Unravelling
In Which Our Heroine Examines Knitting Mysteries
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Acts of Mercy
The trip to Lindsay's skating competition went just great. Right up to the point where I realized that the athlete I was rooting for was in the throes of the Stomach Flu. How, you may ask, did I know? Well, I didn't really, until I came down with it myself. But more about that later. What I want to tell you is that my kid is Tough. She tossed her cookies, straightened her hairdo, and then skated a first place program. Then she changed outfits as fast as possible (not all that fast when you are trying not to toss more cookies) and skated a second place program. Then she collected some medals, smiled for some photos, and tossed her cookies again. Is there any more helpless feeling in the world than holding some barfy kid in your arms and trying to make them feel better? On the floor of the skating rink bathroom?
So I put her in the car, after an agonizing afternoon, during which Lindsay had to decide which was worse: A. Forefitting her third event, thereby removing herself from the running for a special artistry award she might have won, or B. Sticking it out and tempting the Skating Gods, who are known to punish skaters with stomach flu by inflicting public displays of, well, symptoms. She ultimately chose A, which turned out to be for the best. Turns out that a plastic shopping bag from the pro shop will hold way more symptoms than you would think (at least until the nearest rest stop), and my wee heroine survived the two-hour car ride home. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that we both learned something: Lindsay learned what her absolute physical limits are, and I learned that when your kid has a virulent bug and you tell yourself that the dread of catching it is worse than actually catching it, that's a load of crap.
And In case things weren't gnarly enough, we got home to find that Phillip had the stomach flu, too. So I told myself that it was only the power of suggestion, and the abnormally high gross-out factor that were making me feel icky as I lay motionless on the bathroom floor that night. Have I mentioned that my powers of denial are epic? This is after every CC of liquid in my body has left it with a velocity that is nearly ballistic, and in every direction. That's right, Gentle Readers: I'm here to tell you that it's actually possible to vomit out of your eyes.
So Lindsay, Phillip and I are all on our lips in the floor, leaving no one but poor Campbell to tend to the dead and dying. Campbell, in case you are wondering (and still reading this), had the bug a week ago, and so has been declared immune. Maybe the worst thing about the stomach flu is that when you have it, you are a complete pariah. No one in their right mind will come near you, and if there are three sufferers, you might as well just lock all the doors and wait for the undertaker. Even if your only caregiver is an eight-year-old. Don't bother calling in the cavalry, because they ain't-a-comin. Just suffer there on the floor and pray for morning.
But morning, of course, does eventually come. And when it did, I began to realize that my family and I were not going to be the first casualties of Cholera in the USA in decades. I'm definitely better than I was, and so are the other two. Nobody is ready to eat anything more complicated than paste, you understand, but I think we'll pull through. And Cam seems not to have been marked for life. By this episode.
Naturally, the first thing I wanted to do when I could sit up was knit. Here is the knee sock I told you about. And while I'm on the subject of barf (really? can't just move on?) this poor thing is really suffering. Check out the bizarre calf "shaping". Probably okay if your calf has a tumor. And my groovy hand painted yarn is totally pooling, there at the ankle. Why, you may ask, do I continue to beat such an obviously dead horse? Because I clearly don't know any better. This is my first knee sock, and I keep thinking that something will change if I just press on. I used what seemed to be a very cool pattern. But it is only a program of numbers generators, which does exactly as it is supposed to do, not a knitting shaman, for heaven's sake. I probably entered the wrong guage into the formula or something. It seems to need negative ease. And by that I mean it's just way too freakin huge around, though the length seems oddly accurate. I would have held out to the very end, in order to measure and re-calculate all the areas where things have gone so obviously wrong. But I'm going to run out of yarn (not surprising, having knitted a grain silo-cozy), which can only mean one thing. Frog City.
I am going to measure the bulging calf thing, though, before I hook it up to the ball winder and let 'er rip. Seems like the least I could do for the poor thing.
If you know the magic formula for the amount of negative ease required for a knee sock at 9 stitches to the inch, kindly weigh in? I guarantee contact with this blog post to be non-infectious.
Swatchmaster 3000
Gentle Readers, you may recall that a few posts back, I had taken it upon myself to make the sample swatches for my class at Madrona. I stand by the decision, as having these done for my students sets them up for success, and it's just a nice way to go about it. However, I will admit that it took much longer to get them then I expected. Partly that's because of my Math Issue, and partly it's because I think I'm superhuman, which I'm not. Don't tell my kids.
Here they are, completed, in all their swatchy glory. They remind me of my own private clone army, marching off to sacrifice themselves to the cause of The Steek.
It's an apt comparison, really. I always say we knitters will one day take over the world; so it's about time we had our own army, no?
I'm off to an ice skating competition with Lindsay for the weekend. I know I should take knitting or I will be very sad indeed, but after spending this morning marshaling the army, I may actually be temporarily knitted out. Impossible. Someone take my temperature and arrange for emergency cashmere therapy. STAT!
Yorkies and Mittens and Steeks, Oh My!
Last weekend I was invited over to Yorkshire Yarns to play. Here are the Lakewood, WA knitters in their
Note the smooshy chairs, delicious snacks, and big screen TV for our class slide show: These people know how to rock a knitting class! I wanted to stay all night. I came back the next day and we steeked like maniacs. Maniacs in extremely comfy chairs.
Sonya (third from the left, in the back) is the store owner and ring leader. She raises Yorkshire Terriers. Since I am also owned by a terrier (Scottish), we had a few notes to compare.
I have a cunning plan to invent a new design just for Yorkshire Yarns, and you can bet dogs will be featured. Especially when the dogs are this kind of cute:
Stop it or I'll die from your adorablity. I mean it. Quit looking at me like that or I'll be forced to rub your belly.
After the yarn party in Lakewood, I dashed on up to Whidbey Island, then back down to Seattle, where I visited with my family, and even procured the perfect charcoal gray shoes to wear with my new Knot Garden cardigan (whose sleeves I am really going to sew on. Really.)
While I was on the road, I made a bunch more swatches; only something like 10 more to go! And just because I've never tried before, I started my first pair of knee socks. What a rush! They look huge, but we'll see...pics to follow, provided I don't frog them.
Note to the Mad Hatters of Wild Purls: I am really looking forward to calling in to your Mad Tea Party on the 15th - knit on, because I'm dying to see the pictures!
For my Madrona Wisteria knitters, I've been checking in on you on Ravelry and I'm amazed by your progress - I can't wait to see all those Wisterias! Can you believe it's almost finally here?
I've been promising myself some spinning time, so I think I'll use it as a reward for getting those sleeves sewn in. What could possibly go wrong?
For The Birds
Piggybacking onto the momentum of having finished Catkins (did I mention that I finished Catkins?), I finished the second sleeve of the Knot Garden. Just a couple of weeks short of a YEAR since starting it, for the record. Smug dance of completion to follow, as soon as they dry and get sewn into the body...
So smug am I (and un-anxious to return to the swatchapalooza that is my other concern this week) that I went completely batshit and conceived a cunning backdrop for the Knot Garden.
I seem to have remembered that in a previous life I used to sew things sometimes. I have no memory of consciously stopping all sewing activity, but I think it must have been around the same time I stopped a bunch of other stuff I like, in the hopes of getting a book written on time. Not that I'm complaining, you understand - it's good to rest some muscles in favor of others from time to time.
Now that I'm gainfully unemployed, all sorts of stuff I used to like doing is popping back into my conciousness. Stuff like hearing music, and digging in the dirt (garden dirt, not kitchen floor dirt), reading books. And my old friend, sewing.
And sewing, you may know, is just like falling off a bicycle - once you've learned how to properly screw up a sewing project, you never forget.
It actually started with a conversation I had with my friend Jill (non-knitter, for the record, but still completely lovable). She asked me what kind of bird I was, and I didn't know. I know for sure that she's a Great Blue Heron - (leggy, graceful, eats a fair amount of fish) but I was unable to locate my own inner bird. Jill thinks I might be a robin, which notion I sort of like.
So the bird thing has been with me, and I got it in my head that I must need a dress with birds on it to go with my finally-finished Knot Garden. I waltzed into the fabric store, and there it was: Exactly what I would have made if I had set out to design fabric with birds on it:
I cut out the dress last night, and I sewed it today. And in a turn of fate which is nothing like knitting (and nothing like sewing, for that matter), it fits just right and I completely love it. Too weird. That is just not the way it works - no drama, no odyssey, no falling out of hair clumps. Just found it, made it, love it. Interesting how easy it is when there's nothing at stake. Wonder where that magic goes when someone inserts a deadline?
And now there must be shoes. We're not savages here, after all.
More Things I Know About Billings, Montana
So there I was in a snow storm:
What you cannot see in the photo above is that the parking lot at Wild Purls in Billings, Montana was overflowing when I arrived for my presentation, in spite of the BLIZZARD (with actual snow) which had been blowing all day.
* A Brief Sidebar Regarding Footwear: Even someone like me, from the west coast, knows that it is want to snow from time to time in Montana. So much so that I actually purchased snow boots in anticipation of my visit there. The thing is, my snow boots, cute and furry though they were, cost $80. $80, where I come from, could almost buy a month of ice skating lessons for a Smally. $80 represents the electricity for a month's worth of assaults on Mount Washmore. $80, as it happens, is the exact amount required for Phillip's latest grad school textbook. So, it occurred to me that as cute and fuzzy as my new Montana snow boots were, they had the rotten luck to be made of suede, which in Portland, where it rains 300 days a year, is an unrealistic choice for footwear. I decided that my old clogs could handle whatever Billings had to dish out for a couple of days - after all - it's not like they were going to make me teach classes in the parking lot. I returned the sassy fuzzy snow boots unworn, congratulating myself on my responsible stewardship of resources.
Second thing my host said after meeting me at the airport: "Are those the only shoes you brought?"
And then, she graciously loaned me the real snow boots pictured above. That's just how they roll in Billings. *
Let me be clear: The Knitters of Wild Purls are Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know. They listened attentively while I told them what I know about making stranded colorwork. And they gamely played along during an exercise calculated to help them handle two strands of yarn at the same time. Hardly anyone got poked in the eye, and those who did were made of stout stuff, and didn't complain.
I know this also: The knitters of Billings know a thing or two about Stash Management. Lack those fancy-schmancy store fixtures to hold the bounty of your yarn collection? No problem. Use what is at hand: Notably, buckets from the feed store. Not only are they beautiful, they are functional. They have even become something of an icon that describes the spirit of Wild Purls. And yes, I got to touch ALL of That Yarn.
I told the Knitters lot of my secrets, and they told me a lot of theirs. We made hats, and mittens, and I'm pretty sure that this was only the beginning of our adventures together.
They were such good sports that they even posed for the following picture:
Julia Warmer is the owner of Wild Purls. She's down front with the apron on and my head in her lap. And for the record, she is an instigator of Many Silly Things. I hardly started any trouble at all. Okay, there may have been one little incident involving a hotel bed sheet. But mostly, I was the picture of restraint that you, Gentle Readers, all know me to be. I was so good that I'm almost sure they will invite me back, with appropriate supervision. One more thing I now know that you should too:
Billings Rocks.
3 Things I Know About Billings, Montana
Tomorrow morning at about a million o'clock, I'm going to visit Billings, Montana for the first time ever. Here is what I know about it, so far:
1. Billings is home to Julia Warmer, who owns Wild Purls:
2. They have real winter there, not just a colder version of rain-slobber (which is what we have here in Portland, Oregon). That is actual snow in the weekend forecast:
Somebody somewhere thinks highly enough of them as a city to have produced this T-shirt, on the assumption that others think highly of them as well:
Armed with these facts, I'm storming their beaches tomorrow. I get to meet the knitters tomorrow, and then play with them all day Saturday. Big. Fun.
My relentless quest for knowledge (okay, eleven minutes searching the internets) yielded the following important Montana-centric information:
* The largest snowflake ever observed was 38 cm wide was recorded in Montana on January 28, 1887. That’s just darn near 15 inches. Amazing!
* In Montana, the word "ditch” can be used to order a drink. It means "with water." "I'd like a Jack Daniel's ditch, please" means, "I'd like a Jack Daniel's and water." This is not a joke. In fact, all you really have to ask for is a "Jack ditch." Try it out the next time you find yourself in a Montana saloon.
* It is illegal to have a sheep in the cab of your truck without a chaperone.
And now you, Gentle Readers, are at least as well-informed about my destination as I am. Just one more service I provide. Don't know what knitting to take yet.
Something in Bison?
Thoughts of Spring
The Catkins project is careening toward the finish line, as I prepare for a teaching trip to Billings, MT this Friday. I found the perfect ribbons for trimming Catkins over the weekend, so now I'm really ready to hurry up and finish it, already. And then in my e-mail this morning, I got THIS:
That's right, my friends; My fondest Catkins button dreams have just come true. These have been created just for the sweater I am making. I ask you: What could be better than this? Can't find the perfect buttons for your pussy willow sweater? Just call up the most talented jeweler you know and she'll whip up a little something that totally exceeds you wildest imagination. Oh, and they'll be made of fine silver, too, if you can stand it.
So now you won't get to see the Catkins again until I have it all done - you know the direction it's going, but I still want have it completely finished for the big reveal.
In the meantime, enjoy the view from my desk this afternoon:
Man, I love my new office. The boss is a little squirrelly, but you really can't beat the atmosphere.
A Little Off-Shoulder Number
Catkins progresses...Sleeves are joined and yoke has begun. Looks a bit Flashdancy at the moment, no?
I'm alternating between Catkins and the swatch project this week, which has been nice for the needle size variation (3 vs 8). Allows me to alternate which muscles I'm clinching from time to time.
This week I achieved 2 Full-Time-Mommy Milestones: I successfully roasted a turkey breast (okay, dinner may have been at 9PM that night, but still), and I scrubbed the kitchen floor. Well, I actully sloshed water on it creating mud, but I think it's still a win because I got lots of exercise, and the smallies were really impressed. Not like you should lick the baseboards or anything, but baby steps.
And then I got bronchitis. Coincidence? I think not: One cannot expect to wallow on the floor in the mud without contracting something nasty. I consider this proof that housework is not only the domain of the uncreative mind, it's also toxic. Fortunately, it's never too late to swear off. Good thing I got that lesson out of the way.
This weekend the Snohomish Knitters Guild Yarn Train rolls into town, with my pals Lisa and KT aboard. I'm meeting them at the yarn shop, and then doing lunch. If that won't cure what ails me, then nothing will.
Swatchy McSwatcherpants
I once took a class for which the instructor (the lovely and talented Arenda Holiday) had pre-knitted all the class swatches. She had decided early in her teaching career that in order for her students to be successful in the technique she presented, the swatches they worked on had to be dependable, which is to say, all made by the same person. She liked making swatches, and could knock out bunches of them while watching tv, etc. It was no hardship for her, and ensured that her students had every advantage.
For us students, it was pure luxury. I can't tell you exactly why, but those little knitted squares (perfectly blocked, too) and knitted by someone else brought a level of ease and decadence to the experience that I can scarcely describe. I promised myself that I would do the same for my class one day, when the opportunity was right.
My Madrona students are being asked to make an entire neckwarmer for their homework. In light of that lofty goal, I could hardly expect them to make practice swatches, too. The time had come for me to become a benevolent swatchmaker.
Now, you know that my relationship with math is casual, at best, so when I figured out all by myself that 24 students needed 3 swatches each, for a total of...well...a LOT of swatches, I realized that I should start banging them out, and soon.
I am normally a reluctant swatcher. I really only do it because I'm usually writing directions that other people have to follow, and they might come and find me if I'm at all cavalier about things like gauge. Picky lot, you knitters. Left to my own devices, I hardly ever bother swatching. I just kinda use the Force.
But these swatches are different. They aren't trying to prove anything. There are no right dimensions to achieve. If I get a wee square of stranded fabric at the end, then my work there is done. Little 4-inch success stories; that's what these are. I couldn't be more smug. Yes, they are the stranded colorwork equivalent of boiled water. But you know what? Some days boiled water is a pretty impressive achievement. So I'm taking my validation wherever it's offered.
Appreciating the humble swatch solely on its own merits is a new idea to me. When the swatch is relieved of all responsibility for informing us of what a garment will be (totally unrealistic notion, by the way), it's really just a cute little mini-project. Do I want to do this all day? Not really. But when I asked myself what there was to be learned from this exercise, I was surprised by the answers.
Swatch On, Dear Friends.
So, what did you DO today?
Well, Gentle Readers, we made it to the end of week one of self-employment. I wish I could say I had a lot to show for it, but maybe it's more than I think. I was worried that being alone all day would be too weird for words, but I had sick children home with me for three of five days. So while still weird, it wasn't exactly lonely. Who knew I would leave the hospital only to become a full time nurse? I'm happy to report that the patients have improved, even if the patience hasn't. Who are these people, anyway, and why are they so small, and needy?
Every summer, Phillip has the honor of staying home with our children for three months. As an educator, he has the same school vacation schedule as the smallies. So while they have what could be loosely described as a "system", their stay-home experience has not, in my judgment, been long on the "Daily Chores" or "Ambitious Projects" experience. This used to cause me no end of consternation (make your face look surprised here). I never could understand how three bipedal creatures with opposable thumbs could manage 90 days of freedom, without even accidentally cleaning out the garage. I used to come home after a long day at the office, survey the carnage, and demand to know of them all; "But what did you DO all day?"
So far, Phillip has kept the smirking to a respectable minimum. He has even been sympathetic, when I worried that the sick children might put me around the bend. I have the sense he's waiting for the proper Told Ya So moment. Which I have decided I will not begrudge him, when the time comes.
So in answer to the question, which I now have to demand of myself, I did this:
Two sleeves and the lower body of the Catkins Cardigan.
I also:
Went to the doctor's office, followed by the pharmacy. Twice.
Waved goodbye to the school bus 5 times (at least one kid went to school every day).
Let my dog take me for a walk.
Made the bed.
Challenged the summit of Mount Washmore.
Took someone's temperature seven million times.
Woke up in the night with small sick people. A lot.
Wondered at the miracle of being Home. Not just for the weekend. Not just for a vacation (previously known as my one-week, office-sanctioned, Annual Housework Interlude). Really home. So little time have I spent here that it doesn't even really seem to be my space. Not like the office was. For all its penitentiary qualities, I felt that my cubicle belonged to me. But here, I feel as if I have have yet to emotionally unpack my bags and move in. Twisted notion, no?
Pretty sure I'm up to the challenge, though.