Ooo, "Jury of her Peers," what a kick-ass story.

An attempt at knots...

The men in my life keep trying to teach me knots. When I was six years old, Mark Tuttle finally taught me how to tie my shoes.

My father, maybe seeing in my eager interest the son he never had, taught me about tools and car engines and the uses of half-hitches and the proper way to tie a square knot.

Joe, as part of his tales of life in the Navy, grabbed some twine that was next to the bed and showed off knots I don't remember the names of.

Hubby has shown me the same knots over and over. He forgets and I never remember how to do them. When he's hurting I ask him to tell me stories of the Forest Service, and he remembers knots and when he was strong.

Sorry, I wasn't here earlier Deb. I would be happy to read any additions any time you want to send them.

Too many words, but. Knots.

I learned to make friendship bracelets at eight: rows of colored string carefully knotted, glossy if tied right; frayed and dull if not. I learned Candy Stripe, Arrowhead, Spiral Staircase. I kept some, sold some, gave most away.

I learned to string beads, twist wire into earrings and rings, hold a dozen strings without tangling. Trial and error taught me to make bright, pretty things, and how to tie them so they held together. They were birthday presents and Christmas gifts and "this doesn't fit me; do you want it?"

I taught myself to knit, and to crochet: more knots, loops, rows neatly arrayed, the strings held in my hands. I make hats and scarves and socks. I rarely make things that fit me properly, so they become gifts, like everything else. It's the best way I know to tie myself to the people I give to.

Oh. Aww. That last line just makes it.

Oh, Holli, that is just wonderful.

Okay, it finally jelled.

Lacemaker

She sits upright in the unpadded wooden chair. Her back is ramrod straight, her ankles are neatly crossed, her toes barely reach the floor. The heels of her shoes touch the rail of the chair where the wood is worn, rubbed by generations of heels. The specially-made arm of the chair holds the plump velvet pillow. Bobbins dangle from their threads all around it like a fringe of carved beads. Her fingers fly and she holds seven, eight, nine bobbins at a time, weaving them between her small flexible fingers too fast for the eye to follow. She is eight years old.

Oh, Holli, I really like yours. Especially, like P-C, the last line.

Bev, you were channelling Millay, I think. Gorgeous. And Holli's made me tear up a bit, for some reason.

All the ones that have been put up have been amazing. There's something about this particular theme.

I'll send to folks in the morning; Kristin did my initial beta for me and she was quite right about a couple of things (I'd sent without even rereading or spell-checking), so I need to twiddle. I'm hoping to finish it in the morning.

Hah. I did a triple take on eight-not-eighty.

Hair-fetishist me wrote this drabble:

When I was in high school, I usually sat behind Lauren. Lauren had nice hair. And she'd let me play. She'd let me braid.

A braid is a fascinating knot, an artistic knot. Right-over, left-over, right-over, left, with an orderly, aesthetic result. I'd braid and comb out, for hours on end, my hands, my eyes, and my mind all employed in the tying of my artistic knots. A guilty pleasure.

Now, when I'm in class, I remember braiding. I remember my friend, who let me tie up her hair in my inexpert knots, because, against all odds, she loved me.

Yay, the eight-year-old lace maker! I do bobbin lace as well, and I was thinking of doing something with lace for this drabble.