mamacate

Oh Me of Little Faith

It only took two years, but from sheep and wool festival to shawl, I give you the copper moth tussah scarf that's so old that I even have a category for it.  (Okay, I don't really give you it, more like I give you a picture of it.)

Eleanor served as photo stylist.  I asked her to model by wearing it, but instead she suggested posing it near the garden.  She has good ideas.

I spent a lot of time while knitting it thinking of ripping it out.  I actually ripped out two different scarf/shawl starts before getting to this one.  The fabric is pretty loosely knit, more so than I would do if I had it to do over, but I think it works.  Anyway, I like it.  I wasn't sure the pattern would show up, but in the end it did.  Right up until I pinned it out, I was considering other patterns, and then, well, the big pile of spaghetti turned into a shawl.

It wasn't that I didn't trust EAC (that's what I call her now: three shawls in a row and I think we're ready for a nickname).  It was more that I didn't think I was doing either her or the handspun naturally-dyed yarn any justice.  EAC and some blocking pins--now we're talking.

It didn't quite debut at Barb's open farm day on Saturday.  The kids and I had a good time even if I was shawlless.  I think Henry ate at least 30 cookies, and I got a treat of seeing knitting friends out of season (you know, not in May or October, official fiber festival months).  Marcy came with us in the Car of Great Loudness; blogless Kathleen was there with her family, including her daughter who was the perfect partner in crime for my two; blogless Deanna also turned up with some gorgeous dog hair-wool-blend gloves she'd spun and knit; and finally Terri and her husband drove up on a motorcycle.  What fun.  The best part was when a bus drove up the remote country road, pulled in and disgorged a whack (isn't that the right term?) of knitters on an official yarn crawl.  Apparently someone got wind of the open farm at Webs, and it was kind of on the way, and Bob's your uncle.  Someone must have whispered the word "cashmere."  Smart knitters.  All that, and a sweet baby lamb.  And a sweet mama too.

I confess, some cashmere silk came home with me.  Because apparently I didn't get enough with all the lurking around the booth at Cummington.  Okay and New Hampshire, what's your point?  I was feeling all virtuous since I was already knitting another EAC (shetland triangle) with the camel silk I bought at New Hampshire THIS YEAR, and figured that gave me carte blanche to buy more.

Don't tell me different.  What's done is done.

Something to Show

Well, not much to say, but it turns out that I do have a fair amount to show.  This is only because I haven't uploaded pictures in a while.

Well, despite an early and rather obnoxious wakeup call each day this weekend from my lovely son, who has been doing great since the surgery but has suddenly regressed terribly, possibly related to the otty-pay aining-tray.  Anyway, I'm ready for it to be over.  The early wakeups and the humidity.  But I think I mentioned that.

As I was saying, we did have some fun this weekend.  At the dog festival, we took Scoutie to see Madame Bowowski, who read Scoutie's skull and her past lives.  She told us that in a past life Scoutie had been a roman soldier named Caninus Maximus.  It was all very cute, but also somewhat surprising since Scoutie's nickname around the house is Scoutivarius Maximus.  Perhaps Madame Bowowski does in fact have special powers.  And before my mother, the high school Latin teacher, comments to correct , I know it should have been Canis Maxima.  Or something.  I never took Latin.  Probably for the best.

The highlight of the weekend, however, was the pediatric pedicure party.  That is, the pedi pedi party.  Everyone wanted pink sparkly toenails.  Who am I to argue?  It was kind of a fun, girly, boy-y bonding moment (Henry was hardly going to let sparkly toenails pass him by, and he carries it off in a very manly way, I must say).  I'm looking forward to lots of home-spa days in our future.  Rhys isn't sure she approves, but maybe next time I'll do something less enduring, like blue facial masks or something.  They'll love that.

Despite the dusk-like sky all day today, I did manage to get a photo of the cashmere.  It's 175 yards.  Lacy gloves, perhaps.  The little bits in there are either the  embarrassing flaky residue of my sanity, or goat dandruff, called scurf.  You decide.  I'm hoping it will wash out.

In less recent spinning, I photographed the Copper Moth tussah back when that firey orb was still gracing our sky, that is, last weekend.  I think I've been putting off posting it because the pictures really point out how different the two skeins are.  One is 240 yards and the other is about 300 (next time I'll actually attach the paper to the skein).  So I can probably get two scarves out of this, and a scarf was what I had planned in the first place.  But having them be unintentionally different makes me want to make a shawl or something.  Warped, I know.

Also in old news, a couple of skeins of the wonderous Motley, which, when I return to him after spinning the cashmere, should be quite an experience in relaxation.  Motley is a blast to spin and just flies onto the bobbin with minimal effort, in no small part thanks to the work of my friends at Zeilinger's.  However, the finished product is not as enticing as I might like.  It reminds me of an old yarn, now discontinued but alive in my stash, called Ballybrae, if anyone remembers that stuff.  Not bad stuff at all, in a rustic sort of way, but not the luxury I sometimes hope for from handspun.  Don't care, though, as it makes me happy.  And it still wants to be a cabled cardigan. 

All that said, and I will leave you with a little wool porn.  I promised some Motley in good light, and Motley in good light you shall have.  Look closely and you can see that Motley was well-named.  He actually has black and white fibers, rather than gray ones.  He wasn't spotted--I saw the freshly-shorn fleece--that's just how his wool grew.  Kinda cool, huh?

Say goodnight, Motley. 

Good night, Motley.

I Count the Bright Hours Only

What wonderful responses to my lace post.  Thanks.  I'm glad I've discovered something so many of you have known for a long time.  I assume this is all a part of the plan for world domination (which, apparently, involves a knitting  theme on Typepad).  A mindfulness-based plan for world domination?  Perhaps it's not world domination, but amazingly, Buddhist principles are making their mark in government and world affairs.  Think we can get the current administration to try out some principles of compassion on our government?  Take a page out of Bhutan's book?  Okay, maybe not.

In knitting news, I'm birching along slowly.  Risa is unstoppable, doing insane and amazing things with the birch pattern and knitting like a house afire.  And I can't even use that "well, she doesn't have twins" excuse, because, well, she does.  She's just that good.  I'm okay with that.

As for spinning, I'm in a bit of a bobbin bottleneck and I need to finish plying the Copper Moth tussah before I can really get moving on Motley the Marvelous Montadale.  This is not exactly a terrible thing, since I'm kind of loving the silk.  I did a certain amount of hemming and hawing (I know, me?, can you believe it?), and with some advice from Marcy, I decided to just randomly ply them together.  I think it works.  The yarn is not my most even or well-plied.  You should have heard Marcy barking at me (as per my request for coaching) at spinning group--STOP MOVING YOUR BACK HAND!--I did get good plying coaching though, and good long draw help as well, thanks Marcy!  But, like the rest of my spinning, its inconsistency and imperfections are part of its charm.  Oh, humor me, won't you?

As an aside, I've become very attached to taking photos in the garden outside my office door.  It's also outside the College president's window, and, oh, every other senior administrator in the place.  Do you think this is a bad professional move, to be photographing yarn and knitwear in front of every dean and VP on campus?  Is that a stupid question?  Does anyone have any illusions about the fact that I'm already considered pretty freaky, and at a liberal arts college, freakiness is quite a competitve category?  Never mind.  Given my absence of career aspirations, and the opportunity to pose my handspun on an antique sundial reading, "I COUNT THE BRIGHT HOURS ONLY," I shall choose not to worry about it.  Here's another picture so you can better understand my dilemma.

Finally, we had an interesting thing happen in the car this morning on the way to preschool.  Henry, just turned 3, was very excited to report that he tied his shoes together (he's good with string, funny, that).  He was extremely upset at the idea of my untying them so he could walk and only acquiesced when I offered to take a picture.

So, the obvious conclusion, clearly, is that my son is a total freaking genius.  I mean, the manual dexterity!  The determination!  The logic!  The skill!  I cannot fail to note, however, that he did tie his own shoes together in this display of brilliance unleashed.  So perhaps the nonrefundable deposit at MIT will have to wait another year or two. I'm still saving, though.