Knit 2, Purl 2, Kill 2

By Erina Bridget Ring

Memoir about the rigors of caretaking one's mother and the trials of an unusual knitting group.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erina Bridget Ring
• Release date: Oct 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536574609

Book preview

———-Looking in the Window———-

I remember that day very well. I was at McCaulou’s buying a new top to wear for dinner that night with the Saki’s, and I was rattled. Mom was wearing me out with the constant doctor appointments and hospital visits, and I decided I needed a treat. I left McCaulou’s and was walking toward Anette’s Chocolates when I found myself in front of a store window where I saw some women sitting around a large oval table. They looked busy with knitting projects, laughing and apparently having a great time. One of the women jumped up and waved at me, then walked outside where I was. I recognized her, so I waved hello.

Janie always looked nice. Her hair was cut short with a flare, and she was the type who would never be seen without makeup. She spoke to me rather hurriedly.

How are you, Bridget? How are your kids? What are they doing?

She left no time for me to respond between questions.

Everyone in my family is fine, I said. I was trying not to say anything too personal as Janie had always seemed disingenuous. I noticed the group of women inside, I continued. I’ve always wanted to learn how to knit.

She said it was a wonderful way to pass the time and make something by hand for someone. It’s as simple as buying the yarn, finding the right needles and pattern, and starting your project. Why don’t you come in and see?

I told her that sounded great, but it would have to wait for another day. I’m running late and I need to stop in to see my mother. She’s getting on in age, and you know how that goes.  Janie nodded as if she knew what I meant, and we said a quick goodbye.

She walked back into the yarn shop, and through the window I noticed everyone at the table looking at her intently, as if they were hanging on her every word. All of a sudden the women swung their heads in my direction and stared at me.

I pivoted and headed for the chocolate shop, stepping up my pace. What had just happened there, I wondered. Why did all those woman stare at me like that?

I shook off the feeling and proceeded to Anette’s candy store a few doors down from the yarn shop to find the pralines I wanted. They had a big display wrapped up with beautiful raffia bows, and I decided to pick up an extra package for Mom, even though I knew she would probably keep them in the pretty package and not eat them.

The girl behind the counter said, Have a good day, and I wished her the same. But after the odd encounter with Janie I was beginning to wonder.

Now I was off to see Mom, and I hated to admit it, but she was wearing me out. I had to drive her to hospital in Vallejo, 30 minutes each way, to see all the doctors she had to see, and this was four times a week and sometimes five to get her breathing treatments. She was a severe asthmatic, and they had to do x-rays on her continually to monitor her lungs. Her eyes were another problem. We saw the eye doctor on more than a regular basis, and every six weeks they did surgery on them so she could see. Her glasses were so thick they looked like coke bottles.

Mom was outgoing and chatty, and I loved her very much. I did everything I could for both my parents, though my father was gone now. They trusted that I would respect their wishes, and they granted me medical power of attorney. Little did I know that Mom had signed Advance Directive papers, an action that would push me to my limits.

At that moment, I suddenly realized I had parked my car across from the yarn store, and I’d have to walk past that big front window and all those ladies again. I did so briskly, and as I passed I turned my head slightly. They were all sitting at the table looking busy. The woman on the left side was leaning toward Janie as though listening to a secret; the lady sitting on the end seemed to be overseeing the cute woman with dark black hair and smiling eyes; both were studying the book in her hand. The lady on the far side of the table had a hard-looking face and wore a permanent frown. Her knitting project hung off the table onto her lap. The woman next to her was laughing and winding her yarn into a ball.

I couldn’t see everyone because some had their backs to me, but it looked as if they were having fun.

And then I had a revelation. Maybe knitting would be a good distraction from the wear and tear of taking care of Mom every day. Jack was traveling again, so it was just me and Mom, and it was exhausting. I needed something to shore up my spirits.

I reached my car and slipped into the driver’s seat. Pulling out of the parking space gave me one more opportunity to look through the big front window. There was just something about the store that drew me in—even if Janie was there.

*     *     *

I reached my mother’s apartment at the Meadows Retirement Complex, gave Mom a kiss and a hug, and handed her the pralines wrapped with the pretty bow.

Oh, Bridget, this is too pretty to open!  I knew she would say that, and I just smiled. I made sure she had everything she needed and spent a few extra minutes making sure she was really all right. Mom was 89 years old, and I knew that things could change quickly from one day to the next. She was a short woman, barely five feet tall, and with the passing years she was hunched over so far she looked as if she was reaching toward her toes.

Jeanne Ryan was as stubborn as they came and very religious. This was a woman who went to church often and to confession once or twice a week. Which meant I went to church every Sunday and to confession once or twice a week, too, because she had never learned to drive. I often wondered what she actually confessed to the priest, but I didn’t dare ask her; she would think it sacrilegious to discuss such a private matter.

My family agreed that Mom was a fundamentalist Catholic; they often joked that she was more religious than the pope and she was dedicated enough to be a deacon, if she’d accept a woman being a deacon. Mom was old school and believed women did not belong at the altar.

Sunday Mass was sacred, and God forbid if she was late. She had to get there early, so she could get the right seat—right in front of the pulpit. If the priest said something she disagreed with, she wasn’t shy about speaking out loud to him and arguing back and forth from her seat. This embarrassed not only me but my children. However, trying to talk her into stopping this behavior was a no-win proposition. She thought she was doing everyone a favor by speaking out.

The sight of her taking Communion was also predictable. She would dart into the line where the priest was giving Communion, pushing people out of place to get there. All my friends noticed this and thought it was funny. To me, this was anything but funny, but that was my mother. Ultimately her behavior kept my children from coming to church with us.

It was an isolating experience to be in a car for hours listening to Mom go on and on about politics. Mom had many opinions. She was certain the Communists would take over the world and destroy the Catholic church, even after the Soviet Union collapsed. There was no reasoning with her when she got to talking this way. This in itself caused me angst, but unfortunately I couldn’t stop her.

For years I went to church alone with Mom, every so often bribing the kids to join us. If they said No, I would reply, Traitor.  I loved the days when the kids did participate because then I didn’t feel so alone. But usually the kids went to church with Dad to avoid the antics of Grandma.

My mother raised seven children and counted on her Catholic faith to get her through life. Her strong opinions either made people walk away from her or become interested in what she was saying. She was a smart woman; she graduated from Columbia University with a master's degree in Education, back when it was called White Plains College. She was proud of her education, and she encouraged all of her children to earn degrees.

Mom wore only muumuu dresses, and her beautiful white hair was short and styled in a perm bubble. She prided herself on being clean and tidy, but she never liked the feel of shoes, so she wore slippers of all different colors. Everyone thought her muumuu dresses were pajama coats, and the slippers reinforced this. It was a look all her own. At the Meadows she was known as The Lady Who Wore Pajamas, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her this. Mom thought she looked pretty.

On this particular day I was able to get Mom settled in for the evening and leave her apartment on time and on a good note. I called Jack on my cell phone and got his voice mail. Just got Mom settled in. On my way home. Don’t forget we go to the Saki’s tonight. Oh, and I ran into Janie from a long time ago. I think I’m interested in taking up knitting.

There! I’d said it out loud: I was going to learn to knit.

*     *     *

I was almost five feet one inch, a happy person who loved my family. I wore my hair in a neat, short hairdo and I prided myself on being a stay-at-home mom. I was also an artist. I was offered a spot to exhibit and sell my art in an art gallery in Sonoma, which turned into a success for me. It was a thrill to have a place to hang my watercolors.

But the thrill was short-lived. Painting had to take a back seat when my parents moved to town. All my time was spent driving them to their appointments, and caring for them.

At a time when most of my friends chose