I finished the knitting on the Shell Bag a couple of weeks ago, and I've been waiting for the Homestead Heirlooms handles to arrrive. I got back from Soar convinced that they would be here. No sign of them. Days passed. Nothing.
Now granted, we are wrapped like a Christo installation because the chimney is being rebuilt. There are men on my roof with wheel barrows and scaffolding, and I can hear everything they say. It comes down the chimney like a telephone. They don't talk about anything that's very interesting. Mostly it's sports, which I understand is the lingua franca of the American male. I only wish they cared about social policy or America's role in the world as much as they seem to care about rookie RBI's in the post-season.
All the scaffolding? It puts the mailman off a bit. He can't seem to decide where to leave our mail, so he tries something new everyday. The front stoop made a lot of sense, which is why, of course, he only tried that once. He's left it on the table on the back patio, under the scaffolding by the side door (nostalgia on his part I think for the time weeks and weeks ago when that was the door we used to let the world in), on my car hood, and next to the garbage cans which was also (in his defense) under a bush. He may be having me on, really. But since the handles hadn't shown up, I went looking for them yesterday.
And the Mister, who thinks of himself as a natural bloodhound who can find anything I misplace (rememeber the keys incident?) calls out the back door at me. "Whatcha' lookin' for?" he says.
"My purse handles."
"Those came while you were away."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I figured you'd seen them."
He, like the mailman, likes to leave my mail in (shall we call it?) interesting places. On the table in the parlor in plain sight, of course. Exactly where I would never look for it. I had been waiting for the handles to finish the bag. So finally, they are here, and I can get on with it.
I have chosen the fabric from the stash (Kaffe, of course).
I wet blocked the knitting.
The bottom is my favorite part. But here's the thing: it's big.
big. 18 inches across big. This is the biggest wastebasket in the house, big enough to leave unemptied for months at a time. I had to empty it today (you know, for the blocking?) and I found Christmas wrapping at the bottom. That's how big this bag is. As fond as I am of the stitches, I may have to felt it after all.
But I love the handles. Terry was so right.