Cynthia Mael
Bio
Mom of two amazing kids. Gardener, knitter, writer, canner, and lover of God and people.
Stories (7/0)
Great Aunt Dottie
There’s nothing like the feel of soft yarn through my fingers. Let’s face it; Seattle, Washington can be dreary in those long winter months. It’s not as rainy as Forks, but there are those torrential rain days where lighting candles and sitting by the fire makes homesteading look easy. There are also those clear cool nights when sitting at the fire pit, knitting a blanket keeps me warm connects me to my great Pacific Northwest roots. Nothing tops listening to the birds chirp next to a roaring fire bursting with hot orange flames. One of my Great Grandmothers who lived back during the Civil War, made her own clothing from raising sheep and growing flax, spinning a yarn she named, “Flaxy Woolsey.” Knowing I’m continuing the tradition of knitting from generation to generation connects me to the family I never personally knew, but from stories in old letters brings a sense of comradery. Having something to keep my fingers busy brings me joy, especially when it can bless someone else. My own Great Grandmother Ruth knitted many a warm outfit for my own mother when she was a baby living with her family in Alaska. Great Grandmother Ruth wrote about my mother, “It isn’t much, but Grandma wants those little legs warm these cold mornings.” She knew the icy weather my Grandmother Donna experienced in Alaska. Grandma Donna wrote to Ruth, telling her how the great north winds coming off of the Taku Glacier chilled her to the bone. Those were the days where Borden’s milk cost a dime and my Grandfather could buy a ten pound salmon for a quarter. Making things by hand was both special for the person receiving them as well as practical if you could save a dime doing it.
By Cynthia Mael3 years ago in Families
The Pendulum
I don’t hate people. Sometimes though, I really hate their actions. Hate is that nagging fire that rises within you when someone throws salt in your hair, or spits on your shoe. It is the ache for justice in the depth of your heart. This morning, for example, two cars sat, blocking the lane, and the school busses trying to keep their schedules. They took cuts like greedy first graders, instead of circling to the back of the line, like “mature adults.” Far be it from me to judge their mind set. Maybe they didn’t read the email explaining the intricacies of picking up and dropping off their children. Maybe they weren’t thinking clearly from a bad night’s sleep. Deep inside me though, it churns the wheels of disgust and irritation. I have politely pulled next to the cars sitting in the middle of the road, letting them know about the turn arounds ahead, only to have them stay their selfish course. Why are they convinced that they should block the whole road? Is it pure narcissism, a lack of knowledge or simple selfishness and pride?
By Cynthia Mael3 years ago in Humans
Letters From a Locker
My father used to say that if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Sometimes it felt as though I’d ridden a thousand miles worth of wishes. I wondered so many things about my family, but my uncle, the only person left to tell me anything, lay in a hospice bed at home. Thankfully, he received my letter before his heart valves gave out, letting him know how much I loved him. Covid prevented me from visiting, and my uncle hadn’t communicated for years. I remained the only descendant of my grandparents and my uncle had no children. My aunt and I began the daunting task of clearing out the storage locker every Saturday for a month and a half.
By Cynthia Mael3 years ago in Humans
A Tail of Ember
I prayed for a free dog. I wanted another half boxer from someone I knew, or who knew I would give it the kind of love and care that the breed deserves. I wanted a dog that could grow up with my kids and other pets. It seemed that everywhere I went the available dogs only met half of my criteria.
By Cynthia Mael3 years ago in Petlife