I don't know how many people who drop by here read the blog over at Twist Collective, but I posted this today and thought I'd put it here too since I actually say some things in it that I am willing to repeat.
(Imagine me at Speaker's Corner, standing on a milk crate, rending my garments --no, not ones I knit myself, that would truly be awful-- and howling this at the top of my voice, but I won't shout here because that would be, you know, like, rude.)
I can not go to Sock Summit, which is going to be so incredibly cool and fun and the kind of event people will talk about for years, decades, generations to come, dear cousins. Socks, you say? You don't do so much the socks? But who cares? They have all kinds of things going on. Cast ons, bead techniques, men, spinning, and a dance! It's going to be like the World's Fair of Knitting. I can not go. I hate that I can not go.
(why? oh, this is not going to sound like a big enough reason to you, I know. But I have this ancient family cabin that I fell out of schedule with for about three years, and after much grovelling and playing most excellent distant relative, only last year have I re-ingratiated myself to the forces that be, and have been allowed back in to the fold, as it were, and the schedule of my penance directly conflicts with Sock Summit, so . . .fraked I am. If I blew this off and went to Sock Summit, I might never get back into the family graces, and this is the kind of thing my children and my children's children would never forgive me for. Bad timing. No getting around it. Barring a scene out of Hamlet that leaves me a Fortinbras, I am stuck.)
so go, have fun, take good classes, and say hi to Barbara Walker for me. I will be drinking coffee tomorrow morning, far far away from my computer.
That we are having a spring, by which I mean 60 degree days and cool nights rather than the usual New England segue from frigid winter temps to blazing and muggy, has served to encourage my knitting on the big wool cardigan. On it goes.
In early April, I planted about a pound of peas. I have accumulated a few wisdoms about peas over my few years in the garden. One: it is possible to plant them on St. Patrick's day, it's true, but even if you do, they still won't be ready any sooner than the ones you throw into the soil the first week of May. July 4th. That's when peas will be ready to harvest in my garden, early planting regardless.
Today I'm going to take a moment to remember Lydia Grew, a local shepherd and iconoclast who passed away last month, leaving all of us who knew her a little in shock and also quieted by her death. Lydia was a taciturn character in the old world fashion, infamous for her opinions and her generosity with them, for the standards she held her dogs to, and also for the high quality of her fleeces which she prized above just about everything. Almost every spinning session in town was occasion for sharing a story about her, and we will miss her annual shearing day at Gabriel's Fold and her blunt humor. I remember when I had my first piece published in Interweave Knits, the little author's bio at the bottom of the page identified me as a spinner. When Lydia read that in her copy, she called me on the phone and demanded that I bring my spinning down so she could critique it. That was pure Lydia: gruff yet helpful, clumsy attempt as it was. I smile remembering her.
Skiers may spend their day considering the potential of every surface, were it covered in fresh powder. Track stars may wonder how long it would take them to cross the street once the light changes. Teenage boys attempt basketball-style lay-ups to touch every sign overhead, even in the produce section. It's all a matter of what moves you forward that can sometimes slant the world just a little, making it all seem to be one giant playground for your own personal hobbyhorse.
I look at the world from a knitter's perspective.
I order flannel pajama pants for my boy from L. L. Bean (item # TA58123). They arrive, and we open up the box. The flannel pajama pants come in little matching flannel knap sacks.
My son, 7 year old paleontologist sees this:
(only natural, after all since the flannel is printed with dinosaurs) Me? I see this.
Happily, I had ordered two pairs of flannel pajama pants, so there will be no tears. I hate it when he cries.
Bird in Hand mittens, by the way. And to answer the same question about the previous post, Melissa Lumley's Hebrides Cardigan for Mostly Merino, bought as a kit at New Hampshire Sheep and Wool last year.