nieces, grandkids, and friends. I love the meditative, mindless, repetitive movements of combining purl and knit stitches as I watch the colors and patterns meld together.

My scarf: I’ve never seen yarn with a gradation like this. It’s stunning. I love how the colors change — not all at once, but rather slowly and as if they can’t quite make up their minds.

I’ve never regretted giving up on high school math classes or advanced knitting or downhill skiing or any of the other endeavors I tried briefly then ditched. But we’re taught to try and try again. If at first you don’t succeed, try again. The only failure is giving up. Give 110%. If you’re not failing, you’re not trying. Fall down eight times, get up nine.

But sometimes failure teaches us when it’s time to cut bait and walk away. To stop banging our head against the wall. To stop throwing good money after bad. To stop turning the other check, only to have that one slapped too.

Failure is normal, and sometimes we have to keep at it, and in the end, we’re glad we persevered. But failure can be a way of telling us that maybe we aren’t suited to something. That sometimes it’s okay to give up, and knit scarves.

[The pieces below are knitted with a very fine wool. They take a crazy amount of hours to complete. The delicate scarves, shawls, and baby garments are used for life’s special occasions, such as weddings and baptisms. Whether made by a family member or purchased in a shop, these pieces are treasured and passed down through generations. I saw some exquisite lacy shawls and baptism gowns for sale in local shops in Shetland. They cost two to three times more than wool Shetland sweaters, reflecting the time and skill needed to produce them. And I’d bet the artisans are still woefully underpaid.]