(Detail from a carving made from a photograph of a Civil War Union POW.)

I’ve recently been working on Cecily Glowik MacDonald’s Provence Baby Cardigan as a “welcome to the world” gift for a friend’s brand new granddaughter. Although it wasn’t part of the pattern, I decided I would sew some grosgrain ribbon onto the back of the buttonband…ostensibly to add a sturdier anchor material for the buttons but really because my grandmother used to do this on her handknits. When my own daughter was born, the cardigan sweaters knit for her by Nana all had grosgrain on the buttonbands and I suppose I consider that ribbon a sign of something well-made (and made well) with love.

As I was sewing, I found myself falling deeper and deeper into the rhythm of the stitches and not surprisingly my thoughts turned to things beyond the work at hand. At first I pondered the wonderfully relaxing effect the hand-sewing was having on me but then my mind wandered off into thoughts of handwork in general and giving handmade gifts specifically.

As much as I love to make things, there is always part of me that feels more than a little insecure about giving handmade gifts. I look at the baby cardigan and, even though I know I made it out of caring for my friend and her family and even though I know that it is a beautiful reflection of that care, I see every little mistake I made whilst knitting it and I wonder…is it good enough? Surely something bought at the store would be better, wouldn’t it?

Growing up, we did not have a lot of money. I still remember some of our family “experiments”…like eating vegetarian for a month “to be more civilised” (in fact: because meat was expensive and we didn’t have enough money for it) or going without television for six months because “it rots your brain” (in fact: the TV broke and it took us six months to save up money for a new one). Handmade gifts were part and parcel (sorry…it had to be said!) of growing up without extra disposable income. My mum would make the most amazing Barbie doll clothes for us at Christmas time. There was none of this “buy a new Barbie along with a new outfit for her”; we had one doll each and most of her clothes were handmade!

I suspect that that sort of existence was pretty much the norm for most people prior to the rise of rampant consumerism. Gifts were handmade because they had to be and they really meant something…you certainly didn’t have the time or money to hand gifts out like Chiclets. As being a consumer became a sign of prosperity, handmade gifts settled into the world of the underclass. And there they’ve remained for quite some time.

Over eighty years ago, the promise of “a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage” was issued and I think it’s safe to say that, for the vast majority of people, that promise has been fulfilled. Why then are so many people returning to the idea of handmade gifts? It’s not just knitting a sweater for a new baby…it’s also baking cookies for a helpful neighbour, giving a hand-drawn card to a friend on their birthday, sewing an apron for someone who loves to cook.

It’s awfully trite to say “money can’t buy you love” or “money can’t buy happiness” but maybe it really is that simple. Or maybe we’re just waking up to the fact that the care and love put into a handmade gift should have a higher value than the cost of a similar gift from a store.

As for me, I will continue to make and give handmade gifts. And I’ll try not to feel too bad about it.

So I learned yesterday that atheism is a religion. At a college. In a college-level class.

That is just so ass backward that I feel compelled to say “FTW?”

I argued that atheism cannot be a religion based on the definition of religion we were given; the response of the instructor was to change the definition.

The definition as given was that a religion is a “system of beliefs regarding conduct in accordance with either divine commands found in sacred writings, or declared by authoritative teachers.” My argument that atheism is not a “system” of anything prompted the suggestion that “system” be removed from the definition. Okay.

A fellow student argued that there are religions that do not believe in a divine being (Buddhism being the most common) and so atheism could be a religion. He had a point; perhaps I needed to look at the definition of “atheism” as well.

And so here is my system-less definition of religion (courtesy of Wikipedia):

A religion is a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, especially when considered as the creation of a supernatural agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs.

To avoid getting caught up in the differences between various religions and the diverse sects within some of those religions, I’m happy to trim that definition to its most basic: a religion is a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe.

So what is atheism? Again, courtesy of Wikipedia:

Atheism is commonly described as the position that there are no deities.^[1] It can also mean the rejection of belief in the existence of deities.^[2]

Let’s look at these two definitions separately and see if they fit in with the definition of a religion.

First we have the “position that there are no deities”. While this certainly could be an aspect of a “set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe”, it doesn’t stand on its own as a religion any more than “monotheism” can stand on its own as a religion. This was the Buddhism argument posited by my fellow student. However, simply holding an atheistic position does not necessarily indicate a belief in anything else. Where is the “set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe”?

If atheism were a religion, someone should be able to answer that question. There is no answer however because atheism does not fit the definition of a religion.

Shall we move on to the second definition: the rejection of belief in the existence of deities. I suspect this is what was meant in class when atheism was described as a religion. Again, it does not fit the definition because it does not provide a set of beliefs concerning the cause, blah blah blah.

It’s simple logic:

A religion is a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe.

Christianity is a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe.
Therefore, Christianity is a religion.

Buddhism is a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe.
Therefore, Buddhism is a religion.

Atheism is the position that there are no deities; it does not encompass any other beliefs.
Therefore, atheism is not a religion.

Monotheism is the position that there is a single deity; it does not encompass any other beliefs.
Therefore, monotheism is not a religion.

Atheism is the rejection of belief in the existence of deities; it does not encompass any other beliefs.
Therefore, atheism is not a religion.

Polytheism is the belief in the existence of many deities; it does not encompass any other beliefs.
Therefore, polytheism is not a religion.

As far as gods go, I take the position that there are no deities; while you might call me an atheist, I prefer the term “godless heathen”.

As for what I do believe in? Well, I believe in the laws of physics. Please call me a physicist.

For some odd reason, I decided to do a little genealogy research last night. Okay, not such an odd reason…I am so tired of listening to Taylor Swift sing off-key that I couldn’t bear to watch the Grammys with the rest of the crew.

At any rate, I grew up knowing about six or seven generations of my family tree: all patrilineal, of course. Last night, as I was poking around on the web, I saw something that made me think “Hey, what about the tail line?” That something was a small notation indicating that my great(3)-grandmother, Florence Carlow, was born in New Brunswick.

Hmmm. This was new information for me. And so off to the New Brunswickian genealogy sites to see what I could find. I read through various census documents until I finally said to myself, “Didn’t these people come from somewhere else?” And finally, in documents listing New Brunswick’s “First Families”, I found that they did…they came from Maine and before that, Massachusetts.

Luckily, amateur American genealogists have posted their family trees online because otherwise I would have been lost. Apparently, that Massachusetts family is rather well-known: the Howlands actually arrived in MA on the Mayflower.

Okay, there were three brothers: John, Arthur, and one more who does not figure in this story (lucky for me as I’ll be damned if I can remember his name!). John Howland arrived in Plymouth on board the Mayflower in 1620. His descendants include notables such as George HW Bush, George Bush, Sarah Palin, and Eleanor Roosevelt. His older brother, Arthur, arrived in Plymouth some time around 1627, maybe on a ship called the Mayflower (apparently, there were several), maybe not. His descendants include ME!

Here’s the trail I followed:

* Florence Carlow, daughter of Horatio Carlow
* Horatio Carlow, son of Elisabeth Turner
* Elisabeth Turner, daughter of Rachael Sylvester
* Rachael Sylvester, daughter of Joshua Sylvester
* Joshua Sylvester, son of Lucretia Joyce
* Lucretia Joyce, daughter of Elizabeth Howland
* Elizabeth Howland, daughter of Arthur Howland

So there you have it…my family arrived on the Mayflower. Can I have my green card now?

I haven’t made any New Year resolutions for many years now. I always found them to be just one more way to fail.

This year, however, I think I’ve come up with some resolutions that are achievable. There are only three on my list and none are terribly specific…no “quit smoking” (well, that wouldn’t be on the list anyway as I don’t smoke), no “lose weight”, no “start exercising”. No, these resolutions are much more approachable and I cleverly phrased them in such a way as to make them almost impossible to fail at:

1. Read more regularly.

For the past several years, I’ve taken to “reading” audiobooks and listening to podcasts instead of sitting down with a real book. In the future, I’d like to change that by adding reading back into my routine. I’m hoping that the classes I’ll be taking at the local junior college will help in that respect.

2. Walk the dogs more regularly.

I’ve already started on this one and the dogs think I’m a goddess. Talk about immediate gratification!

3. Try to make a pot of soup for dinner once a week.

This one will probably fall by the wayside once the hot weather is here but, until then, I think I can do it.

And there they are…my first resolutions in many years!

Sometimes when I first wake up, I let my mind wander. I imagine all sorts of things like:

If my dogs were famous humans, who would they be?

Rogie’s easy. He’d be Simon Pegg.

Streaka? Maybe Katherine Hepburn.

Tighe could be George Clooney. He’s suave, good-looking, and aging well.

Dayton’s the tough one…I just can’t think of a tall, goofy-looking guy with a wicked sense of humour.

Other days (those days when I really don’t want to get up straight away but can still smell the coffee), I wonder if it would be possible to train the dogs to make coffee and bring it to me. I’m sure, given the right equipment, any of them could be trained to make coffee. It’s no problem to teach a dog to push a button and move things around on a counter. But how would they react to the task?

Streaka would just out and out refuse to do it. “Don’t you have staff for that, darling?”

Rogie? Well, he’d get so excited about having made coffee that he’d run back and forth with the mug, spilling it everywhere.

Dayton could make it for sure but he’d drink it all himself.

That leaves Tighe. Clever, eager to please, and not a coffee-drinker…

If only he had thumbs.

Or…another reason why life is too short to eat crappy food.

A couple of years ago, I had a really bizarre set of experiences over a couple of weeks. Every few days, I’d awaken from a dead sleep by the smell of food. Not just any food, mind you; it was the smell of something I’d eaten the day before.

Lest you think this was just a rather bad case of dyspepsia, let me assure you that the experience was quite pleasant and had nothing to do with the release of any gastric gases. The first time it happened was the night following one of our “corned beef hash cook-off” dinners. There was one serving of hash leftover and, after we’d eaten, I wrapped it up, thinking it would make a fantastic breakfast the next day. I woke up in the middle of the night to the smell of the perfect corned beef hash. I could almost taste the crispness of the potatoes, the sweetness of the onions, and the saltiness of the beef. I drifted back to sleep, muttering to myself fuzzily that it wasn’t fair of someone to eat my breakfast in the middle of the night.

The next morning I pointedly accused someone of doing just that and was very surprised to learn that not only had no one been cooking up the leftover corned beef hash during the wee hours but my breakfast plans could go ahead unmolested, as the corned beef I’d smelled cooking the night before was still wrapped up in the fridge.

I put it off as an odd dream.

That is, until a few nights later, when I was awakened by the smell of the most buttery, rich, and (dare I say it) perfect caramel. If Plato had crawled out of his cave and had some caramel while out in the sunlight, it would have tasted how that caramel scent smelled to me. You guessed it…the day before I’d had a single caramel from a confectionery in Berkeley.

At this point, the chances that it was “just a dream” were dwindling. In fact, I was sure I was dying of a brain tumour.  (I’ve always thought that, if one is going to fantasize in a hypochondriac manner, one should “go big or go home!”)

Only one more nocturnal olefactory awakening occurred for me and, as I’d eaten nothing particularly fantastic the day before, it was the smell of coffee that woke me. Now, I love the smell of a good pot of coffee brewing but as I do tend to associate it with the smell of skunks, the experience wasn’t quite as wonderful as the corned beef hash or caramel hallucinations.

After that…nothing. If I’d had a brain tumour, I’d gotten better awfully quickly.

Until this morning, that is. Last night I’d braised some pork shoulder in sauerkraut and white wine and, sure enough, in the wee hours this morning, I was awakened by the archetypal smell of that meal. It smelled so good…

This time around, I’ve decided that, rather than wandering off in some sort of hypochondriac haze, I’m going to make the most of my brain’s synesthetic confusion. Until it stops, I plan on eating only the most wonderful things I can think of, in the hopes that I get to experience their essence the night following.

So far today, I’ve gone with carnitas (alas, this batch wasn’t as good as the usual carnitas from this source so I’m hoping that it’s not on the short list for nocturnal smells) and an orange and ginger-flavoured fruit gel.

I’m rooting for the fruit gel…

I’ve known for some months that Paolo Nutini would be playing at Oakland’s Fox Theater this month; the Spawn made sure of that! She is a huge fan and has been for several years. Two years ago, her first “grown-up” adventure involved travelling to San Francisco with a friend on the train to see Paolo perform at the Warfield and then staying overnight in a hotel. (It probably wasn’t as much as an adventure for Lucy, her friend, as she was visiting from Germany at the time…alone.)

Those months of “Squeeeee! Paolo’s coming!” prepared me for the inevitable request for ticket money, gas money, spending money, blah blah. (<sarcasm>Thank you, Uncle Sam, for withholding our work permits, thus denying me the opportunity to teach my child fiscal responsibility by having her pay for her own adventures.</sarcasm>) Kathleen searched high and low for a companion for the event but ran into two problems:

1. not many of her friends knew who Paolo Nutini was, and
2. of those who did know and love him, they had to work!

And so I found myself in the odd position of either denying the Spawn her heart’s desire (and thus thoroughly crushing her spirit) or accompanying her to the concert. Normally, I wouldn’t be averse to the whole spirit crushing thing but, as I don’t mind Paolo myself, I thought I’d be the hero (read: Mum the Martyr) and go with her to the event. Never let it be said that I’d pass up an opportunity to squirrel away a little capital in the Emotional Blackmail Bank.

Last week, my thoughts were filled with complaints about the upcoming trip to Oakland.

I’ll have to stand all night in front of the speakers and then I’ll have no hearing left. My hearing might never come back; I’d be deaf. Forever. I asked Kathleen if I should take some earplugs with me. The look on her face said it all…”if you put earplugs in and people see it and then know that we’re together, you’re walking home.”

My feet would be sore from standing all night. What if my Achilles tendons started to act up? I’d never walk again!

I’d be the oldest person there! I’d be trapped all night, deaf, with sore feet, standing in a sea of screaming groupie girls and UNABLE TO WALK AWAY.

Saturday afternoon finally arrived and, despite my internal whinging, I put on a brave face and Kathleen and I headed off to Oakland. We took our time getting there, stopping for a bite in Fairfield and then for gas and cash in Cordelia. Kathleen was getting more and more excited as we drove on and the drive from the Carquinez Bridge to Oakland was spent singing along, loudly, happily, and badly, with Arctic Monkeys.

Finally, we were in Oakland! And there was the theatre!

At this point, I started to perk up. Why?

Well, first of all, it was cold enough in Oakland that I could actually wear my newly-knitted Zetor scarf/shawl and, more importantly, the woman ahead of us in the line had a good 15 years on me. I wouldn’t be the oldest one there!

At this point, I was feeling somewhat better about life in general and kept eyeing the marquee:

“The ride in hadn’t been so bad. Maybe we should come back on Wednesday for the Arctic Monkeys’ show…”

Things continued to improve as we entered the theatre. After zooming to a spot in front of the stage, Kathleen looked at me and said “I’d be okay with sitting at one of those tables.”

Just behind the railing enclosing the orchestra pit stood tall bar tables with tall bar stools. Except that, unlike most bar stools, these ones were padded. And had backs.

THANK YOU, GOD! I CAN SIT DOWN.

The theatre itself was beautiful and, as it began to fill, I noticed the oddest thing: the average age of the concertgoers seemed to be in the mid-30s. There were even people who were visibly older than I am. I might actually enjoy the evening!

Paolo’s opening act, Anya Marina, came on and, although I didn’t get too excited over her music (a little too Rickie Lee Jones for me) she was really really funny. Especially when she asked the groupie girls waving the Brazilian flag at the very front of the pit if it were true that all Brazilians liked anal sex. (Yeah, I confess to feeling a little schadenfreude at the expense of the SYTs. I’m middle-aged and that’s allowed now, right?)

Soon enough, it was time for the man-boy himself:

I have recently found myself thinking that Paolo was going all Ernest Hemingway on us; after seeing any and all of his performances on TV or YouTube, I couldn’t help but think he was becoming a caricature of an old blues singer. You know, performing with an “I seen troubles” sort of aura…and I couldn’t help but snort at it. I mean, the lad’s what? 22? 23? How many troubles could he have seen?

I’ve got to say though, after seeing him live, he really does pull it off. His performance didn’t strike me as being affected in any manner and I found myself singing along, screaming when the moment called for it, and generally having a damn good time.

It was truly an unexpected pleasure.

The concert ended right around 10:30 with Last Request. Kathleen and I sang along and tried our best to carry the chorus but, without the rest of the lumps singing with us, Paolo was forced to sing the whole thing. (Don’t these people from Oakland know anything? Second chorus of Last Request is ALWAYS audience participation time! Don’t just stand there…sing, dammit!)

The drive home was long and tiring and Kathleen’s eyes were getting sore from the headlights. As we got closer to our home exit, Kathleen asked me to find something on her iPod to help her stay alert. First up, Mardy Bum…that got us to the exit but we still needed something for the last 5 miles. I knew it had to be something guaranteed to perk her up, a catchy tune, maybe with a bit of humour in it. I found it quickly: The Fray, covering Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie. (For those who aren’t familiar with it, this is where the Ewan MacGregor reference comes into play. Go listen.)

All in all, I had a wonderful, wonderful evening.

Along with the unexpected pleasures of not feeling out of place, finding a comfortable chair with a great view, listening to some truly fabulous music, I had the not-so-unexpected-but-always-thrilling pleasure of seeing my child very, very happy:

1. I know no languages that use the Cyrillic alphabet. Stop trying to leave blog comments using it.

2. My dogs are quite happy performing their ablutions out of doors. Neither they, nor I, are interested in an “Indoor Dog Potty”.

3. Further to Item 1, I am not interested in meeting beautiful Russian women. Well, unless they knit, race their whippets, or have something else in common with me. Then maybe we could get together for coffee…

4. I didn’t care for Billy Mays in life, let alone after death. Stop sending me emails about his products.

5. A heads up for the University of Phoenix … I already have a university degree. I don’t really want another (at least not one that you offer!).

6. As a Canadian, I firmly believe that universal access to health care is an integral part of the social contract. Stop trying to sell me insurance; I think private primary insurance is vile and obscene and therefore, I am probably not your target market.

Inspired by the BBC History Magazine’s Dave Musgrove and his list of “Ten Things To Do In … September“, I decided I’d come up with my own list of things to do. Not quite as extensive as Dave’s but you won’t have to travel to the UK to complete any of the items:

1. Sail on the Alma

The National Parks Service is offering sailing tours of San Francisco Bay on board the scow schooner Alma. During the latter half of the 19th century, scow schooners were used as freight vehicles along the Sacramento/San Joaquin River delta and every summer, the NPS offers cruises of the Bay on Alma.

More information

2. Take a train ride at the California State Railroad Museum

Every weekend April through September, steam-powered excursion trains depart on-the-hour from the Central Pacific Railroad Freight Depot in Old Sacramento.

More information

3. Visit the Lace Museum in Sunnyvale

The Lace Museum is a non-profit organization incorporated in 1981. It is one of two museums devoted solely to lace in the western part of the United States and showcases an extensive collection of lace and lace tools.

More information

4. Check out the State Indian Museum

Everyone knows about Sutter’s Fort, located in downtown Sacramento, but who knew there was also a State Indian Museum? Not me, that’s for sure!

More information

5. Emigrant Trail Museum…get out before the snow falls!

The Emigrant Trail Museum is part of the Donner Memorial State Park. From their website:

Visitors are welcome year-round at the Emigrant Trail Museum and at the Pioneer Monument, built to commemorate those who emigrated to California from the east in the mid-1800’s.  Included in the museum are displays and information about one of the earliest pioneer wagon trains, the Donner Party, forced by circumstances to camp at the east end of Donner Lake in the winter of 1846-47, resulting in human suffering and loss of life.

More information