As I walked out of the fleece sale, I was busted. I had little choice but to whip out my camera and give as good as I got.
I ran home from Cummington to go to NYC for the rest of the weekend. Amtrak is relaxing when accompanied by an iPod nano soundtrack, tea, knitting, and seats with unobstructed shoreline views for the ride.
Dinner was a moderate dose of molecular gastronomy. Only in NYC would a chef deconstruct lox and bagels. His version had an ice cream bagel covered with seeds, smoked salmon dehydrated then shredded, and cream cheese crisped on the side. It was excellent. (Thank you, T&W, for taking us along for the ride.)
It took a day to hear the citysong. Postmodern landscapes, and more people than I can usually imagine, overloaded the circuits.
The view of watertanks, roofs, graffiti from the hotel room drew my attention in different light. This one was 5:30am, misty, quiet, waking up with noisy street yawns.
I made good knitting progress on the Berroco cardigan (Leilani). I figured out that reversed shaping for K2tog on the WS is ssp. They both point in the same direction on the RS. The left front will soon be done. (Yes, I owe a gaggle of pictures to the blog. Soon.)
New Hampshire Sheep and Wool, version 2009, was a perfect release of software. Yes, there were bugs, but the gnats disappeared once you left the fields and woods for the safety of the barns. The current year's distro of sheep/wool/goat/alpaca/bunny products gave the end-user everything we could possibly think of wanting.
I wandered aimlessly, pushed by Manise in one direction, pulled in others by texture and color. I saw everyone except Terry. Gayle helped me with tubular cast-ons.
The camnesia was recognized. I did little to cure the malady, except take one picture of Kelly. She declared that nothing that could be posted on the interwebs would bother her. The picture is meant to show the Bosworth midi, and the Foxfire Fiber she is spinning. (I saw her at the Foxfire booth, where she muscled ahead to the fiber shelves. I knew I had nothing to fear. The blues and greens were safe, and would still be waiting for me.)
Chris Woolybuns had soft, lush roving and yarn. I came out with superwash merino sock yarn and Cinnamon Twist roving.
I bought Ingrid balls (three of each, her Ward Brook Farm Corrie/Romney X roving). They are so much fun to spin. I found another ounce of Pygora B roving (Oliver's first year fleece) from Tucker Woods Farm.
Friends Folly Farm seduced with wool/mohair roving, beautifully prepped, in a one pound bag. It's the same colorway I bought at SPA.
Barb Parry's book on dyeing, and a bag of BL/mohair followed me home. That's it. No fleeces. No wheels. No spindles.
A male hummingbird did a fly-by feeding on May 3rd. Our birds returned on May 6th, continuing last year's battles with fury fueled by fearful concentrations of testosterone. They were initially confused by the new red leaves of Pieris japonica. I watched finches doing the deed on the lawn yesterday.
Mrs. Robin got her nest built before I decided what to do about the invasion of birdpoop. It stays until the tenants vacate. She sits multiple hours, head turned to where we can stare each other down through the transom window. The height of her nest makes RobinCam difficult, but not impossible.
This Winter Girl has been loving the spring this year. I am not sure why. Some of those brain circuits that science can't figure out are probably connected to an appreciation of the renewal of warmth, food sources, and resumption of commerce between tribes.
Tribes? Yes! New Hampshire Sheep and Wool stares us in the face this weekend. My tribes will be there in all their fiber frenzies. I, of course, will be calm, quiet, cool.
That coolness will come when Gayle shows me a tubular cast on like Eunny's (on Youtube) that somehow doesn't end up with an odd number of stitches. I'm not linking to the video because it lies. Eunny blithely knits through the instruction, and ends up with nineteen stitches on her needle, and not the twenty she seemed to be promising.
Techknitter explains why this happens (December 7, 2008 post). I understand. But I need 56 stitches for my K1 P1 in-the-round Grant Park Pullover sweater cuff. I'll try Fluffbuff's method. I may be the only knitter on the planet who can spend an entire WEEK casting on for the sleeve of a sweater, without success. I am simply grateful that Cascade 220 is so forgiving of endless knitting and ripping. Wool! Nothing beats it.
But spring is as spring does. I was seduced by Berroco Linen Jeans and this pattern. I have use for a summery, flippy, casual evening cardigan like this. I swatched with one skein, hit gauge spot-on, had no hand aching from the yarn, and ordered enough skeins for the pattern. It is a fun knit so far. (One sleeve is done.)
Walking through the Boston Public Garden yesterday left me shivering. The rain was without mercy. Cold. Wet. Soaked. An umbrella and a rainjacket were no defense against the relentless open faucet of springtime.
I found satisfactory compensation.
These two old Kwanzan cherries have been growing together for decades. They look like two octogenarians leaning on each other for comfort and support. One cannot tell where the two end or begin. Each year, they require a wire to support heavy, sagging branches, as humans require canes with age. Winter storms damage other branches, and spring amputations save the life of the tree. No one can tell whether the Druids or their spirits still stay with the trees. But I see the souls of these ancient stalwarts every spring when they bloom.
The swans (Romeo and Juliet) were back in the pond at the Public Garden yesterday. White echoed white.
Tradition dictates a Victorian style planting of this public space. Beds of tulip monochromes are followed by annual monocultures that reflect the seasons. I admire the spectacle.
I can't wait to see the Fiber Faithful on Saturday! Next post will have a modest show and tell of fiber, finished spinning, a Smooshy sock, and whatever other dragons I manage to slay over the weekend.