Moth Heaven

My Dog, the Fiber Animal

I have a Standard Poodle named George.  George is 10 years old and came to me as a puppy from Giselle Bursee, an excellent  breeder who lives in Scarborough, Ontario.  I adore George, and consider him to be one of the smartest and sweetest tempered dogs I've ever known.

George also sports a very fine coat that never fails to pique fiber people when they meet him.

They plant an inquiring hand on his head, stroke the ear fluff a little and say "Have you ever considered spinning this?"

I've heard a lot about spinning dog fur and hair, and I do think that someday, I'd like to blend a little of George into some BFL for a keepsake (because dogs don't live forever).  Truth be told, some breeds of dog produce more fiber a year than most sheep, but my understanding of dog fiber is that it never quite surrenders the doggy smell, and it does need a little wool to help it stick together in the spinning.

So the answer is yes, I have thought about it,but no, I won't be sending George out for a shearing any time soon.  He does bear a resemblance to the Mary Pratt fleece you see there next to him, doesn't he? (acquired by Juno at Rhinebeck--thanks again dear-- finally finished washing this weekend, destined to be an Aran of some sort, if you're asking)  That resemblance struck me on Thursday as I dug it out and prepared for the nice fleece drying weather we had.  I thought about it again, like I need more fiber, but decided against it yet again if only to preserve George's good looks.  A shearing is such an undignified haircut for a pet.  I mean, have you ever seen a shaved cat? 

Gray Anatomy

Last night, we had Library Knit Night in my kitchen.  You might recognize Terry at the top of the picture and Alison near the lower right corner (she's wearing a freshly finished Karlsboro, and we all want one now.  In my case, I only want mine to look as good on me as hers does on Alison).

When my husband needed a meeting space last night for one of his groups, he asked Alpaca Kathy how much wine it would take to convince the Knit group to trade our room at the library for the table in our kitchen.  She said, "I don't know.  We'll have to see how much we can drink."

I was glad to be surrounded by friends when the first stage of Nautie came off the needles looking like this.  It was good to know it wasn't just me who saw what I saw before I hurried on to adding the testicles tentacles. Thank the heavens I didn't knit it in pink.  Someone threatened to pose with it, but she demured when she realized that I had the camera.  We had a laugh.  I'll leave your imagination to fill in the rest.

Terry was overcome with enthusiasm (yet again, and as ever) for the miracle of turning a heel.  We all marvelled.  It is good to be among fellows at such moments too.

And by the end of the evening, Nautie was ready for presentation to The Boy.  He has named it "Cephie": short for cephalopod. 

How much prosecco did we drink?  Not much, really.  Timid group perhaps, but ultimately, responsible drivers all.  Knitters can crack anatomy jokes while sober too, you know.

How to Push Yarn Like an Expert

Susan was in town with her family last weekend, and it is my greatest regret that we made only the most general of plans to maybe meet on Friday, or was it Saturday, so the whole thing completely evaporated from my brain until the very second on Saturday when it became too late to salvage any time at all.  So my most elaborate of fawning apologies to her, and a warning to any of you who might think I am a reliable person to meet you on a corner on a sunny day.  Make me repeat any instructions back to you, and make sure the plan is nailed down, lest I see a weed in the walk that needs a pull, and the hedge could use a trim, and damn, we're out of milk I need-to-run-to-the-store, and before you know it, you're standing on uncertainty corner wondering if it was something you should have said.

Stephanie came to town Wednesday and she's no slouch about the "be there at that time and bring the such and such."  I was prompt, because I wasn't going to make the same stupid mistake twice in one week.  It certainly would have been fun to head out to the Lowell Textile History Museum (if only to see her face the moment she realizes that she is in the presence of 4000 wheels), but it was too late in the day to outrun rush hour.  And favorite yarn shops Wild and Wooly and Woolcott both close at the respectable hour of five, so that left only one option in the Boston area: Circles.  But really, I do so admire that shop, I couldn't imagine not taking a knitting friend there, given the chance.

(We had to brave Red Sox game traffic on the way to Jamaica Plain, and Stephanie observed that while sports crowds in both Toronto and Boston exhibit a behavior that is universal, the reason why the guy in a "Red Sox Nation" shirt at the Blue Jays game she went to the night before would try to get the crowd to chant "Yankees Suck" mystified her.  I explained the nature of the particular anathema Red Sox fans harbor for the Yankees, but that a Red Sox fan would attend a Yankees game in another city to incite the crowd against them was a difficult concept for so polite a Canadian. Come to think of it, I may understand the motivation myself, but only so far as it strengthens my conviction that the culture of professional sports is doing none of us a favour.)

We had Circles practically to ourselves, and the nice woman who wasn't Allison (whose name I forget--again with the evaporating brain) was content to have us blabber on about which of the two colours of orange in the Kidsilk Haze had Claudia knit her Birch in, and there was an amazing Coopworth fingering weight she bought last time, was there more?, and the like. So we touched everything, dumped the sale bin out onto the floor, and heedlessly fondled all the samples.  For two solid hours we pet the yarn, and Stephanie used her powers of persuasion to get me to buy lace weight alpaca, to embark upon an imaginary shawl that has no written pattern, to support a yarn company out of principle with a token purchase, and to buy enough Artyarns Regal Silk to finally add a Flower Basket Scarf to my life. (Stash note: there must now be about six such yarns in the stash so designated, all chosen for their refined exquisiteness to finally chase the FBS onto my entropic needles.  But this time, it's different.  Really.  I mean it.)  She is very good at getting other people to buy yarn, especially me, (but Juno might have the highest ranking on the susceptibility scale in this case)  and she even says that it's one of her better skills.  She tried to teach me the finer points; kneeling over a pile of sale bin yarn on the floor, waving a skein of Chasing Rainbows Tencel Merino at me, she signaled that I should give my persuading muscle a flex.

"Tell me why I should buy this skein."

"Nancy Finn is an independent producer?" I offered, uncertainly.

"Try again," she whispered, unimpressed.

"How many yards are in that skein?" I asked, searching my brain for small projects that don't amount to *hat*.

"Come ON!  You're not even trying!"

The woman whose name I forget suggested: "Mittens?"

"Bingo!"  said Stephanie, and slapped that puppy down on the counter behind her. She looked at me with exaggerated disgust and said "That is why you don't work in a yarn store."

I have so much yet to learn.

I Almost Forgot

It was my second blogiversary a week ago, on the 11th.  I almost forgot. 

I had been planning a post to count my blog blessings, my new Boston area knit-chums; the names and email correspondents with whom I have yet to shake hands, the trips to Manhattan and Salt Lake and Austin that I wish I could make to yarn crawl with fellow bloggers; the fiber that has come to me, the socks I have been inspired to knit (I was never much of a sock knitter before the blog, you know); the spinners I have turned on to the allure of the wheel -- new to it as I am myself; the books on my shelf written by people I am tickled to have broken bread with.  The blog has been a bridge built out of my new-mommy funk back into the world, and thanks to knitting and blogging and people generous with their time and their words, I passed a couple of years that could have been spent in an unpleasant isolation by the particular challenges of motherhood to my Boy.  I wanted to thank everyone for everything.  I couldn't imagine a better way to have passed my time. Who says the internet encourages anti-social behavior?  Over here on the knit blogs, we're having a flesh and fiber party practically every week somewhere in the world. And now that Sheep season is upon us . . .

If you're a long-time reader or a recent skimmer, thanks for tuning in.  I don't know where I go from here.  I've been less bloggy lately as I reconnect with the writing I have always aspired to do.  I have a couple of stories out in the world and I keep my fingers crossed.  My husband wonders when am I going to put down the knitting and go back to the Selectric.  I have lately realized that I am not prolific in my work, I can't be both a devoted blogger and a fiction writer any more than I can read the New Yorker and also maintain my novel habit.  It seems neither can I can knit and read novels at all (Thank the goddess for Audible). We're also in the middle of re-habbing a house for my in-laws, and that has been taking up a lot of my time lately, as have the things I've had on hold for four years, a neglected garden, weary paint, and the basic organization of this house that I've all but ignored since the boy was born.  It's taken me almost four years to prime the baseboard in the kitchen, for heaven's sake.

Which is to say that I will still be here, but I'm going to take the fiber down a notch for awhile.  I'll post regularly, but not as frequently, as I occupy myself with things other than fiber and more with the things I've been keeping on hold.  I hope you won't forget about me.  Thanks for everything, so far.

Fickle and Feckless

Gypsy is giving me trouble.  No surprise, really, considering her high spirited nature and my placid knitting style.  I need some remedial stitch work.  So do I buckle down and face the issue?  Do I open some books and figure out what I am doing wrong? 

Nope.

I cast on something new.  Something fun and for The Boy.  It's Nautie from the new Knitty, in Lamb's Pride.  It's a bit tricky at the beginning, but now I'm in a groove, and I can't help it -- but having just weathered the Divine Miss C's first role in a school musical as a Pick-a Little Lady from The Music Man -- I have running through my head.

Stitch-a-little, stuff-a-little
Stitch-a-little, stuff-a-little
Stitch stitch stich
Stitch-a-lot, stuff-a-little more . . .


(This is much more amusing a point if you have actually read the pattern)

 Meanwhile, can anyone tell me if there is a trick to finding a snapped leader in a bobbin of precious singles?

The Post About Nothing, Especially as it Regards the Lack of Progress on a Certain Cotton Sweater

The Gypsy is moving along slowly, mostly because I have flubbed the stitch count so many times trying to knit on her in social (ahem) situations where I am so distracted by the conversation that I forget that I am not knitting stockinette for several stitches at a go, and wind up with a row of what-the-hell-is-this? and have to tink back. 
This is not a rippable sweater.  This is a tink-your-careful-way-back sweater, which is additionally challenging for me because like my willful impermeability to the 7s and 8s column on the multiplication tables and the whole of the periodic table of elements in spite of an A in Freshman Chemistry, I have never really learned which way the stitches should sit on the needles (no don't try to tell me, it won't work and I'll just forget in a flurry of absent mindedness anyway) mostly because I am of those heretical knitters who owe Annie Modesitt their defendable positions as "combination," but even more of a yahoo that I am, I don't CARE to even pay attention to all the helpful little articles over the years that have offered me an island of normalcy in my knitting, to align myself with the world community of left-facing (or is it right-facing?) stitches, so years later here I find myself at 42 without so much as a clue about whether my stitches are in the right  correct position for the return journey of k2tog yo ssk.

It's a muddle.

Which is all to say that there has been a lot of running in place on the Gypsy.  It looks pretty much the same as it did three days ago when last I showed it to you.

Panda Cleaners Redux

Reader Patti sent this along this morning: a shot of a vintage postcard from her collection.  She said I could show it to the blog.
A little glimpse behind the scenes at our local Panda Cleaners.
We're currently beating back the four year old's requests for a pet, and now to the list of Whip Tailed Lizards and Red Eyed Tree Frogs and Marine Iguanas, we have to add Giant Pandas. 
I wouldn't mind so long as The Boy cleaned the cage once a week.
Too bad they're not fiber animals.

Release the Spring Gypsy

Who needs the Easter Bunny? Around here, we're awaiting the Spring Gypsy.

She's pink.  She's mesh.  She's a little bit Flashdance.  She's a little bit Lucky Star.  She's got big holes and little. 

And Amanda finished one just last month.  Go and admire how beautiful they are together.

I've cast on and reached the first set of big eyelets, or -- as the Gypsy might call them -- The Windows on the Soul,

which, in this case, as the sweater falls, is visible right at the belly line. 

Where there is an abundance of soul evident. 

I'm okay with that.

I am Gypsy, after all, dahlink.

Color me Happy, and please call the Chiropractor

Yesterday, Linda Whiting was in town.  If you don't know Linda, it's because you don't go to Fiber Festivals in New England.  She's a regular exhibitor at Fryeburg, New Hampshire Sheep and Wool, and the Frolic, (among many others) a fiber artist of many mediums, wood, wool, quilting, weaving, felting, and of course knitting, and has a business called Pine Star Studio.  She also runs the Denmark Sheepfest which happens to be this coming weekend, (here's a nice account of last year's fest) so all you sheep junkies looking for an early season fiber fix, get yourselves up to Denmark, Maine this Saturday.  I bet Kim will be there!

Linda was in town because Alpaca Kathy had invited her to teach a workshop to a group of local(ish) spinners, and teach us she did.  We borrowed the classroom of one particularly cool teacher we know, and made many many little batches of dye to demonstrate basic colour theory and dyeing techniques.

Here are all of our little cups for the first batch of samples:

And here are another collection of jars demonstrating saturation.

Where there's a gathering of spinners, there is food.

And the brownies!  Oh, Vicki's brownies!  We invited the teacher working next door to join us, there was so much to eat.  After lunch, we took note of the fiber paraphernalia sprinkled around the classroom (I did say she was the very coolest of teachers, didn't i?)

A little loom . . .

A bigger loom . . .

These are the kid's work baskets (the boys are particularly prolific) . . .

And how wonderful is this?  A basket of drop spindles!  In a public school!  Don't you seriously want to go to that kind of school?  Or at least send your kids there?  These kids are always looking for fiber to spin, so while you're clearing out your stash this spring, keep them in mind.  They'll love you forever.

Gratuitous picture of bloggers blogging . . .

What are Erin and Cheryl blogging, you ask?

These!  At the end of the eight hour day, we had 19 sample cards each, an empowering grasp of the possibilities and how to actually make color for ourselves.  I couldn't sleep last night, so excited was I to set forth of the sea of The Color Kittens.  The last tumbler in the lock has fallen and I finally grock it, man. 

But the back?  after a few hours in those little chairs, dude, I was ready for a massage.  I may be in traction for a day or two, but there is a smile on my face.  Can you tell I'm happy? 

Stirred by the Stash

I have returned from the trek to the stash.  I have looked upon the face of abundance and been humbled by my appetite for aquisition.  I have culled and sorted, picked a few little goodies for dispensation (you know what that means?  contests!) and made a short list of projects, one of which will hopefully re-ignite the knitting fire within.  I want sweaters that I'll actually wear, won't make me look like a sausage, and fit into my life realistically.  They may not be exciting, but they are wardrobe as much as craft.  I have the yarn for these little gems of understatement:  Mary by Kim Hargreaves and Swank both from Rowan 29, and on the right here, Ava by Louisa Harding from Rowan 34.

And then there's also this:

the Gypsy Mesh Pullover by Norah Gaughan from the Spring 2004 Interweave.  I just finished Norah Gaughan's Tweedy Aran Cardigan and love it muchly.  I wear it all the time, and I think that the same will be true for this little number.  I have the called for yarn, Reynold's Gypsy, in a dark coral.  I'm pretty sure this is the winner.

and this has also been going on.

It's true.  I've knit a couple of Kay and Ann's mitered squares.  It's a virus.
So is that bloody song (see picture).  I've had it stuck in my head ever since I started knitting these.  (By the way, I'm knitting them on my mismatched Boye size 5's, because an afghan just doesn't go with Addis, if you know what I mean.)   I'm not sure where this is leading, but it might be fun.  But if you hear news several weeks hence that they hauled me off the Lincoln Memorial Steps belting Barbara Streisand tunes, you'll understand where it all began.