Pick-Ups Without Hiccups

With all due respect to Mr. Aesop and his one-note tortoise, I'm not entirely convinced that "slow and steady" always wins the race. I can report, however, that it will get you through a long stretch of lace knitting. That leafy nuppy number from Nancy Bush's book reached a turning point on Saturday when I finished row 3,246,782 of the center. As Nero said after he broke a fiddle string, taa-daaaaaa.



Time for the edging. However, Tom and I had plans to go hear a little Rachmaninoff down at Millennium Park. And while the setting, the weather and the music were all gorgeous,





they were hardly conducive to the next step: evenly picking up about 800 stitches all the way around the panel. So I set it aside and–I can't believe it–sat through the entire concert without knitting. But my mind kept drifting to the task ahead.

The short ends were straightforward. One was already live stitches, the other was created with a provisional cast-on that could be easily removed to reveal live stitches. It was the long sides that would be a challenge.

Out of curiosity, I went over to Ravelry to see who else had made this shawl and how their edgings had come out. The results were telling. Among 20-odd finished examples, easily half had no edging, or kept it to the short ends. Nothing wrong with that, of course. One should knit what one wants to knit, however one wants to knit it. But me, I liked the look of the full edging and would simply have to buckle down and make it happen.

Scary

Occasionally we knitters will refer to a maneuver or technique as "scary." I know I've done so. At such a moment, it helps to step back for a fresh perspective. So I pulled out at a few photographs I made earlier this month of people in the park spinning fire.







Yes, spinning fire. They quite deliberately set bits of things ablaze, and then whirl twirl and toss those things around their heads and limbs. For fun.








Upon reflection, I decided that picking up stitches evenly is not the scariest thing a hobby can throw at you.

On the other hand, getting to the end of the long edge for the third time in two hours and finding you're supposed to have 274 stitches but you only have 236, or you've overshot to 286, could make a person consider setting himself and/or the project on fire.

Divide and Conquer

I might be typing this from a bed in the Burn Unit if I hadn't remembered a sewing technique shown to me long ago by my seamstress grandmother. She didn't invent it, nor did I, and for all I know y'all already know it. But I don't recall seeing it online recently, so here's a little demonstration.

When you're faced with picking up stitches evenly along an edge, you may get lucky and find that the ratio is (for example) 1:1, meaning that for every slipped stitch or garter bump or whatever, you need to pick up one stitch. Easy.

Often, however, you will have a number of edge stitches or bumps that bears little or no relation to the number of stitches you need. Nancy Bush, bless her, gives a clue for this project: about 3 stitches picked up for every two slipped stitches. Not all designers are so thoughtful, alas. Or it may happen that you are the designer, and have nobody but yourself to rely on.

In such cases, break your lengthy edge into smaller segments. Here's how Grandma did it, and how I do it now.

1. Clear off a flat, level work surface large enough to comfortably support your project at full length. (Hint: not your lap.)

2. Procure an ample supply of coil-less safety pins, or stitch markers (shown) that open and close like safety pins. (The pins make fantastic markers, but can be tough to find. Schoolhouse Press is a good source.)



3. Lay your project on the table and smooth it out. Then, carefully lift one end and fold it, creating a single fold line halfway down the length of the edge you'll be marking. Place a marker at the fold line.



4. Pick up the folded edge and fold the project in half again, in the same direction. Your new fold marks the quarter points. You'll see that this time there are two layers. Place a marker in each.



5. Continue to fold and mark in this way until you've divided the length into as many sections as you deem necessary. In the case of this shawl, I did one more fold so I'd have eight equal parts.



6. Unfold the piece to full length, smooth it out, and check your markers. They should be placed evenly along the edge. You can adjust them if you see great discrepancies, but I find that it's not necessary to be incredibly precise. Your eyeball should work as well in this instance as a ruler.



Now, instead of having to consider the whole edge at once, you can divide the number of stitches you need (in this case, 274) by the number of segments you marked off (in this case, eight).

I figured out that I needed 34 stitches in seven of my segments, and 35 in the eighth.

After that, it was easy to pick up according to Nancy's suggested ratio and check my progress every time I reached a marker. If I needed 34 stitches and had too few, I'd back up a bit and add more. If I'd picked up too eagerly, I'd back up and drop a few.

I kept track of the count for each segment on a sheet of paper, which allowed me to stop without hesitation and resume without error whenever I was interrupted by the telephone, or by Dolores falling off the sink and into the toilet. (Don't ask.)

When I was finished with the full circumference, I had exactly the proper number of stitches, and it was all done in under half an hour.

Thanks, Grandma–what do you know about spinning fire?

Idle Questions of a Fevered Brain

While I await the return of my film (yes, film) from the lab so that I can do a proper post about this weekend's rip-snorting good time in Austin at The Knitting Nest, I offer the following points to ponder, transcribed from a page written in a shaky hand at 30,000 feet somewhere over Arkansas.

Q. If I were going to take down an entire jet plane with something in my knitting bag, what would be the best thing to use?

1. Single metal dpn (fuchsia, US size 2) from Boye. (Have never, that I can recall, purchased set of fuchsia needles in any size.)
   
2. 4-foot tape measure shaped like laughing sheep. (Squee, etc.)
   
3. Scrap of paper with mysterious note in pencil to "yo2, k2tog, k6 at next m, dammit."
   
4. Small plastic box containing eight two-inch-long T-pins for lace blocking demonstration.
   

(The TSA's answer is number four, because that's what they confiscated at the O'Hare security checkpoint.)

Q. Which of these is incompatible with lace knitting?

1. Eating a BBQ Breakfast Taco from Salt Lick.
2. Waiting for next available urinal in crowded airport men's room.
3. Looking badass while seated at airport sports bar.
4. Avoiding the attention of woman at Gate 17 who wants to talk to somebody about the emotional and gastrointestinal consequences of her Pomeranian's separation anxiety.
   
5. All of the above.

Q. Which of the following is the best way to cope with the following announcement from the cockpit: "Folks, I need everyone including the flight attendants to be seated immediately, because we're heading into atmospheric conditions I haven't seen in twenty-five years of flying."

1. Grip both armrests very firmly in order to hold the plane up in the air.
2. Promise the Almighty Whatever Is Out There that if flight lands successfully, you will stop screening phone calls from Auntie Helen.
3. Cast on Sharon Miller's Princess Shawl since it's something you've always said you'd like to knit before you die.

Are they nupps? Or acne?

Knitting lace, I have noticed, is like raising a child. You begin the undertaking with an equal mixture of trepidation, excitement, and anticipation. About halfway through, it's a bedraggled and incoherent mess. It's not at all what you had in mind. You would throw it out–but you've already invested so much time. So you keep working, determined that perseverance and discipline will win out. When it casts off into independence, you feel proud, though you know perfectly well where every fault and fudge is located.

I've been knitting lace today–the Leaf and Nupp Shawl from Nancy Bush's lovely book.



Maybe my lace parenting skills are improving, because this piece got through its awkward phase with a minimum of trauma. Indeed it seems to have raised itself, like one of those Victorian heroines who blossom into spunky, swanlike maidenhood in spite of having been tossed out of a slum and into the streets at age four with nothing but a crust of bread and a button hook.

When I picked it up this morning, I did a quick count of repeats and realized I'm only two away from finishing the center. This seems impossible. I've given it no special attention, as it has no deadline. I've knit a row here or there, in odd moments, usually with my mind on something else. I wondered whether Dolores might have been helping it along secretly, but she seldom does good deeds without trumpeting. (Last time she removed her dirty underwear from the floor without being told, she asked me to hire a skywriter.)

It's not quite ready for the debutante ball, mind you. A review of the instructions reminds me that there's a whole lot of picking-up to do around the long edges, and that's followed a border knit in long (long, long) rounds from the center outwards.

So. Will this shawl marry a rich-but-gentle peer of the realm and retire to a quiet life in the country? Or will it perish at the hands of Jack the Ripper after stumbling out of an opium den?

Time will tell.

Ruts and How to Avoid Them

I don't know about you, but I can't knit all the time. Not that the idea isn't attractive in theory, but in practice it doesn't work. Sore fingers, carpal tunnel, waking up with a merino hangover in a cold pool of your own worsted. Not pretty.

You know how farmers rotate crops to keep the soil fertile? I have to do that occasionally with my creative focus to keep my brain from turning into a dustbowl. Put down the needles, pick up the camera. Put down the camera, pick up the pencil. Put down the pencil, pick up tomatoes.*

The strangest thing is that all this stuff cross-pollinates, even when it seems impossible that it should. I was doing squats at the gym this morning and got an idea for a sweater. Had to run back to the locker room to make notes.

Lately I've been pulling out my toy cameras again. They're Holgas–cheap, all-plastic babies from China that shoot weird, dreamy pictures on medium format film. When I first bought mine, you could pick them up for ten bucks at a good camera store. Since then, they've become a vogue among prissy art students and will set you back fifty, but I still enjoy using mine.

Holgas are, to use a polite word, quirky. The limited focus mechanism has a mind of its own, and occasionally will decline to operate. The body leaks light. The back will fall off unless you tape the camera together. The film doesn't advance properly until you jam a piece of cardboard under the spool. The shutter doesn't click, it just emits a half-hearted "sproing."

Using a Holga forces you to relinquish just about all your control as photographer. You choose what to point the thing at, but that's about it. You go out, you shoot a roll, you send your film to the lab and wait to see what happened. Sometimes nothing, sometimes fun stuff.

These pictures of the BP Bridge in Millenium Park–a stainless steel Frank Gehry production with a superabundance of curves–came back from processing not long ago.

I've taken quite a few shots of the bridge with my Canon, which has multi-point focus, a pro-quality lens, automatic everything with manual overrides–and yet these are the stronger images.

I was looking at them and it occurred to me that I need to do the same thing with one of my current knitting projects. It began with great excitement, then hit a wall as I confronted a million design questions at once. Should I zig? Zag? Both? Neither? I've decided to let go, the way I do with my Holga, and this morning I've finally finished the 4" x 4" swatch.

Only took me two months.

Back to Texas

Dolores, Harry and I are heading south for World Wide Knit in Public Day. The Knitting Nest in Austin, Texas has invited us to come down for the festivities, which at The Knitting Nest are always extremely festive, indeed. Last time I was there, they let me draw all over the wall!



(If you like it, it's available on shirts, bags and kiddie clothes here.)

From 11 am–2 pm I'll be teaching "Introduction to the History, Methods, and Styles of Lace Knitting" (visit the Web site for details) and for the rest of the day I'll be hanging around knitting in air-conditioned comfort. Stop by, won't you, and say hello to the visiting Yankees?

Double Dipping

The eye-popping Summer issue of Twist Collective is up, and I'm in it. Twice, actually. There's my usual illustration for Ann's and Kay's advice column, plus this. I love the Twist folks with all my heart. They said, "Do something. Whatever you want." So I did, and when they saw it they didn't send it back with a note reading, "Too weird. Try again." And what I did is pretty weird.

*For spaghetti sauce. Why, what were you thinking?

Nutty

I was walking down Fremont Street today when I heard a weird chattering coming from overhead. I looked up and saw a squirrel running down the trunk of one of the big, old trees that grow along the curb.

"Oh," I thought. "Squirrel."

The squirrel chattered again, and was answered from above by an entire Wagnerian chorus of chatters.

"Oh," I thought. "More squirrels."

And then, as in a cinematic version of The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin as re-imagined by Alfred Hitchcock, this furry seething river of squirrels started to swarm down the tree trunk.

You think I'm exaggerating. I'm not. It wasn't two or three or four, it was two or three dozen, all heading madly for the grass upon which I stood, all chattering in a manner that sounded uncannily like a passel of zombies calling for another round of brains.

There are no photos with this post because I did not stop to take photographs. I beat it, looking back over my shoulder as they tumbled downward onto the parkway, chattering. Chattering, chattering. It's still ringing in my ears.

We have a lot of squirrels in this neighborhood. If they have decided to organize, we're in trouble.

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.

Warning Signs

You know that yarn is running your life when you're watching a documentary about Lizzie Borden, and you rush to pause the DVD for a closer look at the grisly police photo of her butchered father because it appears that the pillow under his (bleeding, disfigured) head is made of crochet.

And then you realize half an hour later that you've missed the subsequent details of the investigation and trial because you've been thinking about whether Lizzie did crochet, and whether that might explain anything, and feeling frustrated that the people who made the documentary didn't bother to find out.

Do Gay Martians Have the Right to Marry?

It’s unthinkable for an American male of my age to say this, but it’s true: I do not, as a rule, care for science fiction.

I learned years ago not to air this singular lapse at parties. People don’t take it well. They insist, horrified, that I cannot be serious, as though I’d confessed a fondness for kicking stray dogs or pushing old ladies into traffic.

“What about Star Wars,” they gasp. “Didn’t you love Star Wars as a child?”

I didn’t, because I never saw Star Wars as a child. I still haven’t seen it, though I was persuaded to watch the final installment on a big screen. For a few minutes, it turned me into the screaming, bouncy second-grader I never was. But the thrill faded quickly and I’ve never bothered to watch the rest.

My imagination, I’m afraid, simply doesn’t thrive on what’s to come. I prefer to wander in the past. Given the chance and a time machine, I’d be tickled to pieces to sail around the world third class on a 1920s Cunard liner. If you handed me a first-class ticket to Mars, however, I’d hand it right back. I don’t want to visit Mars, don’t want to wear a space suit, don’t want to play zero-gravity badminton with little green men from some nebulous nebula.

It’s difficult to voice any of this without being accused of snobbery. And that’s funny, because it’s perfectly acceptable in America to say, for example, “I hate opera.” I happen to love opera, and when someone tells me she hates it, I often ask which opera she went to hear. The answer is almost invariably, “Well, I’ve never actually been to the opera…” Which is what I've always thought snobbery was–assuming that something (or someone) is not worth your time without taking a closer look.

In my defense, although I escaped immersion in Star Wars I’ve still sampled enough other stuff from the genre to have formed what I think is an educated distaste. Some of it was moderately highbrow (2001: A Space Odyssey) and some of it low (the original Battlestar Galactica). None of it grabbed me.

So imagine my surprise when, after watching the trailer, I conceived an undeniable urge to see Star Trek at the theater.

Now, skipping Star Wars is a walk in the park compared to evading Star Trek. There’s been so much of it; our culture is marinated in it. And it began as television. We didn’t go to the movies much when I was a kid, but we sure as hell had a well-used television.

Yet I never watched it, in spite of fierce peer pressure. When my friends wanted to play Star Trek, they always had to tell me what to do. Otherwise I’d act wildly inappropriate and order Scotty to beam me to Paris. (Hey–they said the transporter could send you anywhere.)

I hadn’t the faintest idea why the new movie caught my attention; but when Tom said he’d like to see it, I agreed to go. By Sunday afternoon, I was munching candy and watching everybody fight the Romulans.

Needless to say a whole bunch of the film zoomed right over my head, you should pardon the expression. Still, I enjoyed it. About halfway through, I realized why.

First, I love period pieces, and this is a period piece. It’s set in the future, yes, but it’s the future as imagined in the 1960s, re-created at the top of the twenty-first century. The costumers were splendidly faithful to the ironed hair, jump suits and go-go boots¬–indeed, the attention to detail is worthy of Merchant-Ivory.

Second, it’s one of the best gay films I’ve ever seen. It’s gayer than Milk.

I’ve been hearing for years that Star Trek, unlike a lot of other space epics, used futuristic situations at metaphors for contemporary issues. And so it is with this movie, which I interpret as a roman a clef exploration of the twinks vs. bears conflict within the gay community.

No, seriously. It’s so obvious.

In case you’re not familiar with the differing camps, twinks are the sort of gay person familiar to television audiences: young, fair, slender, with a fondness for form-fitting clothing and hair products. Twinks have taken over all the best-friend roles that used to go to actresses like Eve Arden.

Here, from the box cover of a gay Art Film celebrating (ahem) the twink lifestyle, is a representative sample.



Bears, on the other hand, are seldom represented in gay media and certainly never show up in mainstream media. Bears tend to be older, rougher, hairier, and heavier, with a fondness for tattoos, stout boots, and other trappings of untamed masculinity. Bears don’t appear in straight television or film because straight male executives can’t handle the idea of gay men who could kick the crap out of them.

Here, from another box cover from a very different gay Art Film, is a group of bears.



In Star Trek, the twinks are all aboard the Enterprise, along with their signature companion: a sexy, sassy female best friend. They're all wearing the same labels. The ship is new and exclusive, with custom retro furniture and perfect lighting–the de rigueur elements of a twink nightclub.



They are fighting the bears–thinly disguised as the Romulans–led by a pugnacious leather daddy named Nero, who struts around brandishing his gigantic staff. Aside from a nasty case of cauliflower ear, Nero is a prime candidate to get his own calendar from Colt Studios.

Nero’s ship, the Narada, is black and spiky on the outside. Inside, it’s all shadowy corners and well-worn industrial fittings, with no women in sight–the spitting image of your typical corner leather bar.



Let’s do a side-by-side comparison, shall we?

Twinks and the crew of the Enterprise.





Bears and Nero the Romulan.





I rest my case, earthlings.

Verses Scrawled on the Back of an Old Ball Band, Found Abandoned on a Street Corner in Nantucket

There once was a knitter named Nell
Who knit lace like a bat out of Hell.
Said the lass, “My technique
Turns out three shawls a week:
Do it quickly, but not very well.”

There once was a knitter named May
Who went shopping for yarn twice a day.
'Til a sack of wool blend
Caused the shelving to bend
And she drowned in a sea of bouclée.

There once was a knitter named Andy
Who dipped all his needles in brandy.
He said, “After a snifter,
My knitting’s much swifter,
And all of my sweaters smell dandy.”

There once was a knitter named Mary,
Who liked to mix cables and sherry.
She explained, “When I’m pissed,
I can fearlessly twist.
When I work them cold sober, it’s scary.”

Ripping Yarn

I've reached the ankle of the still-nameless sock that was inspired by a wallpaper from Upstairs, Downstairs.



You must pardon the photograph–I'm away from my proper camera, and used the one that lives in my computer.

After a day of pondering the leg I've decided to rip it all back and re-knit it. What you can't see in the photograph are the flaws and wobbles. They are legion. This is my first sock in two colors, you see, and a new design. I couldn't resist experimenting along the way.

I began on two circulars–my usual method–with the work right side-out. Then came a problem I've never had before: a slight buckling at the transition from needle to needle. No amount fiddling helped, so I flipped the sock inside out. This eliminated the buckling and gave me effortless, perfectly tensioned floats all around; but the flopping ends of the loose needle kept getting in the way of the working yarns. Annoying.

I switched to five double-points. First right side-out (satisfactory), then inside-out (perfect). I get a far looser gauge with the double points (though they're the same size and material as the circulars) and the ankle of the sock is bigger than the cuff.

You may be wondering who on earth looks so closely at my socks that any of this would matter to them. Nobody. Nobody but me, that is, and every time I put it on I'd grit my teeth.

So, my friends, it's rippin' time. But from the smoking ruins will rise a new sock, a better sock, a sock that the other knitters won't make fun of on the playground.

Rip rip rip rip rip.

Nuppin'

I realized recently that I’ve been doing this needles-and-string act long enough to perceive, for the first time, certain trends in my output. These trends are not at all what I’d have predicted when I started out.

If one’s knitting is a journey, I set out for Sausalito and wound up in Angkor Wat. I remember distinctly an early vision myself with a closet full of rustic handmade sweaters, made by me for me. They would fit properly, which off-the-rack sweaters never do. They would be beautiful, like folk art; but practical, like Gore-Tex.

So far, I’ve started three and finished one.

I know how to knit sweaters. I still enjoy the idea of knitting sweaters. I have (oh sweet Sally Melville, do I have) enough yarn to knit sweaters. But I do not, for the most part, knit sweaters.

On the other hand, my lifestyle is not such that I often stand before the mirror and think, You know what would look great with those motorcycle boots? A lace shawl. Yet I have discovered that I don’t feel like I’m up to much unless there’s at least one lacy thing in progress and two or three others under contemplation. If you look through my finished objects, you’ll see I’ve knit way more than my share of holes.

Go thou, as the Bible says, and figure.

Right now I’m up to my clavicle in nupps, thanks to Nancy Bush and her book, Knitted Lace of Estonia. I waited a long time for this book–years, Nancy, but who’s counting?–and was so relieved to discover it was worth the wait. Before it was released, I got my paws on a copy of the preview and Susan ordered one (1) copy of Miralda’s Triangular Shawl as soon as she saw it.



I decided, for reasons that are still unclear to me, that I should spin the yarn for this myself, using some beautiful Border Leicester provided by a friend. It’s coming along slowly, though my speed continues to improve.



(There’s nothing so titillating as a shot of a partially-filled bobbin of handspun singles, is there? Unless it’s a low-resolution YouTube video of drying paint.)

Mind you, I refuse to wait until the spinning’s finished to try out a pattern from the book, so I grabbed some JaggerSpun Zephyr and started the Leaf and Nupp shawl.

Nupps, in case you are not familiar with them, are little bundles of wrapped stitches characteristic of Estonian lace knitting. The word is pronounced “noop” and means “devil’s rabbit dropping.” (Nancy Bush insists it means “button” or “bud,” but you work a few of them and then tell me who you believe.)

Ha, ha. I jest. Nupps truly are not difficult after a bit of practice, and well worth the effort for the striking texture they add to the finished piece. Still, when you are learning, do so on a swatch and not the shawl; and make sure impressionable children and sensitive relations are out of earshot until you’ve got the moves down pat.

Photographs of in-progress lace are even worse than photographs of in-progress bobbins. Unless you take a lot of time to prep the shot, which I could not, they look like the bastard offspring of cheesecloth and macramé. But I tried silhouetting it against the morning sunlight, and offer you these.





If you squint, they look kind of artsy. If you don’t squint, please don’t say I never offered you the opportunity.

Am I Here? Here Am I. I Am Here.

That grinding noise you hear is rust working its way out of the joints in my cerebral cortex. My friend the Prominent Anatomist insists there are no joints in the brain, but I don’t believe it. I can feel them in there most days, creaking.

I have to stop every so often and oil the works to keep them from freezing up, which I neglected to do this month. Therefore, the extended silence.

And there has been so much to relate.

A talk at the Yarn Market News conference in Chicago. A talk at Knit in Public Day in LaCrosse, Wisconsin. A signing and a class at Loop, in Philadelphia. Two appearances in New York City at Knitty City and Annie and Co. And a visit to a live taping of my all-time favorite National Public Radio show, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, at which a group of knitters presented Mo Rocca with a quite gorgeous hand-knit sweater and I gave him a copy of the little book. (There’s even a video of that one, if you scroll down to the bottom of the WWDTM page.)

And I’ve been knitting, though mostly on projects that’ll be published elsewhere.

Just couldn’t write about any of it. Could not.

When you are accustomed to writing at least with fluency, if not elegance, realizing that you've suddenly gone dry is terrifying. It’s like sitting down to knit, and finding your fingers have melted and run down the drain.

Every writer suffers from block now and again. It’s an occupational hazard. But this wasn’t a block, it was a wall of blocks. A big wall, like that one in China. I was on one side, and on the other were all the ideas. I could hear them having a marvelous time, blowing kazoos and playing tag. But I couldn’t get over the wall.

My usual tricks–scribbling randomly in notebooks, talking into a recorder, beating my face against the shower door–fizzled like a pack of wet matches.

I started envying people who aren’t usually sources of envy. Like the guy who hands out flyers in front of the subway station. Sure, I thought. You have to stand in the rain shilling for a mariachi band that’s paying you a quarter an hour. But you don’t have two unfinished articles staring you down, vulturewise, from a perch just above the keyboard.

In the end, this time I simply had to give up the struggle and wait.

Thank goodness for knitting. Knitting helped. When I couldn’t follow a noun with a verb, I could still follow a knit with a purl. It felt like progress, production, industry. It kept my fingers busy while the circuits in my brain rebooted. I know it's far more traditional for a writer to turn to drink, but I'm too much of a lightweight to handle Thunderbird and too cheap to pay for good champagne.

(Just imagine if, instead of glugging whiskey in excess, that nice Mr. Hemingway had thought to cast on for a mitten. I bet The Old Man and the Sea would have ended properly, with a round of mojitos and a fish fry.)

As to what I've been knitting and lots of other knitting-related chitchat, tune in tomorrow. And no, I’m not kidding, I mean tomorrow. I'd write more, but I have to take Dolores downtown for a go-see at Veterinary Practice News and she's getting antsy.

Toodles.

Strangers on a Train

Typing this morning from LaCrosse, Wisconsin. I'm here to speak tonight at the town's annual Knit in Public Day. As the place is just close enough to Chicago to make it practicable, I came up by train.

Barring bandits or cows on the track, the trip is about five hours. We chugged along smoothly and I got a shocking amount of work done. Of course, there's not a lot to look at on a train and so five or six passengers, in passing by, stopped to ask about my knitting.

The most interesting conversation was with a woman who looked to be in her early twenties, and who began our dialogue in the usual manner.

"I've never seen a man knitting before."

To which I gave my standard reply, which I always deliver with wide-eyed surprise.

"You haven't? How odd."

She blinked. "Well, no. I mean, it's something women do, right?"

I smiled. "Not in my house."

"Oh," she said. "Well, I was brought up old-fashioned."

"So was I."

"Well, it's just surprising that you would do it in a public place."

I opened my mouth to say that, by coincidence, I was en route to an entire assembly of public knitters, but she went on.

"Don't you think about how it might look to the kids?" She indicated a few who were seated nearby in the coach.

"I don't follow you."

"Well, it might confuse them. The boys especially. A man doing something a woman does."

"I don't follow you."

She laughed. "Forgive me," she said. "I'm in the ministry, so it's second nature to me to minister. I'm always thinking about setting a good example for the young people."

I wondered if the window next to my seat could open, and if I could throw myself out of it.

"And you know,"she continued, "I have seen for myself that young boys need grown men to be role models of strength."

We were, figuratively speaking, at a crossroads. I could a) ask her why she felt a man peacefully doing something creative was not a strong role model, or b) feign narcolepsy and hope she'd go minister to the lady across the aisle.

Before I could do either, she asked, "Do you ever stop and talk to Jesus, and ask what He would want you to do?"

"I'm a Buddhist," I said. "Jesus and I don't usually go to the same cocktail parties."

"Oh," she said, stiffening. "Well, I guess there's nothing I can say to you then, is there? Have a good trip."

And she walked away.

Now, before some of you (you know who you are) start kvetching about Christian missionaries, let me ask you (firmly) please to not do that. We don't bash anybody's religion in here.

And as it happens, I have been just as annoyed on many occasions by Buddha-pushers who feel I am insufficiently Bodhi-fied because my practice is Zen and not Tibetan or Vipassana, or because I eat meat, or because I reflexively say "God bless you," when somebody sneezes. No single theology holds the monopoly on faith-based douchebaggery.

No. I wrote this conversation down because lately I worry (as you well may) about how we're ever going to climb out of the mess the world's in if folks won't talk to each other. Or rather, if folks won't listen to each other. Here was a textbook example of this large problem, shrunk to fit two people.

Missionary Lady and I had quite a chat but in the end, she didn't want to hear from me and I didn't want to hear from her. If we had kept talking, I doubt I would have been able to keep my cool well enough to be persuasive rather than combative. The end result: stalemate. If she and I can't speak and listen, how are opposing politicians and entire countries going to reach accord?

I hope you're not expecting a tidy wrap-up to this post, kids, because the heck if I can figure it out.

On the other hand, I did finish the knitting. So that's something.

Baby Got Flack

You never think about how difficult it is to get your hands on a baby until you really need one in a hurry.

Such was my situation recently. I was photographing this thing and it was made absolutely clear to me that no substitutes for an infant head and shoulders would be acceptable. No pretty dollies, no hat stands, no Styrofoam balls or wads of crumpled tissue paper. Only the genuine article, and pronto. Knitty waits for no man.

I live in a neighborhood that, in spite of its long-standing reputation as a haven for what used to be known as Confirmed Bachelors, is now increasingly home to young families. These days, you’re as liable to trip over a nanny on Halsted Street as you are a drag queen. Soccer mommies mixing with the leather daddies. Ah, progress.

Still, having more kids in the vicinity makes them no easier to borrow. You would be amazed at how reluctant city parents are to cooperate when you rush up–camera in one hand and baby hood in the other–and ask if they would kindly bung this onto junior’s head so you can snap a couple of quick frames. I had no idea strollers could move so fast.

Not neighborly, if you ask me. Downright standoffish.

I was about to concede defeat when a friend-of-a-friend obligingly gave birth to a bouncing baby girl. Together, we collaborated on a series of images that, judging from the response they’ve generated, are either too precious for words, or evidence that I am a child-hating untalented hack who should have my camera taken away and my knitting needles broken in half.



Me, I fall somewhere in the middle. These are far from my best work, having been made in five minutes in dim light so as not to tax either the baby or her mother. I did the best I could, which is sometimes all you can do. On the other hand, I applaud the model’s artistic choices. I feel they lift the series above the banal. Smiley kids are a dime a dozen. This one, like Margo Channing in All About Eve, obviously detests cheap sentiment. I love her for that. If the aura of enfance véritée turns some knitters away–well, I suppose that is the price one pays for pushing boundaries.

Proper Compensation

In lieu of payment, the model’s parents agreed to accept a hand-knit baby hat. Not the hood, obviously–it’s a wee bit much for daily wear in 2009. But a hat of my choice, and of course I want it to be a good one.

I started to whip up a little number of my own devising from the remnants of my Exceptional Niece Abigail’s™ Tulip Jacket. Some of it had gone into the embroidery for Bird and Berry, but there was still plenty to spare.

I did some pondering and charting, and cast on. At about this point in the proceedings,



I realized I have a problem.

I love this hat. Really love it. Really really really love it. Knitting it has been like a ride on a supercharged merry-go-round and I don’t want to get off. And there’s no way it’s leaving the family. It can’t go on me, since I don’t wear pink in the winter. So it’s going to Abigail.

Which means making another hat for the Other Baby. It won’t make any difference to her, or her mother. They haven’t seen this hat. And the other hat will be just as nice, I promise.

So why do I feel guilty?



Stop staring at me. Just stop. Stop it!

Invading America's Dairyland

A reminder to those in the vicinity of La Crosse, Wisconsin that I will have the honor and pleasure of joining you for your annual Knit in Public Day at the La Crosse Public Library. The theme is "Keeping You in Stitches: Knitting and Humor." I shall do my best to be especially funny from 6:30–7:30, when it's my turn to speak. (Natives, please advise. Are cheese jokes off limits?) The rest of the time, I will pursue my more usual course of trying not to say anything too stupid.

Socktomom

I came home from the gym yesterday and found the entire sock yarn colony running riot in the living room. At the center of the maelstrom was Dolores, holding Harry and a baby bonnet. She was apparently attempting to shove the former into the latter.

“No!” Harry screamed. “I’m not doing it! I’m not I’m not I’m not and you can’t make me!”

“But you’re gonna look so cute,” said Dolores. “Plus, if you don’t I’ll tell Franklin you’ve been sneaking into his supply of–”



“Hi, kids,” I said.

“You’re home,” said Dolores. “Good, I need a husband. Take off your sweatpants and put on those overalls and that flannel shirt. The guy who was supposed to be in the video with me just flaked out.”

“There are so many things wrong with what you’re saying.”

“And when the producers ask, it was my demure and yielding nature that first attracted you to me.”

“The more you say,” I said. “the less I understand what the hell is going on.”

With a piercing squeak Harry wriggled free of Dolores and sped across the room, seeking refuge under the coffee table.

“She wants us to be on television,” he panted. “She wants to make a video and send it to show business and say we’re a great big family and we all have to be her kids and cameras will follow us into the bathroom! Tell her she’s not allowed!”

“Television?”

“And I have to pretend to be the cute baby! I don’t wanna be the baby!”

“Stop whining,” said Stan, who was twirling around the rug in a pigtailed red wig and an extremely small organza print dress. “I think it’s a neat idea.”

“You’re only saying that because you get to be the sexy eldest daughter on the verge of womanhood!”

“I can’t help it,” said Stan, “that I happen to have photogenic cheekbones and winsome charm. And that you’re chubby and lisp when you get nervous.”

“Shut up, Stan!” said Harry.

“I prefer to be called Liesl,” said Stan.

Harry grabbed for Stan’s wig, and I was forced to send them to opposite corners. Dolores, meanwhile, retreated to the bedroom and returned wearing a gingham smock and carrying a nosegay of petunias.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” she snapped. “Where's your flannel shirt? They’ll be here any minute to shoot our promotional tape. We have to look like a hard-working, all-American family. Butch it up.”

She turned to the sock yarn.

“Now, I need all our little blessings on the sofa. And remember: you’re so happy, but you’d be even happier with a new luxury SUV and a bigger house.”

Harry broke ranks and headed for the front door.

“Have fun, guys. I’m going to the movies.”

“Get back here, blessing,” cooed Dolores, “Or Mama will feed you to the fricking alley cats.”

“Hold the phone,” I said. “You promised me we were finished with this sort of thing. Remember your first day on The Bachelor? You’re lucky they agreed to just scrap the footage and settle out of court.”

“I believe my actions have proven to be justified,” she said. “That guy deserved a hoof up his tuchus.”

“You weren't even supposed to be on the set.”

"Petty details bore me."

"Forget it, Dolores."

“You’re crazy,” she said. “Don’t you ever watch television? Hyperfertility is where it’s at. This is the moment! We don’t even need to get a show deal. All we need is four minutes on The Today Show with Matt Lauer, talking about how having forty colorful children has enriched us in spite of our poverty, and we’re golden. People would be throwing free stuff at us. We could get outta this dump in a week and move into one of those Extreme Home Makeover palaces with a designer kitchen and a petting zoo.”

“No.”

She sniffled into her nosegay. “Don’t do it for me, darling. Think of…our children.”

“Please, Papa,” said Stan. “Please, may I have a petting zoo?”

“Go to your room, Liesl,” I said.

“Never mind him,” said Dolores to Stan. “He has no vision. We’ll just have to do this on our own. Straighten your wig and chuck me some flannel. I heard The Amazing Race is trying to book a lesbian couple.”

Color

I don't think it would be fair to say that Chicago in winter is colorless. It's not. There is always the blue of the lake, and often the blue of the sky. But our cold-weather palette is certainly muted, and around this time of year it can start to feel like the world outside has gone all gray with buff highlights.

Maybe that's why suddenly everything on my work table is colorful. Make that multicolorful.

I finished swatching colors for my hypothetical Fair Isle vest.



Not bad at all. You could make a good vest out of that. But I've decided I want some zingy tones in there, so I'm going to order up a skein of orange and one of lapis lazuli (or whatever I can get that's close to lapis lazuli). And yes, I know a bunch of you said at first glance that I ought to do something of the kind, but I had to try it for myself. I appreciate suggestions, but I almost never take anybody's word for anything. That's just one of the many, many extremely annoying things about me. (For a full and annotated list, please contact my parents.)

Then there was this lovely sock yarn I'd had sitting around, waiting for me to get to it.

The colorway is Mahogany and it's from The March Hare. Meg's stuff comes from her own flock of Border Leicesters. The yarn is lovely to look at and blessedly soft, but until now I couldn't find a pattern that would do it justice.



First, I took a whack at Ariel Barton's Cable Net, which I've had my eye on since it was published. I worked the whole first chart before conceding that the yarn was too dark and just a little too variegated (though it's definitely a semi-solid) to show off the pattern. Rip.

Then, I thought maybe a plain sock would be best for the yarn, but quickly remembered why I don't knit plain socks. (Puzzlement: I have no trouble sitting motionless on a meditation cushion for an hour, but want to scream and throw things after six inches of unrelieved stockinette. Why?)

Then, I remembered a bright blue Shepherd's Sock from Lorna's Laces that's been vacationing in the stash cupboard for at least a year. What about a color-patterned sock?



Under the influence of two wallpapers from the first season of Upstairs, Downstairs, I spent two hours with my pad of graph paper and came up with this.



I feel encouraged enough to continue.

Pattern Alerts: Two Hats

Remember the Bavarian Twisted Stitch Hat I finished in January, using Meg Swansen's handout from Knitting Camp? If you don't, here it is again.



A bunch of folks asked about the pattern, which at the time hadn't been published except in the handout. But, happy chance, it was already being prepped for an appearance in the newest issue (Number 80) of Wool Gathering, the venerable and delicious newsletter from Schoolhouse Press. I love the new version.



And I would like to mention, in case you care to check it out, that there's a Victorian baby hood in the new Knitty that I worked up using an 1840s recipe. (The five-day-old model is not a member of the family. She was graciously loaned by her parents. As you can tell from the look on her face, she simply adored working with me.)