See, I made a hat. Where there never was a hat.

Apologies to Steven Sondheim, but I've had that particular lyric going through my head for six months. (It's from "Finishing the
Hat", from Sunday in the Park with George.)

In October, my wondrous children's librarian Kelly announced she was expecting a bundle of joy in April. We were all overjoyed. We are kind of baby crazy. We have a
weekly infant story hour that is about as much fun as you can imagine.
It's supposed to be about emergent literacy skills and providing support to parents. We hand out stack of copies of board books and read them for about 15 minutes, then we have fifteen minutes of play, with three bins of age appropriate, fun and interesting toys. I LOVE the clear tubes with feathers and a few marbles inside. Almost silent, slow rattles.

In November, I decided I had to make something homemade for this baby-to-be. I had five months. I decided on crochet. I had access to books and DVDs on crochet, plus a co-worker who mostly knit but did some crochet. So on Thanksgiving weekend, I bought some purple (my favorite color, plus it works for boys or girls) yarn, and tried to learn how to crochet.

Let's say my first attempts were frustrating. And ugly. But I finally got a couple of stitches reasonably down. I realized that a blanket was beyond my skill, scope, or
timeline. So I decided on a hat. It seemed like an easy little project. First off, I couldn't figured out how to start it. I kept looking at different patterns that said "crochet 20 stitches and turn the row." I did not get it. I wanted the hat to be round. One night, I was just messing around, and the stitches just spiraled. I kept going in a circle, and it started looking like a tiny yarmulke. I was thrilled.

At some point, I realized I would need to increase (add stitches) to make the hat wider. I tried to increase every third stitch, but I kept losing count. Me and numbers. Then I had to decrease so it didn't look and function like pancake. Same problem in reverse. But I kept going. The hat developed these puckers and bumps, almost looking like a bunch of grapes. So that became the stated design. My friend Katherine told my she knew how to knit leaves, so we decided to collaborate. At this point, I had been working on the hat for over two months, figuring things out. It was
approaching completion, if slowly. Plus, I had found crochet a soothing hobby.

Then I had an emergency admission to the hospital. After things calmed down, I asked the Boyfriend to bring me my crochet. A label was placed on the dog-proof plastic jar I kept it in. Then it disappeared. I was bereft. Heartbroken. Finally, I decided to start again. Of course, I didn't know how I had started and I had to relearn stitches
, but it was easier. I also was low on yarn. So I unraveled all my practice pieces and made them into balls. Now no one will ever seethose trying trials. wOOt.

The baby is born (a girl, Haley) and the hat is completed. Her mom and dad have decided to move back to Kansas, so I won't see much of her, but the hat will be useful. Of course, I am sad to lose an excellent children's librarian. However, it came as no big surprise. Their family is there, and her husband has portable skills. The only women I have known who have returned to work immediately after the birth of a child are those who must due to financial circumstances. So I will be training another new librarian, if past trends continue. Children's librarians are usually young, right out of school, and gung ho. There's just interview panels (joy) and summer reading to get through.

I'm fairly pleased that I learned something new, mainly from books, at my "advanced" age. I'm also pleased that it is an expression of creativity. Next I need to work out how to use all the other pretty yarn I just could not resist buying. Watch out family and friends--Ihave plenty of time before Christmas, and I'm determined to turn a row!

Does this have anything to do with biblio or blather? I think so. Please, let's keep those difficult 700s shelved in good order, and buy more, including DVDs. Trust me, they circ like crazy.

There is something about creating something that wasn't there before that kick starts the brain. It's worth fostering.

P.S.
It's so sweet to have positive comments from my staff on my blog. You
want me, you really want me. I think I will go against library policy
before we open on Monday, and demand a big group hug!

Dizzy Lizzy bites the dust

Elizabeth Hardwick, Critic, Novelist and Restless Woman of Letters, Dies at 91

It is extremely disrespectful, to say the least, to refer to Elizabeth Hardwick as a dizzy lizzy, but at least one year or more of Barnard students did call her that. I only ever called her Professor Hardwick, though she was not a full professor. She was an incredible teacher. Sometimes, she was in a tizzy. I can remember a classmate saying she had been drunk in class one day. However, I just thought she was angry, and disappointed in us. I have been called Dizzy Lizzy, but never by a friend, or as an homage to the Beatles.

I didn't know anything about her, really, except she was supposed to be good, if crazy. I guess I never really hung out with many English majors, or indulged in faculty gossip sessions. I mean, they were old people. I took two semesters of creative writing with Elizabeth Hardwick. Her assignments could be vague, and her assessments merciless. I wonder what happened to the young woman in the fall semester class. She wanted to be a journalist, and did not handle criticism well. Nor can I say it was always constructive criticism from Hardwick. Some people cried, including Hardwick. Now, I read the dates, and wonder how hard our classes were for her, in 1978. By that time, I knew who Robert Lowell was, knew when he died. But I did not know her connection to him. Senior year, I read The Armies of the Night, and did not care for it. (Strangely, I can't find a published version of the book in English on OCLC, so I gave in and linked to the Internet "resource", which doesn't seem like much of a resource to me. I must be doing something wrong, but it doesn't matter.)

In any case, I needed to note her passing. I was not a student she took under her wing or mentored. But she was essentially friendly to me, and that was pretty important to me. I am very happy to have the memory of her telling us of her love of the jazz clubs on 57th St. in the 1940s. She and her roommate went almost every night, and saw Billie Holiday every time they could. Hardwick talked about Holiday like she was a religious figure. At that time, I was going down to the punk clubs and bars in the village every chance I could, to see Patti Smith and the Ramones. I completely understood thinking music and musicians were more important than groceries. Writing and poetry, too.

Though I am not as quick or bright as Hardwick (believe me, she was sharp!), I think she did teach me a lot about writing. I am lazy, and take easy ways out. But Hardwick did teach me to edit and hone, even if it doesn't show much in this venue. She didn't completely discourage me, though she was very sad sometimes. I still seek some outlet for creativity, and she gave me some slight affirmation. Of course, my most recent outlets for creativity have been 1) learning to crochet and 2) setting three-quarters of our reference collection free, to circulate, multi-volume sets, local history, et al. Both things have been quite fulfilling.