One Swatch, Two Hats, Zero Politics

It's Not an Error, It's a Design Feature

Remember that stitch pattern I promised to write down for you? The one from the vintage baby cardigan?

I sat down to work it out and realized that I'd knit the thing incorrectly.

I have an excuse. The Lister & Co. booklet is in rough shape. The first half of the pages have separated from the second half. The first half contained the key to the abbreviations. The second half is the half that came with me on the road. When I encountered "m1" (make one), I had to guess as to what it meant. It was a single increase, obviously–but what sort of increase?

Since this piece wasn't intended to be an accurate historical recreation, I didn't fuss over what was necessarily appropriate for the period. I tried my preferred "lifted increase" (making a new loop from the running thread between the stitches, and knitting it through the back). It looked good. I moved along.

Turns out, upon consulting the front half, that Lister's editor intended "m1" in this pattern to be a yarn over. (Yarn over in this book is also called "wfd" or "wool forward," which is in part why I assumed "m1" would not also be a yarn over; but the English like to toy with you in this fashion from time to time.)

So in knitting the swatch, I tried it both ways–mine and theirs.



Both have their attractions. Lister's yarn over produces a small hole in the center of the motif that I find very fetching. My lifted increase preserves the solid fabric and looks more like a cable. Use whichever you prefer.

This version of the pattern will give you the raised welt with two purl stitches on either side.

Multiple of 5 sts + 2

Row 1 (RS). *P2, k3. Rep from * ending p2.
Row 2. *K2, bring yarn to near side of work, sl next st as if to p, p2. Rep from *, ending k2.
Row 3. *P2, place right ndl across near side of work and pwise into 3rd knit st. Lift 3rd knit st over first and second knit sts and off the left ndl. K1, inc 1 (see note above), k1. Rep from *, ending p2.
Row 4. *K2, p3. Rep from * ending k2.
Repeat rows 1–4 until you are quite finished.

Two Hats, Both Alike in Dignity

By odd coincidence, I had two hat patterns hit the street within weeks of one another, both knit with yarns from the same company: Blue Moon Fiber Arts, the good people who bring you Socks That Rock.

The first is for Carol Sulcoski's new book, Sock Yarn Studio, a compendium of projects that are made from sock yarns, yet are not socks. I christened the design "Roselein" because of the very abstract little rose at the top of the crown.



It has ear flaps you begin at the lower ends with Judy's Magic Cast On. The cable pattern on the flaps, the brim and the crown is all the same basic pattern–it's the three different locations (and the number of repeats) that make it look so different.



Style note. The buttons and loops on the flaps are meant to be decorative. Unbuttoned: whimsical, carefree, gamine. Buttoned: idiotic. Warm, perhaps–but idiotic.

The other hat was actually knit for Blue Moon Fiber Arts, as part of their 2012 Rockin' Sock Club. Tina Newton, the head of the house, pairs up designers for each monthly installment, so you get two designs that use the same yarns. She paired me with Anna Zilboorg, because perpetual humilitation is my lot in life.

Anna made gorgeous socks. I made a colorwork hat with a band of bare, angular, slightly crazed branches. I call it Buckthorn.



There was some added fun with this one when Tina realized that the variegated yarn she'd sent us was too heavy for shipping. Hey, it could happen to anyone. That yarn had to be replaced with a lighter (but thicker) yarn in a different fiber, and with far less of it. I had to trash the original design and come up with a decent replacement. There are some little tricks in the pattern to make the most of the variegated yardage–plus a variegated curlicue on top for good measure.



If pressed, I would say that I made a stranded two-color autumn hat that doesn't have leaves or snowflakes in anywhere in it. Kids, I'm calling that a win.

And Finally

I had delightful company over the weekend–a weaver and spinner who convinced me it might be time to do something with the bobbin of Border Leicester that's been sitting on my wheel for...uh...three years. So I chain-plied it and now it's done. Fairly terrible, but done.



No, wait. I fib. It hadn't been sitting on my wheel for three years. Because last year, during the Tour de Fleece, I decided my goal would be to take it off the flyer and stick it on the bobbin rack. So I did. Then I had a celebratory finish line drink. And wouldn't you know my victory turned out to be more honest than Lance Armstrong's. Wanna buy my bracelet?

Welcome, Summer

As I write this the view beyond the window is temporarily sunlit, through a tiny break in a bank of clouds otherwise as gray, threatening and impenetrable as a fleet of battleships. This is late May in Chicago: glimpses of summer between stretches of cold, wet and windy.

This weekend we were granted a single perfect day, and on that day I helped to restore a friend's backyard. Once an oasis, it had fallen into ruin. We worked hard from Friday evening through Saturday evening: planting, dividing, tilling, grading, hauling, laying sod. It was heaven for me, the long-frustrated gardener with never more than a window box to fuss over.

I am happy to report that all those years of compulsively watching "The Victory Garden" and reading Gertrude Jekyll finally paid off. More than once, a question arose and from somewhere deep in my cranium emerged a surprisingly authoritative answer.

Time will tell, of course, whether things actually grow as we intended. But we are ambitious, and have put our faith in reinvigorated beds of hostas and daylilies; baskets and urns of assorted annuals; a large planting of herbs; and one experimental tomato.

In exchange for buckets of sweat and a few scrapes and bruises, I now have entrée to the garden whenever I like. It's close enough to home that my spinning wheel is now in residence. On Sunday, which was cooler but still pleasant, I sat on the porch and spun more of the Border Leicester for Susan's shawl. If the present pace persists, she can expect delivery in time for Fall 2015.

It's a commonplace that a good meal outdoors tastes better than the same meal indoors, and I think the same is true of needlework and spinning. When I first read Elizabeth Zimmermann's accounts (in Knitter's Almanac) of knitting in a canoe and by a campfire, I thought she must be cuckoo. Now, I get it. Provided you're not broiling in direct sun or being eaten alive by midges, fresh air can turn even plain passages of stockinette into moments of undiluted euphoria.

Our weather turned murky after that, and it's back to working indoors for the next few days, but I've had a taste of what's coming. And winter can't last forever, not even in Chicago.

Hither and Yarn

Yarn

Specifically, my own first handspun, which has now joined with Noro Silk Garden Lite to become a hat. It's far from perfect, but knitted up it looks like yarn to me. Soft, strong, tolerably consistent. I call it not bad for a first go, though I wouldn't show it off at a spinning guild.



Jared's Turn A Square pattern is, as his patterns tend to be, charming and clever and interesting without getting fussy. Because of the unusual fashion in which the decreases are worked, the stripes that go 'round and 'round the band turn into squares as they reach the crown. Cool, no?



I will never learn, however, that knitting's quieter thrills, like square rounds, are well-nigh impossible to convey to outsiders.

"Lo!" you cry. "Squares! Squares at the top of my hat!"

If you are speaking to a properly trained outsider, such as a long-suffering Significant Other, you can perhaps expect an expression of polite interest. Such persons understand the potential danger of falling asleep at night next to an unappreciated knitter.

Anybody else will at best give you a puzzled look. Or, if you're really charged up, they might back away as though you'd offered to introduce them to the cool new messiah you're following to a fortified compound in the Nevada desert.

Hither (and Thither)

Folks have been asking about appearances in conjunction with the publication of the little book, which is gratifying and scary. Gratifying because one hates to go through the gyrations, mortifications, and humiliations of writing a book only to find nobody else cares. Scary because I've never put a book tour together before, and so far I suck at it.

In spite of this, thanks to a lot of incredibly patient and helpful souls, a calendar is being put together. Here's what I have so far. (And there are a bunch of shops who have asked about appearances and who are about to get an e-mail from me with more information.)

September 12. Common Cod Fiber Guild in Cambridge, MA. This isn't really a book appearance, as I'll be talking mostly about the 1,000 Knitters Project (though I won't be photographing during the visit). But you never know, I might be able to work in a sneak preview–and it will be fun to be back in Boston for a little while and meet knitters in the city where for years I was the only knitter I knew. (MIT Stata Center, Seminar Room 32-G449, 7–9 pm. Free to members, $5 for non-members.)

October 4. Yarn Con in Chicago, IL. Last year's debut event was so incredible I was thrilled to say yes when they asked me to come back. Exact details are still in the works, but I hope at minimum to have a display of original drawings from the book. This is pre-launch, so I won't have copies to sign, but I'm hoping to have some other nifty goodies for anybody who stops by to say hello. You don't want to miss Yarn Con, in any case. This year it's going to be even bigger and better. (Pulaski Park Fieldhouse, 1419 W. Blackhawk St., 10 am to 4 pm. Admission TBA.)

October 18. New York State Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck, NY. The "official" launch of the book, and the very first signing. I'll be at the Carolina Homespun booth, waiting nervously with pen in hand. (Hours TBA.)

October 26. Arcadia Knitting in Chicago, IL. The hometown launch party! Whoopee! Books and food and yarn! (Noon to 2:30 pm, with a brief reading of excerpts from about 1-1:30.)

November 13. I Knit in London, England. In preparation for this trip, Harry has learned all seven verses of "Rule, Britannia!". I'll be signing books, chatting with knitters, reading a bit, maybe even sketching a little. Hell, I'm a sucker for English accents, so I expect I'll be putty in the hands of the guys who own the place. (106 Lower Marsh, Waterloo, 7–9 pm.)

Again, more to come. There are about a dozen shops that have asked, and who are waiting for me to get my act together and tell them what I need to get there and when I might be able to show up. It's all rather daunting for a guy who has trouble making it three blocks to the grocery store once a week.

Lace Present, Lace Future

June was such a nutty month around here that I didn't get to cast for Wedding Ring Shawl 2.0 until earlier this week. At about an inch and half into the center pattern, I'm already desperately in love with the Gossamer Silk from Heirloom Knitting.



Lace is such a pain to photograph, particularly lace in progress. I wish you could see this in person. The silk has no halo whatever, so the patterns look...what's the word I want? Etched? That comes close. The lines are so crisp and sharp I keep thinking of ice crystals on a windowpane. It was worth ripping back and switching to a finer yarn.

By way of comparison, you can see that I used the first yarn–which was laceweight–to work the provisional cast-on for the cobweb weight. The cobweb's about half as thick.

I promised myself that when the manuscript of little book was finished, I'd pull out my spinning wheel again. But I didn't want to spin aimlessly, I wanted to spin for a project. Well, when I was at TNNA I saw a preview of Nancy Bush's Knitted Lace of Estonia - and when I showed it to my sister she happened to admire one of the pieces I liked best, the Miralda Triangular Shawl. I asked Interweave to let me slip you a sneak peek, and here it is.



Palpitations. Palpitations, I tell you.

The preview included the yarn specs for the project, and I since it uses a fingering weight yarn I've decided that spinning it myself is within my capabilities. The book won't come out until November, so I have a few months to finish preparing this:




before it's time to make this:



Excuse me. I have to go spin.

Field Observer

This is a report from the Panopticon Mobile Unit, on assignment in Indiana. I arrived safely after a mostly uneventful bus ride. I say "mostly" because at one point I set aside the Tomten Jacket and took a snooze, then woke up to find my ball of Cascade 220 had jumped off the seat and rolled to the front of the bus. And then to the back of the bus. And then to the front of the bus. And then to the back of the bus. Etcetera, until it was no longer a ball.

The lady across the aisle saw my startled look upon awakening and said, "You dropped your string."

Oh, thanks. Thanks very much.

In comments to the last post, reader Knit Wit took exception to my apparent comparison of the fine city of Indianapolis to a cornfield. I can well understand, and must clarify. Although I took the bus to Indy, it was not my ultimate destination. My parents live on the far outskirts of Kokomo, a city barely large enough to have skirts at all. This is the view from their front porch.



The views to the rear, right and left are similar. When I said I'd be reporting from the fields, I wasn't being cute. I meant I'd be reporting from the fields. Mind you, the farmer went and rotated the crops on me so instead of corn fields they're bean fields. I swear there was corn there last year.

I've done a bit of knitting since I arrived but not much, as there's a great deal of work around the house to help with. In return, my father has promised before I leave to photograph the steps in working Garter Stitch Jacquard. His help is vital, since of course one can do many things while one is knitting but shooting photos of my own hands at work is beyond my present capabilities.

This is not to say there has been no time for fiber-related excitement. Au contraire. On the first night I was here, the neighbors dropped by as they often do of an evening in Mayberry, and said they'd be bringing by an "old piece of junk" from the garage for me to look at.

This is what showed up the next morning.



I almost passed out. On closer inspection, I was fairly stunned. The entire flyer mechanism, including an original bobbin, was intact. Dirty and beat up, but intact.



In fact, aside from the distaff and a few pegs the only thing missing was the footman. The wheel is out of true and has a clumsy repair to the rim, but the spokes and joins are still tight.

Several hours, much love and a bottle of lemon oil later, here's what they have.



Since I took this picture, the owner has made up a beautiful new footman out of oak. I've attached it and the wheel runs perfectly. They'll be getting it back along with instructions for future preservation, and a warning that if it ever sees the inside of the garage again I will make a citizen's arrest and place the wheel in foster care.

Someday perhaps there will be courses in proper wheel parenting in the schools. Until then, we can but be vigilant and save those that chance to come our way.

It Followed Me Home. Can I Keep It?

So this weekend a friend and I went on a little road trip out of Chicago and finished up our intended errand earlier than expected. He suggested that as long as we were out, we might stop on the way home at an antiques mall we'd passed earlier. Indeed, I had no objection.

The antiques mall turned out to be more of a multi-dealer junk shop. You know the kind of thing–ugly Venetian glass ashtrays from the 50s, and cartoon lunch boxes from the 70s. I balk at seeing things I owned as a child under the banner of "antiques." It's not quite time for that yet.

We were on the way out, passing the very last stall, when some sort of alarm bell went off in my head. I turned around and, half buried behind country-kitsch tree ornaments and faux-colonial table lamps shaped like Betsy Ross french kissing Benedict Arnold, I spotted...a spinning wheel.

"I need to go look at that," I said.

I fully expected the wheel to be:

1. fake;
2. transformed into a lamp or planter;
3. missing half its vital organs;
4. ridiculously overpriced; or
5. all of the above.

I pulled it out from behind the hill of bric-a-brac and gave it a quick once-over, then a slower once-over. Drive wheel, check. Mother-of-all, maidens, flyer, check. Treadle, check. Tension screw, check. Legs, check. Distaff, check, aside from the topmost bar.

There had to be a catch. I swung the treadle, which had been tied back, into position and reconnected the footman to the crank. The wheel was unlubricated but still spun with surprising ease. The wheel itself was still perfectly true. I had no string to make a drive band, but the flyer, which had all its hooks but one, spun easily on the leather bearings.

The frame didn't even wobble. No sign of rot, no cracks, no sloppy repairs on the underside with nails or glue.

Was it a fake? If so, it was a very clever fake. The wood was old, fine-grained stock, and the table was rough-hewn on the underside. All the joins were authentic. The turnings were machine-lathed, but original. There were traces of the orignal red ochre paint on several of the turnings. It obviously had not been cobbled together from a random collection of incomplete wheels.

To my eyes, which I grant are not expert, it seemed to be an intact, nicely-preserved, Eastern European wheel from the last quarter of the 19th century. Or a well-nigh perfect reproduction of the same.

Gritting my teeth, I flipped over the red price ticket. Less than 100 dollars. Much less than 100 dollars.

My vision went all blurry. And then suddenly we were back in the car going home, and I owned two spinning wheels. Because having just one spinning wheel in my high-rise Chicago living room wasn't weird enough.

That night, I felt as though I'd taken in a healthy but neglected puppy off the street. The little thing lapped up half a bottle of lemon oil and quite a bit of wheel oil. When I first put on the drive band, it groaned a bit as the works began to rotate for possibly the first time in years. But I coaxed it, and offered more oil, and fiddled with the tension, moving very slowly. Within two hours, it was purring contentedly. The action was almost as smooth as my Ashford's.

I finally understood why my father got so much satisfaction from fixing cars and stereos. Only took me 35 years, Pop, but hats off to you for showing me the way.

It's missing only one vital part: the bobbin. However, I'm confident I can get a set made without much trouble or expense. I've got good, close-up photographs from similar wheels, I've worked through Alden Amos's detailed formulae for computing double-drive ratios, and my folks know people with lathes. I've already started making measured drawings.

Now, like any new parent, may I present a few photographs?







Daddy's so proud. Thank you for indulging me.

Brief Encounter

It was the first day in weeks without a pressing deadline looming. Dolores had taken the sock yarn down to the Art Institute for the Charles Sheeler exhibit. The laundry was finished, the dishes clean, and no visitors were expected. I poured a tall glass of milk, neat, and curled up on the sofa under an old plaid blanket and cracked open a fresh new arrival, Cecil Beaton's unexpurgated diaries.

"Ahem," said the Spinning Wheel.

I dropped the book and covered my eyes with my hands, uttering an oath unfit for delicate ears.

"Well, excuse me for breathing," said the Spinning Wheel.

"Would it be too much to ask," I sighed, "for one lousy day free of Magic Realism?"

"I just work here," said the Spinning Wheel. "Or rather, I just sit here, which is the root of the matter."

"Maybe you could go complain to the vacuum cleaner. He doesn't get out enough either."

"So I've noticed," said the Wheel. "But I do not wish to discuss the state of your housekeeping. Instead, pray observe my bobbin." It walked over to the sofa and leaned forward. "You will notice, please, that the red leader is still visible. This is the same red leader tied upon the bobbin by Mr. Ted Myatt when he visited."

"Yeah? So?"

"Mr. Myatt's memorable stay took place in high summer. If you will look outside, you will notice the trees are bare of leaves and the wind blows cold. Summer is but a memory. Fall is more than half-spent. The Feast of Saint Lucy fast approaches."

"You want me to make cookies?"

"I want to you realize that since I had the all-too-brief pleasure of being oiled and caressed by Mr. Myatt's capable hands, I've sat here untouched and untreadled. You have well-nigh twenty pounds of lovely roving and top sitting in a storage bin, and yet I am less regarded than the magazine rack in the bathroom."

"What has the magazine rack been telling you?"

"Don't change the subject," said the Wheel, sternly. "Are you ever going to use me again, or are you not?"

"Well, you know, it's been so busy at work and there was the Knit-In and everything, and–"

"Prevarication ill becomes you."

"I'll spin a little bit tonight."

"Tonight won't do. I think I've waited long enough. Either you show me some attention right this minute, or I'm reporting you to Merike Saarnit."

"Just let me finish this chapter."

"Do you want me to put this orifice hook to uses never intended by the nice people at Ashford?"

"Fine, okay, swell, whatever, let me go get some roving." I heaved myself off the sofa and headed for the bedroom closet.

"I want the merino from Rabbitch!" screamed the Wheel. "Don't even come near me with that cheap mixed-breed shit you got free from eBay."

I remember sitting down with the merino, and giving the treadle a tentative push. And then things began to spin, faster and faster. The room blurred. Dizziness struck, hard. I felt as though I were falling...spinning...downward...as the Wheel whined for more...more...more...

I blacked out.

And then all at once I woke up with a start, flat on my back in bed. Dolores and Harry were bending over me as my eyes fluttered open.

"He's alive!" shouted Harry.

"Oh, thank goodness," I sighed. "Dolores, I had the most ridiculous dream. The spinning wheel...it...came to life...it was...talking..."

"Totally whacked, man" said Harry.

"Yeah," said Dolores. "That's a good one. You musta had something spicy for lunch again, right?"

"That must be it," I agreed.

"You'll never learn. I'll go fetch the Peptol Bismol," she said. "You go put your feet up and Harry will get you a hot water bottle."

"Much obliged," I said, and toddled into the living room.

And...there it was.



Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!

Fleece to Face with Shannon Okey

special to The Panopticon by Dolores Van Hoofen

Knitter, spinner and author Shannon Okey, also known to the blog world as knitgrrl, is presently on the road shilling her new book Spin to Knit (Interweave Press).

Spin to Knit is a cheerful, lavishly illustrated guide to spinning your own knitting yarns.

Newcomers will appreciate the comprehensive, step-by-step text, which covers everything from fiber selection to the idiosyncratic behavior of handspun knits. Established spinners will find inspiration in fresh project suggestions and interviews with fiber lovers across the country.

I caught up with Shannon in between stops on her multi-city tour. Which was not easy, because when she first saw me she tried to run away. I love it when they put up a fight.

DVH: Shannon honey, that chair's very uncomfortable. Why don't you come sit over here on the sofa by me?

Shannon: Um...okay. I thought Franklin was supposed to interview me.

DVH: He had to go to a prayer meeting. You want a drink, cupcake?

Shannon: It's a little early in the day, isn't it? Oh, alright. If you insist.

DVH: Groovy. So, "Knit Grrl," is that some kind of Esperanto or did you just make a typo and stick with it?

Shannon: Before there were a million knitting and craft books to choose from, when the craft section of the bookstore was a wasteland of baby quilt books and dusty copies of the Woodstock Craftsman's Manual, and Bust and Venus were a blink in their editors’ eyes, there were Riot Grrl and Simple Machines. Their supporters promoted the DIY ethic before it was fashionable. Simple Machines distributed tens of thousands of copies of their self-publishing how-to book for musicians. Riot Grrl influenced thousands of women my age to go out and be the change we wanted to see in the world–make our own books, records, art shows, you name it.

Gosh, Dolores. How much tequila did you put in there? I’m having 1992 flashbacks.

Anyway, it was a deliberate homage to Riot Grrl. I wanted to encourage new knitters to learn, spread the knowledge and make their own creations rather than dress just like everyone else.

DVH: And now you're all over the damn place. I checked out the new Knitty, and there you are. I opened Spin Off today, and there you are. I'm afraid to open the frigging medicine cabinet because you might fall out. What's it like to suddenly be America's Sweetheart of Spinning?

Shannon: Is that anything like the Courtney Love album America’s Sweetheart? I hope so. I’d rather be America's Sweetheart of Spinning than "the Donald Trump of knitting with better hair."

DVH: Do you have groupies? Stalkers? Hangers-on waiting by the stage door?

Shannon: Not yet. But if they show up with fiber they won't be waiting by the stage door for long. Amy Singer and I almost stalked Tracey Ullman this weekend, but we lost our nerve. Once Tracey called Amy "the Bono of knitting," it was girl crush city.

DVH: Girl crush? Really? Say, can I freshen up that drink for you?

Shannon: Thanks, but I'm fine...Did you drink that whole thing already?

DVH: I was feeling dehydrated. So, your first spinning project involved "a saucy ram named Eddie." If he's the same Eddie I know, you're a very lucky lady. Did you get to know him a little before you picked him out of the flock, or was it just an anonymous quickie?

Shannon: Well, I petted him for a good long time.

DVH: Ahem. Are you sure I can't top off that cosmo?

Shannon: No. Really.

DVH: Suit yourself. You have a lot of great information in Spin to Knit about fiber selection for beginners. How do you feel about...let's say...Romney?

Shannon: Romney’s what I learned on. Raw fleece, none of this preprocessed stuff.

DVH: Raw and natural. Woof. My kinda gal. What do you think of my fleece? Would you spin this?

Shannon: Um...well...

DVH: Go ahead. Have a feel.

Shannon: It's very nice, Dolores. What do you use for conditioner?

DVH: That wasn't much of a feel. Have another go. Maybe a little higher.

Shannon: I think I'd like that second drink now.

DVH: So, we're friends. Let's get personal. Panties. Are you a cotton print or silk-and-lace sort of girl?

Shannon: Who said I’m wearing–Cotton. Yeah. That’s it. Cotton. Can we talk some more about the book?

DVH: The what?

Shannon: The book. Spin to Knit. That I just wrote.

DVH: Oh, yeah. Sure. What made you decide to write it?

Shannon: Interweave asked. And when Interweave asks… short of concrete-booting someone into a river, I’m there. Linda Ligon had the original concept, Betsy Armstrong (the former books editor) asked me for an outline and it was in her hands 45 minutes later. I was excited about it from the start.

DVH: I bet you're cute when you're excited. Did you learn anything new while you were working on it?

Shannon: Definitely. I traveled around the country–over 6,000 miles by plane, train, bus and car over the course of a month–and met up with the featured spinners in their own studios and working environments. I learned something new from everyone… Laura and Sarah dye with lichens, Symeon’s husband built her an electric spinner from an old sewing machine. You name it–there was a learning opportunity around every corner.

I don’t pretend to be the greatest spinner on earth, or the most technical spinner. But I love fiber, and I’m enthusiastic. You can learn something new from almost anyone if you pay attention.

DVH: Do you think anyone can learn to spin?

Shannon: Oh, yes.

DVH: Even Britney Spears?

Shannon: That depends. Is Sean Preston on her lap?

DVH: Celebrity gossip time! Tell me something really juicy about the people at Interweave.

Shannon: If it ever came down to it, certain authors would mud wrestle to have Ann Budd as their editor, myself included. Tricia Waddell has the hottest shoe collection on earth. They call Anne Merrow (the editor for my felting book) and Ann Budd “the A-Team,” since they share an office.

DVH: Is Amy Singer as hot in person as she is in her picture?

Shannon: Scorching. You have no idea.

DVH: Oooh. Another drink, pretty lady?

Shannon: Is Franklin coming home soon?

DVH: Franklin who? Oh damn, the silly little bottle's empty. Let's spin it and see who it points to.

Shannon: Wow, time's up! Gottagobye!

A Man Aboot the Hoose

Ted is safely home in Canada, after an all-too-brief visit. He is a model houseguest: polite, considerate, neat, and brings wool with him. Come on back any time, Ted.

I will end the suspense right now and tell you that Dolores did not succeed in adding another notch to her lipstick case. It was not for lack of trying. For most of the weekend she was in constant motion around Ted, doing backflips and pirouettes like an errant member of Cirque du Soleil.

On Friday, we visited the zoo and conservatory in Lincoln Park and she trotted out her "Madcap Maisie" routine. Think 1920s flapper crossed with Cyndi Lauper in the video for "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun."

At first, it seemed like this actually might work. Note this picture in the conservatory garden, in which Ted is obviously enjoying himself.



But then she overshot herself by screaming "I want to live la dolce vita!" and throwing herself into the fountain. Ted got the Anita Ekberg reference, but his inborn Canadian reserve found the gesture just a touch outré early in the morning.

In any case, he was more interested* in the Jacob sheep that live in the Farm at the Zoo. The Jacobs, for their part, were quite taken with Dolores. One of them shouted after her, "Hey baby, do fries come with that shake?" but she just curled her lip and threw a fistful of jujubes at his head.

On Saturday, which was of course Canada Day, Dolores woke Ted with a sunrise serenade: "Maple Leaf Rag" (theme and variations) played on her harmonica. For added frisson she wore my mountie hat. Alas, Ted is not a morning person.

Later in the day, we visited Millenium Park and the Art Institute. Sensing Ted's strong intellectual bent, she tried out her Sophisticated Woman of Culture pose.



But as Ted contemplated Seurat's A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, her feral nature got the better of her and she couldn't resist giving his tuchus a little pinch. He yelped, there was a confused scuffle in the crowded gallery, somebody got pushed into a Van Gogh, and Dolores was once again asked to please leave the Art Institute and not come back.

Once she was out of the way, we were free to explore the museum at length and Ted's eagle eyes spotted things like this weaver (Penelope, wife of Ulysses) on a panel from an Italian Renaissance marriage chest.



He also pointed out this piece of mind-blowing miniature knitting in one of the Thorne Rooms, a series of dioramas that chronicle the history of interior decoration.



That swatch, which truly is knitted, measures a little less than an inch square. It's the only example of knitting we found in any of the rooms, although some include knitting baskets with balls of yarn. Our guess is that after flirting with blindness while turning out this specimen, the knitter told Mrs. Thorne that if she wanted anything else of this sort she could do it herself.

By Saturday night, Dolores had given up the chase and gone to console herself at the Lucky Horseshoe, which was celebrating the Fourth of July Weekend with male strippers dressed as figures from United States history. It must have gone well, because we didn't see her again until Sunday afternoon, when she stumbled in wearing Lincoln's stovepipe hat and Franklin D. Roosevelt's dickey.

I offered to take Ted to see the strippers, as I assume they're not easy to come by in his corner of Canada, but he demurred and instead we did fibery things.

He showed me a small selection of his lace output. Inspiring.



This is the beautiful "Spider Queen" shawl, which I tried to steal.



Ted and the "Rosebud" shawl by Sharon Miller, which he knocked off on a lazy Saturday afternoon during a matinée showing of Maid in Manhattan.

Ted also gave me pointers on my spinning, and then (wonder of wonders) succeeded in getting me to give the spindle another shot. And this is what happened:



It's merino. And I spun it, on the spindle. And it was fun. And it was not difficult, once Ted had helped me grasp the process.

Will you all please join me in asking Ted why he's frittering away his time at some day job when he's the sort of person who can teach one to do this is ten minutes? Where is Ted's book? Why is Ted not teaching full time? Where is the justice in this world?

He had to leave on Sunday afternoon, far too soon, and now Canada has him back. However, we will need to borrow him again soon, so consider who you might like in exchange. How about Alexis Xenakis? Hell, we wouldn't even ask you to give him back.

*Interested in their fleece, that is. Not, you know, "interested."

Stupid Yarn Tricks

Yeah, I know. But you can't hit it out of the ballpark every time, okay?

Let's Answer Some Reader Questions

Jax: I just have to hear your opinion on one of the most important aesthetic questions in the art of cowboy watching: Wranglers or Levis?

Depends on the ass being covered. "Wrangler butt" is traditionally one of the great attractions of any rodeo. However, I find that on the wrong derrière (mine, for example) the effect can be flattening rather than flattering. So you'll almost always find me in Levis. However, if you're actually riding, Wranglers are softer. A full day in the saddle in Levis can wear the skin off your legs.

Ellen in Conn: How does one discern the sexual orientation of any particular cow-person?

If it's a hot cowboy, the best way is to go to bed with him. Failing that, participation in a gay rodeo (which is where all my rodeo photos are taken) is a generally reliable (though not infallible) indicator.

Cheryl: Maybe this is just a bi-cowboy.

Hey, whatever gets you through the night, babe.

Daisy: A friend is contemplating raising sheep and I mentioned the miniature sheep you had rhapsodized about on your blog. We can't find that post now. Did I hallucinate that entry? Was it just a dream?

No. The entry (with link) is here. On the larger question of hallucination versus reality, my roommate is an imaginary talking sheep who wears bifocals, so maybe you better ask somebody else.

Taphophile (regarding the Knit Knaked design): And the fourth needle is where?

Don't hassle me with your sick fantasies.

dhi: Could you please confess to the group something that you DON'T do well? Paper-quilling? Balancing the checkbook? Folding laundry?

Actually, you picked out exactly three things at which I am dreadful. Thanks for pouring salt into open wounds. And in public, no less. What did I ever do to you?

Stephen Fry: I have tried so hard to resist, but I've fallen madly in love with you. Please leave your nasty job on the bitterly cold plains of America and come live with me in my cottage in Derbyshire where I will bake homemade scones and be your love slave. I will send Jake Gyllenhaal to C's apartment in order to ease the transition. Please, my darling scrumptious boy, will you be mine forever and ever?

Yeah, fine, whatever. Just stop whining. I hate it when they whine.

Dolores Calls in Two Favors

I came home Saturday evening to what is now a familiar sound: Dolores shouting back at "The McLaughlin Group" on Channel 11, and occasionally throwing popcorn at Pat Buchanan.

There's no speaking to her while the show is on, so I headed into the kitchen to fix myself a long, tall chocolate milk (tip: use a martini shaker–it's fab) and let my teeth unclench. We had "other duties as assigned this weekend," and I was wound up like a violin string braced for Mahler.

"So," came a voice from the living room, "Don't say hello or anything."

"You always hiss at me when I do," I said.

"Today is different. I got you something. And I'm not dragging it in there."

The last time Dolores said she "got me something," she meant she'd stuffed all my rather conservative wool suits into a sack for the charity shop and filled up my closet with sherbet-colored Italian silks with funny shoulders. I headed for the living room.

"What is it?" I said, trying to sound calm.

"Let's see if you can guess," she said, chucking a few unpopped kernels at Pat's wide-open mouth.

I was about to comment on the state of the rug when I spotted this next to the chair I usually sit in to knit.



"Who does that belong to?" I said, when I could find my voice.

"To you, if you want it," she said. "And you'd better, it was no picnic getting it here."

"You got me a spinning wheel!" I screamed.

"As ever," she said, "Your grasp of the obvious is astonishing."

"You got me a spinning wheel!"

"You're blocking the television," said Dolores.

I sat down and gave the treadle a tentative push with my foot. The drive wheel obligingly spun around, and the flyer gave off a pleasant little whirr. I felt my eyes filling up.

"Dolores...I just...how did you..."

"Spare me," she said. "I'm just sick of you disappearing into the bathroom with the Ashford catalogue for hours. That door is pretty thin."

"But..."

"It's used," she said. "And it's an older model. But it should work. Somebody in New Zealand owed me a favor. I'd tell you more, but then I'd have to kill you."

I pointed a large, fluffy pile of white in the corner.

"Is that...?"

"From my sister in Vermont," she said. "Rolag. Two pounds. She owed me a favor, too. Just watch out for the split ends. The way Olive abuses that goddamn blow dryer you'd think it was 1978."

At that point, Eleanor Clift came on and every time I tried to speak Dolores just raised a hoof in my direction. So I sat down, and pulled out the corriedale/montadale from Susan that I'd been using on the spindle, and I spun.

First Fiber

All the practice on the spindle seems to have been a good idea. I wouldn't expose my spindle-made yarn to public view (one has one's little vanities), but the making of it did give me a visceral experience of the spinning process. I'm glad it's how I began, much as I'm glad I began making photographs with a relatively simple camera. A limited mechanism forces you to learn by making nothing easy for you. Your hands and eyes and mind must engage, because otherwise nothing happens. For me, in any case, this is and always has been the way to go.

The first thing I had to test for myself is whether Margeurite's spinning song from Faust, "Il était un roi de Thulé," really works to keep you treadling evenly. It does. I'll have to test the spinning song from Der Fliegende Höllander later, as my German is far from what it ought to be.

There were jerks and epithets at first, but things are now spinning smoothly and I made this:



According to all my written authorities, it's not bad. Reasonable consistency, doesn't snarl up in the orifice, doesn't pull apart. Upon close examination, even Dolores conceded that it "doesn't completely suck nine kinds of ass."

Perhaps I'm imagining it, but I think she's warming up a little.

Spin Doctor

Spinning, A Report.

Since Dolores has been hogging the computer (not to mention the bathroom), I've spent quite a bit of time trying to make the suspended (Ted says not to use the word "drop") spindle do what I want it to do.

I have quite a bit of fiber to play with right now thanks to a generous gift from my incredibly thoughtful sister, who sent me large box of roving from an unspecified breed. It seems the janitor at the school where she teaches does a little sheep farming in his spare time. (Ah, Maine.)

I asked Dolores if she knew what the fiber was, but she just glanced up from her tattered copy of On Being and Nothingness, grunted "It's nobody I know," and went back to reading.

Anyhow, as a mark of progress I am positing this first attempt. I don't think even really counts as "spinning." But you have to start somewhere.



A few hours later I was getting much thinner, more consistent results, thus:



I think this is more how it's supposed to look. I'll know better when the books I ordered arrive. At present I'm working from the sage advice of you, my dear readers, and the brief demonstration I got from Queer Joe at Rhinebeck.

I've learned a few things I should note before I forget them:

1. Let the weight of the spindle help in the drafting.
   
   
2. Pre-drafting is one of those things you can have described to you or demonstrated for you ad nauseam, but which you must try yourself if you're to understand it. Hands-on practice is the only way this spinning thing is going to happen for me.
   
   
3. Do not look to Dolores for positive reinforcement, unless you consider "What do you want, a medal?" to be ample praise.
   

Spindle Notes

As I was saying to Paris Hilton the other day, don't you just adore the Internet?

You ask for suggestions about spinning on a drop spindle, you get suggestions for spinning on a drop spindle. You get many, many suggestions about spinning on a drop spindle. You get so many suggestions for spinning on a drop spindle that if you had a nickel for every suggestion, you could finally quit your day job and open a puppet theater just like you always wanted to.

I've decided that before I pick up (and drop) the spindle again it would be a good idea to write down the things I do remember about my first, brief attempts. It'll be fun (or painful) to come back and look at them later.

1. Tall people have an unfair advantage in using a drop spindle. It's further to the floor. This must be their karmic trade-off for not fitting properly in standard airplane seats.
   
2. The spindle is an inanimate object and does not respond to threats, coercion, foul language, diplomacy, prayers, or abject pleading.
   
3. The process of spindling makes me wish I had four hands. Not for the first time, but for a very different reason.
   
4. There's a fine line between "yarn" and "rope" and it's an easy one to cross.
   
5. Crying never solved anything.
   
6. A man in his mid-thirties should not have to repeatedly consult a real clock to remember which way is "clockwise."
   
7. The nice lady in the "Joy of Handspinning" videos is an evil enchantress who sold her soul to the devil to make it look that easy. She enjoys taunting you.
   
8. Selling your soul to the devil is not a option. You already signed it over in order to hang on to your waistline past age 30. Who's sorry now?
   
9. Remember that roughly 25% of your ancestors actually raised sheep in the mountains of Lebanon. There's folk memory in there somewhere. Tap it.
   
10. If all else fails, a wooden spindle makes a handsome desk toy, a striking drop earring, or a totally cool American Colonial Ninja throwing star.