Knit Sisters

Before she died, before she even knew she was sick, my friend and former housemate Mara gave me Leslie Marmon Silko’s novel Ceremony. She gave me her own copy from college, with her collegiate marginalia annotating the text—she was clearly trying to come up with a paper topic at the last minute, scribbling things like, “We need other people to help us. Can’t do it entirely alone. Relate to Aristotle?”—and the extension number for her phone in the dorm inside the front cover.

Mara gave me the book because Silko’s invocation of uranium mining on Native American land and the detonation of the first atomic weapons relates to some of the research I am doing for my dissertation and Mara felt, I think, that reading it might not only interest me, but also deepen my work as an historian.

She gave me this book in early 2004 when I was in the midst of writing my first major paper and, facing deadlines and all manner of pressing demands, I kept it unopened in my stack of “books to be read.”

Shortly thereafter, Mara was diagnosed with colon cancer—a pathology so statistically improbable in a woman in her early 30s that her doctors did not catch it until the cancer was very far advanced—and she died in September 2005. At the time, I struggled to make any sense at all of her death. Any sense at all. I can’t say that the past year and three months has given me any measure of comfort in that regard, but simply because time has passed I have, I suppose, gotten used to the fact that she is gone.

I have been thinking about her a lot lately, partly because for me the holidays always conjure up thoughts of those who are no longer with us, and partly because I read Ceremony last week. For many months the book’s close association with Mara had made it too painful for me to crack. But it finally seemed like the right time, as though I was at a point where I could absorb the message Mara wanted me to get from this novel, a message that through literature, through a story, she could deliver to me across that unknowable boundary that separates the dead from the living. And reading this book, which has so much to do with storytelling, healing, and a cyclical (as opposed to linear) understanding of time, was indeed a very powerful experience for me.

Being a scholar, my initial response was to go to the library and dig deeper. That led me to a collection of interviews with Leslie Marmon Silko, which I began reading rather carefully. This quote from Silko about storytelling on the Laguna Pueblo stopped me in my tracks:

“…there was an old custom, long ago, where the storyteller would say to one of the persons in the room, ‘Go open the door, go open the door so that they can come in,’ and it was as if ‘they,’ being ancestors, can come in and give us their gifts which are these stories, and that through the stories, somehow, even though people may be dead or gone or time is gone a long way in the past, that through the storytelling there was a belief that it all came back very immediately, that it came right back in the room with you. And so the storytelling in that sense was an act of…so that there wasn’t anything lost, nothing was dead, nobody was gone, that in the stories everything was held together, regardless of time.”

It struck me as I read this that we need this kind of storytelling in our lives, even if our postmodern assumptions won’t accommodate the idea of the immediate presence of our ancestors or past times, even if our linear sense of time tells us that once a person is dead, she’s gone forever. I began to ponder what exactly I am doing here on the blog when I tell you stories about my great-grandfather’s favorite joke, or my uncle’s approach to dieting, or my Great Aunt Frances’s knitted wedding dress. I concluded that I might be participating in a great 21st-century cyber version of “opening the door so that they can come in,” and that when you read these stories and respond to them, it is as though we are all sitting in an unbroken circle, where those who are gone are brought back to us and nothing is lost.

In that spirit, and because she was in effect the one who led me to contemplate this particular power of storytelling, I would like to tell you a story about my friend Mara, and the kind of person she was.

Mara had a delicious, sly sense of humor, she almost never complained, she kept her troubles to herself, she was a talented and greatly loved teacher at the Aurora School in Oakland, California, she had a remarkable aura of calm (particularly remarkable to those of us who are, ahem, a bit more, how shall we say?, agitated perhaps?), and she was really, really beautiful. I felt that this last attribute was underappreciated by men for reasons I am hard pressed to explain except by resort to the notion that they must have been blind.

While we were living together, she once admitted to me that she sometimes found it really annoying to have housemates, and I laughed because it was a feeling which I shared, and yet she said it in such a way that I understood that the comment was directed at the general condition of life with housemates and not at me personally. She used to go hiking every Saturday morning in the hills above Berkeley’s campus and then swing by the farmer’s market and buy the most seductive looking vegetables you have ever seen in your life. California’s finest produce. She made the most consistently delectable dietary choices of anyone I have ever met, which was entirely consonant with her life philosophy, one based on finding something to love in every day and in taking joy in everyday things.

Some Saturdays I went hiking with her. On one memorable occasion, we encountered a huge, bright orange fungus with great undulating ruffles, like a sea creature, growing up at the base of a tree. She stopped short, right there on the trail, and pointed it out to me. “That’s incredible,” she said. “That’s one of the most incredible things I have ever seen!” Her joy, awe, and appreciation for the natural world, even its less obviously attractive elements, was compelling and infectious. I never go hiking, or for that matter encounter a fabulous fungal growth, without remembering Mara.

This holiday season, I hope you take time to tell your own stories, the ones that create and maintain those connections to people and times past, and I hope that through these stories, you can create a moment in which nothing is lost, nobody irretrievably gone.

And here is my holiday wish for all of us: may everything be held together, regardless of time.

Here at the ranch, we have been thoroughly absorbed in Christmas preparations, so absorbed, in fact, that I missed my scheduled post on Friday and then again yesterday.

But, I am pleased to report that there are now actual wrapped presents under our tree!

                                                     See the felted bag in the midst of the loot?

And the holiday baking is complete!

I have loaded up the cookie boxes and tins for neighbors, relatives, friends, and teachers.  A couple have even been delivered. 

 

Shown here is this year’s standard-issue cookie gift box, for those giftees who live in town.  Out-of-town recipients recieve tins, which are a bit more sturdy and keep the cookies fresher over the journey.

Rob’s brother and family were here yesterday for our Christmas celebration with them, and a good time was had by all.  Although we were all a bit worn out by evening.  Our niece and nephew are six and three, respectively, and we here at the B-D ranch are unused to having younger children about.  They’re lovely children, but also very lively.

Years ago, before the birth of my own dear child, Ellen and I were bemoaning the fact that our family Christmases now seemed a little, shall we say, sedate.  “How come we don’t have pandemonium at Christmas any more?” we asked our mother.  “Well,” she said, “to have pandemonium you’ve got to have pandas.”

So, yesterday we had some little pandas at our house.  And panda-monium reigned.

May you all experience the joy of pandemonium this Christmas season with your own dear pandas!

The Malabrigo “Vaa” hat, knit using the free Ribbed Beanie pattern from Woolly Wormhead, is suitable for wear outdoors on a chilly day, or indoors on practically any day here in New England where we believe in building character, one frigid room at a time!:

Alex makes a fine model…for his own hat. Note how this style covers his ears, a crucial feature in harsh winter weather.

Rated a full five stars out of five by the American Male System of Manly Color Recognition (AMSMCR), the “Vaa” colorway has been deemed acceptable for wear by even the most virile and pugilistic of American males.

It does have kind of a star on top, though… Hey! Hey you! Are you suggesting that a star ain’t manly? Huh? Huh? You wanna step outside? Yeah? Yeah? Well, I don’t hit no man first…

Remarkably, the same hat has won the seal of approval from the Canis Familiaris Board of Sartorial Excellence:

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, “Dear God, why? Why?”

And yet a favorable rating from the Feline Unincorporated Coalition of Fellows (or, as they prefer to be known, FUCOFF) remains elusive:

I hate you guys. I really, really hate you guys.

I too have had some experience with the AMSMCR phenomenon, and I believe it is first cousin to another phenomenon I like to call the “Knitting Interview.”

When our mother was taking library science classes, and afterwards when she was working as a librarian, she told me about a little something that librarians call the “Reference Interview.”  It goes something like this:

Patron:  I saw this cool bug yesterday, and I want to know what kind of bug it is.

Librarian:  What color was it?

Patron:  Black.

Librarian:  Where did you see it?

Patron:  On the ground in front of my house.

Librarian:  Did it have wings?

Patron:  I’m not sure.

Librarian:  How big was it?

Patron:  About half an inch long.

Librarian:  Was it some type of beetle?

Patron:  Yes, I think it might have been.

Librarian:  Well, I think that, based on what you’ve told me, if we look in XYZ Book of Bugs, we might be able to find it.

You see how simple?  And satisfying?  The patron goes home happy, the librarian feels a sense of deep satisfaction with his/her job.

On the other hand, the Knitting Interview goes something like this:

Man:  Could you make me a cardigan?

Knitter:  (very pleased)  Sure!  What color?

Man:  I don’t know.  Something dark.

Knitter:  Like a dark charcoal?  Or maybe dark green?

Man:  Uh, I’m not sure.

Knitter:  What kind of stitch pattern would you like?  Maybe some simple cables?

Man:  No, that’s too fussy-looking.

Knitter:  Do you want a plain yarn, or a tweedy-looking yarn?

Man:  Huh?  Just not itchy, OK?

Knitter:  Do you want it to fit close to the body, or be more loose and casual-looking?

Man:  I don’t know.  What do you think?

Knitter:  Do you want a set-in sleeve or a drop shoulder?

Man:  What does that mean?

Knitter:  V-neck or crewneck?

Man:  Um, I hadn’t thought about that.

Knitter:  Do you want it to hang straight down or have a ribbing that pulls into the body?

Man:  I want it kind of like my favorite fleece jacket, but different.  Can you make it like that?

(Knitter throws up hands in frustration and walks away.)

The chief difference between the Reference Interview and the Knitting Interview is that, after the latter, the interviewer goes away feeling more confused than before.  In the example above, the poor knitter (you understand, of course, that I’m not saying that this is a conversation I might have had with my own mate) wants to please her man, is thrilled that he actually wants her to knit him something, but knows that if she doesn’t get it right he will never, ever wear the sweater that she worked her fingers to the nub making for him.

There are many ways in which the sweater can be wrong, and only a few in which it can be right.  And she doesn’t have much information to be going on with.  It’s a fortunate knitter who is able to navigate this minefield.  I myself have failed more than once.  In fact, at one time I swore that I would never make another sweater for my husband.

But hope springs eternal!  The last sweater I made for Rob turned out well–in other words, he actually wears it.  For the curious, the details are as follows:  dark charcoal tweedy yarn (Jo Sharp Silkroad Tweed), seed stitch, modified drop shoulder, V-neck, fairly close-fitting.

There, perhaps I’ve spared someone else the dreaded “interview.”  If I can help even one poor knitter, I can feel fulfilled.

We’re gonna be a little short on the visuals Chez Mad Dog today because certain things must be kept secret, this being the holiday season and all. But my secret project has taught me a lesson. I think. Perhaps a little more on that later in the week…

Bracketing that for a moment, here’s what you can see:

This is the start of a new hat for Alex in Malabrigo’s “Vaa” colorway, shown here with his holiday socks because he had originally requested that the hat harmonize with these socks. An attempt was made and the illusion of its success, as you may have already surmised, rides heavily on the fact that one’s head is very far from one’s feet.

Because indeed, the “Vaa” hat is just a tad more—how shall we say?—reminiscent of military drills and jungle combat than are the Trekking XXL socks. Sir, yes, sir. But most importantly, there is nothing “unmanly” about this colorway, and that is a critical consideration, as it turns out. Particularly for a hat, which everyone can plainly see, sitting right there on your head! Fascinatingly, Alex, like many men, has a finely honed sensibility about what is and is not a “manly” color, despite the fact that one of the many delightful things about Alex is that he has almost no hang-ups whatsoever about his masculinity.

There is clearly an “American Male System of Manly Color Recognition” (AMSMCR) involved, but I must admit that as a woman, I find the criteria completely opaque. Come to think of it, if you squint at that acronym just the right way for long enough, it suggests “Am screwed.” Which is about right. I often mistake an unacceptable color for an acceptable one, and vice versa.

I’ll pick a ball of yarn in a color that I think fairly screams “testosterone” and say, “How would this yarn in the ‘Mack Truck’ colorway do for a hat?”

He’ll give me a stricken look, as though I had just quite soberly suggested that he should go about town in a bonnet trimmed in white bunny fur with a matching muff, and say, “Oh. Oh no. I would never wear that.”

Then again, the Trekking XXL socks under discussion are in a set of colors that I thought would never fly because they would be deemed “too bright.” To my immense surprise, the ruling was favorable, but Alex later explained that because the yarn was for socks, which are not often fully visible, and because he foresaw wearing said socks mostly at home for warmth in the evenings, certain otherwise inviolable color rules could be relaxed. Due to various specific contingencies, you see, that if you fully understood AMSMCR, you could have easily predicted.

One thing about AMSMCR, it keeps you on your toes!

It seems worth observing that since no woman I know really understands AMSMCR, these color rules are actually a “code of the road” men have for dealing with and signalling certain things to other men. I understand from Alex that men have a vast, unwritten code for dealing with one another in public toilets as well, the intricacies of which are astoundingly complex. Though I cannot be sure, I have a feeling that this is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of the byzantine implicit rules men live by in order to keep the homosocial sector of their worlds running smoothly.

This positively dizzying prospect makes me realize once again that the social construction of gender is no laughing matter. I mean, I think we all know that in many ways it is not that easy to be a woman in this society, but when you really think about it, masculinity ain’t exactly a cake walk either. These guys have a lot on their minds! They are preoccupied with the need for strict adherence to the complexities of The Code.

Perhaps this explains why so many of them can’t see dirt.

Well.  Ellen’s care package to me arrived on Friday, and, boy howdy, I’ve got to say that this is my idea of what care packages should be.  If this is what she felt she could part with, I wonder just exactly what she kept for herself.  Perhaps straw spun into gold?

I’ll enumerate the enticing and exciting contents.

First, a cone of a wool/cashmere blend, which I’m certain contains many, many yards.  Stunning.

Second, a very large hank of 100% cashmere (1,000+ yards) from a domestic producer.  Gorgeous.

 

Third, two balls of 100% cashmere.  Beautiful.

 

Fourth, one hank of Harrisville Designs Shetland.  Wow.  You know what this means, don’t you?  Yup, that’s right–I’m going to have to invest in many more colors of this yarn, so as to make myself a Fair Isle sweater.

Fifth, two great books.  The Anna Zilboorg book on top is one that I have long coveted, and in fact is on my Amazon wish list.  (Guess I should go delete that, huh?)  There was actually another book, which I already owned, so I gave the duplicate away in the guild Christmas gift exchange on Saturday.

 

Sixth, a few other little sundries, including a delicious tea called Pixie Mate, Chocolate Mate Solstice.  (OK, there’s an accent mark over the “e” in Mate, but I can’t figure out how to put it in there.  No doubt someone more computer-savvy than I could fix that in about 2 seconds.)  This stuff is really good–so much so that I got seriously peeved with Rob for taking one tea bag for himself.

Thank you very, very much, Ellen!  Everything is beautiful, and I am touched that you wanted to share with me.

Greater love than this no woman hath than to lay down her luxury fiber for her sister.

Today I went to the December meeting of my spinning guild, a lovely group of women from all around northwest Missouri. 

 

                               The ladies at work on their projects.

Because it is December, we made cool Christmas tree ornaments:  clear glass balls stuffed with dyed roving, and nifty little people made out of either yarn or roving.

                                      Saundra’s glass ball nestled in some lovely roving.

                                                At work on a yarn person ornament.

We had a fiber gift exchange, and Suzie scored this great handwoven rag rug.  (There were other great gifts, as well, but I didn’t get pictures of them.)

Saundra brought her wheel and a basket full of spinning supplies, which I was sorely tempted to paw through, but I restrained myself.  (Well, sort of.  She graciously allowed me to do a bit of pawing.  I’m always so curious about what other spinners and knitters are working on.)

 

We made plans to go to Fiber Retreat 2007 in March, for which I myself have already registered.

All in all, it was a very satisfying day.  I have renewed energy to tackle my spinning and knitting projects.

Oh, and what I’ve learned this week?  I’ve learned that every year I make the same mistake of biting of more than I can chew at Christmas-time.  Of course, since I make the same mistake every year, it could convincingly be argued that I’m not actually learning anything at all. 

Live and don’t learn, that’s my motto!

My father and I have a running joke (one of many, it should be pointed out) about the burdens of being a “lifelong learner.” We’ve often thought how great it would be if we could just declare that by golly, we know what we know, we’re sure of it, we don’t have to think about it anymore, we don’t have to defend our beliefs against counterargument, and we don’t have to read or learn anything new ever.

Wouldn’t that be restful?

Actually one of my grandmothers was exactly that sort of person, may the good Lord rest her soul, and she was one of the most incorrigible people you’d ever run across. When I think of her, I am, alas!, led inescapably to this comedy routine by Moms Mably, on the subject of a not-excessively-well-loved husband who has at last passed on to his reward:

They say you shouldn’t say nothin’ bad about the dead. (Pause.)
He’s dead. Good!

I accept that I will probably go to hell.

In the meantime, however, my father and I are, I’m afraid, condemned to an exhausting existence of constant self-improvement and enlightenment. Our burden, friends, is heavy. Why, just this past week, I have learned so many new things!

I have prepared a list, as it happens, because I anticipated that you might like to help me shoulder the weighty load of this new knowledge. What’s that? Oh, good! I knew you would…

Item 1: It is more blessed to give Jade Sapphire Mongolian 2-ply Cashmere mitts than to knit them for yourself.

Even as we speak, these are wending their way through the holiday mail to their intended recipient.

Item 2: That said, it is nonetheless a thing of incomparable joy to make a pair for yourself.

One down, one to go…

Item 3: The existence of cashmere has been used in rigorous philosophical discourse to prove the existence of God.

Item 4: It will be easier for those members of your household who were born and raised in California to tolerate a stringent “energy conservation” program during the New England winter if they have handknit wool socks.

One and a third down, two-thirds to go…

Item 5: It is a little known fact that the native language of the Californian includes forty-seven different words for “surfboard,” but no word for “storm window.”

Item 6: Thanks to Blogless (or is that “blogfree?”) Kristy, I learned this week that some scientists think that modern day people are a tad more zaftig than their ancestors because they live in a comfortable temperature year round through the amazing technologies of air conditioning and heating. The theory is that if you are in an environment that is too cold (or too hot, for that matter) you will burn more calories. Given that Chez Mad Dog we only have the faintest suggestion of heating this winter, Kristy has argued that I may yet be able to “drop a dress size” before the wedding.

Dearly beloved, could science have produced more welcome knowledge for the blushing and fleshy bride-to-be? I daresay not!

Item 7: Trekking XXL comes in this colorway:

Buying this yarn is like spurning the nice guy in your high school class to go out with the black-leather wearing, Harley-Davidson riding bad boy. You know it’s wrong and nothing good can come of it, but you just can’t resist.

Item 8: I have eight projects in process right now. I have counted them, you see. I feel proud of the restraint this number reflects. Had I guessed off the top of my head, I probably would have ball-parked it at about seventeen.

Item 9: Graduate school is grinding, soul-destroying, and miserable. Sometimes you really, really, really want to quit. But the shame of quitting four and a half years into a six (or seven, but who’s counting?) year program is so great that you quickly dismiss the idea and begin working on an elaborate scheme for faking your own death to avoid having to spend another two years on your degree.

It seems like a completely reasonable solution at the time.

Item 9a (corollary to Item 9): Nobody has any patience when graduate students, who have so many reasons to count themselves among the fortunate in this life, whine and complain. It’s boring and self-indulgent. Worse yet, it’s a cliché. So shut up, Ellen.

Item 10: If you are going to write a 300-page dissertation, your first step—and this expert advice, by the way, has a monumental success rate—is to put your butt in a chair.

When I finish my dissertation, I’m going to write an advice book for other dissertation writers that includes this staggering insight.

Item 11: Although I knew this before, I was reminded again that our blog readers are the best! I’m sure that you are all lifelong learners. So…what did you learn this week? Please share.

Emily’s gift mitts are, at last, finished and have been sent to her with hugs, kisses, and best wishes for a happy and bright holiday season (and belated birthday).

But not before a few tasty photos were snapped:

Let’s review the specs, shall we?: Interweave Knits Winter Issue, Wine and Roses Mitts pattern by the marvelous JoLene, Colonial Rosewood DPNs in U.S. Size 1.5, and Jade Sapphire Mongolian Cashmere 2-ply in color Plum-Rose, approximately half the skein consumed, almost certainly enough left for another pair.

Artistic shot with sleeping dog:

Don’t worry, I let her lie.

I didn’t block the mitts, actually. I rather liked their more textured, kinda scrungly appearance (that is, compared to the sample, blocked mitts in IK). I hope that Emily agrees.

I like this pattern and the product so much that I have started a second pair in red for myself, although this time I am doing the cuff and the hand parts on two circular needles, the way I invariably knit socks. My relationship with DPNs has always been a troubled one, and I’ve decided once and for all that it just wasn’t working out between us.

There remains the nagging prospect of the thumb, however.

But we will cross that double-pointed bridge when we come to it.

Due to the Dickensian conditions in our home, however, which I’ve discussed in painful detail previously, I’ll do anything to get those mitts finished—including working with DPNs—because I need something to wear in the house to keep my fingers joints from seizing up in the cold.

The cold, that is, inside the house.

I try to remind myself many, many times a day that we are doing our bit to save the environment through these energy conservation strategies, even though that is only incidental and the truth is that, as graduate students, we are so poor that we’d have to eat kibble along with Shelley all winter if we turned the heat up over our agreed-upon 55 degrees at night (or when we are out of the house)/60 degrees during the day.

There is some heartening news, however. Those of you who were sentient at the time may recall the charming Alpo commercials from the 1970s in which they helpfully pointed out that if you add water, kibble will “make its own gravy!”

Mmm, gravy!

Tonight, as I changed out of my tae kwon do uniform back into my work clothes in the locker room, one of the little girls there said in a tone of surprised admiration, “You look pretty!  Are you going somewhere?”  (I was putting my earrings back on at the time.)  I wasn’t sure whether to feel touched by the admiration, or a bit hurt by the surprise.

Speaking of pretty, Harvey and I decorated the tree over the weekend.  This is one of our shared traditions, and he seems to enjoy it more every year.

Rob doesn’t participate in this particular tradition; I think he has too many bitter memories of putting up a Christmas tree during his childhood.  His mom would become hyper-critical about the placement of every ornament, and their trees were always “themed.”

I myself have no use for a themed family Christmas tree.  To me, most of the joy of ornaments is the memories they evoke.  “Oh, I remember this one!”  “This one has a little note tucked inside from the year you were born.”  “So-and-so gave us this when we lived in New York.”  “I bought this on the Plaza with Mother.” 

And someday, when Harvey is grown and gone, I’ll have the opportunity to cry bittersweet tears every year when I put the tree up.  Something to look forward to.

I’ve been doing a bit of spinning.

 

I’d almost forgotten how easy it is to spin an already-prepared roving.  Just sit down and go to town.  It’s a different kind of satisfaction, I guess, from preparing a fleece from scratch.

Doesn’t it look pretty?

P.S.  Thanks in advance, Ellen, for the luxury yarn and books.  I’m honored.  Seriously.