I’m in love.

Warm. Robust. Manly. The balaclava is the ultimate masculine accessory. I’ve written about my balaclava feelings before, and turning to this page in Knitting America I was felled again.

Not only is the balaclava a nifty fashion accessory, but the word itself is irresistibly beguiling. Say it over and over and you too will fall into its thrall.

In a recent conversation with a-friend-who-shall-remain-nameless I had the pleasure of higher than average “balaclava” word usage. She called me from her cell phone, which she had strapped to her head with a balaclava. Further illustration of the balaclava’s flexibility and usefulness, leading to a deeply-satisfying, “balaclava”-laden conversation.

When I got home from the city on Monday, there was a wonderful still life of old objects set up on my kitchen table, left for me by my friend Susan who takes care of the cats when I’m away, and has been cleaning out her basement.

Treats!

She gave me this lovely, simple, old apple corer. I love the way the handles are a twist in the wire frame.

This useful jar lifter with soft wooden handles. Feels so much nicer than plastic.

And two little flower frogs, of which this round one is my favorite. The shape is so satisfying, I want to keep it where I can look at it all the time.

Thanks, Susan!!

It was a beautiful day on Saturday and on the spur of the moment, knowing there was snow predicted for Sunday, we drove to New Paltz for lunch and some wandering.

I found an old slotted spoon for my collection.

Some of the holes are not fully drilled, the hole in the handle is off-center. Perfectly imperfect.

I’m not usually in the mood for cleaning come Spring, wanting instead to run outside after the long cold. But the turn of the year seems like the best time to rearrange and pay attention to the corners of my home.

At the foot of the stairs I hung the framed print of my grandfather’s book plate — illustrated with a thistle, for Scotland, and a bee since he kept hives. Above a tiny solo mitten holds a dried hydrangea blossom that blew into the driveway from the neighbors. Below the volunteer fireman certificate earned by the 1861 owner of this house and miraculously recovered on ebay by the owners before me. And for company, a postcard of a dancing lady tucked into the light switch.

The clean floor is dirtying fast, but the little grouping delights me every time I pass.

I’ve started packing, which always takes me down memory lane.

Phyllis and Margaret were my grandmother’s cousins – seen here circa 1919. I think it was 1990 when they moved to a nursing facility, after living independently in their little house in Edinburgh became too challenging. They were both in their 90s.

I had just moved to my first apartment and was given a gorgeous set of maple bedroom furniture from their home, and a lot of household stuff no one else wanted. The furniture is still in Scotland but some of the smaller items ended up coming to America with me, including this bread bin from their kitchen.

And this little leather briefcase, now falling apart.

I keep my stash of most treasured vintage fabric and lace scraps in in.

I want to take all the lace out to play but I need to shove it back in there for now. It deserves way more respect and attention. Maybe at the new house I can frame some of it.

I bought a new wallet and while cleaning out the old one I found a single porcupine quill tucked into one of the credit card compartments. I have no idea where it came from.

My grandparents live on a farm in Canada. Once, while visiting, I took the difficult path along the side of the lake – the one that usually only the dog takes, while people cross by canoe. On the steep bank under the fir trees I found the remains of a porcupine: skin and quills. Sacred.

I took a few of the spines and when I got back to the house I carefully put them into a matchbox which I carefully stashed in the cup holder by the driver’s seat in my car, and which I never saw again. I don’t know how I lost them when I was being so attentive, but it seemed right. Must not have been okay for me to take anything from that animal.

So the other day when I found the treasure in my purse it felt like full circle. I’ve been given back one quill.

Soon after my last move a friend gave me a bunch of furniture, including a wicker arm chair which she’d found on a Brooklyn street. It’s very comfortable, and my cat Annabelle has adopted it for her own. This is Annabelle’s chair:

Yesterday my building had a stoop sale. We were setting up and I saw my upstairs neighbor bring out a chair that looked identical to mine. I told him, and he said that he too had found his chair on the street – when he lived in Hong Kong. Two chairs found abandoned on the street, in cities on opposite sides of the planet, living in the same building.

Throughout the day I kept staring at his chair, imagining someone buying it and carrying it away; I couldn’t bear the thought. Mid-afternoon I asked him if his price was firm. “You know what – for you, free. They should be together.”

I’m beginning to suspect that while we may believe we’re masters of our own destiny, in fact our stuff is sucking us in the wake of it’s own purpose.

I’ve been thinking about things. Physical objects. How much I love particular tools and materials. A fragment of lace, one bead, my desk, a collection of postcards. Stuff.

Being the well-intentioned child of socially conscious parents I recoil from defining myself as materialistic. However the more I think about it, the more I’m finding validity in the word. I do love this material world, and the way the physical can carry a story and preserve meaning.

When I was little I played a game with myself. I would stare at my most cherished and familiar belongings, striving to make them unfamiliar. Something would pop and, rather like the description of switching from left to right brain in Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, I would see my Teddy bear the way a stranger would, as a scuffed toy with a zipper across it’s back.

I don’t want to play that game anymore. Instead I’d like to explore more deeply the relationships I have with objects. See what comes up.

I love these two wooden spoons. The short one came to me in a batch of kitchen utensils when my ex’s grandmother moved into a home and distributed her belongings. It was already worn down on an angle from years of meals.

The large spoon was brand new when I bought it. I was working in a kitchen supply store, and for a while I oiled it, the way you’re ’supposed’ to. I like it better now that it’s dried out and stained. The burn down the left side just happened last week when I left it too close to the flame. Still works good.