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Subscribe to this list via RSS Blog posts tagged in raising sons

Posted by on in Culture Blogs



“Nice sweater,” says my friend.

She's right. It is a handsome sweater, though maybe a little incongruous on me, who generally wear black: hand-knitted Icelandic wool, cream, with russet yoke and bands around the wrists and waist, outlines in dark chocolate, and hodden green highlights. It's also very warm.

I gave it to my father one year for Yule. A little Icelandic woolens store had opened up downtown on Nicollet Mall. This particular sweater caught my eye: it had a certain monumental quality to it, architectonic, even. Not once on any of my visits back East did I ever see him wear it. Oh well, I thought, a little sadly: too showy for him, maybe. It certainly wouldn't have been the first disconnect in our relationship, nor the last. It took us years to learn how to communicate with one another. Maybe there was just too much to be said.

Going through the photos after my father's funeral this summer, I noted with surprise that in picture after picture, he was wearing the sweater.

“Oh yeah, that was dad's favorite sweater,” my sister told me. “He wore it all the time.”

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  • Molly
    Molly says #
    What a bittersweet story that shares so much in such a short space.

Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs
“…There, he found a piece of glass and began to tell a story. He was telling one of his tribe’s men’s stories. It was a story for boys to become men, and it was not shared with women. The women had their own stories, not for men to know. I read that and thought, no one took me out into the desert; no one told me stories. That’s what I needed, a passing of history and the ways of living, from one man to another.”

–Christopher Penczak, Sons of the Goddess, p. 51

Our oldest son is rapidly sliding into manhood. Creaky voice. Height stretching on a near-daily basis. Fuzz on upper lip. It is hard to hold space for August 2016 096this transition while still caring for a not-quite-two year old small boy as well, one who reminds me regularly of my first baby boy and what it was like to be a mother to only one, focused on each stage of development, each new word, each successful identification of a new color. Now that first baby boy swings that last baby boy onto one hip with practiced ease, washes dishes, helps to cook, pours milk for his sister.

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  • Lizann Bassham
    Lizann Bassham says #
    Thank you for this!!!

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