Well, zowie. After I pressed "Publish Post" and my recurring nightmare became public reading matter, I had a long moment of wondering whether I ought to delete it. As you know if you're a frequent visitor, this blog is seldom a venue for soul-baring. One ought to play to one's strengths, and frankly there are lots of people blogging whose naked souls have more to offer the reading public.
Still, I use this space to clear the occasional emotional blockage. It was indeed kind that so many folks not only indulged the momentary lapse, but also offered comfort, advice, and encouragement. And it's fascinating to hear from others who still break a cold sweat at the sound of "Clean up on Aisle Four!" over a fuzzy loudspeaker.
Today was a terrific day, spent in the company of yarn industry types (mostly independent shop owners, along with a sprinkling of manufacturers, distributors, and sales representatives) who gathered in Chicago for a conference hosted by Yarn Market News. I do illustrations for that charming and useful publication on a regular basis, and when they rolled into town on their Big Wheels they asked me and my little camera to come over and play.
I'm too zonked to do a full report with photographs and tap-dancing alpacas, but I'm too wired to fall asleep without first saying what a positive jolt it is to spend the day (and then dine well) in the company of people whose waking hours revolve around keeping us supplied with yarn, needles, and the sundry impedimenta of the fibery life.
I know well that not every LYS owner is a saint with an encyclopedic knowledge of Cast Ons of All Nations. Nor is every yarn shop the rose-covered cottage we might wish. But this group–they love what they do and are spending several very long days learning to do it even better. As they fly in the face of grim ol' American practicality by supporting creative work in the midst of a yawning recession, I salute them and wish them godspeed.
There should be a little drawing here of eighty shop owners storming the barricades with knitting needles aloft, or maybe raising a cable swatch over Iwo Jima; but when I start wishing people "godspeed" it's time to step away from the keyboard and go to bed. If my prose got any more purple it'd be on television group-hugging a chorus of child actors and singing "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmitz." Feh.
Good night, y'all.