She is fickle. Capricious. Some years, I am not quick enough to catch her in the act. I cannot imagine why she is blooming out of season. Night blooming Cereus. She reminds me of the creature in Alien. But I do not tell her that.
-The leaves! The colors! I often feel sorry for people who come here for one week to see this. I get to see it for weeks. (Of course, they don't have to rake it, either.) -Having wool knitting on my lap again. Silk not being a sticky mess on my needles. I am simply not a very good summer knitter. -Making soups and stews and braises again. No short ribs yet, but, soon. We have already had two batches of kale/kielbasa/white bean soup. -Not sweating. I hate the sweating. -Being this much closer to ski season. -The decrease in yard work. The guilt of the mulch diminishes. -Wearing fleecy, warm, cozy winter clothes again. -Thanksgiving approaching. -The return of the juncos. Cute little grey and white snowbirds. -Red wine being a good thing once more.
Busy fingers. I stopped knitting socks because I had enough. These are old FOs. No, wait. I just lied. These are NEW FOs, but old UFOs. Can you believe that all I had to do was kitchener the toes, and they would have been done months years ago?
Yarn: Mountain Colors Bearfoot, colorway Red Tail Hawk Needles: #1 Knitpicks DPN Pattern: Usual stst sock with ribbed cuff. Usually all I can stand to knit is about 20 rows.
Chores. Weaving. Work. Knitting. Hunting/gathering food shopping. Exercising. Trying to find room to breathe. Not easy.
Mr. Etherknitter gave me shelves in the loom room this month. Now I can organize tools/yarn/books/drafts. That feels right and good.
The yard gives in to flagrant entropy. No raking. No finishing of the mulch. Sliding on acorns as I walk the yard, taking a photographic record of the colors. The only planning that had been done during the landscape creation was yellow, red, orange. I love when all three are in the same tree, and the same leaf.
The extra hour is a gift. I keep my watch on the Old Tyme so that I can continue being happily surprised throughout the day. The deceptions we allow our fragile souls! I suggested to the household that we spring forward every Monday and fall back every Sunday. He did not think that would fly. Geniuses are never appreciated in their lifetimes.
The day was spent doing. The deck is over half done. Hoses are coiled. Organization has continued to take tiny steps. Thinking autumn, I wandered through the yard. Fall seems delayed this year, but pictures from prior years argue that leaf-fall is on schedule.
The queen of maples still reigns.
Knitting and weaving are the currently active fiberarts going on in the house. Drachenfels, and WinterCharm mittens are most active. I have not deviated from the recommended yarns, and I can recommend both to you. Pictures soon, along with tales of the usual knitter conundrums associated with the process.
I am paging through pictures. Some are new, most are old. Can I do a throwback picture from the same date, another year? I am impatient, and managed to freeze the computer. Reboot is far too much time.
I switch computers.
Do you know what is worse than Christmas decorations the day after Halloween?
(You didn't think it got worse. It did.)
Now businesses are offering commercials that are celebrating the countdown to Black Friday.
That is a thing? Really? NO.
Tomorrow, I will cut back dead annuals. The pots will go into the garage for the winter. I doubt the lawn will be raked, but I can dream. I need to finish weaving off a dishtowel that I did to set up the loom's tie-up system. I will respond to comments. I will exercise. I will take pictures of the foliage that is now at peak in my yard. What is it about a drought year that makes the leaves stay on so late?
A sleepy morning conversation yesterday, before coffee. The World Series game went too late for people who work. We had gone to bed at 6-3. (Good thing. I don't think my heart could have taken the next four or five innings.)
Etherknitter: Did they win? Mr. Etherknitter: Yes. In the 10th inning. By one run. Etherknitter: WHEW. All is right with the world. Which team is now the longest since last winning a World Series? Mr. Etherknitter: Wikipedia will know.
silence while keyboard is tapped
Mr. Etherknitter: Some people don't have a life. Etherknitter: ?? Mr. Etherknitter: The game ended at midnight. And the Wikipedia article on which team hasn't won in the longest time is already updated. Cleveland.
shakes head at crazy people
Mr. Etherknitter: Now Theo Epstein has to move to Cleveland.
The Muse offered her pre-festival advice: "You can buy all the true weaving yarn you want. You can buy any books and magazines and patterns that catch your fancy. You can sample the wine and cheese and other goodies and buy lots of them (except the whoopie pies). You can buy fancy shuttles. You can buy up to $100 of "unneeded but necessary" yarn and fiber, just because it's fun. You can people-watch, and decide which sweaters and shawls work and which don't. You can look closely at the ethnic weavings offered for sale and decide if you want to weave anything like that. You can sit and knit and socialize with everyone. You can try out a Hansen Pro and see if you want one for travel." So spake the Muse.
Friday's drive was straight through hell. Roadwork, repaving, and repairs made a three-and-a-half hour drive into six hours. By the time I arrived at the Marriott, I was done. Go home now and be done with it? Almost.
Then came Saturday.
The waiting in the Saturday line to get in was a separate event. No matter how much I laugh at myself for getting up early, and waiting in line. I am never first, second, third, or even close to the front. Thirty mighty degrees, and the woman in the fair-isle, handknit dress was wearing neither a coat, hat, mittens nor scarf. She had not only knit the dress, she had designed it, and the pattern would be released after Rhinebeck. Her equally chilly friend was wearing a second, super-short design of Becky Herrick's.
As we jumped up and down to stay warm during the (long) wait, I noticed a woman in a beautiful cabled sweater. Then I saw another woman in a beautiful cabled sweater. Then I saw two more woman, and it was the same cabled sweater. There were four women, different colors, different yarn, who had test knit the Computer Blue sweater. "How many of them are there?" I asked. Sixteen test knitters attended the festival, and wore the same test knit.
That brings Rhinebeck sweater pressure to new levels. If you don't finish yours, you are the only goat in the group. gack
The gate opened. Sleepy, coffee-sucking knitters of all stripes found their energy. The herd surged forward.
Immersive. Overwhelming. Paradox of choice. Hordes. Explosions of color in the stalls, on the hordes. Explosions of sheep, with fleece and fiber draped over every space available.
The trees swept the sky, incandescent torches of red, orange, russet and yell0w. The haunting music men found their key, and played haunting music.
The Miss Babs line stretched from the back of Barn C, across the back of C, across the back of Barn B and past the back of Barn A. No one could get anywhere near Into the Whirled. The Goldings were back. The Woolee Winder people are now selling an electric minispinner. The Hansens are marketing a Pro model with a stronger motor. There are always new vendors, new products, established vendors with new products, and people stripping the fleece sale bare.
I did not have apple crisp. I think I am sad about that.
Saturday and Sunday passed in a blur. I found Angela and Doug, or maybe they found me. I collected my Norm Hall hug.
I left my superego at the gate. None of this was about the shopping but I shopped copiously and happily. I have grand plans. It was the year of gradients in both fiber and yarn. Those are impossible to purchase on the web. Either they are sold out, or the colors don't read true, or the picture doesn't entice quite enough. It was the year of ignoring more blue than I have ever ignored. I found no shuttles that I liked. I tried small wheels (teensy Golding, Hansen Pro). I talked with people. I hugged many. I didn't eat, I didn't drink water. I marveled at the Miss Babs line. I gawked at the sweaters, just as my Muse advised. Cables were everywhere. Stopovers flew past. Julianne Targan's woven piece made me stop and ask her for a photo op.
The Jill Draper Makes Stuff Mason-Dixon event on Saturday night was fun. A man in a knitted tunic and pants apparently was Stephen West. A cake of Rifton came home with me.
So yeah, I bought some fiber. I bought some yarn. I bought some crazy yarn at Loop. On Saturday, nothing Loop sold made sense to me. On Sunday, a thunderclap of weaving inspiration could be heard throughout the barn. Yarn at 1 stitch per inch. (No, I really am not going to show pictures of this today. Blog-fodder for the month, y'know.)
The drive home was beautiful, and much faster than getting there. Careful driving on the Taconic, on the lookout for deer. One small dead deer on the shoulder of the road, and a live one feeding on grass less than 100 feet away. Then another big dead doe on the Mass Pike.