A Christmas Album

Snow fell early this year. We in the Mid-Atlantic area--and northward--enjoyed a white Christmas.





























Trish and Julie enjoy Bergen's delicious homemade truffles (with chili pepper!) and peppermint fudge. When did she get time to make it all?










Grandmother shows off new frames for photos of the new babies.



























Jack, in his formal best, keeps guard, watching out the window.







Another of Cora and her dad.

Christmas 2009

For the last few years, Christmas has been a rough time for me. The death of my mother in 2000 and of my father a year later, cast a pall on the holidays and reminders that I should feel "merry and bright" only served to intensify my sadness. As others looked forward to the lights, decorations, and Christmas carols, I felt only dread. I looked forward only to December 26, for the slow return of normalcy.

This year that veil of sorrow has finally begun to lift.

Our family is growing again as my children and their cousins are starting to marry and to have families of their own. The first to arrive was Cora, born to my oldest nephew and his wife. I've rediscovered that sharing Christmas morning with a toddler can soften the darkest spirit. Like all little ones her age, Cora's temperament is mercurial. One moment she is playful and happy. Within seconds the winds will change and her cries will break your heart. Watching her, despite these ups and downs, has been remedial. She reminds me of the same magic moments shared with my own toddlers and of how quickly they pass.

We are also looking forward to the birth of my son's first child, a little girl who was "due" on December 25th. Understandingly, we were somewhat apprehensive about her coming during the holidays but those feelings reached critical mass when an early snowstorm pounded our area before Christmas and brought the MD-DC-VA area to a standstill. Fortunately, our prayers that she would choose a later date to arrive have been answered favorably.

And so it is that the coming of one child and the anticipation of another has served to ease my seasonal unhappiness. I will never stop missing my parents, but the time has come at last, I think, to put the grief away, to stop and enjoy the Christmas lights.

Rainly Day Road Trip

Last week we had a wonderful little road trip. Two of my knitting buddies, Carol and Terri are also tea lovers. So, when I learned about a tea store in Annapolis, someone suggested a trip over The Bridge.

I decided to drive and Carol volunteered to sit in the back seat of the Mini--she's such a good sport but I suspect that's the last time she'll be so adventurous. Sitting back there isn't terribly uncomfortable if you're of average height or less, but getting in and out can be tricky. I've perfected an exit strategy that can only be classified as "graceful" if someone outside the car can give me a little tug. Failing that, I'm afraid it looks more like I'm escaping from a sink hole.

The weather was windy, wet and chilly but the little red car was toasty warm. As we rode, Terri read aloud from A Wind in the Willows and time passed quickly. The walk from the parking garage was a short one but we were nevertheless, greatly appreciative when the storekeeper offered up warm samples of the tea du jour. We had fun admiring tea pots, checking out various tea accoutrements and smelling the hundred or so loose teas that were available. It was a true field day for the senses, especially on such a nasty day. Carol, a devoted Obama fan, was tickled to learn that the store had a special mix of tea dedicated to the new president and she happily bought some, along with a number of others, for herself and a friend. I chose some African rooibos, which is a rich red herbal tea, and two black teas--Earl Grey, mixed with English lavender, and an oriental spice blend.



Afterwards, we stopped for lunch at my favorite Annapolis restaurant, Cafe Normandie. We warmed ourselves with more hot tea and feasted on a lunch of good bread, rich soup and fresh salad as we chatted.

What a lovely way to spend a rainy day--or any day!

Boo Humbug

I hate Halloween. Maybe it started when my mother made me a cool black cat costume and Shirley Niklas won the first place costume prize for some cheesy princess get-up.

Once or twice I relapsed and reluctantly played along with the rest of the world. Most often I've worn my jammies, carried a teddy bear and blankie for a few handfuls of free chocolate. The best one was probably the time I wore a forest green head-to-toe leotard festooned with Christmas ornaments and silver garland. After a time however, life as a Christmas tree grew wearisome. Everyone just wanted to "feel my balls."

We had a few good years when my kids were small. One year, Dan was a mummy and I wrapped him up in strips of muslin. He started unraveling the minute he stepped out the door. When he returned from making the rounds in the neighborhood, he looked like an angora cat who'd lost a fight with the weed whacker. I picked up strings from the carpet for weeks. When Julie was about 3, she decided she wanted to be a "cockalooda." After a few minutes of careful interrogation, we concluded that she wanted to be a brightly colored bird. I cut long petal-shaped "feathers" from a number of different cotton fabrics and sewed them onto a cape, which she wore over tights. She was the cutest little cockalooda in the Halloween parade, right down to her red high-topped Converse sneakers.

Now, I find Halloween a bother. I dislike having to listen to the dogs bark all night as we run back and forth to dispense cheap candy and a heartfelt, "Aren't you cute!" Check back later--things may change after we get grandchildren.

In the meantime, here are a few photos of Halloween in our small town.

My Sweet Puppygirl

I'm sad to announce that my beloved Molly passed away in my arms after a brief illness. We will miss her greatly but cherish the memories of the many years she blessed our lives. No one ever had a cuter wiggle-butt and her kisses were ever so sweet.

Shenandoah Valley Fiber Fest

Julie and I had talked earlier in the summer about going to Rhinebeck for the NY Sheep and Wool Festival to see what all the talk was about. Then, I heard about the Shenandoah Valley Fiber Fest in Berryville, VA and it seemed silly to travel all the way to New York when we had something so close.

We watched the weather forecasts for the week prior and they went from possible precipitation to certain downpour. When the day finally came, the temperature was almost balmy--no rain when we left--but the skies were ominous. We dressed for the worst, with boots, slickers and umbrellas. We were determined to have fun, regardless of the weather. And that's exactly what happened.

We were delighted to discover that a large group of Julie's friends from the Reston Stitch 'n' Bitch group were also there. Every time we met some one we knew, we invited them to lunch at The Cup and Crumpet. (Elizabeth McCarus from Fibersmyth had a booth and her husband had one right beside her with pre-made goodies from his tea room.) By noon, we had a party of ten--the food was delicious and the company was even better. We all sat at a large picnic table, eating and chatting about what we'd seen, bought, or planned to buy. Suddenly, everyone finished eating at the same and they all left. It was like rats jumping off of a sinking ship! One minute we're all having a great time and the next, Julie and I were alone!

I'd been looking forward to the juried fleece sale and it was really interesting to browse through the 50 or so fleeces there. I bought a cream colored Romney fleece and half of an alpaca fleece. I hadn't planned on the alpaca, but it was so soft and had so much crimp--usually alpaca has little or no crimp--that it looked like a sheep's fleece. I kept coming back to it, as did another spinner. We were going back and forth, each one urging the other to buy it. Finally, we both bought half.



The festival was only about 1/4 of Maryland Sheep and Wool, so we were able to check out all the animals and visit with the vendors. We especially liked watching the rabbit owners blow dry and fluff their bunnies in preparation to judging and we absolutely fell in love with the lop-eared dwarf bunnies--so cute!



It was an absolutely wonderful day--regardless of the weather!

A Weekend With Julie and Cookie

I had a marvelous mini vacation last weekend with one of my favorite people, Daughter Julie, and one of my favorite designers, Cookie A. The event was a two-day sock-knitting seminar put on by one of Julie's knitting pals. It was held at a private home in Solomon's Island, on the shores of the Patuxent River, with a view of its convergence with the Chesapeake Bay. Even on a cloudy grey morning, the setting was beautiful and, when the front passed, leaving a bright sunny afternoon, it was absolutely spectacular.

One of the classes we'd signed up for was called, "Intuitive Chart Reading" and actually, I really didn't expect much to come out of it. Fortunately, I was greatly surprised.

Let me explain. I learned to knit in a time when knitting patterns were either painfully terse, leaving much to the imagination, or verbose, dictating each stitch in its place. I went out of my way to avoid the former and sought out the latter. When I worked those patterns, I felt a sense of pride that I could make sense of it all, akin to being able to read Klingon. I felt like the designer was present with me as I knit, coaching me stitch by stitch. So, fast forward to the present age. Almost no one writes patterns in English anymore. OH NO, they draw charts. Each stitch is still there, in its specific order, but now each one is represented by a strange arcane symbol--one looks like a Breast Cancer ribbon, others resemble ceiling rafters or bridge support fixtures. I never thought knitting charts made much sense and working from them was tedious. Usually, I retreated to the past and transcribed each row onto an index card. Then, I felt comfortable again, flipping each card as I completed each row.

Cookie began the class by asking each one of us to say how they felt about charts. Those women who were of a certain age--that is, over 40--said almost the same thing, "Charts are strange and I hate them." The younger members of the class were, as a group, less passionate, just wanting to better understand charts.

Cookie A is a perky, cute-as-a-button young lady with green highlights in her "pixie" haircut. It doesn't take long to recognize that she's very bright and extremely knowledgeable about all things knitting. Still, I had doubts that I would witness any conversions, especially not my own. In the course of a few hours, using a dry erase board and four different colored markers, Cookie A, made sense of the whole business of charts. She showed us that the silly little symbols weren't silly at all, but stylized representations of how the stitch looks and what it is doing in the pattern. The "Breast Cancer Ribbon" symbol indicates a twisted stitch and the bridge fixtures are really cable stitches. She also helped us to make sense out of charts that aren't square and the little blackened-in squares that I now know mean "do nothing."

Soon, we were all speaking Chartese, discussing yarnovers and double decreases, like it was our native tongue. By lunch time, I felt like I'd discovered and conquered a whole new territory in the Land of Knitting. It was pretty damn awesome.



After that, it was all just gravy. We had dinner at a nice Italian restaurant and a group of us stayed at the local Hilton. Sunday was a taste of Indian Summer--clear blue skies with a warm breeze. Julie and I attended another class about designing rib stitches and then, spent the afternoon in the front yard, chatting and enjoying the view. Cookie even taught a short lesson on the lawn and the sailboats scooted by. I couldn't imagine that a trip to Europe could have been any better.

Our Hero, Pretzel

This morning we took Molly for a spa day at the the local kennel. (Really, it's just a bath and a haircut but we want Molly to feel like it's special.) The owner, Connie, told me the sweetest story. She has two cats who have been boarding since June. Yesterday morning when she arrived at the kennel to start work, she noticed blood all over the cage where the cats were and her first thought was that they'd been fighting. Immediately, she removed one of the cats and it was then that she realized the one remaining was in the process of giving birth. Off to the side, there was something small and dark, a kitten that appeared to be stillborn. Connie took the kitten and proceeded to massage it with a towel. Occasionally, it would gasp and try to breathe, but she could feel that its body was cool. In desperation, she held the little bundle out to her dog, Pretzel, who sniffed and then, started to lick it. After a few seconds, the kitten let out a healthy cry. Connie put him back at the mother's side and he started to nurse with the other three kittens. Pretzel, a pit bull with an enormous heart had saved the day!

Further Adventures

Last night, I read a post on Ravelry from someone who has bought at least one yucky fleece before. She said that she soaks everything overnight in cold water and after one trip through a hot detergent bath and a couple of rinses, the fleece is transformed. I tried it and, sure enough, in the morning, the water in the bucket was brown and murky. After 20 minutes in the hot soapy water, there was hardly any mud at all!

I was regretting this project, thinking that I should perhaps put the whole mess in the trash, but now I have hope that I can salvage it.

UPDATE: I'm on the road! I'm spinning Mercy's fleece into bulky yarn and it's really quite nice. Here's a photo of my yarn and another showing the start of my cardigan. I'm using a Drops pattern, #109-3, which is a hoodie with Celtic ropes up the front and on the back.

Adventures in Fleece

Yesterday I received the fleece I bought last weekend off Ebay. I've really been looking forward to it, even dreaming about it, but now, having opened the box, I'm not sure why. The auction description said that the sheep, who's name is Mercy (as in, have mercy on me!) was supposed to have been coated (the sheep wear covers to protect the fleece) but I'm thinking that this guy only wore his coat on Sundays. I'm new to this fleece business but there just seems to be an awful lot of muck and other dark matter on the wool. The picture on the auction site didn't look anything like this mess--wonder why.

The top photo shows what came in the mail. Actually, the picture doesn't look that bad--it looks like something a Klingon would eat for dinner--but the reality was really very disgusting. If I didn't know that there was creamy white and silvery grey wool in there, dying to be cleaned, I'd have chucked the whole thing into the garbage.

My spinning teacher had discussed "scouring" or cleaning raw wool and I've gone online to get some more pointers. I got my lingerie bag and filled it 2/3 full with some of the best locks; the really grungy stuff went into the compost heap. I filled a drywall bucket with hot, hot water and some dish detergent and placed the bag in the bucket. Most of the directions caution strongly against touching the wet wool in any way, since Abrasion + Hot Water + Soap = Felting so I resisted the temptation to mess with it. I soaked the first bag for 30 minutes and then plunked into two hot vinegar baths to rinse. When I blotted it with a towel, there was still a fair amount of mud in the tips of the locks, so now I'm doing two 20 minute washes.

Let's see: each bag of fleece is about 3/4 of a pound and the process takes a minimum of 55 minutes to get the fleece to the drying stage. Something tells me that nine pounds of sheep fleece is going to take a little more time to wash than I thought!

The second photo is a batch of wool, drying on the porch. Every dark area is muddy crap.

Annapolis Spins

Recently, I was reading a message on Ravelry from someone who had recently moved into the Annapolis area and wanted to find a group to spin with. She had several responses but all of them were invitations to join groups that were an hour's drive away or more. Annapolis has a great quilting guild and an active rug hooking guild. I've heard that there are also chapters of the national knitting and weavers' guilds--could it be that there isn't a spinning group?

Having enjoyed my own knitting groups, I decided to do something about it. I immediately got on the phone, called one of the libraries near Annapolis, and reserved a room for the following month. I started posting information on Ravelry and hoped for the best.

On appointed day, I left home with much trepidation. Who would come? Would I sit in the meeting room all day, spinning alone?

I got to the library a few minutes later than I had planned and when I made my way to the meeting room, I heard voices. Inside, there were two young ladies, all set up, spinning and chatting away! After I got there, two more showed up...and then another. I was so excited, I could hardly breathe.

All of the ladies there were what I have found to be typical spinners--warm, open and eager to share what they knew. One of the ladies was even so generous that she brought an extra spinning wheel, a spindle, and fiber to share. When a young knitter came in who had never spun before, she was invited to sit down and try her hand. One of the members of my hometown group also came with a borrowed wheel and I worked with her to get her started.

Throughout the day, we got to know each other, chatted about our spinning, our families and our lives. As our time ended, I asked them if they'd be interested in meeting again and everyone seemed eager to do so on a monthly basis. The drive home was a little longer than planned due to beach-bound traffic on the Bay Bridge but I hardly noticed. I smiled all the way home, thinking, "I have a spinning group!"

Who Am I?

Throughout the course of my life, my identity has changed. When I was small, I was Frank and Dot's little girl or Ted's sister. As I got older and ventured out into the world, going to college and then to the workaday world, I felt that I came into my own. My family was unknown to most of the people with whom I came in contact and I felt as if I was my own person. Then I had children. Again, I became known primarily for my position as Julie's mom or Dan's mother.

These days, since the kids are young adults, living away from home, I thought I had recaptured my identity, that is, until the other day when I met someone new at the neighborhood block party. The lady looked at me and said she thought she'd seen me before. I went through the list of ways she might know me--where I'd worked, where we'd gone to church, the things I like to do in town--until she figured it out. "You walk that funny jumping dog!"

So, that's who I am now. I'm The Mother of the Funny Jumping Dog.

It could be worse.

Sapphire Blue

Ask my husband and he'll tell you that I've been "spinning my head off." I don't know why, but he loves to say it--maybe, like the girl in The Exorcist, he thinks I've been taken over by a supernatural force! To some extent, it's not far from the truth. Since I took my first spinning class in April, I've been somewhat eaten up with spinning. I read about it, I talk about it, I do it all the time.

I didn't expect that I would like it so much; in fact, I was, for a time, totally opposed to the idea of ever spinning my own wool. Why did I need to do that when there was a whole world full of beautiful wool and when knitting itself took long enough to do? The answer wasn't at all clear when I started, but it's becoming more so as I go along.

Many spinners spin simply for the love of playing with fiber and for me, this is certainly a great deal of the attraction. I've played with fiber for as long as I can remember, starting with the little potholder loom that I received many Christmases ago. After that, it was the little spool i-cord knitter that my mom made for me--five nails hammered into the top of a wooden thread spool. (I wonder how many young fiber artists out there have never seen thread on wooden spools!) Then came the crochet hook, the knitting needles and later, the sewing machine. It's all a part of my personal history. I file them under, Gifts From My Mother.

The sensual pleasures that I get from fiber, however, aren't the whole of it. I love the process a great deal, but I usually need a functional purpose to keep me going. Knitting miles of i-cord was dizzying at first, but the thrill of accomplishment faded when I realized that I couldn't put it to much use. So it is, that spinning skeins and skeins of beautifully hand-dyed fiber has lost some of it's fascination. I have a real need to make something real from it and now I have started to come to that place in my spinning when I can dictate, to some extent, what comes off the wheel and knit it up into a real wearable garment. After much contemplation, I've decided to knit the Shalom Cardigan by Meghan McFarlane of Involving the Senses.

Here's the progress so far:






The top photo is a basket full of my hand-dyed roving. The lower shots show a bobbin of singles that I spun, a skein of wool that resulted from plying three strands of singles together, and finally, the half knitted cardigan.

A Dog Tale

On Sunday, Paul and I were out walking our dogs in the neighborhood, when a little white dog appeared. Molly, ever the Warrior Princess, started snapping and growling like she wanted to eat the stranger and the little stranger came right back with equal fervor, despite the fact that she was smaller than Molly. I separated the combatants before they got into it and the little dog ran off, right into the street. Luckily, no cars were coming. I tried to catch her, but she led me on a merry chase that ended at the doors of the local Catholic church. We danced around the porch and I managed to get a look at her tags--no name, only current a current license. She kept going back to the door. Thinking that the church would at least be safer than the street, I opened the door and in she scooted. When I realized, in horror, that the last service was still in progress, I ran off, feeling like a teenage prankster.

I rejoined Paul to tell him what I'd done and we saw a man leaving the church with the dog. Then I recognized the dog as one who usually barked at us from the corner house. I'd never seen her whole body, just her head and front paws, as she tried desperately to get out and chase us. The owner caught up with us, holding the dog at his side like a football. "There I was, standing in the church aisle, waiting to take communion and here comes my dog!"

I told him what had happened but now I wish I hadn't. What a great mystery that would have been.

Riding About in the Smokies

We've just returned from a week of riding the bike in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. One of the highlights of the trip was a trip to visit the John C. Campbell Folk Art School in Brasstown, NC. I've gotten the catalogue for years and always dreamed of attending so a chance to see it in person was a real treat.

We learned that the project was started by two visionary young ladies in the early '30's and based on the Danish folk art schools, which the two had visited while travelling abroad. Even then, in an increasingly industrialized world, the two saw a need to retain hand made arts. Today, the farm-like campus covers 300 acres and offers classes for anything from baking, spinning and weaving to blacksmithing, natural dyeing and basket weaving. If you can make it with your hands, you can find a class to learn it at John C. Campbell.




The stone building is the first thing you see as you come onto the grounds. On the lower level there's a gift shop which offers items made by members of the Southern Highlands Craft Guild and above, there are administrative offices.

That's me by the famous red fence. It seemed that whatever we were looking for, the directions started with, "Follow the red fence..." Paul is standing beside an interesting metal sculpture outside of the blacksmithing shop.

A Wonderful Little Surprise

While I was watering the plants on my porch this morning, I noticed some activity in one of the hanging baskets. Just as I approached, a bird hurriedly flew away. I took a look and there, among the fern leaves and the fiddleheads, was a perfect little nest with several tiny blue eggs. The best thing was that the mother bird used some of the roving that I'd discarded to make her nest.

Glovely

After a few weeks of spinning, I've gotten enough yarn that I can make something. I purchased some combed top by Louet called "Pastels." At this point, the wheel is pretty much in charge of me and I accept what it gives me but I'm pretty happy with what I got. These are just simple little gloves, but I had such fun knitting them up. The wool is a two-ply that came out mostly fingering weight with some sport weight thrown in. Not perfect, but good enough for me.

Spinning My Brains Out

Never let it be said that I do anything half-assed. No sirree! If I'm going to do anything, I'm going to do it full-tilt, pedal-to-the-metal, boogie-till-you-puke and with both sides of my arse. So it is that, now that I've started spinning, not much else has been happening in my life--by design. My dear SIL is letting me use the spinning wheel that she bought when she was in college and I've been having the time of my life, spinning my brains out. Jack likes to keep me company and sometimes, when he thinks I'm treadling too fast, he lays on the top part of the treadle.

Here's some of the commercially dyed roving that I spun up recently, as well as some roving that I dyed using the dyeing skills I learned from rug hooking.

Holy Sheep and Wool! It's Ysolde!!

The highlight of my day at the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival came while I was...drum roll...waiting in line for the bathroom. First, here's what I learned about the bathrooms at these things. Because the population is primarily female, there are ALWAYS lines at the ladies' rooms and to calm the unruly hoardes, many of the men's rooms are opened up to women. But you DON'T really want to stand in the line for those particular facilities (unless of course, you want to spend your time schmoozing in line. Don't get me wrong, this is definitely part of the Sheep and Wool experience, but I don't get up at the crack of dawn and drive for and hour and a half to do it.) Why? Because, nature being what it is, the guys get a choice between standing up and sitting down. Consequently, they have twice as many urinals and half as many toilets. No one wants to sit on a urinal, so we stand in line, three times longer. (The math seems counterintuitive, but trust me, I timed it.)

To get back to the story, there I am, standing in line with my daughter, discussing her current project, and silently praying to the Holy Mother of Bladder Control. A young lady goes walking by me in a grey lace cardigan and she stops to talk to Casey, aka. Code Monkey, from Ravelry. I know it embarasses Julie when I talk to strangers, but I have to know. "Excuse me, but your sweater...is that Liesl?" The young lady turns around and I see her face. I couldn't have been more overwhelmed if it had been Mick Jagger. "Oh, my gosh! You're Ysolde!" I stammered and she laughed. Yes, Virginia, it was the famous Ysolde Teague, one of my favorite knit designers, who'd come all the way from Edinburgh, Scotland, to attend the festival. And yes, the sweater she was wearing was Liesl and now I have to make it.

I apologize to Casey for using a photo of him with his eyes closed but the fact is, I took two photos and Ysolde has her eyes closed in the other one. Since she's the subject of the story, I picked this one. Besides, I've taken four or five pictures of Casey in the last two years and he almost always has his eyes closed.

Woolapalooza

For me, the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival, always held on the first weekend in May, is like the begining of the New Knitting Year. I make my way through winter--which, I admit can be pretty mild--and then, as hints of spring begin to appear, I start to think of the a new year of knitting adventures. Last year, I decided that I wanted to try my hand at spinning, so I planned my day at the festival stalking the wild spindle in its native environment. I returned with a spindle from Bosworth's stall and a small stache of roving to spin.

This year, I tried something really different. I decided to experience the festival as a worker bee and found myself in the merchandise tent, bagging purchases for the many, many fair goers. I'd expected to be busy and I was but I was totally unprepared for the foot pain that I experienced after 3 hours of standing in one spot on a concrete floor.

Afterwards, I met up with my daughter and we wound our way through the barns. I always enjoy listening to Maggie Sansone's hammered dulcimer music, especially when she brings her Dancing Dogs--I'm always up at the front with the little kids and I think I enjoy those clogging canines as much as they do.


I got to play with a Woolee Winder on a Schacht Ladybug and it was divine. Only memories of paying for the new furnace kept me from saying, "Wrap it up, I'll take it."We also visited the Golding booth. Do people really spin on Golding wheels? Are they art or function? And what does one of those babies weigh anyway? I hardly think I'd be throwing one of them in the back of the Mini Cooper to buzz out to a spin-in. Besides, the thought of doing such a thing smacks of blasphemy!



I took in some more eye candy at Monica Leno' booth. I'd read about her hand painted spinning wheels in Spin Off magazine, but seeing them in person was an entirely different thing. I talked with Monica about her business, asking what it would cost if someone wanted to get their wheel "pimped out." She gave a little laugh, hesitated before she answered--I realized at that point that I'd never have to worry about it--and said that she chooses not to do consignments but prefers to sell the wheels she has already done. Where does she get her subjects? Out of the classifieds and from antique shops. Here are some of the exquisite wheels that she's rescued.