Square 96: Catan

One of the hottest board games around is Settlers of Catan and its various expansions. My friends, Brenda and Judy, introduced me to it several years ago and I've been addicted ever since, sharing the joy with my friends and family. The basic idea is that you build settlements and cities around the island of Catan, produce and trade resources from the surrounding terrain, use them to build more roads and settlements to expand your influence and win the game. One interesting peculiarity of the game is that you cannot progress without cooperating (to some extent) with the other players by trading resources. Another interesting element is that when your turns ends you don't stop participating; During other people's turns you can produce and trade resources.

This square represents the colours of the terrain hexes in Catan: forests produce lumber, hills produce brick, mountains produce ore, plains produce wheat, and pastures produce wool.

The expansion Cities and Knights of Catan introduces more complex strategies to the game. In the variant Starfarers of Catan, you blast into outer space, colonize new planets and encounter alien races who offer strategic alliances. Starship Catan is a two-player version. These are the ones Danny and I own, but there are other variations as well. In each game you must beware of pirates who can steal your resources and even break down your cities.

Through a friend of a friend, I hooked into a group that gets together to play Cities and Knights of Catan one Monday evening a month. On long weekends we hold day-long tourneys, bring potluck and invite other friends and partners along, and play all the other variants. Danny and I play practically every weekend. There is a computer version you can play solo—it's my favourite way to kill time. I've introduced the rest of my family to it as well.

Everybody likes it except for Brenna. You see, some of my friends are too competitive.

Two years ago I had just acquired Starfarers of Catan before Christmas. I was driving home from somewhere with my daughters and two friends, and most of us were getting excited about trying the new game.

"I'll pass," said Brenna, sounding blasé.

"Oh come on," said her sister. "It's more fun if we all play."

"No thanks."

We tried to cajole her, to no avail.

Finally I said, "What don't you like about it?"

"I think," said Brenna, "I've been over-exposed to Lesbians of Catan."

Square 79: Gift season

My posts to The Yarn have slowed down for one simple reason: gift-giving season. Besides the obvious, my daughters both have fall birthdays. Much of my free knitting time has been taken up making things for them. I didn't knit gifts last year, but Brenna specifically requested a new hat, and by the time it was complete I had decided to knit something for Marian, too. She turns eighteen in a few more weeks, and her gift will be quite different from anything I have made before.

Mom loved this time of year. One Christmas morning about 10 years ago she told me, with surprise, that she had slept through the night, the first time she could ever remember doing so on Christmas Eve. Mom slept easily and frequently, but not then. She was a generous gift-giver, who took at least as much genuine pleasure in giving as receiving.

I picked it up from her. As a teenager I made a lot of my gifts, especially boxes of jams and preserves for my older brothers and their wives. One year I decorated a row of cans (coffee or Pringles size) as soldiers in colourful, historical uniforms and placed them along the mantle, one for each family member. They contained cookies and other goodies homemade by me and Mom.

I celebrated Christmas in style until well into adulthood, but a few years ago became disenchanted. I can't explain why; it was more an emotional departure than a rational one. We might be better off without the consumerism, materialism and rich food, but we should still celebrate family time with or without those things, and my mother's excitement was essentially all about family.

My definition of family has expanded to include friends close to me, and for most of them this is an important season, whether it be Christmas, Hannukah, Solstice, the Festival of Lights or just good old no-name celebration.

I suppose part of my enthusiasm for Christmas was lost when Mom departed from us. This time of year will never be the same without her. But as I told the loved ones who gathered to remember her, Mom's battle with cancer taught her to appreciate every single day as a gift, so we should try to honour her wisdom by living that way, not getting lost in grief and regret.

That lesson was one of the best gifts Mom ever gave, and it inspires me to refresh my own spirit of giving this year.

Square 63: My cottage dream

I had a brief retreat at Lake Fletcher this weekend with Danny, Brenna and her friend, Anika, and Dad has his friend, Betty. The fall colour was surprisingly subdued for the end of September (this square captures it pretty well), which means it will probably hit its peak when we're back for Thanksgiving in two weeks.

The cottage is about a three-and-a-half hour drive from home. If I go by way of Toronto and Port Hope to pick up loved ones, it takes roughly seven hours. So we arrived around midnight on Friday and had to leave after lunch on Sunday. It is such a long way, and yet it's worthwhile to spend one blessed day and two nights in the deepest sanctuary I know.

My dream is to live and work there. I could spend the week in creative seclusion, returning on weekends to the city for culture and community. That's backwards from how most cottagers live, but the good thing about creativity is you can drive against the traffic if you wish.

If I had the courage to take hold of the writing life and squeeze a living out of it, I could do this.

The vermilion and sage green rows here are newly-acquired Qina yarns from Mirasol Peru. They're 80 per cent baby alpaca and 20 per cent bamboo, so soft to the touch I want to melt into them. The variegated autumn-coloured yarn from Wellington Fibres is one of my old favourites. These colours, delicious to see and touch, remind of the bliss I would like to achieve. The main colour, apple green is unidentified.

Square 54: Dill pickles

The first time I took my daughters to St. Jacobs Market, Brenna was about seven years old. After browsing around the tables of baubles and goodies for a while, it was time to get a snack, so we shouldered our way through the crowded food court. I recommended the apple fritters, and the girls agreed. But beside the place where we bought juice was a booth where you could buy a huge dill pickle on a stick. Brenna eyed those, but didn't say anything.

A while later as we were getting ready to leave, Brenna said, "Next time, I'll get a pickle on a stick."

I realized she thought that since Marian and I wanted apple fritters it would be too much trouble to go to the other booth, so I said, "You can have a pickle, too."

I will never forget the way her face lit up. It was as if I had opened a door to all the treasures of the world. I doubt anything can give me greater joy than to see one of my children take utter delight in a simple thing. We went back to the booth, and she spent the drive back to Guelph happily devouring that giant pickle.

I didn't like dill pickles when I was little. It was something I had to grow into, and after making them as gifts for family members I came to appreciate them.

Now I love them, and since Brenna likes them, too, we can have fun making them together. So I have come full circle from the story about making jams with my mother to making pickles with my daughter. When she visited me a few days ago we spent a super evening packing cucumbers into jars. Brenna says she wants a garden and canning equipment of her own some day, so she can carry on the tradition. I hope she will pass the knowledge of this family custom to her children.

Dill Pickles

• 3 quarts medium-sized pickling cucumbers
• whole garlic cloves, peeled
• fresh dill heads
• mixed pickling spice
• dried whole chili peppers
• 3 cups distilled water
• 3 cups white vinegar
• 6 tablespoons sea salt

Sterilize jars and lids for 3 quarts or 6 pints.

Scrub the cucumbers and pack into sterilized jars. For each pint also add a dill flower head, a clove of garlic, 1½ teaspoons of pickling spice, and a dried chili.

Bring water, vinegar and salt to a boil. Add the brine to the jars to a quarter inch from the top. Seal.

These jars must be processed in a boiling water bath in a canning kettle, about 15 minutes for quart jars and 8 minutes for pint jars. After the jars cool, check the seals. If a jar does not seal properly it must be stored in the fridge and used promptly.

The pickles are best stored for six weeks to let the flavours blend before use.

Square 48: Mom's moon

When Mom died, I mostly felt relief because of the time and way it happened. She had been fighting cancer for about five years. During the last year we knew it would be terminal, but except for the side effects of treatment it did not seem to impair her mental and physical state until January 2008. The doctor had prescribed morphine for pain but it had affected her badly, so she stopped. She really didn’t need it.

Near the end of that month I went for a visit. She could still get up and around without the use of oxygen or a walker, carry on conversations, and enjoy music, movies and food. Breathing had become a little difficult, but she was not in much pain. Since trying morphine she had been having unpleasant delusions that made her anxious. Sometimes she said things that didn’t make sense, and sometimes her speech was garbled. It was difficult to witness in someone who had always been lucid and sensible. Still I was grateful for some good conversations during that final visit. We expected her to live a few more months, but it would not be an easy time for her.

On the evening of February 20, Dad phoned to say Mom had slipped away. He and their friend Cathy were eating dinner while Mom rested quietly on the couch nearby, and when he got up from the table he noticed that her skin had turned grey. It was that peaceful.

Then I had to call other family members, friends of my parents, and especially my daughters. I spoke to Marian and Brenna briefly, promising to call again later.

Then I went and picked up my friend, Sylvie. I was becoming agitated and wanted someone nearby to keep me company.

Back home I talked to Dad again and received more information. Then I called my daughters.

There was no answer. I left a message.

It was hardly a thing to be alarmed about, but under the circumstances I began to panic. Where were they? What had happened to keep them from the phone?

After pacing for a few minutes, I pulled out a box of photographs. Sylvie went through them with me and I told her stories.

Finally the phone rang. It was Marian.

“Go look outside,” she told me.

I had forgotten it was the night of a lunar eclipse. My ex had taken the girls down to the beach in Port Hope to watch it for a while.

I went downstairs and opened the front door. The eclipse was still complete, the blood red full moon just beginning to grow bright along its leading edge.

Marian said, “You know how Nanum was always planning things for everyone to do? I think she chose to leave on the night of a lunar eclipse so we would all have something to do.”

Sure enough, when I spoke to Dad again, he had taken time to look at it. And later I learned that my mother’s two youngest sisters had spent the evening together on the phone, in Ontario and Nova Scotia, watching the moon together.

I let Mom go with the full moon, but it returns. I think of it this way: every month she goes on a journey around the world, and whenever I notice the full moon, I take it as a sign she is dropping in to say hello and see how I am doing.

At first I kept count of Mom's circuits, but didn’t experience much grief. I was glad she had gone and become part of nature again, without much effort, as she had wished.

Lately, some 18 months later, some situations have made me miss her. It was this story about the moon that let me and Joyce cry together the other night. I find myself weeping unexpectedly, which I didn’t do when she died. But as the summer moon sweeps low through the southern sky I am reminded she is at peace. I don’t need to remember to count moon cycles for her sake. It is best for our lives to carry on and let her memory pass over us.

Square 47: Settling in

On a Sunday afternoon we arrive for a blessed visit at Lake Fletcher. With me are my younger daughter Brenna and her boyfriend Tory. I am looking forward to six relaxing days here, not altogether peaceful because my two children and their attendants require ferrying back and forth, but they are old enough that we can carry on meaningful conversations in the car, so the time is not lost.

I deposit myself in a chair on the dock. The weather is warm and humid, the sky softly overcast with incipient rain. The colours of this square describe perfectly the water, sky and dark band of forest across the lake.

I want to claim Fletcher’s calm but as I sit here knitting, a certain family issue presents itself. Instead of quiet, waves of anger begin to wash over me. This is not what I want, but I cannot avoid the matter. It will continue to present itself during the week ahead. I mentally dive into the peaceful, cleansing colours of water, but no matter how deep I go, the annoying script keeps playing in my head.

After dinner, Brenna and Tory canoe to the island and I am alone in the still, darkening cottage. I walk down the forest path to visit our neighbour, Joyce. She was Mom’s best friend from high school, like an aunt to me.

She welcomes me and we sit until midnight on her new, comfy couch talking about Mom, my children, her family, my dad and his new girlfriend, my creative endeavours (she thinks this blanket is a remarkable idea), and all the comings and goings of life. One particular story about Mom makes us both cry. I have told it to friends, but only Joyce can fully appreciate it. After talking with Joyce heart-to-heart for three hours I have released some pent-up emotions. I am ready to settle in and let the spirit of the lake absorb me.

Square 30: Dommy's quilt

When I was little I lived in the same neighbourhood as my mother's parents and her mother's parents. My great grandparents, Dommy and Poppy, lived in a bungalow he had built before World War I. Across the street was the elementary school attended by my grandmother, later my mother and brothers, and finally me until Grade 2.

Mom had a special bond with her grandmother. When I was born, Dommy made me a quilt. It consisted of dark blue and white rectangles cut from simple cotton prints, arranged in a zigzag pattern.

Once a week after school I would meet Mom at Dommy's house across the street. I wasn't allowed to run in their house, and Mom was constantly warning me to watch out for Dommy and Poppy's feet.

Poppy had been a draftsman, and walked every day of his working life across the border to a Detroit patent office. He spoke little but smiled a lot.

Dommy had two Pekinese that yapped constantly and scared me. She had sore legs but large, strong hands and a low, gentle voice. She was a Tigers fan.

My grandmother believed Dommy's father (Freddie Frederick) was an illegitimate son of Kaiser Frederick. There were many clues in hindsight, but Dommy would not speak about family history.

She served me cookies and ice-cold milk, but I had to sit at the kitchen table. The cookie jar was Humpty Dumpty.

I didn't realize where the blue and white quilt had come from until many years later. Usually it lived in the cupboard, but whenever I was sick Mom would get it out to cover me on the couch.

Poppy died when I was seven, but Dommy lived many years longer. Her legs grew more and more arthritic. When she could not get around anymore, Aunt Gayle took her home and cared for her. Dommy's legs became twisted but her hands remained strong. Her eyesight began to fail, but she listened to every Tigers game on the radio.

When Aunt Gayle got cancer, Dommy had to move to a nursing home. She celebrated her 100th birthday on March 1, 1993. I missed the party, but many of my cousins were there. The Detroit Tigers sent her a team photo with all their signatures.

The following Christmas Day I took my two little daughters to see her. Brenna was only six weeks old. Marian would not go near the withered lady with the deep voice and long hands. Dommy couldn't see us, but knew who I was and remembered that I hadn't been at her birthday party, so she told me all about it.

I brought Brenna close to her. Dommy took the baby in those big, strong sewing hands, pressed her dry lips on the velvet scalp and said, "Bless you."

Dommy died in February 1996, a few days short of her 103rd birthday. She spent the last 15 years confined to bed.

I have one very precious things of hers: a fine bone China tea set from Japan, hand-painted in generous pink roses against a pale azure sky. Poppy gave it to her on Valentine's Day 1915.

In much worse shape, but just as precious, is the blue and white quilt made in 1964. I used it to cover my daughters when they were sick. It's torn in places and the indigo is fading, but I'll never let it go. The herringbone zigzag pattern reminds me of how generations interlock, an effect also suggested by this mitred square.