Monday, April 24, 2017
this book, was just limp and dead, and pretty depressing. No springiness at all. Wah! Well. I think I will keep combing, but will spin woolen for awhile more. I just like the yarn better that way. Honor where you are right now. Sara Berman's Closet. (If you haven't seen this yet, go check it out. Click on all the links, they are all totally great.) My closet is ridiculous. Actually, all my closets are ridiculous. I spent a few hours yesterday divesting myself of yet more things I don't need. Child's outgrown orthodontic retainers? Dented trombone? Tiny souvenir guitar from somebody else's trip to Tijuana? Adios. I doubt I will go the full Sara, but it is good to remember that we are not our stuff. My memories are not in the things I own, but in me. Very interesting antique accordion that looks cool, collects dust, and nobody knows how to play? Bye.
Monday, April 17, 2017
Here it is, in action in the field, with squirrel skull, discovered on the ground underneath our big maple tree. I can't say I'm one bit sorry. Squirrels! Ugh. I hate them. That up there is my very favorite kind of squirrel. He lives to chew another hole in my barn NO MORE.
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
Warriston is lounging beside the fireplace, drying after a bath. I might have had this pullover done already, but midway through the second sleeve, the last of the wound yarn ran out, so rather than spending four minutes getting out the swift for more winding, I exerted a minimum effort, leaned over, grabbed the nearest ball of whatever that was already wound, and started something else. Scarfy Thing, by Beata Jezek. This thing totally captivated me for about forty-eight hours, but has hid the skids already, because after merrily clipping along in a sock yarn leftovers trance all weekend I suddenly reached a point at which it seems like the best way to proceed with this will be [theme from Jaws] intarsia. Urgh. I don't like to do intarsia. Which is not the same as saying I don't know how to do intarsia, because how else would I know I don't like it? Intarsia, with it's multiple-balls-at-once-twisting-into-a-spiderweb action is one of my personal knitting nightmares. I hate sitting trapped in the epicenter of a complicated mess of tangling yarn ends. Part of the appeal of knitting for me is the tidiness--two sticks, one ball of string. I like an easily learned pattern, and I can stuff it in my purse as I run out the door. Waiting in line at the DMV is nothing to dread when you have your knitting with you... unless your current project involves INTARSIA. I think the next section calls for it, though, and I am going to yank up my knee socks and intarsia that thing--eventually--but that little snag did motivate me to get off the couch, wind the rest of the brown yarn, and finish the Warriston. Yesterday was [dare I say this?] pretty much a summer's day, hold my hand, because I may cry...so gorgeous. Warm, warm air. What? What is that? My sun-starved, frost-eaten, snow-blinded reluctantly Northern self can't even handle. Catdog and I sprawled all day long on the porch, hungrily soaking up the vitamin D, and counting convertibles, and even when a cloud covered the sun, the gorgeous April air, the wind was still warm. We kept looking at each other in wonderment, Catdog and I, and she telegraphed her joy by lying in one sunny spot and not moving a muscle. You guys, two days ago, there was snow on the roof. Which means there could be snow again before we're done here--it is still just April after all, and nobody around here is packing away their parkas yet--and I might still need the Warriston. I hope not. But it'll be ready when I do need it. Meanwhile, I'm tackling some intarsia. Urgh.
Monday, April 3, 2017
Monday, March 27, 2017
Sidewalk by Cristina Ghirlanda, knit (yes, in a week) in Jill Draper Makes Stuff Windham, in the beautifully purply, pinky blue-gray "Stone" colorway. Windham is labeled "worsted" but I knit it at an aran gauge for this project, and it worked perfectly. Windham has a crispy lightness that surprises, given that it is a many-plied, smooth yarn with 220 yards per 100 grams (uh oh, I think this is about "grist") much like what I think the Quince and Co. yarns are like. Springy, cotton-soft, light as a feather, but smooth and round, for stitch definition. It's the wooliest worsted-spun yarn ever. How do they do that? I don't know, but it's great. It looks like Jill's Etsy shop is out of Windham right now, so you'll have to come with me to the Finger Lakes Fiber Festival in September to get some. We'll eat Artichoke French, and Doc will wear his kilt--you can help me pick out my two fleeces!--Fiber Festival Day is one of my favorite days of the whole year.
Monday, March 20, 2017
Yokes, has been in my mental queue ever since I saw it. Love. LOVE. I want this cardigan to be a success so badly that I am still trying to convince myself. That neckband, you guys. All that knitting, and then those ten little ribbed rows using the wrong needle (my fault) at the bitter end. It's causing the neckband to flare just enough to irritate me, and I'm not sure. It's pretty, though! It is too late to do anything about it now except worry, and worrying will get you nowhere, so I am saying that I don't mind the flaring. I don't think. It's a small enough part of the completed whole, and the rest of it is pretty great. That yoke! Hoo.
Monday, March 13, 2017
We He got it running and then my friend Louise helped me figure out how the heck it worked and I made some generally terrible yarn which was tighter than a bowstring and hard as nails, but whatever, it was yarn, and I'd spun it! Hoo, that really felt like something. A few years later, Doc gave me an Ashford Kiwi for christmas, and everything changed, because the Kiwi was new and well-oiled and it had all the parts it needed, and the drive band wasn't constantly coming untied or falling off. I sat out on the porch with it, spinning clumpy wads of wool into lumpy skeins of yarn, and they still looked like the dog's breakfast, but I was happy. Once time, somebody actually stopped their car and came up onto my porch to watch me at work, fully amazed that people still did this sort of thing. I wanted to braid my hair and wear brown boots and calico aprons. Grow wheat and flax, maybe acquire a cow. I also entertained an irrational thought or two about getting a couple sheep, because why not? We live in the country, and I have this idea that they are really just dogs anyway, and how hard can it be, right? They're so cute in their little straw-filled pens at the fiber fair, gnawing on hay, letting the little children--and also me--scratch their wooly foreheads through the fencing. Eventually, Doc said one of the best and smartest things of his entire genius life: "Instead of getting two sheep, why don't we just go to the fair every year and buy two fleeces?"