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I'm trying, really, I am.
I was going to say, "When there is a post in me, I'll come back."
It fit the theme, but then again, it wasn't quite what I meant.
Knitting is happening (process-oriented, no products). Spinning is happening (3ply for socks, getting ready to ply 12 bobbins into 4 for a Coopworth sweater). Fiberfests are happening.
I'll be back later.
Garden In The Woods, MA, fallen tree, beautiful colors in decaying bark, yesterday:
Many in New England have been made drunk and euphoric by the spring weather this week. Alas, my poor garden must cope with the winter hangover before rejoicing can happen.
The maladies are many.
My poor tree peonies suffered compound fractures in all extremities. The carnage was complete. A good doctor seeks to understand the mechanisms of injury. Wet snow fell, ice storms covered the wet snow. All further snow storms added weight to the bent arms and legs, until they screamed and broke.
I'm a terrible peony-mom. I didn't hear the screams until it was far too late.
A whole host of plants didn't live through the winter. Consumption got 'em. Dead stems keeled over. Pull at the stems, and the gardener-doctor is confronted with this.
Voles ate every single root on many plants. Plants that winter over without stems simply disappeared, their previous locations marked by shallow depressions in the soil.
Winters without snow cover kill plants from dehydration, cold, and exposure. Winters with protective snow cover give rodents their shot at all the best entrees, desserts and appetizers.
Castor oil doesn't work. Volebloc slows them down. Maybe. I'm planting in wire cages for now. It simply sucks. I asked one of my patients, a landscaper, what to do about voles.
He laughed, without humor, replete with irony. "Feed 'em," he advised.
So I either put out food to decoy them briefly and help them survive? Or feed them expensive perennials? I think I'll go sniff some wool fumes tomorrow. No matter what I buy at Connecticut Sheep and Wool, it will be less expensive than feeding voles.
I do want to end on a positive note. If you aren't reading Sheepgal, you should. Her descriptions of lambing and lambs bring it all home. It is funny, amazing, joyous, and sad as Barb Parry takes you through her spring on the farm.
Lantern Moon sent me replacement needles for the incorrectly sized #7s. They sent me ten to replace two. I will email the customer service representative to see if that really is what was supposed to happen. Right now, I'm feeling the warm glow of excellent customer service in response to the problem.
At Rhinebeck 2006, I missed my dream NH Norwegian wheel by fifteen minutes. I got to the wheelwright's booth at 9:15am. I thought I was 45 minutes early, but it was not so.
Instead, I tried the NH Saxony. It was there, and it was for sale. I couldn't spin on it to save a Viking's life. I left, knowing clearly that it was not the wheel for me, tail firmly between legs, to meet Lorrie at Barn A.
I was weak. Vulnerable. She told me I had to try this wheel.
I knew I shouldn't. But I did.
It was a lush, smooth, flawless spinning experience. But it was too ornate. Too expensive. No and no and no.
Yes??
Lorrie and I made a field trip to Tom Golding's studio just after Christmas, 2006. He was willing to work on a simpler design with me.
The center motif had to be modifiable to accommodate the footman attachment. Several Celtic designs were rejected as either edgy, ornate, or difficult to modify without ruining the design.
Working with Tom Golding was wonderful. He was cooperative, responsive, knowledgeable. He made it very clear that he wasn't done until I was happy with the design and with the wheel. He sent pictures at several steps along the finishing way. We emailed and talked.
His workshop looks like a set from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Every machine and tool is spotless. (There were no Oompa Loompas the day I was there.) His ventilation and dust evacuation system would pass any surprise OSHA inspection.
His wheel construction is equally meticulous. When he finishes each drive wheel, before he attaches the footman, he sets it to spinning, and times how long before the wheel stops. He records the time in a notebook. (The longest time was 19 minutes, shortest was 3 minutes. Mine was 16. I have no idea what this signifies other than less or more friction, and weight of the wheel.) When the wheel meets his technical and aesthetic criteria, he gives it to his tester. Diane, his wife, test-spins each wheel. (She is equally gracious and warm.) When Mr. E and I went up to Vermont in January to pick up the new wheel, she ran through the ratio changes with me, and answered all questions.
The wheel never needs oil. Anywhere. It spins just like you remember from trying it at the fiber festivals, only BETTER because now it is mine. He signs each one.
I am a very lucky grrl.
Mrs. G is 89 years old. She quietly listened to my explanation of general anesthesia vs two types of regional anesthesia for her operation. I asked what she thought about what I had said.
"Well, general anesthesia is just too much for this. I think that I would rather endure a tight band around my arm than have you fiddling with my nerves."
People half her age have coped less well with these abstractions and decisions. I was impressed.
Her mind was sharp, her manner calm. "What's your secret?", I queried.
"It must be the gardening", she replied.
"Oh! Of course." (While, inside, I cheered and yahooed.)
On Saturday, I stopped off at the garden center after food shopping. Mr. E had a book, which he read in the car while I got a soul-saving transfusion of cute little plants in cute little pots. (CLPs in CLPs is the shorthand in our household.)
Johnny Jump-Ups in antique lavender for my soul, and mesclun seedlings for spring salads:
Remember all that startitis? I'm 7/11 through the garter stitch portion of Wool Peddler's shawl. The yarn is Judy's merino/silk two ply in the Atlantic colorway:
I'm thinking of starting a new feature on the blog called Wine of the Week (WOW). It will be something good, or something unusual, or something fun, and it won't happen every week. (That's too much pressure.)
1983 Guigal Cotes du Rhone - this was ridiculous. It cost $6.50 when I bought it in the late 1980s. It should have been consumed the day I bought it. Instead, it hung around the cellar until it was twenty five years old. It is a modest wine. The juice used to make the blend came from numerous no-name vineyards, blended every which way, to make an inexpensive, buy-now-drink-now product.
I expected it to have died a vinous death years ago. Instead, it was ethereal. Mushroomy, woodsy, gentle fruitiness, smooth, lush, we celebrated the surprise, and then mourned the passing of the bottle.
Must blog but tired don't want to complain have stuff to say been doing knitting some spinning no pictures of either must do something about that but tired hate complaining in publicblogging should do my G no not yet when did obligation to post get into the mix but i want to blogtouch my buddies tired should be doing yardwork no thanks should be doing expense report yech handed taxes to the big guy at least that's off my plate but need to write letter and clear desk and pay bills and why do I have to have a day job?
Monkey mind, indeed.
Swatches are evil mind-twisters. Every knitter knows this. How about when it twists even further? Sometimes, it may not be the knitter's hands that are the culprit.
Manise spotted this one from across the table. I was swatching for Green Gable. US #6 gave me 13.5 st/inch with Rowan Calmer. I went up a needle size. Manise pointed out that my needles were still US #6. "You must have picked up the first set. Looks small", she accused.
My Lantern Moons, purchased as US #7. Two measure out as #6, three measure out as #7. My record keeping isn't good enough to know where to return them.
Just imagine what my swatch WOULDN'T have told me about Rowan Calmer for Green Gable. (Many thanks to Manise, whose eyes are as sharp as a needle gauge.)
BMFA Sheep to Shoe (Lapis) is on a wheel. Strip the roving into three equal lengthwise parts.
One reassessment and reallocation yields 87.8 gms/82.2 gms/93.8gms. I wring my hands. Is it even enough? Most people don't have drug-dealer scales. Most people eyeball it. Isn't that good enough?
As I inspect the color changes, it becomes clear that the roving will not spin out into clear color transitions. The weights are fine. I'm 50% into spinning worsted technique, a good amount of twist (Goldilocks and the Three Bears: not too much, not too little, just right), planning three ply from three bobbins.
Startitis has continued. There really has been a point to it, which became clear when I cast on for Green Gable, and then the Wool Peddler's shawl. I finally found WIPs that made me want to knit again.
The barbarians came on Thursday and blew the leaves away. It is shocking to see lawn. Of course, the lawn that has been revealed is in shocking condition. I hope that is temporary.
The croci have stretched, reached up their tiny arms, yawned, and are preparing to smile. At LAST.
No, there is nothing here related to gardening. This has nothing to do with pawnsh0ps.
Foiled again.
The Etherknitters go at it in public.
Fencing has been on my lifelist. We had the chance, so I took a stab at it. The instructor showed us three parries, and three blocks. He taught us basic attack and retreat footwork.
Then he let us flail away at each other.
In REAL fencing, one drills and drills and drills so that the footwork and the attacks are in muscle memory. We had a 45 minute session of pure aggressive beginner fun.
I may try this again someday.
This appears to be an ordinary ball of sock yarn.
It is not.
It sits there, in its recurrent completeness, representing a space-time anomaly that sucked ten hours of knitting time out of my life.
The skein became a ball several months ago to start Marina Piccola. Before getting around to swatching a stitch count for Marina, I decided it was the perfect yarn for Monkeys.
The twisted rib was fun. The start of the lace was not. I define the concept of the tight knitter. But I could not solve the laddering problem that goes with a purl stitch at the start of each needle. I searched Ravelry for hints. Clues. A few did the pattern all in knit stitches. (They appeared to be contrarians.) I seemed to be the only knitter amongst the 4415 to find these purl ladders cosmetically damaging.
Life is too short and death is too long. I frogged it.
The yarn ball sat silently, biding its infinite time. I searched for an interesting pattern where I could use the K1P1 twisted ribbing. Aha! Crosswalker socks! Twenty rows into this pattern, I noticed a dimple at the junction of ribbing and leg.
It is visible at twelve o'clock in the picture, where ribbing meets leg. I threaded a dental floss life line, took it off the needles, and tried it on. Pooching ensued. The sock won't lie flat on my ankle. I put the stitches back on the needle, and put it aside for a day or two to think about it.
That's when the sock tried to kill itself.
The k2tog stitch jumped off a cliff, and laddered down four rows.
Rescue happened. Then I brought it to knitgroup for consultation. Knitgoddess Lorrie discussed the mechanics of what was happening. Because the decrease/increase pattern forms a V of stitches, there was no place for the top of the V to go. It met a straight line at the ribbing. That meant its only option was up and out. She did not think it would block out.
I frogged it, AND the ribbing today. It is back in the stash, where, like in the Government Warehouse scene in the first Indiana Jones movie, it will be lost for eternity amongst a million similar skeins. I'm hoping that time dilutes the curse.
Meanwhile, back at the stash, lack of knitting and spinning mojo rules. My current intervention strategy has been startitis.
Celtic Braid sock, by Cabin Fever, in Shibuiknits, color #2955.
So far, so good. The pattern is just complex enough to be entertaining.
And this is Bosnian mitten #1 from Blackberry Ridge. It is my first colorwork.
I am mostly thrilled by how it came out. It certainly isn't perfect. The aforementioned tightness of knitting is evident in some rampant puckering. However, it is quite acceptable for a first attempt. And it was wildly fun to knit. Colorwork has seemed like an impossibly high bar to aim for. Now it is possible. In the tradition that what is worth doing is worth overdoing, I've acquired the Jamieson & Smith yarn to do two of Ann Feitelson's designs. J&S are discontinuing some of their colorways. Those don't include the ones needed to do my two sweater choices, but one never can predict how that particular yarn breeze will blow.
Today is Mr. Etherknitter's birthday. Although this year's number is more painful than many, I keep reminding him that the alternative is not better.
I am so lucky to have found this guy. He is intelligent, kind, handsome, selfless, creative, and funny. Happy birthday to one of the best lifeforms ever to grace the planet!
The oldest statue in the Boston Public Garden celebrates a drug. This is the Ether Monument.
Sculpted by John Quincy Adams Ward in 1868, it was as controversial as the discovery of ether itself.
Two medical professionals, Charles T. Jackson, and W.T.G. Morton, claimed to have discovered the anesthetic properties of gases one could inhale. Neither one is pictured or named on the statue. Instead, a 'good Samaritan' does the deed.
Oliver Wendell Holmes called it a tribute to "ether or either".
The controversy included a third man, Horace Wells, who had attempted a demonstration of the anesthetic properties of nitrous oxide in January 20, 1845.
Nitrous oxide is a very weak anesthetic. If you leave enough room for oxygen in the mix (as one must), it is not effective enough by itself to relieve all pain. Wells tried to anesthetize a man for a tooth extraction at Massachusetts General Hospital. "At first, all went well, but then there was a noise. Some later called it a groan. Others called it a weak sort of bleat. The students in the audience jeered at their laughing-gas man. He heard the word 'humbug' called out over and over again. No one took much notice when the patient awoke fully and protested that he had experienced almost no pain."1
A year and a half later, when W.T.G. Morton used ether in a more successful demonstration, the attending surgeon (Dr. John Collins Warren) turned to the audience and stated, "Gentlemen, this is no humbug."
Twenty-two years after the first successful demonstration of the drug when the statue was dedicated, the controversy that I described here still raged. The statue pictures both religious and scientific motifs. Two hundred and sixty two years later, there is little controversy about the role of anesthesia in medicine. The arguments about who discovered what first, however, will never be resolved. The enormous egos involved and their attempts to gain fame and wealth from the discovery, all conspired to blur the truth for all time.
1 Ether Day, Julie M. Fenster, Harper Collins, 2001, p63-64.
Most women are smart enough to get out of bad relationships. Not me. United Airlines keeps taking, I keep giving. I give money, miles, and more. Let me explain.
We upgraded for our Utah trip last week. It costs 30,000 frequent flier miles in addition to the usual economy fare price. First class gives me room to knit, and storage space for ski boots.
When we got to the airport in Salt Lake City (returning to Boston), the ticket agent gave us a blank stare. Our spots in first class had been revoked, and the miles refunded to our account. WHAT? I politely insisted on being put back. The airline had not communicated with us, and I was upset. We were reinstated.
At mealtime, we discovered that all we got was the seat. They had run out of food for us. The flight attendant was apologetic, but clear. "Paying" customers got first choice of meals. I was stunned that money plus miles did not catapult me into the category of paying customer.
An hour later, I was quietly knitting. Mr. Etherknitter noticed the flight attendant gathering an oxygen tank and mask from the overhead compartment. He asked her if she needed help, and identified himself as a doc. I missed all this, until, five minutes later, he came to get me.
A passenger in economy was having chest pain. He had a past medical history significant for major cardiac problems. Between three seats, we started an IV, administered heart medications, took a history, checked blood pressures and heart rate, then got him moved to the back of the plane so he could lie flat. A hanger from first class substituted as an IV pole.
The flight attendant asked the million dollar question. Should the plane divert and land immediately? Yes. Mr. E landed without a seatbelt, without a seat, sitting on the floor in the galley with the patient. We then gave Mr. Chest Pain to the waiting ambulance.
It is remarkable what has to be done to take off again. The emergency medical kit has to be replenished. (I had torn through that puppy like a bride at a dress sale at Filene's Basement.) The plane has to be refueled. Weights have to be recalculated. A full report has to be filed before take-off.
And, no, of course we haven't heard from United Airlines since. Why do you ask?
I can't imagine what I was thinking when I decided that I would knit a mile in February. I think I succeeded in polishing off about 700 yards. I can't imagine what I keep thinking as I buy new yarn, based on the lowly 7/17.6 achievement as noted.
I searched for mindless knitting. Be careful what you wish for. Chevron scarf is half done. I have four skeins of Claudia's Handpaints (colorways Oops and Black Walnut). Each picked up a color from the other. I missed the clues. The pattern said "don't start this too late, as it will take some time to knit". Knitters on Ravelry fell just short of saying they were poking needles in their eyes during the process. I should have been able to read between the lines. I didn't. The other half WILL be done when I need more mindless knitting.
I'm not sure the Noro sock will EVER be done. Picking up the gusset stitches and then knitting them ala Grumperina was one of THE most painful endeavors I have encountered in knitting. Imagine my rueful and agonized laugh when I finished the last stitch, and discovered I had achieved all that BEFORE turning the heel. The row was frogged, the heel turned, and #0 needles are no picnic with this yarn. I can knit about two rows before my hands ache. Lack of elasticity is an understatement. I am entertaining the idea, taking internal votes, as to whether this sock will ever have a mate.
I missed SPA, but I had GREAT snow in Utah. I was introduced to Devastator beer by Smith and Margene, which means I got to have dinner with two of the best people on the planet.
Life is good. And next year, we are flying to Salt Lake on Delta.
*Hoyt Axton, title of his song on breakups
Let's get the expected 'magnificent mountain view taken at 10,000 feet' out of the way. Been there done that. Although this picture was taken at Deer Valley, it is not my 'D'. Utah displays stunning geology.
The ski area is renowned for its customer service.
The contrast to other local ski areas is vastly entertaining. When we were skiing at Park City, walkways to the on-mountain restaurants were not shoveled. Ramps off the lifts were sheets of untended ice. Grooming was skied off steeper slopes early, revealing wind-scoured ice under the steep 'signature' slopes. It is all part of the ski adventure, until you buy a lift ticket at Deer Valley. THEN, you understand customer service.
The first picture is the slope from the base area to the lift. Snow accumulation makes for the literal slippery slope. The man in green wields a hedge trimmer, and makes a stairway to heaven. The walk to the lift (in ski boots, no ankle flexion, and carrying 10 pounds of skis and poles) morphs to simple. And then, the casual skier catches the artist at work. One can only smile when the steps are joined with a happy face carved by Mr. Green.
So, indeed, I've been a lazy-ass knitblogger. A WIP report is due.
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