Playing It Safe

I am not the daredevil type. Too old, too staid, too resistant. I therefore start every new pattern with no sense of the rhythm of it at all. It doesn't matter how many times I read it, or how doggedly I try to integrate the instructions and/or the chart with the picture. I begin by slavishly, almost obsessively, tracking the pattern, not only row by row, but stitch by stitch. I got this far on the Blessingway Blanket and decided I was out of my mind.

No right thinking person would attempt cabling, much less cabling while working on the diagonal and incorporating increases at the same time. It was time to throw in the towel, give it up as a hopeless task, admit defeat and switch to the Pinwheel Blanket.

So I ordered this from Eat.Sleep.Knit.

Dream in color Classy in Lunar Zazzle. "Hah!" I said to myself, as if I had scored some great victory instead of contemplating an ignominious defeat, "That 'll show 'em." Who I thought I was showing what to, I have no idea.

Then something happened while I was waiting for the yarn (which wasn't long). I don't want to say I've conquered cables. Hubris, don't you know, a.k.a. my besetting knitting sin. Yet, once I got into the rhythm of it, even accommodating the increases wasn't too traumatic.

Now I've gotten into the straightaway, I'm thinking some more. I picked up a couple extra sets of US 9/6 mm needles, set my swift spinning and started the first corner motif. I have 11 more rows before I have to face the chart.

I think maybe I just don't like the idea of sky-diving without a net.

Proverbs 15:1

My Spin Club package arrived today, shipped out from Eat.Sleep.Knit. Wrath is the second "Deadly S(p)in." You might think that was ironic, given my response to the first shipment. Except there's a "spin" in more than one sense of the word. Rather than send a package red with rage, they've "spun" around to the opposite of wrath. The theme for this shipment is peace. Perhaps we should all pause here and hum "Sheep May Safely Graze." I guarantee, you won't be able to help yourself. Look at all this wonderful sheep-ly stuff.

The patterns for this month are a soap bag and a sheep washcloth. The yarn is enough Unique Sheep Pima Petite yarn in the "Peaceful" colorway to make both. Treats, you wonder? Yes, there are treats. Hand-milled soap to put in the bag, bath crystals, bath soak, teas, unscented Soak Wash, a sheep stitch-marker by sunneshine, a beeswax candle and a chocolate lamb from Cranberry Sweets & More.

I know I was, *ahem*, disappointed in the first shipment. I had contemplated pulling out of the club. This shipment has certainly smothered any smoldering ire.

"A soft answer turneth away wrath."

A Word That Means the World to Me

M is for the many things she gave me.
O is for the other things she gave me.
T is for the thousand things she gave me.
H is for the hundreds of things she gave me.
E is for everything she gave me.
R is for the rest of the things she gave me.
P is fore the presents that she gave me.
Put them all together they spell "Motherp."

Ah. Well. I guess you had to be there watching Madeline Kahn on Saturday Night Live the day before Mother's Day. (And would someone please track it down and post it to youtube?)

Wait. What?

Well, that was unexpected. I swear this swatch came out of its bath looking so nasty I was close to panic. No. Scratch that, I was panicking. I've never before had knitting actually look worse while it was blocking. This just looked like, well, kitchen string. That the cat hacked up. Like the twine you use to tie back turkey wings, or wrap around the "please bag and tie" paper recycling. In fact, dishcloth cotton may have looked better.

Which is why I started making serious plans to convert Himself to the Pinwheel Blanket. I was going to make eloquent arguments in favor of washable wool. Economic arguments pointing out how much less 700 yards of yarn were compared to 1200. Practical arguments regarding the speed with which one can knit a blanket using a significantly smaller quantity of yarn.

Then I looked at the swatch after it dried. I measured, intending to add the "look how much it shrinks, honey" argument to my arsenal. I now get 15 3/4 stitches per inch.

I think I'll block it again.

Plenty of Nothing

Except deadlines. Besides the knitting is only gauge swatching, and plain white cotton gauge swatching at that. I'm getting 4 and 1/8 stitches per inch instead of 4.

Across a blanket that supposed to be 35 inches, that's over 4 inches short. Add in that the yarn is cotton and I don't even know why I'm bothering to wash and block the thing. In my experience, cotton shrinks.

So instead, here's something to play with.

Your Hidden Talent

You are both very knowledgeable and creative. You tend to be full of new ideas and potential - big potential. Ideas like yours could change the world, if you build them. As long as you don't stop working on your dreams, you'll get there.

What's Your Hidden Talent?

And here I thought I was just happy spring had arrived.

Lessons

Besides the good advice and encouraging comment, Alpineflower sent me an email (most courteously, because she didn't want to monopolize the comments), reassuring me that cables are "fiddly" but not hard. Armed with that email (Literally. I printed it off and read it repeatedly while I went over pictures, instructions and charts, and a few times more once I started knitting.) and a skein of Lion Brand Organic cotton (I was not going to use the Blue Sky for my self-conducted tutorial) I have attempted cables.

Behold. Lessons one through eleventy-seventeen. Let me dissect this a little.

Did you know that cables are mostly illusion? Sleight of hand? Mess around with a few stitches in one row and the rest is just straightforward knitting? That's the good news. There are still an astonishing number of things to screw up. One might, for example, misread a symbol and knit a 4-stitch cable instead of the required 6-stitch. The first clue would be that one has more stitches on one side of one's cable than the other.

If one should decide to persist in this madness, one may find one's cable disappearing before it's time to twist again. Presumably the result of letting too narrow a cable wander on for too long.

Once that little problem is addressed, one might then find oneself falling into the pit of over-confidence, and decide to incorporate additional design elements. One will wallow there indefinitely, ripping out the tiny cables that don't line up, since one decided to flip between charts rather than mark up the book. When learning to cable, having the entire pattern in one place is A Good Thing.

Once one has bitten the bullet and found a pencil and drawn the symbols in, one will still have to learn to count. After that indefinite, interminable time down there in the pit -- time which will include a lesson in how not to knit into the back of the stitch to twist a 2-stitch cable (don't insert the needle between the stitches to reach the back, go around the first stitch) -- one may find that one has, at last, internalized the pattern and can produce a basic 6 stitch left-leaning cable flanked by 2-stitch cables. One will then assume that one can create a right-leaning cable, although one will not tempt the Furies by actually admitting this hope.

Since this is the compromise I had decided I wanted to achieve for the 2nd and 4th panels of the Blessingway blanket, this "one" was very happy.

I am, however, looking forward in dread to the swatches I will have to make for the center and corner panels.

Those cables tread the Labyrinthine ways. The twists shift across the knitting. The cables change direction. They entwine and interweave in a manner that would make an 18th century dancing master dizzy. I can envision cheerfully changing the center panel to something less knotty, but the corner motifs have me stumped. I'm going to have to figure this out and it's not going to be pretty.

Lesson eleventy-seventeen-one coming up.

Way Outside My Comfort Zone

I know I'm all about Knitalong these days, and I promise to post the details on the pillow this week, (I have to pick a new section of the story, Diane did not approve the cliffhanger I left you all with) but for now, I have a new assignment.

Through a series of unanticipated decisions -- and it's not my story, but the chapter that included me unfolded along the lines of, "Okay. I guess we'll send a gift later, oh hey, honey, in that case, could you make something?" -- I've got the chance to make a baby blanket. No deadline, because the baby was premature and because a blanket is onesizefitzall.

I planned to make the Pinwheel Blanket. Cute. Different. Well within my abilities. I could use stash yarn. I showed it to Himself. He thought it was okay, but then Himself paged farther in.

He found the Blessingway Blanket. This is the blanket he really, really wants us to give. The Blessingway Blanket means cables and assembly. The assembly part I can handle; I don't do cables. I have figured out that I can opt for simpler cables for the center three diagonals. I expect to swatch a lot, and I'm telling myself that making the blanket will up my skill set considerably. What intimidates me out of all reason are the Celtic knots in the corners.

Still, I found the yarn at the first yarn store I looked. I mean the actual, what the pattern calls for, Blue Sky Hand-spun Organic Cotton yarn. Admittedly, there weren't enough skeins of the same dye lot to make the blanket one color. I can never leave a good thing alone, though, so I don't see this as a problem. By expanding into Blue Sky's Dyed Cotton line, I can make the different sections in different colors - the green for the middle cable, the natural for the two sections flanking that strip and the blue for the two corners.

Now, anybody know a good "learn how to cable in one fast, easy, lesson" cable book?

Bedtime Story

"I give you nine and ninety hours, not nine and ninety days, to find a thousand jewels and bring them here. When you return, the clocks must all be striking five."
"The clocks here in the castle?" asked the Prince. "The thirteen clocks?"
"The clocks here in the castle," said the Duke, "the thirteen clocks."
The Prince looked at the two clocks on the walls. Their hands pointed to ten minutes of five. "The hands are frozen," said the Prince. "The clocks are dead."
"Precisely," said the Duke, "and what is more, which makes your task a charming one, there are no jewels that could be found within the space of nine and ninety hours, except those in my vaults, and these." He held his gloves up and they sparkled.
"A pretty task," said Hark.
"Ingenious," said the voice of Listen.
"I thought you'd like it," said the Duke. "Unseal his sword." Invisible hands unsealed the Prince's sword.
"And if I should succeed?" asked Zorn.
The Duke waved a gloved hand at the iron stairs, and Zorn saw Saralinda standing there. "I wish him well," she said, and her uncle laughed and looked at Zorn. "I hired a witch," he said, "to cast a tiny spell upon her. When she is in my presence, all that she can say is this: 'I wish him well.' You like it?"
"A clever spell," said Hark.
"An awful spell," the voice of Listen said.
The Prince and Princess spoke a silent language with their eyes, until the Duke cried, "Go!" and Saralinda vanished up the stairs.
"And if I fail?" asked Zorn.
The Duke removed his sword from his sword-cane and ran his glove along the blade. "I'll slit you from your guggle"

Which is where I ran out of room.

The Thirteen Clocks, James Thurber.

One More for Clare

I'm in a race today to accomplish all the things I thought I would have done while the boys were home sick. It has to be today, because tomorrow is already filled. All I'm doing today is fulfilling promises. Now I can cross this one off.

The shaft is approximately 11.5 inches/29.6 cm. The whorl is approximately 3.5 inches/8 cm. The fleece roving is combed and carded. The company is Historical Folk Toys, Nashville, Indiana, 47448. Purchased at Greenhow Store, Williamsburg, Virginia.

For those who are curious, "the title/question/enormous topic [she's] writing to is: What were Norwich textiles, and how and why did they change over time."

When am I going to do something with this? No idea.

Roving

"Spring has sprung
The grass is riz
The 'flu is at the door.
And many folks
Are dying now,
Who never died before. "

Ah yes, that which always accompanies Spring has laid both boys flat. Okay, that might be an overstatement, a bit of an exaggeration. Tilted, maybe. Put off-balance enough to need to stay home from school. At the moment they are enjoying a respite, comfortably ensconced in front of the TV watching Annie (Albert Finney sings! well, sort of).



I am grabbing a moment to indulge in the sanity that blogging can bring.

This post is really for Clare.

In the course of her studies in the UK she has come up with a final project for I don't know what but which deals with textiles and the history of textiles. She snagged a bit of honest-to-God sheep's wool off of a fence, but she would like roving as well.

For some inexplicable reason, roving is thin on the ground in England. With deadlines looming, she'll settle for images, so here they are.

Note the miraculous re-appearance of the quasi-historical artifact which I wanted for this post. The power of daughters, like the flu, is not to be sneezed at.

Words, Words, Words

I love words. It's why I have shelves and shelves of books. Books in every room. It's why I don't have a library card - the overdue fees I rack up are enough to buy the books outright. It's why I am so enamored of the Pillowbook from Knitalong. It's also why I'm having such a hard time deciding on the text.

Martin from Knitalong left a comment, that he sees the pillow as something to be used, and the text should be something that will hold up (not merely structurally). You wouldn't believe the welter of books I have pulled off my shelves in the quest for that apposite quote, the one I will still want to read the 100th time I've shoved the pillow under my head. Children's books, poetry anthologies, plays modern and not, novels, collections, are piled on the kitchen table, stacked next to my favorite chair, heaped on side tables. I have this ongoing commentary running in my head to the effect of "this one might do, then again this one might, or maybe not, maybe, perhaps, it could." Nothing has struck me with that sense of rightness, that recognition, the conviction that, "Oh, here it is! This one!"

Meanwhile, I continue down the practical path. I've gathered up all the paraphernalia. My sewing skills being less than admirable, I've opted for a "boughten" cotton pillow cover that matches the construction and dimensions Larissa describes, at least reasonably closely. I'll applique the knitting to it.

Once I know what I want to say.

A Smug Sense of Accomplishment

I finished. I finished on time. In time, too. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Well, wrapped and sent to school with Marco this morning.

Guess what? All those people who go on and on about what blocking does for lace?

They're right, even for basic feather and fan. So basic that, while I briefly considered expanding this for an afghan, I don't know if I could bear it for that long.

Pattern: Misty Garden by Jo Sharp from Pam Allen's Scarf Style.
Yarn: One skein of Handmaiden Great Big Sea in colorway Popsicle. 50% Silk, 30% wool, 20% sea silk.
Needles: Us 8/5mm 24" Addi Turbos.
Final dimensions: 8 inches by 60 inches after blocking. Astonishingly close to the pattern. Significantly narrower and somewhat longer before, but I have no idea how significantly or somewhat since I didn't measure them before.

Now if I could just get myself to stop chanting,, "Knit on the right side, purl, pattern, knit on the wrong side, knit on the right side, purl, pattern, knit on the wrong side, knit on the right side . . ."

Must Keep Knitting

My back-up plan just fell through. While in an ideal world, Marco would take the rainbow scarf with him when he left for school in the morning, if push came to shove and I blew the deadline, I planned to take it along when we went to the All School Talent Show tomorrow afternoon. Push came to shove with a blip in my other, non-knitting life yesterday.

I just checked with the school about time. They've moved the Talent Show to 9 AM. Fortunately, he has just the one skein, else I'd probably feel compelled to keep knitting.

Must. Reach. End. Of. Skein. "Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh why can't I?"

Happy Shakespeare's (Probably) Birthday

When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came to man's estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that's all one, our play is done,
And we'll strive to please you every day.

Well, it is National Poetry Month.

Closing Speech, Twelfth Night or What You Will

Out of Time

All of yesterday's indecisiveness has been set aside. I need a scarf and I need it fast. One of Marco's teachers has been "reassigned." I suspect that's Chicago-Public-Schools-speak for fired. We thought she'd be here through the end of the school year, but she's found another position and has decided to take it immediately.

Way back when Marco modeled Red Scarves for me, he made it clear he had expectations, to wit, I was to knit scarves for teachers. This is something I've never given high priority, since he'll be at his special ed. high school/vocational training school until he turns 22. Besides, there had been remarkable stability in the teacher population so I, in a word, slacked.

This gift is supposed to be more about Marco than the rest of us. Last night we went stash shopping - mine and Marco's. I admit I was delighted when he chose yarn from his. (Let us pause for a moment here in stunned admiration of my sister who, knowing her nephew's commitment to "rainbow yarn" organized, shopped Knitche, and gave him, among other fabulous skeins of which I am insanely covetous, Handmaiden Great Big Sea in colorway Popsicle, for his birthday.)

We chose Misty Garden by Jo Sharp from Pam Allen's Scarf Style for the pattern. Anything less misty I'd be hard pressed to find. I think it's more of a circus tent run amok, but all three of the household males, most importantly Marco, have approved it. In point of fact, they have approved it enthusiastically. Odd behavior from a group who thinks knitting should be kept as dark and monochromatic as possible, but I've decided to find this reassuring. Just as well. There's no time to rip and choose another pattern anyway.

Besides, it's so like Marco to send his teacher off with a rainbow.

Godspeed and good luck.

A Model of Indecision

I've bound off the top for the Knitalong Pillowbook (loosely, I hope) in purl. While I await the miracle of blocking (and it will take a miracle to get this to measure 12.5 by 18.5 inches,

I have decisions to make. There's the whole matter of the text, you see. Larissa chose an excerpt from Sei Shonagon's pillowbook of "things that take the breath away." It's just that what worked for Sei doesn't work for me.

I've considered a list of words I like for no apparent reason except possibly the sound they make: davenport, credenza, fallow, meadow, counterpane, hobgoblin, thresh, bobolink, onomatopoeia, sliddery.

I've thought about a list of my children's favorite bedtime stories, back when they were young enough to want bedtime stories: The Woman Who Flummoxed the Fairies, Goodnight Moon, Heckedy Peg, To Think That I saw It On Mulberry Street, The Napping House, Oom Razoom, Rosie and the Rustlers, The Frog Prince.

I've debated poems: "Summons" by Robert Francis, "Myth" by Muriel Rukeyser, Puck's Speech at the end of A Midsummer Night's Dream.

I looked up the definition of sleep in my short OED. Between the noun and the verb forms, and if you include the etymology, it takes up over a column. I'd have to abridge it.

Since this isn't getting me anywhere, I thought perhaps I should turn my mind to more practical matters, like how I'm going to turn this into a pillow. I've ordered a feather pillow (on sale at Cuddledown), so that much is done. The instructions in Knitalong have you sew the pillow-form into the case, making it into a sort of permanent soft sculpture. I''m stuck on my desire to make it into a sham.

I'm wondering if I could pick up stitches below the garter stitch border and knit a back, knitting two together down one side and along the bottom edge. If I did, I think it would have to be in pattern; I can't imaging a stockinette back would respond to the aggressive blocking the pillow front is currently undergoing.

I could, I suppose, treat the whole pillow front as a big applique and attach it to a prefabricated pillow sham. I could knit a rectangle in stockinette and sew it to 3 sides of the front. I could make a second "front" and do a series of three-needle bind-offs.

Or I could say I've done my bit to bring spring in (you're welcome) and go back to knitting sweaters and quilt squares.

Revolutionary

I've gone all historical. It must be reading about Colonial Williamsburg on Mason Dixon. I had a post all written, confessing to the one thing I bought this summer that I haven't told you about, but now I can't find it. You'll have to settle for combining things colonial with National Poetry Month; you get historical poetry (note the date).

Paul Revere's Ride

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest.
In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

You won't get any the quasi-historical artifact (although this is pretty close). I must not be ready to face it after all, It lives here somewhere, inviolate, still in pristine, unopened condition. I'm thinking about it though.

There's more than one kind of revolution. And one can have poetry in motion.

Approaching Critical Mass

I've always envisioned this as the point before the explosion. The moment before either the descent onto disorder or the achievement of a new and higher level of order. It happens to me every time I pass the midpoint of a project. I start planning elaborations and extensions. I have only 4 repeats left and the final border for the Sei Shonagon Pillow from Knitalong. I need to get cracking.

I admit, I'm a little concerned. This is supposed to fit a 12" by 16" pillow. I'm relying on the miracle of blocking here, because looking at the current measurement, it's going to take a lot of stretching.

It's currently 20 inches wide, though, which tells me if I had knitted on larger needles, I would have the reverse problem and wouldn't really be in any better shape.

This descent into practicalities, however, hasn't stopped me from planning ahead. Larissa has you make this up as a one-sided pillow. I'm thinking it could be double-sided. All I have to do is make a second rectangle. If I did, I could make this into a pillow case. That way, when it makes first contact with my house (clean enough to be healthy, dirty enough to be happy is something I strive to achieve), I'll be able to wash it.

Of course, a double-sided pillow case needs lining for the back. Some type of closure might be nice, too, especially considering how far it's going to have to expand. Buttons, maybe, if I want to get fancy. Although if I want subtle, maybe some variation of hook-and-eye. Or ribbons lacing it up.

This doesn't even begin to address the ideas skittering through my brain for the text for the pillow front.

Like I said, critical mass.

Improbable

I'm a little freaked out right now. It never snowed. Or if it did, it snowed while I was asleep and didn't stick, which as far as I'm concerned, amounts to the same thing. I don't really think we avoided snow because of my fiber choices. That smacks entirely too much of magic and superstition. I am a person of reason, a believer in critical thought. I know better. Still, it didn't snow.

I'll just keep repeating, "It's coincidental, not causal. It's coincidental, not causal."

Of course, next April, I may start knitting with linen again. After all, it didn't snow.

I Am Not as Powerful as I Think I Am

It's a harsh truth. It seems I am not able to bend the forces of nature to my will. Perseph and Dem remain stubbornly independent and unamenable to my knitterly enticements. In short, snow is back in the forecast for tomorrow. Oh well. How about some pictures to ease the pain? Spring is all about potential, right?

I may have found Marco's yarn. This is "Sea," Cascade The Heathers, 4005. Swatching will commence shortly, and yes, it will likely take the form of a sleeve.

In the meantime, I'm having a hard time leaving my dishcloth kick behind. Marco was off today (Marking Day? Possibly. Report cards come out next week.). When we have a day to ourselves we head out to Michael's. This is Sugar 'n Creme Twist, Country Twist on the left, Denim Twist on the right. I'm thinking they need to be made into eLoominator's Diagonal Dishcloth (I can only find the pattern on Ravelry, sorry, although it's free there.) It should make good movie night knitting (Tonight's feature - The Marx Brothers in Horsefeathers).

As for my failure to control the weather - eh. At least I tried. Besides, here's another home truth: I've been missing wool.

It's Working

At least, I think it is. The snow has been taken out of the forecast for Saturday. I'm a little worried though. That may have been too easy. Four or five hours of knitting might not make for an acceptable sacrifice. Besides we're still on for snow on Sunday. What if enticing Persephone is not enough? What if one dishcloth is seen as meager? It occurs to me I should have a back up plan. Perhaps I should think in terms of placating Demeter as well. You know how mothers are.

Wool is still on the proscribed list. I need a project (or several) that involves plant material. It all depends on just how cranky Demeter is feeling. I'm thinking linen. Knitter's Stash has those 8 knitted washcloths. The patterns call for the finer grade of Euroflax linen, not the sport-weight I have in my stash. I suspect I could adjust.

Of course, they still may not do the trick. What if the goddesses want something that indicates commitment? Something more involved? Something, how shall we say, bigger than a dishcloth? Got it covered. While running errands in the rain out at the western suburbs today, I ducked into String Theory. They had Euroflax Sport in white, just what the Pillow of Sei Shonagon in Knitalong calls for.

What? You think this is all an elaborate rationalization? Nonsense, hogwash and fiddlesticks. This has nothing to do with a desperate attempt to justify starting the Pillowbook. (Wouldn't something from Through the Looking Glass be great?) This is a genuine, altruistic attempt to lure Spring (and not in the shape of rains so steady and heavy that we spend a month with flood warnings).

You doubt? Well, let's see what Sunday brings.

Desperate Times

I know that I am not the queen of the universe, or even of the general Chicago area. Nonetheless, considering the portents noted in the last post (and how long they've been in coming), I take deep and personal exception to the forecast: snow mixed with rain on Saturday, snow mixed with rain on Sunday. I wouldn't mind an April blizzard if spring had been given the chance to get more than a toehold here, but it hasn't and I do.

I thought perhaps spring colors in my knitting would be enough to entice Persephone to stay above ground for the duration. It would appear I was wrong. The Barnyard Quilt is, after all, made from wool sock yarn. A greater sacrifice is required. Today I have put aside any and all things wool.

This has worked before when the weather threatened, at least to improve my attitude if not actual atmospheric conditions. I am going to knit new grass and leaves (there's not a single leaf on a single tree yet), blue sky and sunlight.

I may have to juggle three skeins of dishcloth cotton to do it, but someone has to take desperate measures.

ETA: I almost forgot to thank AmyArtisan, both for the idea (scroll down to "D is for Dishcloth"), and for emailing me the pattern for "Grandma's Favorite" so I didn't have to hunt all over the Internet for it.

Late this Year

I've been most inconstant in my knitting lately. Flitty, one might say. I've done a little bit here on this, a few rows on that. Based on the comments on the Cascade Rainier Heather, lovely as it is, there's no way I can justify knitting Marco's blue sweater with it, so I've dead-ended there.

There's a bit of progress on the cardigan (that would be the "this").

Not much, though.

I started a second barn-raising quilt square (which would be the "that").

I'm not impressed.

I think I know why I've been so distractible, though. I started to figure it out when I saw my first robin last week. I really needed to be done with Winter, or for Winter to be done with me. I am fevered for Spring. The crocuses are only now budding and blooming, but finally, April has "come like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers."

I needed my knitting to know that.

Now it does.

*Spring. Edna St. Vincent Millay. (Which is really a very sad poem, but I love that image anyway.)

Either Way

With flash.


Without flash.

It's too purple, isn't it?

Cascade 220 The Heathers, 9454/Rainier Heather.

What Kind of a Swatch Is That?

Well, you see, it all started when I was rustling through looking for a set of size 8 needles, all of which seem to have disappeared (and no I don't have that many projects going). It occurred to me that Diane thought the reason the ribbing on John's sweater hadn't pulled in was because I should have gone down a needle size. I could find size 7 needles.

As I cast on, two more things occurred to me: that I should probably swatch the ribbing as well as the stockinette and that Elizabeth tells you to swatch in the round. I remember that this advice has been offered by other reliable sources as well.

I decide I can kill two birds with one stone if I knit a few inches of ribbing and then 4 or 5 inches of plain knitting. This is starting to sound as awful lot like a sleeve to me. If I knew the dimensions of the sweater, I could cast on accordingly. Diane's comment about the unreliability of using his sportcoat is resonating at this point. I decide to measure one of his sport shirts as well and split the baby.

It occurs to me that there are additional benefits to this type of swatch. If I have to frog, frogging a sleeve wouldn't be devastating. I could also take advantage of a fudge factor and do more or less decreases based on the final stitch count for the body - which I can get once Marc returns and I can measure his favorite sweatshirt, which has accompanied him to England. Besides, I really want to try out the increases I used on the Perfect Sweater on an EZ one. If this is only a swatch, practicing is okay. It's even good. My 16 inch size 8 needles surface. I decide this is a good sign.

What kind of a swatch is this?

One that has confirmed that I get 4.75 stitches and 6 rows per inch using size 8 needles with Cascade 220. Based on the circumference of his Stanford sweatshirt, that just happens to put me dead on. I call that a sleeve. It occurs to me, that's not a bad start.