Knit Sisters

Work on the Back Yard of Doom continues apace! Over the weekend, Alex and I did further clearing of pernicious vines, raking up of debris, and tossing out of the veritable pile of beer bottles that our drug-dealing neighbors (yes, we lead a life of constant danger!) left behind on their back porch when they moved out in January:

Isn’t that extra special? Yeah, Corona Extra special!

These were positioned such that in a stiff wind, one or two would tumble off the edge of the porch and smash in the yard below, leaving dangerous shards of brown and green glass everywhere. How utterly delightful! I love suburban living!

Come to think of it, I’ll have a Heineken!

The worst part is, those guys never invited us to any of their parties.

Alex cleaned up all those bottles and rotting cardboard cases, because he is good and decent and well-raised, unlike your average drug dealer. In the process, he found an exciting original object for his “Cabinet of Curiousities”:

No, your eyes do not deceive you. That is a wasps’ nest INSIDE a beer bottle.

If you look down the neck of the bottle, you see this:

Dude, we wasps love livin’ in a beer bottle! It’s like, when you’re tired from buildin’ the hive, you can sip some brew and kick back. Beats the shit out of living underneath the eaves of a shed, amigo!

Or this:

Do not ask yourself, “Is it art?” The answer should be obvious.

Meanwhile, I was working down below, attempting to clear what we call “The Lost Patio of Atlantis.”

See those vaguely round depressions in the ground there? That’s what I’m talking about.

It seems that sometime in the distant past, long before we were born, someone made a strange little patio out of mysterious circular stones they purchased in the ancient agora, but over time, these stones sank and were nearly completely occluded by grass and weeds.

Q: Mama, is there really a Lost Patio of Atlantis where the ancient peoples of New England conducted their summer rites, like getting half in the bag on Sam Adams Boston Lager after a Red Sox loss and bellowing “Yankees Suck!” so that everyone in the village could hear?
A: No one knows, child. No one knows…

My original objective was to clear away all the grass, weeds, and dirt that obscured the Lost Patio of Atlantis.

I lasted about thirty minutes at that backbreaking and futile task before it occurred to me that it would be a whole lot easier (and better!) just to take the paving stones up, Roto-till the whole shebang, and replant grass.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. The Lost Patio of Atlantis was weird and, let’s face it, not that conducive to a nice yard party and/or wedding reception. In spite of its historic significance.

So I began prying the stones up with my trusty shovel, heaving them out of the ground, and stacking them against the garage. Even after living here for nearly two years, we frankly had neither any idea that they were round…

Who knew?

…nor that they weighed so much.

Here I am with my twentieth stone, propping it up with my shovel and thanking the good Lord that I lift weights on a regular basis:

A single Lost Paving Stone of Atlantis can also be used as a cheap alternative to a commercial tombstone!

My handiwork from the air:

I had quit at this point for the simple reason that I had begun to ache all over.

So. I’ve pulled up twenty stones. There are at least thirty-five left.

I can’t help but think of that line from Robert Hass’s poem Santa Barbara Road, the one where he is speaking to his son:

I started this job
and I hate it already
and now I have to finish it.

His son replies, “Well Pop, that’s life.” And so it is, so it is.

Back on Thursday with news about Minnie, who is getting a lovely right sleeve…

Well.  What Ellen failed to mention yesterday is that she has engaged yours truly to come out to Boston for the east coast party and bake wedding cake(s).  And supervise the preparation of the other food, too.

Uh, Ellen?  180 guests?  Lord have mercy.  I was really thinking I’d be baking for about 60.  That just goes to show the truth of the obnoxiously smarmy saying about “assume!”

OK.  We can do this.  We have the technology.  Despite the fact that all my baking pans and equipment are in NW Missouri, and the party is taking place in the greater Boston area.

We just need to figure out what kind of cakes we’re talking about here.

How about a small, tiered, square white cake with vanilla buttercream, like so?

Or perhaps a flourless chocolate cake? 

                                    (As an aside, these are really, really delicious.  Like mainlining chocolate.  Hook up the IV, girls!)

Maybe a chocolate cake with chocolate truffle filling and chocolate buttercream?

                                      I believe this particular cake had fresh raspberries embedded in the truffle filling.

Or its fraternal twin, a white cake with white chocolate truffle filling and white chocolate buttercream?

                                            This cake had sliced strawberries in the center.

Or we could go with cheesecake–always a popular choice.

                                        Seen here fraternizing with the bad-boy flourless chocolate cakes.

How about lemon cake?  That’s nice and summery-seeming.

                                    (Although in actuality about as light as a lead balloon.)

Or, (not pictured), carrot cake?

I realize that all these white-ish cakes look very much the same on the outside, but inside the differences are vast.  Vast, I tell you!

And what’s the plan for all the other food?  Remember Mom’s birthday party a couple years ago, Ellen?  Are you thinking of something like that?  Let’s see, we had hot artichoke dip with bruschetta for dipping, hummus with pita bread, baked Brie en croute with crackers, a vegetable array, fresh fruit, Sarah’s famous pasta salad, cake, and maybe something else that I’m forgetting.

Oh, and, as much as I like the ideas for plants in the backyard that others have suggested in the comments, with 180 guests you may find yourself needing every square inch of yard space.  Pack ’em in!  I myself really believe that, with lots of good food and (heaven knows) booze, no one will notice the yard.  But perhaps that’s just because I am a terrible gardener but a pretty good cook.

Let them eat cake!

We’re not going to look at Minnie’s shoulder seams anymore. And we aren’t going to discuss them anymore either. Just let it be known that I am not impressed with this kind of so-called design work.

We are not amused.

If I were queen this woman would no longer be allowed to publish her designs and fob them off on unsuspecting victims knitters who would then sweat and toil and hand-bead the bodice with “special beads” until their fingers bled…only to find that the motifs do not match up at the shoulder seam.

I am beyond consolation. But I did start one of Minnie’s sleeves:

I am knitting from the top down using a short-row technique to form the sleeve cap. All in a sustained effort to do an end run around setting in a sleeve. Which to me is about as much fun as working in a zinc mine.

I’ve finished the neckline and the button bands:

The search for the right button has come up short, I’m afraid. We didn’t have the right button at Woolcott, which means I’m going to have to go outside the “family.” I don’t feel good about it, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do.

This sweater is going to look fine when it is blocked. As long as you don’t look at the shoulder seams.

Meanwhile, wedding preparations have taken a dark turn. As you may know, we are doing something slightly unconventional in that the “wedding” is not a single event, but rather three:

Event Numero Uno: We will be married in an extremely small ceremony at an “undisclosed location.” This event, the wedding itself, will involve only our immediate families, an arrangement that we may ultimately live to regret, given how little our immediate families have in common with one another and given our foolhardy decision to have everyone repair to a “festive” dinner together after the ceremony.

I have been threatening to hire actors to take the roles of the various family members, including me and Alex. They will be given a script, the right things will get said, conversation will be witty and well-paced, the topic of religion will not come up, and the whole thing can be videotaped for our viewing enjoyment.

I will be played by Nicole Kidman.

She always looks great in photographs, and since the bridal industry has left me with the impression that the most important thing is how one looks and particularly how one looks in photographs…well, I think this will be absolutely ideal!

But seriously, just think! If the wedding and wedding dinner are miserable, horrific disasters, I will certainly get a funny story out of it and you can read all about it here. Stay tuned! This could be a lot of fun for everyone!

Event the Second: Two days after the strained, awkward meeting of our two families at a highly-charged emotional event, a situation that any fool can see is a proverbial recipe for disaster heart-warming joining of two people in the sacred bonds of holy matrimony, we will have a reception in California for all of our friends and family who live more or less out that way.

I have no major concerns about this. It might even be fun as long as we’re not dogged by an aggressive photographer, required to smash cake in one another’s faces, or forced mete out cheesy wedding favors like the “Love Beyond Measure” measuring spoon set.

Not that any of those appalling possibilities have ever actually come to pass at an American wedding, events known throughout the world for their restraint and unerring good taste.

Event No. 3: The Final Stop on the Bales-Wellerstein “Love Fest” Tour. Two weeks after the reception in CA, we will have a celebratory party out here for all of our East Coast friends and relatives. I’m very excited about this. Very excited! It’s just wonderful to think that my extended family and many of my oldest and dearest friends are going to be at this shindig.

There’s only one source of anxiety: we’re having this party at our house. I thought this was a really great idea when we dreamed it up a few months ago, and I still basically think it is a good idea. People can come when they want, stay as long as they want, bring their kids… It’ll be warm, informal, truly celebratory. Shelley can be there, and you know how I love that dog.

There’s just one problem: I was feeling expansive when I made the invite list and I believe that I’ve invited, um, well, something like 180 people. I’ve kind of lost count. Hey, I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve lived awhile and I have a lot of friends. What can I say?

One thing I can say, and this for sure: this house is not all that big.

“But you have the back yard!” I hear you cry. Yes, and what a back yard it is! Having been “let go” for approximately twenty years, the back yard is a splendid example of unfettered natural beauty, including pernicious vines, rotting railroad ties laid down in tamer times, strange concrete paving stones that have shifted into mysterious formations, and buried Miller Lite cans that surface periodically after a drenching rain like so many archeological treasures. Home to wasps, garter snakes, and the occasional groundhog, the back yard is an ideal place to gain a closer understanding of your relationship to nature and your own place in the natural order of the world.

It is not, however, a great place to have a wedding reception.

I decided last Sunday that I needed to rake and clean up one small sector of the yarn only, to at least take a stab at beginning to get it under control. I worked for two backbreaking hours. I filled two garbage cans and two large bags with detritus:

First can of yard crap.

And its little chum.

And all my toil, all my efforts resulted in this:

Suburban back yard or abandoned lot?

Toward the end of my yard session, I had taken to belting out, “You gotta have heart!/Miles and miles and miles of heart!/When the odds are sayin’ you’ll never win/That’s when the grin should start!”

Thereby squandering all my accrued social capital with the neighbors.

The fact is, I’m no gardener. So here is my question to you: what do you know about gardening? About getting an unruly back yard under your thumb? I’m not after the Gardens of Versailles here, but just something passable.

Spill. Please. Come summer, there are 180 people who will thank you.

There’s a lot going on in my life right now, so my knitting has been suffering a bit.  Nevertheless, I did knit a few rounds this evening on the second Cherry Tree Hill sock,

 

bringing it almost up to the point at which I can start decreasing for the toe.

It’s supposed to turn off cold for the next few days, so if I could actually finish these, I might have a chance to wear them during winter’s last gasp.  (Or perhaps you could say during the first chill days of spring.  April is the cruelest month, after all.)

I’ve also managed to knit a few more rows of my green cotton cables and lace swatch:

                                          (Seen here looking very romantic in the candlelight.)

You can see at the top that I separated the two sides as though for a v-neck opening.  I’m decreasing on either side of the cables so that the cables will run up the sides of the opening and the stitches in the body of the swatch/sweater would be eaten up by the decreases.  I’m thinking that the raglan line should have a cable running up the center as well, with the decreases on either side of it.

Deb commented on the larger cable on the left-hand side, asking about how I might incorporate it into the design.  Actually, I’ve pretty much given up on that cable in this design.  Originally, I had envisioned it running up the center of the front and back, but as I worked on it I realized that it was just too busy for the rest of the sweater that I had in mind. 

This is a problem that I often run into when designing–knowing when to stop.  I have a tendency to think that the more details and motifs you include, the better.  Really, the reverse is often true:  knowing what to cut out so as to reduce your design to just the essentials, and letting those essentials carry the piece.  Then include the little details of good craftmanship that elevate the “homemade” to the “handmade.”

Yup, that’s the goal.  Plus, I need to finish those socks for the coming chill.

Many thanks to all of you who sent birthday greetings. Much appreciated!

I have to say, I never met a birthday I didn’t like, and however ignoble and even childish it may make me appear, I really, really enjoy the presents:

A selection of wonderful things, made all the more wonderful by the fact that loved ones bought them for me and wrapped them. It’s the wrapping, after all, that engenders the special birthday magic.

Here’s what I got for myself:

We just so happened to get a long-awaited shipment of Trekking at the shop on my birthday eve. I took it as a sign.

I frankly cannot get over the orange.

But this birthday, blessings truly abounded. For starters, you cannot imagine how much better everything looks when you know you don’t have colon cancer. Looks? Hell, how much better everything tastes when you know you are tumor-free! Even if you are still only able to eat broiled chicken, hard boiled eggs, bananas, and toast most of the time.

Both my father and Helen (blogless, alas!) reminded me of the Winston Churchill quote, “There is nothing so exhilarating as being shot at and missed!”

And then, completely unexpectedly, two old friends I had lost touch with found me through this blog on my birthday and thereby I experienced one of the many blessings of the internets. One of these friends, a kind, witty, and extremely intelligent man, is now living abroad (sad for me, but probably quite nice for him, given the current “leadership” we have in this country…whoops!…I forgot that this is not a political blog for a moment there), but the other, equally delightful and just as smart, is living right here in Boston. He was here all along and I didn’t know it! I haven’t seen him in fourteen years and next Saturday we’re planning to meet for lunch.

He’d better say, “You look just the same. Exactly the same!”

Honesty is not always the best policy. Personally, I value truth so highly that I like to use it sparingly and on special occasions.

Thirdly, we have more croci:

These have enjoyed a little April shower.

And fourthly, I have finished the fronts of Minnie and made a little neckline for her:

The shoulder seams were actually a three-needle bind-off. My methods of avoiding sewing are virtually limitless.

A little closer so that you can see the beads:

I was told at the bead shop that these were “special beads.” “Of course they are!” I said. “Did someone suggest that they were ordinary? Show me that scoundrel!”

There’s only one fly in my birthday ointment. Imagine my horror:

Do you see it? Yeah, the front and the back pieces don’t match up at the shoulder seam. I’m not frogging this baby, but please! I actually followed the pattern this time (with very subtle modifications to avoid side seams, yes, but otherwise…) and this is what I get?

This is not good design, people. Not good.

This is, in fact, what Alex would call “totally ghetto.” You can take the boy out of California, but you can’t take the California out of the boy. At least he doesn’t use “hella” as an intensifier in the way of his countrymen, e.g., “That movie about the Spartans and King Leonidas was hella cool.” One’s skin simply crawls.

But that shoulder join? Totally ghetto. Or maybe, just maybe, hella ugly.

Today is Ellen’s hmmhmmth birthday.  Happy Birthday, sis!  May this day and all your days be filled with happiness, fulfillment, love, and lots and lots of beautiful yarn.

Love,

Sarah

I received this

 

in the mail today.  Ten skeins of Knit One, Crochet Too’s Douceur Swirls.  75% kid mohair, 25% silk.  225 yds. per skein.

(Note how cleverly I put that–as though I didn’t even know it was on its way!  Why yes, I get unexpected boxes full of beautiful yarn in the mail all the time.  Don’t you?)

Here’s a closeup, just so you can envy my yarn a bit more.

 

As we all know, I have a serious love affair with mohair, so when this yarn showed up on Elann, I just had to have some.

And just what am I going to do with these 2000+ yards of gorgeous mohair/silk?  Well, it’s funny you should ask.  I have several possibilities in mind.

Maybe this shawl from Victorian Lace Today.

Or maybe this one:

How about this one?

Another possibility:

 

And another:

 

And my personal favorite from that book:

                                                       (Have I mentioned that I really like this book and the designs contained therein?)

Naturally, it helps if you can stand around looking beautiful against the backdrop of a stately English manor.

I’m working on that one.  Give it time, give it time.

Near our house, there is a large funeral home with unseemly bright red awnings that Shelley and I pass by almost every day on our neighborhood walks. They seem to do a land-office business there because we frequently see the undertakers (yes, I realize that now they are referred to as “funeral directors,” an antiseptic and somewhat euphemistic title in my opinion, which is why I greatly prefer the more archaic, yet more robustly descriptive term “undertaker.” Because that’s where they take you. Under.) standing outside in their black suits looking solemn, waiting for someone to bring them a body or perhaps biding their time until mourners show up.

I like to wave to them and holler, “Not today, boys! You’re not getting me today!”

Getting a whiff of the thawing ground, and all the good things that the new season promises.

Those undertakers aren’t getting me anytime soon, either.

Thanks to the talented Dr. F., who—true to her word—did not find anything unusual, unfortunate, or suspicious with her little camera, I am now free of what Lorinda’s people call “the buttoscope” for another decade.

The lone purple crocus, brave little soldier of spring.

I am also free of worry and fear, and it is hard to put a price tag on that. In spite of the fact that everyone said I would be fine, and in spite of the fact that the Incomparable Kate, good friend and commentator extraordinaire, actually looked up the colon cancer statistics for women my age and found that—as she put it—we weren’t dealing with the proverbial horse and zebra scenario, we were dealing with horses and, say, albino sugar gliders…in spite of all that, I had a friend who was the albino sugar glider, and it was hard for me to shake the fear that if it could happen to her, well…

But I was quite proud of myself, because I got through yesterday with only minimal squirrellyness and anxiety and I handled the “preparation” with a good attitude and reasonably good grace. I mean, considering.

Of course, I was up all night, but Alex pretty much stayed up with me, having declared as early as 7 p.m. that he was, “thinking of tonight as like a slumber party, only with one guest who has uncontrollable diarrhea.”

Isn’t that sweet?

I finished this sock during the “party.”

And I had exactly this much yarn left. Marble and small bits of sea glass included for scale.

So I was feeling pretty good by the time I got to the Endoscopy and Buttoscope Center this morning at 6:45 a.m. Pretty. Darn. Good. I was feeling courageous. I was prepared for glory!

That is, until I learned that the adept and skillful nurse who had just run a needle into a vein in my right arm and hooked me up to an IV drip—a minor procedure that nonetheless terrifies me but which I had borne stoically because I was operating in the heroic mode, you see—that that nurse had just come out of her own colonoscopy which she had endured without sedation or drugs of any kind.

Whoa! Gastrointestinal nurses, cowboy up!

She gave me a pat and said, “But I don’t recommend that for anyone else.”

Yeah, no joke. Don’t try this at home, kids. It’s all fun and games until someone loses a polyp. While she is fully conscious.

“Right,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’m no hero.” Truth will out.

But you know, the whole thing really wasn’t that bad. I remember very little of what actually happened during the test. And unlike graduate school, where I am always ten to twelve years older than nearly all my compatriots—in other words, I may as well be Methuselah—I was the youngest person at the Center.

It was kind of fun, what with croci blooming and robins pulling worms out of the ground, to feel like I was the spring chicken. You know, just this once.

And not again for another decade.

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.

Yesterday morning, as I was reading the Sunday New York Times and nearly jumping out of my skin with fear, anxiety, dread, and horror as I obsessed about my upcoming colonoscopy on Wednesday morning contemplating the week to come with courage, dignity, and fortitude, I thought to myself, “How could I make the day before the colonoscopy—given that on Tuesday I will only be able to drink clear fluids and eat Jell-O, NOT RED! (emphasis original)—a little more, oh, festive, a little more fun?”

I announced to Alex, “I’m going to make some multi-layer Jell-O ‘salads’ for myself.”

“What?” he replied. “Are you sure you know how to do that?”

Oh, ye of little faith! Honey, I was raised a church-going Midwestern Protestant. My people know the multi-layer Jell-O salad. We know its engineering, we know its beauty, we know its power to heal.

We can make ’em with seven layers, each with a different embedded fruit or vegetable, quicker than you can say, “Potluck Sunday dinner!” We can make ’em to feed the multitudes, for multi-layer Jell-O salads are truly the loaves and fishes of the Midwest. And we know the palliative value of a multi-layer Jell-O salad, the way it can ease your anxiety, calm your nerves, and make you feel closer to Jesus.

That’s what I need right now.

Layer One: Orange, and naturally fat free!

It was a difficult aesthetic decision to choose the color for the second layer, because so much of the “tone” of the salad is determined by that choice.

Layer Two: Lime…and naturally fat free!

At that point, since I am disallowed the red and I can’t in good conscience condone new-fangled flavors like “Berry Blue,” I pretty much had to go with the lemon:

Et voilà! A three-layer Colonoscopy Jell-O Dee-Lite! In a dog-themed glass.

Bon appétit!

I am also knitting to ease my nerves:

Whole sock, thusfar. Love that pink Fixation!

Eye-of-newt heel.

Lord willing, I’ll be back on Wednesday. Keep your fingers crossed, will you? And maybe make yourself a nice Jell-O salad in the meantime. Believe me, it’ll cure what ails you.