I knit that afghan.  My mother, who is photographed sleeping under it, started it with aran weight wool that I had given her (so she could knit me a sweater), but abandoned it after twenty rows because her hands hurt.  She had already knit a similar throw with acrylic, desirable for its resilience to domestic machinery and impudence, but less desirable to me for its fake feel and no smell.  It is amazing to me that I actually finished such a big project.  I only had to think every tenth row when I twisted the braid.  It took about 13,000 stitches, mindlessly stroked and wrapped over seven seasons of "24", watched in two and three hour stretches deep into a season of winter nights.  

Scott Kneeland was the Principal of Roslyn Elementary School, a tall commanding old school presence with a  deep voice that wielded the strap on unruly fighting boys (and the occasional girl), walked the main corridors when we were marched to our class in the morning, sternly addressed our weekly assemblies and sang a bass growl to  God Save the Queen.  Miss Springer, disapprover of working moms, my grade one teacher, sent me to Mr. Kneeland weekly, where he would browse through my scribbler and sign the occasional page.  Later, when my mother asked me about the signatures I told her I did it.  Mr. Kneeland might have mentioned that I was with him because Miss Springer said I never finished anything, but he was so gentle about it.   I was afraid of being strapped.  He must of known that because he just told me to try a little harder.  

When I toured the end of school art gallery with my mother looking for one of my paintings to show her, my art teacher told her nothing was there because I never finished anything.   I was deeply ashamed.  I'd like to ask that teacher today what constitutes finished for a six year old with a wide imagination and a bouncing enthusiasm.   That was the system I was in, that was the stick I was prodded with, worse than some, better than others.

Some fifty years later I'm still trying to harness that steel focus on completion, for my own efforts.  I never had a problem with applying myself (where it counted) at work.  Maybe it was that elixir of fear and money that meant I could sit down to endless hours of focused thinking to build the spreadsheet / budget / financial statements, to stand on the set at four in the morning at the end of a sixteen hour day in a cold November rain that numbed my hips and knees, to get it in the can, to hear them call wrap.

When my embarrassed and minimalist friends looked away from piles of half finished projects and mountains of materials piled and stashed in every corner of my house or apartment, I justified myself by thinking that it was harmless entertainment, and that I finished the important things.  I got the job done.  Each working day could be measured by footage, each week by reporting, and each show by a door closed behind me on an empty stage or office.  Now in this new phase of life, without apparent boundaries, I'm weighed down by the volume of stuff, by the open ended undoneness of everything.  A low grade depression aches my brain, and I just want to nap.   Miss Springer is sneering at me.  The art teacher is paying attention to the prettier kids.  Mr. Kneeland is holding my hand, telling me to try a little harder.  Just for today.