Knit Sisters

Became final this week.

I feel a little weird, a little sad, a little relieved, a little scared, a little excited.  Scared about what the future may hold, and excited about what the future may hold.  A bit frightened that my fall-back position is no longer there.  I really am on my own now.  (Well, as much on my own as a woman with a loving and supportive family and great friends gets.)

Once upon a time, when I was a more active quilter than a knitter, (I know, horrors!) I checked out and re-checked out a book from the library about a quilter named Nancy Crow.  She is well-known in the quilt world and has won many prizes and awards, as well as commissions.  This book, in addition to picturing her quilts, also included photos of her studio and her own thoughts about her creative process.  I think this was what fascinated me about the book–the glimpse into a successful fiber artist’s inner workings and inspirations.  The one thing that I remember most from that book, though, is a large, hand-lettered sign that Nancy Crow had up on the wall of her studio.  It said:  FOCUS.  SET GOALS.

I’ve thought of that often and often over the years, both when thinking about the large things (What in the heck am I doing with my life?) and the smaller things (Which project should I pick up next?).  I often thought of creating my own FOCUS.  SET GOALS. sign to hang on the wall of my studio.  But I never did. 

I don’t know exactly why I never did make that sign.  Perhaps it was just laziness.  Perhaps it was something deeper than that–a lack of daring, a lack of confidence. Maybe I really didn’t feel that I deserved my focus, that I myself was worth my own time.  

On August 10, I’m closing on a small two-bedroom house here in town.  Harvey will have one bedroom; I will have the other.  There is a large, sunny room with hardwood floors where my grand piano will sit, along with my spinning wheels.  I’m planning on making my bedroom my studio space as well, with my sewing machine, my fabrics, my yarn, my fiber, my books.  And on one wall I will hang a large, hand-lettered sign that reads:

FOCUS.  SET GOALS.

1.  Congratulations Kristy!  I think you will really enjoy that cone of pink yarn.  It softens tremendously when washed and has a wonderful drape, in addition to being really warm.  I think I can safely say that it was perfect for the Handsome Triangle shawl, and I’m really looking forward to seeing what you do with it!  Also, there’s so much yardage there that you should be able to do almost anything you want with it.  (Well, aside from making a whole-house cozy, I suppose.)

2.  I finally finished this little hemp dishcloth, which has been sitting in a basket for some weeks now. 

                                            

In this case, “finishing” simply meant weaving in the two ends.  Sometimes I am so lazy that I astound even myself.

3.  I started swatching with the Schaeffer Anne on size 0 needles.  Here’s my little tube: 

                                                                 

I’m getting 10 stitches to the inch on size 0 needles.  A entire pair of socks at 10 stitches to the inch somewhat boggles the mind (at least mine), especially as I was considering using this yarn to make a pair of socks for a friend with very wide feet, but I am determined to persevere.

4.  I finished one of the socks for my soldier buddy.

The reason I don’t make toe-up socks very often?  You’re left with the dilemma of trying to find a nice stretchy bindoff at the top that doesn’t look sloppy.  I finally settled on the sewn bindoff for these.

5.  Someday soon I am going to get back to Rumpelstiltskin.  He is languishing for want of attention. 

6.  One of my goals for the week?  Clean up my little knitting corner of the couch.  It is a veritable welter of swatches, socks, books, and circular needles.  Housekeeping is really not my strong suit, although I have many other wonderful attributes, as I’m sure you will all agree.  (Right?)

7.  Harvey refused to be photographed for this post, although he allowed me to take a picture of him with his comic book (sorry, graphic novel) in front of his face.

 

This really is very close to how he has appeared all summer, though–with his nose in a book.  That’s my boy!

1, 2:  Eyes on you.

Now that we have escaped the gravitational pull of Planet Wedding and have bumped down again on Earth, there are some issues to be dealt with—issues that had been placed on the back burner in favor of guzzling champagne and gorging ourselves on cake…oh, halcyon days where are you now? The most pressing of these currently is the return of our substantial security deposit from our former lying, cheating, craphound landlord.

Predictably, this has not gone smoothly.

This is a photo of my reading nook at the Dream House, a space of calm and succor to me in these trying times.

After all the work we did on that place to make it liveable (six weeks of full time labor initially + ongoing maintenance of the interior and the grounds—all jobs the our landlord flatly refused to do, although they were indubitably his responsibility), after the crisis of the sixty-year-old furnace’s death in the coldest part of the winter, after a million other little insults, lies, and quotidian atrocities we endured at his hands, Mr. Craphound actually had the gall to suggest that we left the stove a little dirty (we scrubbed it until our fingers bled) and that we had stolen a carbon monoxide detector (he never installed such a detector and we are categorically not thieves).

Finally, Mr. Craphound told Alex that he would meet him at the old property at noon on Sunday to give him our deposit check. Sunday was the last day he could legally return the deposit to us according to Massachusetts Law.

Noon passed. Alex left Mr. Craphound a message.

12:30 passed. Alex left Mr. Craphound another message.

1 p.m. passed. Alex left Mr. Craphound a third message.

1:30 passed. Alex left a final message for Mr. Craphound.

2 p.m. passed. We left the house. No return call from Mr. Craphound.

By the time Craphound finally called at 3 p.m. to say that he was “running a little late,” Alex had passed some point of no return. Telling it like it is, folks, I’ve never seen Wellerstein so angry.

“When we get home,” he said, “I’m writing Craphound a letter and I’m going to make it clear that he’s on the wrong side of the law now.

I was secretly delighted to see my exquisitely diplomatic husband transmogrify into Dirty Harry before my eyes. What Craphound had to ask himself now was, “Do I feel lucky?”

While I finished this scarf—which is by the way the only knitting I’ve done since this whole wedding caper began—Alex composed his letter.

Mulberry Silk, Laines Du Nord, in color Denim. Four skeins. Pattern by Mac and Me. Lovely results due mostly to the yarn, not the knitter.

Here’s a close-up of the ruffle:

I just love a good ruffle, don’t you?

Dirty Harry’s letter to Mr. Craphound went something like this (edits have been made for brevity, but the essential text is unchanged):

Dear Lying, Cheapskake, Craphound Landlord,

Sincerely, Alex

I think we can all agree that this letter shows excellent mental health on Alex’s part. But whether Craphound will return our money or simply have us killed remains to be seen…

Tune in next time when we’ll hear Alex say, “Make my day, Craphound.”

Shelley here. My ma has the flu, so I told her I’d guest blog for her this evening. It’s one of the many fine services I provide, along with groundhog extermination and garbage sorting.

She actually worked at the yarn shop this afternoon, but it seems like that pretty much wiped her out. She has taken to her bed with a jigger of Nyquil and a copy of Atul Gawande’s latest book, Better. I believe that title can only be described as wishful thinking.

But seriously, folks, she actually is better. You should have seen her on Tuesday! Fortunately for all involved (except me), I was the only one who witnessed her violent regurgitations. But it is often the dour lot of the canis familiaris to endure with our human fellows their lowest and most unattractive moments.

There ain’t no such thing as a free helping of kibble.

So seeing that one of my pack members was laid low and therefore vulnerable, I sat on her bed all day to guard her. Which was kind of bad timing, really, given how sunny the day was and how much I like to sunbathe. But…duty first!

Okay, I did go outside once during her second episode of horrific retching, but I’m sure that she perceived my brief jaunt as consistent with the “Lassie Model” of dog behavior, i.e., she thought I had run outside to seek aid and succor for her from another creature with opposable thumbs.

Actually, I had come to fear that under the circumstances, no dinner would be forthcoming and I better either A) rustle up some prey or B) find a creature with opposable thumbs and a spare sirloin who was not lying immobile in a pool of her own cold sweat on the bathroom linoleum.

You know what they say: you have to take care of yourself before you can take care of anyone else!

She showed some improvement yesterday and even drank a couple of these:

And ate a bit of—what else?—Jell-O:

She seemed especially proud of this subtly layered Jell-O treat and said something about how these were “the Rothkos of Jell-O salads.” I frankly have no idea what she was talking about. Must have been feverish.

I am certain that from here on out she can be expected to go from strength to strength. She told me to relay to you her greetings and her promise that she will at some point catch up on her e-mails.

Now, if you would, leave a little comment mentioning your strong feeling that my loyal and steadfast conduct over the past three days merits a steak dinner. She’ll listen to you.

1.  Ellen and Monica asked if I enjoyed working with the Cherry Tree Hill sock yarn.

                                      (As you can see here, I have enough left over to make another pair of socks, although I’m not sure I’d want to have another pair for myself in the same colorway.  Hmmmm.  I’m starting to sense a little blog contest and prize taking shape in my head….)

Anyway, yes I did enjoy working with this yarn.  It’s very soft and has that springy quality that some other merinos have (Koigu comes to mind).  I think that’s as much a function of the way it’s spun as anything else.  If I had to make the socks again, though, I would make them with an even greater amount of negative ease, since I noticed that as I wear them they really tend to stretch out.

2.  I’ve gotten back to work on the Handsome Triangle shawl, and actually completed the last of the pattern rows late last night.

 

I started the first row of the ruffled edging, but quickly became befuddled and went to bed.  I’ll take another crack at it this afternoon. 

My goal:  To wear this shawl this spring before it gets too hot.

3.  I’m close to being finished with the wool and silk that I’m spinning on my new wheel.

Just a little bit left to go on this bobbin, and then a bit more on the first bobbin.  Then, the fun of plying them together!

4.  I received my new Knitter’s Magazine the other day.

 

As usual, it is a curious mix of a few pretty designs,

 

 

coupled with the truly hideous.

 

This last is Rick Mondragon’s attempt to mimic filet crochet with knitting.  Huh.  If filet crochet gets you where you want to go, why spend your time trying to go there with knitting?  Just asking, is all.

5.  Although this has nothing whatsoever to do with knitting, I just have to show you this platter which was given to me by my boss for Paraprofessional Appreciation Day.  Isn’t this gorgeous?

                                 Empty.

                                                                                                 And with fruit.

This is a woman who really knows how to pick a good gift.  Thanks, Christa!

At this time of year, those of us who work in the public school system face the dreaded “spring assessment.”  Back in my day, standardized tests given in the spring were called “achievement tests.”  Remember those?  We got a booklet and a sheet with lots and lots of little circles on it, and we proceeded to go through and answer the questions, filling in the bubbles with a #2 pencil.  We were cautioned to fill in the circles darkly and completely (don’t skip any questions!), so that the machine that graded the thing could read it.  And you’d best not write in that test booklet, either!–because it was going to be reused the next year.

Well, not anymore.

Now, not only do the kids get to write in the test booklet, a good portion of the questions require written essay-type answers, which must be graded by someone.  (Which sort of begs the question–if these things are being graded by real live people, how much of an objective yardstick can they be?  But I digress….) 

The test “security” is a whole topic unto itself:  As a teacher, you must never be alone with any of the tests.  You must not even crack open a test booklet before you set it in front of the students.  Never leave tests in your classroom unattended (like to, say, go to the bathroom) without locking the door.  Only approved district employees can be in the room when the tests are given.  The testing window must be strictly adhered to.

I won’t even get into the whole issue of these tests being used to “grade” schools and assess teachers’ abilities.  No Child Left Behind!

As I’ve thought about the “spring assessment,” it occurred to me that I’m wrestling with my own very different kind of spring assessment this year:

Why do I experience so much sadness and depression?

Can my marriage be put back together? 

Why do I feel that I have to please everyone else at my own expense?

What is it that I’m working toward?

What is it that I want to do with my life?

If only these questions could be answered neatly in a test booklet!  The one answer that always speaks clearly is this:  I want to design knitwear for handknitters.  So.  There it is.

With that end in mind, I started a new cables-and-lace swatch out of a mercerized sportweight cotton.

I’m envisioning a summer sweater with raglan sleeves, a low v-neck with a self-finishing neckline, and perhaps elbow-length sleeves.

You don’t have to know all the answers to start moving forward.  Just answer the ones you can, and do your best on the others.

The view from the back door, circa 5:30 p.m.

The view from the side window, circa 5:45 p.m.

Anybody else enjoying spring in this precise fashion today?

But listen, I gotta run! I’m recording that hit tune I Love Boston in the Springtime this evening with my all-New-England band, “Robert Frost and the Frozen Buds,” and I have to find my snowboots before I go out.

Once upon a time, a young man met a girl.  He was young; she was younger.  They became friends.  Some time later, they became lovers.  Two years later, they were married.

They lived happily together for five years.  They decided the time was right to have a child, and so she became pregnant.  The young woman loved being pregnant, cherishing that time as something that might not come around again.  When the baby was born, though, she foundered.  The depression of her younger years plagued her once again.

The child grew and seemed to thrive.  But when he was about three, it was clear that something was not quite right:  he was not quite as other children were.  The man and woman, now Mama and Papa, strove to know what was right to do and to do it.

The family moved, but they couldn’t leave their troubles behind.  The little boy grew, and went to school.  Life became harder and more anxious for him, and his Mama and Papa fought and struggled and at times cried bitter tears.  For a time, they separated and lived apart.

They came together again, though, and moved again, seeking support and peace.  The woman fought back her depression over and over.  The child visited doctors, psychiatrists, and therapists, seeking help.  The man worked hard to keep his little family afloat, fighting to love his life.

One day, late in the afternoon, after sixteen years together, the woman told her man that she believed that they should separate once again.  She moved away.  Now she lives in a small apartment across town.  She is slowly moving her things out of their home, and he is slowly making their home, his home.  Their son, who perhaps is not the child they ordered but is the child they love, struggles to adapt.

 

Rob and I separated almost a month ago.  I’ve not written about this on the blog because I’ve been unsure about how to write about it without seeming maudlin, or bitter, or self-pitying, or blaming–because I’m not really any of those things, and then again, at times I’m all of those things.

I do know that I’m more at peace, more myself, than I’ve been in a long while.  Harvey has suffered a setback because of our separation, and I feel a certain amount of guilt about that.  But I also feel that my access to joy, if not joy itself yet, has returned. 

These days I’m memorizing this poem, and if my road is still full of fallen branches and stones, I can sense those stars burning overhead.

I have been making progress on my Cherry Tree Hill socks. 

                                                       As you can see from the above picture, the first sock is done, and I have a good start on the second.  This yarn is gorgeous to work with, but it is so soft that I wonder how it will hold up when I actually wear these.  After all, it is merino, so I’m afraid of it pilling pretty badly.  I suppose only time will tell.

I followed the pattern pretty closely on these–the Twin Rib sock from Charlene Schurch’s Sensational Knitted Socks.  The only thing I changed was to work quite a few more rows of heel flap than she calls for.  Oh, and I changed the heel stitch heel flap to an eye-of-partridge (or eye-of-newt, as my dear sis would say) heel flap, just because I like the way it looks.

In other news, a few months ago I recklessly agreed to play the piano in a spring concert at my church.  Back then, it seemed as though spring would never come, and that I would never have to play pay the piper.  But now, April 29 is fast approaching, and I’m starting to get a little nervous.  I’m staring down thirty minutes of solo piano, in much the same way that one might stare down a gun barrel.

I’ll be playing this:

                          Bach’s Toccata in D-major (three movements–what was I thinking?)

And maybe this:

                           A waltz by Samuel Barber–beautiful and dissonant.

Among other things.

Oh, Lord.  I’m going to quit writing this post right now and go practice.

As I wrote last week, I finished a pair of socks for Rob recently.  He has put them into heavy wearing rotation, which of course warms the little cockles of my heart.  There’s nothing like having someone really enjoy what you have made for them to make a knitter feel good.

What doesn’t make me feel so good?

 

The wear and tear that one area of the ribbing has received.  Can you see it in the picture above?  There are matching pulled/fuzzy places on each sock from one particular pair of boots that Rob wears.  Evidently these boots have a rough place on their upper edge that plays havoc with socks.

This really brings the issue of gift-giving into question for me, especially handknit gifts.  On the one hand, when I give someone a gift, it now belongs to them.  No strings attached.  Theoretically, they would be within their rights to throw it in the trash, use it to polish their furniture, give it to their dog to chew on.  It’s not mine anymore, right?  So why should I care?  After all, I’ve had the pleasure of making it, and knitting is all about the process.

“But wait!,” the other, more selfish part of me says.  I spent lots of time on that handknit gift.  There are many, many stitches in those socks.  The truth is, I do care what people do with the handknit gifts I give them.  If someone actually polished furniture with a pair of my handknit socks, I would be completely outraged and hurt.  That person would certainly never, ever get another pair of socks from me.  I think we all know that knitting is also about the product.

Of course, the truth in this case lies somewhere in the middle, as is so often true.  If Rob didn’t like those socks so much, he wouldn’t wear them at all, which would really make me angry.  One could argue correctly that those little pulled/fuzzy places are just natural wear and tear, and not a result of carelessness on his part. 

I once heard a story about Maurice Sendak that went something like this:  Sendak drew a little picture for a child and sent it to him.  He later learned that the child had loved the picture so much that he had eaten it.  Sendak said that he thought that was truly wonderful and the best compliment he could receive.

So this is what I have to tell myself about handknit gifts:  the best compliment I could get would be for someone to absolutely use up my knitting–to wear or use it to shreds.  To contact me some time later and say, “Uh, you know those socks you made for me?  Well, I wore them so much that they’re full of holes.  Can you make me another pair?”

Just not in the first week, OK?