Eighty.

"The next time you turn 40 you'll be 80"

Words of wisdom spoken by my sister on a recent trip to Portland.

Four years ago, when I left the wine industry for small town living, we joked I was retiring at 36.  

Vowing to raise our three kids without the lights of police helicopters waking them from blissful slumber ever again.  Growing our own food, making from scratch what would normally find it's way into my cart, a new life emerged. 

Slower.  

Appreciative.

"What'd you do today?"

"Honestly?  I don't know."

Nice.

Simple meandering cables, soft lines. Grab a good book and snuggle in, uber soft merino and yes, camel.  Making our own clothes was certainly not my intention when we ventured here.   Being that I can only sew with the one brown bobbin my mom loaded on my sewing machine four years ago, I'm pretty sure it's not in my future either.  

But the extras.  

The special.  

That, I can do.  

Two inches of black angora extend sleeves of a green acrylic hoodie adorned with race car buttons.  Elijah not ready to give up on it.

Cashmere graces what will be an Easter dress for the girl. 

I will give her only my best.  

What's the next 40 hold?  

For one, finally listening to the call to start a knitting group at our church.
"I'm not 80!!!"
"They'll think I'm insane"
If I drop enough hints, surely someone else will...
My arguments and excuses falling on deaf ears, He persists, I yield.   

80 is starting to look pretty good.