Piano Keyboard Crochet

In May, Linda, a casual acquaintance in the swimming pool on Sanibel Island, mentioned that her hobby was crochet. Hundreds of iPhone photos later, I was left in no doubt that here was a highly accomplished crocheter, with plenty of family members and friends to enjoy and appreciate her craft. She’s a New Yorker, and her energy is palpable.

I shyly showed her one or two of my own products, and she instantly started enthusiastically encouraging me to develop my own patterns so I could make a fortune selling online. I don’t think that’s going to happen, but it was a boost for my ego when she asked for details of how I’d done this or that, and would I airdrop her some of my photos so she could examine the items later. I’m a sucker for flattery, always have been!

One of her amazing projects was a baby blanket she had made for musician friends, with an edging like a keyboard and even a stave with a treble clef and some notes that spell out the baby’s initials (ABC or something). Very clever and effective, I bet there’s only one child trotting around New York with that blanket!

She gave me a complicated explanation of how she’d done the keyboard, commenting that she had adapted it from a scarf and I might find the original inspiration somewhere on the Internet. I googled successfully. The scarf looks fantastic, too.  If you want to attempt it, the instructions are here. https://www.crochetspot.com/crochet-pattern-piano-key-scarf/

I happened to have some black and white cotton yarn with me, and was working on a simple tote bag. I thought the keyboard effect would make an unusual edging around the top so I decided to have a go at it. It’s all single crochet, so easy enough stitchwise, but what makes it time-consuming and fussy is that you have to keep snipping off the ends and working them into the following rows. Not a relaxing pastime. After only two octaves, I was fed up of it and went back to making my tote bag with plain horizontal stripes but that was boring and after a while I abandoned that, too.

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Back home in Switzerland I showed my creative middle granddaughter what I had done and asked her for suggestions. “Why not use the keyboard strip as a handle?” she said. Brilliant! Yes, it was just the right length. I attacked my tote bag with renewed vigour, and this is the result. It is very useful for holding work-in-progress and spare skeins, but I am planning to give it a lining to prevent excess stretching.

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I sent a photo to my New York muse, thinking she’d be interested to see what I’d made of her pattern.

Her reply: “That would make a great child’s hat!”

I can see what she meant but it would have to be an enormous child!

 

Ignorance

How do you know but ev’ry Bird that cuts the airy way,
Is an immense world of delight, clos’d by your senses five?
William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

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Photo by Aveline

Crammed in the confined cabin of our senses
How can we humans know infinity?
We move within our limited defences,
Attempt in vain to chart eternity.

What arrogance that claims to seek for knowledge
Or understanding of the vast beyond,
One tiny glimpse outside our goldfish bowl
Into the endless universal pond.

Our selfish drives determine and degrade us
And meanwhile conflict rules within our bounds.
The peace pervading heaven must evade us
Till altruism triumphs and abounds.

Escape the ego, silence inward chatter,
And focus on the things that really matter.

Remorse

Remorse is more than regret. Remorse is the wish to turn back the clock and do it right this time. One thing I might do differently if I had the chance would be to treat nature with a little more respect.

I came across an old photo this morning, and it triggered memories of the chalet we rented forty-odd years ago, primarily as a weekend getaway from Geneva and as an opportunity for some winter sports, chiefly cross-country skiing and a bit of sledging. Our first encounter with the place was in the summer.  It had lain empty for several years, and nature was in the process of reclaiming  the land around it. We were townies, insensitive and opposed to chaos. After our well-intentioned vandalism, we suddenly became aware of what we had destroyed. God’s gardens are the best!

I wrote this in 1977. (By the way, this is my 600th post!)

Tidying up

When we arrived
The chalet was asleep:
Had drawn a curtain of larches

Close around, closed tight
All windows, shutters, doors,
Pulled the meadow up over the garden,
Tucked itself into the long grass and yarrow,
And was settled deep in its summer slumber.

Peaceful and undisturbed
It lay in its innocent wilderness bed,
And we thought
It looked neglected, overgrown.
(Hyper-urbanization blinds us to the instinct
That recognises raw beauty

In a natural state
And murmurs: “Let it be.”)

Overcome by the urge to tidy things up
And suburbanize
We gustily set to
To wake it up out of its languor,
And jerk it out of its dream,
Flung open the shutters and windows and doors
Let in the air and the sun and the flies,
And laid into the overgrowth with sickle and scythe.

We slashed down the long grass,
Bay willow herb, cow parsley, buttercups,
Harebells, daisies, Queen Anne’s lace,
Forget-me-nots and all the other
Unwelcome weeds,
Ravaging the peace with sharp steel blades,
Frightening the frogs,
Dainty gold-green creatures that leapt in panic
Up the tree trunks
Into the stream
Anywhere
Away from the menacing swish of the blade.

We disturbed the lizards and voles,
Scared away the tom-tits and finches,
Besieged the snails
Taking refuge inside their eggshell forts,
Stepped unwittingly on slugs too slow to flee,
Destroyed all their little world
And let the sunshine strike
Onto the grass roots and the moss,
Drying the grass and flowers to hay
While the horseflies and mosquitoes
(An undisciplined but kamikaze airforce)
Bombarded us at our work.

Some battles they did win,
When the sun was on their side, at noon,
And we had scars to show
When we paused to rest,
But in the end the victory was ours
When we came back to the attack
With spray gun reinforcements.

So when we left
The chalet had been shaken from its torpor
The bewildered wilderness had vanished
Vanquished
Into a neat and tidy garden:
And not a creature stirred.

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With the relief of winter
The garden heaved a sigh
And slid back into sleep.

Swissification Step Two

 

One precious item awaiting me in the post on my return home last Friday was my new “original” birth certificate, which is a photocopy of the old one already in my possession with the addition of a stamp by Her Majesty’s Records Office authenticating it. As it was the weekend of Pentecost – what used to be called Whitsun in the UK – Monday was a holiday here, so I had to wait until Tuesday before I could set off with my batch of documents to the registry office (Zivilstandsamt) in the village of Wangs a few miles away.

I know that by car, it takes about 7 minutes from my house to Wangs. The registry office is in the town hall there, the Rathaus, right in the centre of the village.

I reported in full – maybe too full! – here in 2014 and 2015 on all I went through in trying to keep my driving licence. The upshot was, I lost the licence and have been using public transport every since I returned from looking after my mother in England. (If you are really at a loose end, just put “driving licence” into the Search box on the top right-hand corner of this page for the entire saga of how I achieved and was deprived of my licence.)

Swiss public transport is pretty good. I checked online for the bus route and was surprised to see that our two villages don’t have a direct bus connection. The first part of the trip has to be by train to the town of Sargans, then there’s a choice between two buses from the station that take a circular route through the countryside, one going clockwise and the other anticlockwise. As Wangs is about halfway around this circuit, it really doesn’t matter which direction you take.

I bought myself a day ticket, very conveniently on the Swissrail phone app, and set off on Tuesday morning at 8.15. I had to pop into the doctor’s first to leave them a couple of phials of blood before having breakfast, so I decided to combine the two outings.

The sun was shining and it was pleasantly warm, which I much appreciate after the humidity of Florida. The fifteen minutes walk to the doctor’s and the station made me feel virtuous (getting exercise), my blood sample was quickly collected, and the 8.45 train was of course on time. Six minutes later I was at Sargans station, with time to get a coffee and a croissant which I consumed at the bus stop. The bus left promptly but the coffee obviously did not reach my brain because not only did I get off a stop too soon but I also walked about a mile too far, all steeply uphill, straight past the Rathaus and Post Office, and only realised my error when I arrived at the cable car station.

Ah well, the sun was still shining and the scenery really is beautiful, so I wasn’t too annoyed at myself. After all, retracing my steps took me downhill which was no effort and I’m pretty fit at present.

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The young lady in the registry office took all my documents and checked them against her list. Some consternation appeared on her face when she looked at my German passport, which expired in 2010. “You’ll have to get a new one,” she said.

I explained that this would entail an awful lot of fuss and bother as well as great expense because I would have to make an appointment at the Embassy in Bern which takes about 3 or 4 months, then go there in person for fingerprinting and photos of my irises etc. and it really wasn’t worth the hassle. “OK, then we’ll ignore it and treat you as just British,” she replied. I admit I was surprised at this rather unbureaucratic attitude, but as I said, she was young and not some miserable old dragon. (If that leads to any problems, she’s the one I’ll blame, though.)

Then she came to my divorce paper. It did say “divorce decree” on the original checklist, but that’s as long as my arm so I had concluded that the official notification sent by the court to the registry offices, embassies etc. where I and my ex-husband were registered would be sufficient. I was wrong. She wanted the original decree in full with all the gory details.

“That’s in a file buried in my basement,” I told her. Never mind, she answered: we were divorced in Switzerland so I can get a notarised copy from the court that issued it. Finally, she photocopied everything and gave me my papers back. It had taken about 20 minutes altogether. I trotted merrily across the road to the bus stop, and found I had 20 minutes to wait for the bus going clockwise (the way I had come) and 10 minutes for the anticlockwise route, so I crossed back to the stop where I should have got off in the first place. When it came, this very clean and comfortable bus actually had 3-point seatbelts like those in a car. I was impressed.

This ride took me through the second half of the circuit, so another pretty village and striking views on the way to Sargans station, and thence the train to Bad Ragaz and a short trek home. The clock was striking 11 as I turned the key in my door. Not a bad morning’s work, I thought. Distance covered: 17 km (about 10 miles).  A good thing I’m retired and time is no longer money!

A quick phone call to the divorce court, and yes, they would put the document in the post right away. No, it doesn’t cost anything. It arrived this morning: bless Swiss efficiency!

I hope my young lady in Wangs is equally efficient. She didn’t appear to be burdened with a heavy workload, so fingers crossed I’ll get my “attestation of registered personal status” next week. That will complete the little pile of papers needed for me to actually start the application process with the authorities here.

Oh, and by the way – although the young lady in Wangs gave me a very complicated explanation of why my birth certificate had to be less than 6 months old, I still don’t get it.

Back Home Again …

Back home again in sunny Switzerland and recalling a Florida vacation with a difference.

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Once I had lost my fear of losing my fingers last year, I began to covet one of the gadgets found in most American homes: that little device in the sink that gobbles and munches all the bits of waste from coffee dregs to vegetable peelings. But now, no longer! I never want to see one again! Here’s why:

The waste disposal unit in my friend’s home where we were staying had rusted through and was leaking without anyone noticing, and by the time we realised it the damage was done. An entire row of cabinets had to be replaced. One thing leads to another, of course.

In order to disassemble the cabinets, the 9-foot long granite counter top needed to be removed. Not only that, but it proved impossible to match the cabinets so all of the others also had to be replaced, top and bottom, on both sides of the kitchen, together with their counter top. The fridge then began to misbehave and as if in solidarity the dishwasher also gave up the ghost. And to cap it all, we were warned there might also be mould.

My friend really didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She hadn’t budgeted for a new kitchen yet it was a great opportunity to replace the ugly old one. However, would it be possible to get everything done in the few weeks we were there? What would the insurance cover? Stuck on our island without a car, how could we get to places like Home Depot to look at what was available? Were second-hand items feasible?

Hours were spent poring over offers on the Internet, and there were lots of phone calls, appointments with contractors, insurance people, plumbers, electricians, mould experts … promises, promises. It was a roller-coaster ride but to cut a very long and complicated story short, it happened. Schedules were very tight, delays occurred, and it took right to the last minute, but then came the really good news a couple of hours before we left that the insurance company would actually cover most of the expense.

If that isn’t divine providence, I don’t know what is. And throughout, my friend managed to carry on producing delicious meals without a counter or cupboards!

In spite of all that, we had a very pleasant time swimming and cycling (back on my trusty trike!) every morning, socialising, sunbathing, reading, painting, crocheting, solving sudokus, watching the wildlife (the dolphins were back this year) and generally enjoying ourselves. Certainly no question of being bored.

And, as a neat little postscript to this story, my neighbour back here in Switzerland has just called to invite me to inspect the results of some work she had done during my absence.

“A good thing you weren’t here,” she said. “There was a lot of noise and disruption while they were installing it.” I admired her attractive, modern new kitchen and told her about our Florida fun.

There’s a moral in here for me somewhere: it seems that whether I had stayed here or gone to Sanibel, I’d have had the kitchen experience!

Easter Celebrations

imageGetting up at 5 am has never been easy for me, but this was different. A sunrise service to celebrate the risen Son of God on the tiny island midway on the Causeway linking sleepy Sanibel Island with the busy city of Fort Myers, attended by around 1500 people – an occasion not to be missed, and made all the easier by the fact that a kibd neighbour was giving us a lift right to the site. The big yellow moon was still high in the sky, as we stumbled to the seating area and took our places. As the sky began to lighten, the dawn chorus commenced in the palm trees around us, led by the only real song bird I have heard here. The birds here are all very beautiful, but they mostly caw, tweet, cheep or screech. So this exceptional songster was special, and not at all deterred by the humans who joined in as the sun began to turn the sea red and the sky golden..image

Such a setting can’t fail to be moving. It was indeed a very special occasion, and we were blessed to be a part of it.

Life is returning to normal now; that is, our island life proceeding on island time. You won’t be hearing much from me for the next few weeks, I’m afraid. I only have my iPad and no laptop, which makes writing hard. I’m busy swimming, riding my trike, strolling along the beach, meeting friends, reading, crocheting, painting, solving killer sudokus and generally relaxing among the Lotos Eaters again.  And feeling truly blessed.

 

Synopsis of On The Run

This is a true story

Two young people, Désiré and Joséphine, growing up happily in secure loving families and making plans for their future careers, are suddenly torn violently out of their peaceful everyday lives as civil war destroys everything they ever cared about. They flee from their homes in Rwanda, Africa, to neighbouring Congo-Kinshasa. They survive in desperate conditions in refugee camps, are forced to flee again and spend months wandering through the jungle where they encounter all kinds of danger from wild animals, pygmies, pursuing armed forces, and even nature itself, until they again reach safety, this time in Congo-Brazzaville. They settle down, have two sons, and then have to flee yet again.  Although they manage to build a new life for themselves, they are homesick for Rwanda and so in 2000, six years after the civil war, decide to return. This is a disastrous decision. Désiré is arrested, jailed and tortured but manages to escape and get back to his family.

They find themselves fleeing a fourth time, to Cameroon, where they are attacked and the family is split up. All alone with her third son, still a baby, Joséphine is taken in 2004 to Switzerland where she applies for asylum. After a long battle, this is granted but she has no idea what has happened to her husband and two older sons. Fortunately, the Red Cross succeeds in tracing the two boys and after yet another battle they are admitted to Switzerland to join their mother and little brother in 2006.

Although she has no news of her husband, she never gives up the search for him and remains convinced he is still alive. Meanwhile, Désiré has been close to death from sickness and disease, enslaved in Chad, escaped, and finally arrived in Nigeria. Here he tries to search for his lost family and finally discovers that they are all together in Switzerland. 9 years after the family was split up, Désiré is finally allowed to enter Switzerland and be reunited with his wife and three sons.

Throughout these harrowing experiences, Désiré and Joséphine never lose faith in God, constantly give thanks and recognise His hand over their lives.

Now available in English from https://www.twentysix.de/shop/on-the-run-johanna-krapf-9783740715250

Wedding Joséphine + Désiré

Finally – A white wedding in church, with their children present