Wee Wee Wee

I have always had an affinity for the small–possibly because I happen to fit neatly in that box myself, with plenty of room to spare.

Years of unfulfilled longing meant that when I saw this at a local thrift shop



I decided it was coming home with me.

It's a home-built townhouse, front-opening. Age and provenance unknown. The style is decidedly of the first quarter of the twentieth century; but the windows that still retain their glazing are fitted with sheets of clear plastic. This could be a later replacement for celluloid/acetate, or it could mean a house constructed in the 1950s or later using an old set of blueprints.

However old it is, I love it. The exterior is agreeably battered and faded, with most of the pretty details intact.

I love the way the builder used just two colors and simple materials (wooden beads, bits of stock moulding) to achieve a richness of effect.



Inside, six rooms and an elevator. The elevator is operated via a crank in the base. It took some cleaning and oiling, but the car now travels up and down smoothly on the string while I hum "The Girl from Ipanema."



I've enjoyed imagining why the exterior was finished with so much care, but the interior was left completely unfinished. It might have been that a deadline (Christmas? birthday?) forced the doting amateur carpenter to deliver it half-made with a promise that interior decoration would follow. It might have been that the little owner was expected to do her own decorating, but never got around to it. It might have been that the miniature occupants got into such a dreadful fight over wallpapers for the front hall that they divorced and abandoned the property.

There's also a scenario involving alien abduction, but let's move along.

Whatever the reason, I'm happy the rooms are a perfect blank. In their current state, they have a melancholy I admire.



Also, were there even a scrap of 1930s linoleum, I'd feel honor-bound to preserve it. Since nothing period survives, I shall fill it up to my heart's content following my own fancy.

Of course that means needlework. A very small heap of very, very small needlework.

The scale of the house is not the 1:12 (inch-equals-a-foot) standard for modern "collector" houses meant for adults. It's 1:16, the old "play" standard for miniatures meant for children. Period furniture in 1:16 isn't impossible to find–the two metal chairs in the photographs are from Tootsietoy, a now-defunct maker once based here in Chicago–but it's uncommon, expensive, and often startlingly ugly. As much as possible, I want to make my own stuff.

I've already been knitting small, partly out of guilt. Remember Ethel? Ethel was supposed to be the doll who ended up in this, but proved unequal to the burden of all those layers. She was replaced by another model from the same agency. It happens all the time–even sample-sized gals aren't all built the same.

Ethel didn't complain, but I began to feel bad that she has ended up lying naked in a drawer for a year. She at least needs some frilly underclothes, lace-edged. I could buy doll's clothes. I could buy lace. But it's more fun to make them.

Enter the 00000.

This 00000 (also called five-aught, or 1mm) knitting needle was part of a bundle of antique double-pointed needles given to me as a gorgeous gift by a marvelously generous knitter I met while teaching at Sealed With a Kiss in Guthrie, Oklahoma. To give you some idea of the scale:



As I'm fortunate enough to have this blog read in many countries abroad, I put in as many small coins as I could find in the change box. I'm sorry that the selection was limited to places I've been. (Asia, Australia, South and Central America–I'm ready when you are.)

Now, standard needles go down to a completely hilarious 00000000 (that's eight-aught)–so I don't pretend I'm breaking any kind of record in working with a pair of five-aughts. Nutjobs like Betsy Hershberg (have you seen her new book, by the way? disgustingly good) would think nothing of this.

This is the finest work I've done yet, though. And it's fun. Like picking at a scab is fun.

Here's the edging for the bottom of Ethel's chemise, on the blocking board. The thread is DMC 80 Crochet Cotton, which is not much thicker than sewing thread.



If you're curious about the itttybittyknitty experience, some quick beginner's notes:

• Yes, it takes a while to find a comfortable grip. In fact, banish the word "grip" from your mind. Any attempt to "grip" one of these needles will result in a crumpled piece of wire. On the other hand, it seems to be normal and desirable that as you knit, the needles will take on gentle curves that fit your hands just so. I find this endearing. They're not just needles, they're obedient pets.
• I have seen (but do not own) knitting holders from the 19th century that protected fine needles inside stiff metal (sometimes silver) tubes. Having now tried to transport a pair of five-aughts in a standard knitting bag on the subway, I understand why.
• A magnifying glass is a great help if you are over sixteen. (I am.) Good lighting is vital, unless you enjoy gnashing your teeth until they shatter like cheap wineglasses. I have never been so grateful for my Ott Lite, which has both a huge magnifier and a clamp that holds my chart where I can see it.
• My antique five-aughts have blunt ends. I'm looking to play with some modern five-aughts and see if they have pointed ends. Pointy ends are a boon when you're trying to work a double-decrease. Fooling about with blunt-ended fine needles has kicked up my appreciation of 19th-century knitters another couple notches. I've seen photos of those women operating these things with gloved hands, which I think helps to explain the widespread Victorian notion of female hysteria.

Finally, if you take your five-aughts out in public, exercise caution. I brought this to the coffee shop the other day.



It's a lace insertion for Ethel's chemise, yet another variation of the double-leaf motif that's been kicking around since the early 19th century.

I do a lot of knitting at this coffee shop. All the baristas know me. I've even taught a few of them the rudiments of knit and purl.

I was limping along, determined to make headway even without my magnifying glass and in dim light. I barely noticed the manager inching closer, pretending to wipe down empty tables but keeping one worried eye on me. When she was about two feet away she stopped and sighed with evident relief.

"Something wrong?" I asked, looking up.

"That is wicked small yarn," she said.

"You ain't kidding."

"Well," she said, "from over at the counter you can't see it. Or the needles."

"Really?"

"Uh huh. So you were sitting there...and moving your hands...and looking at them...and sometimes you were stopping to count...but it looked like you weren't holding anything."

"Oh, dear."

"I was sort of worried that maybe you were, I don't know–having some kind of knitting-related seizure?"

I reassured her that I wasn't.

But we all know it's only a matter of time.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Krampus

It's Christmas Eve in Chicago. Though a bit more gift wrapping must be seen to, the approach to a quiet holiday is otherwise unobstructed.

I know not everyone reading this celebrates Christmas, but it's certainly part of my heritage. In the spirit of the season, I'd like to offer a warm cup of holiday knitting to one and all–regardless of whether or not you usually partake.

There are veritable snowdrifts of patterns for knitting up Santa Claus, snowmen, candy canes, reindeer (plain- and red-nosed), elves, nativity scenes, mice (stirring), bears (teddy), toy soldiers (because nothing says Peace on Earth like a trained killer with a rifle) and most the rest of the cast of sugarplums.

But I was shocked–shocked–when I consulted the Ravelry pattern database and found not a single representation of the character I (and many millions of others) consider essential to a well-balanced festive season: Krampus.

Do you know Krampus? If not, a few words of introduction.

He is, mainly in Alpine countries, the friend and companion of dear Saint Nicholas. His useful function is to deal with the children whose behavior in the year past has been weighed in the balance and found wanting.

This is, I believe, a most logical and reasonable division of labor. In America, we not only expect Santa Claus to reward the good children by scattering presents around; we also require–in the course of the same evening–that he stick lumps of coal into the stockings of the naughty. Have you ever held a lump of coal? I have. It's heavy, it's dusty, and it leaves black smudges all over everything.

Is it fair, I ask you, to make a man wearing white fur cuffs distribute tons of coal and tons of gifts from a miniature sleigh with less horsepower than a riding lawn mower? I think not.

Countries which employ Krampus do things far better.

Saint Nicholas visits only the nice children, hands around the goodies, and calls it a night. Krampus, meanwhile, drops in on the bad children–the ones who didn't finish their vegetables, and stuck out their tongues at Grandma, and boosted the ratings for Glee while Community was put on hiatus. He smacks them soundly with a bundle of birch twigs; licks them with his long, slimy tongue; carries them away screaming in the basket on his back. When he's good and ready, he tears them limb from limb and then eats them.

Note that coal doesn't even enter the picture. Krampus is very eco-friendly and discourages the consumption of fossil fuels.

That such a darling fellow should be absent from the knitting round-up appalls me. To redress the imbalance, I present the Little Knitted Krampus.



He is made from several colors of Skacel's excellent Fortissima Socka sock yarn, and the free pattern will appear in a few days.



My gift, gentle reader, to you–provided you've been a good child.



Otherwise, expect the Real Thing to tap on your door and spread you on toast like a chicken liver.

Merry Christmas from me, Dolores, Harry, and whole of the Sock Yarn Colony. We love you very much.

P.S. If you'd like to see more of Krampus, including absolutely adorable Krampuskarten from the 19th and 20th centuries that I used as visual references, visit this site. An animated treatment sure to gladden the hearts of your children (show it to them just before bedtime) is available on Youtube.

P.P.S. Anna Hrachovec of Mochimochiland, I wouldn't have had the chutzpah to tackle my first knitted toy design without your inspiration, encouragement, and the excellent treatment of the technical aspects in your books. Thank you!

Collect 'Em All

Having already knit the Tiny Rabbit and the Tiny Mermaid–wait, sorry. I don't think I posted the mermaid here, did I? Here she is.



Let's try that again.

Having already knit the Tiny Rabbit and the Tiny Mermaid from Anna Hrachovec's Teeny-Tiny Mochimochi, the next choice of project was patently obvious: the Tiny Chicken.



Now, as you will have doubtless realized, I have the complete trio from the immortal anecdote about the rabbit, the mermaid and the chicken who walk into Claridge's Hotel. But my parents are due to arrive any moment, and I must dash, so I'd love it if one of you could tell the rest in the comments. Thanks awfully!

The Transformation of the Bunny Rabbit

Did you ever have one of those days when you woke up and knew with fearful certainty that absolutely nothing else would be accomplished until you had knit yourself an extremely tiny specimen of Oryctolagus cuniculus?

Fortunately, in preparing Teeny-Tiny Mochimochi, Anna Hrachovec (the benevolent queen of mochimochiland.com) had anticipated this eventuality and provided a pattern. It took about thirty minutes scratch to my itch.



Cute, right? Yes. But...pedestrian. Unremarkable.

The eyes had to go. Too predictable. Bigger. Brighter. Caffeinated.



Better.

Then, a haircut that didn't look like a haircut. Something tousled and shaggy, probably unwashed, maybe styled with an ironic nod to the 1970s and The Doobie Brothers but decidedly modern in color.



And a piercing, of course.



I was going to complete the makeover by knitting the bunny an extremely small Death Cab for Cutie t-shirt, but he had decided this post was So Over.

The Mail of Two Kitties

Let's pretend for a minute (you're not busy, are you?) that Barbara Walters has decided to include me in her next interview special. (Shut up. It could happen.)

We've both been through makeup and whatnot and are sitting on my ugly fake-chintz sofa. Both of us are lit just so. One last sound check. Roll camera.

Barbara leads with one of her signature powerful questions:

"So, Fwanklin. You've been knitting a gweat deal these past two years. Do you want to tell us about that? Has it...changed you at all?"

Why, yes it has, Barbara, and thank you for asking.

In the dark, strange days before I knew what the hell k2tog meant, I hated cats. Wouldn't draw them, wouldn't pet them, certainly didn't want to own one. This had always been so. As a child, watching "Tom and Jerry," I was firmly on the side of the mouse. Faster, Jerry, faster! Kill! Kill!

As an adult, I felt that if I wished to live with something aloof and bad-tempered that shed all over the house and only noticed me when I was feeding it, I could have stayed with Mr. Ex.

I was careful, of course, not to say this to many knitters. Knitters, on the whole, enjoy the company of cats, some to the point of idolatry. Perhaps it's the common bond of Yarn Fascination. I like the pretty string, you like the pretty string. Let's be friends forever.

But I confess the allure still escaped me. I didn't want some stupid feral animal snarling my worsted and chewing the ends of my needles. Hell no.

Then knitting led to blogging, and blogging led to reading things like this and this.

And then, dammit, I was gone.

Unfortunately, the terms of my lease and Dolores's "cat issues" mean there will be no pitter patter of little feet (aside from mine) around the apartment. So if I want Cat Time I'll have to settle for mooching off Cats Elsewhere.

Two cats who are Very Much Elsewhere just got these in the mail from me.*



They're from the "Catwarming Set" in Stitch 'n Bitch Nation. To finish two was the work of an evening (albeit divided into little bits over the course of a week or so) and it was fun. Just mind you look up the errata online before setting off.

Aren't they precious? Can't you just see the little bitty kitties batting them about on the floor? Pushing them around with their dear little paws? Curling up with them in their little mouths? So cute! Eeep! Who's a good kitty? Who's a good kitty? Get the little mousie, kitty! Goooooood kitty! Eeeep!

Bleargh. What the hell is happening to me?

Frigging cats.

*I must draw your attention to the copies of Fabula de Petro Cuniculo and Fabula de Jemima Anate-Aquatica, generously loaned to me by reader Jackie. They're going home shortly, Jackie, and I thank you so much.