Go Go Kimono

Once upon a time (January 2008) a knitter (me) put the finishing touches (three embroidered dragonflies) on the baby kimono from Thoroughly Exceptional Babies and the Men Who Knit for Them by Debbie Bliss.



I wrote in this entry that I'd begun working the 9–12 months version when it seemed impossible that the exceptional baby in question–Abigail, my niece–could ever be so large as to fill it out. Each flat piece was a square acre of stockinette; Abigail could have fit into a shoebox. Not that we tried it, but she could have.

But she did grow. She grew at such an alarming rate that I accused my sister of feeding her on a diet of breast milk and



small cakes inscribed EAT ME.

I finished the kimono in what I figured was the nick of time, so that Abby could cuddle up in it for a month or two before it would be relegated to the chest of outgrown knits. It fit her like a mid-length spa robe (simple, but chic) and became a go-to woolen garment for chilly weather.



A year later, when the frost returned to the pumpkins, it still fit. But it had become a short jacket.





A year after that (two days ago, in fact), a freak spell of mild weather in southern Maine caused my sister to reach for it again. It is now a little shirt with three-quarter sleeves.



For those of you who knit, crochet, sew or otherwise fashion handmade clothing for children, I need not explain to you why this series of photographs fills me with matchless gratification.

For those who do not, let me walk you through it:

• I made it for her to wear, and she wore it.
  
  
• Her mother made sure I got to see her wearing it.
  
  
• There's honorable evidence of heavy use (note the pilling on the sleeves) but also of proper care (and it isn't machine-washable).
  

You make a baby garment hoping it'll fit for an entire season. Three seasons? A small miracle. And sometimes I think the small ones are the best.

Then Again, Let's Not

Confession time.

There are moments when I feel ungentlemanly for shooting peas at these old magazines. Part of it has to do with being a budding designer myself, and wondering which things I'm putting out there will some day make the Hit Parade of a "You Knit What?" as yet unborn.

The other part stems from an honest-to-goodness feeling of gratitude for publications like Workbasket. That plucky little thing toodled along for sixty years–a magnificent run for a periodical by anyone's standards–even though by the mid-1970s knitting and crochet were both on life support. Granted, Workbasket was heavy with flights of fancy that should have been grounded on the tarmac. Toward the end, fiber arts content was heavily supplemented with forays into tuna cookery and making your own beef jerky. But the editors kept putting it out there, month after month, long after more mainstream mags like Woman's Day and Family Circle had given up on any craft that required mastery of an actual skill.

On the other hand, just when I'm in danger of smudging the faded ink with tears of thankfulness, I turn the page and run into something like this.



In case they don't have doors where you come from, this is a doorknob cover. In case they don't have doorknob covers where you come from, you may be wondering why a doorknob needs a cover.

Me too.

I have encountered doorknob covers in real life–including several sisters, cousins and aunts of the Scary Clown variation shown below. They were to be found on various knobs around my paternal grandmother's house when I was a little boy, and I hated them.



When you are five years old, and small for your age at that, a doorknob cover is less a piece of handmade whimsy than a torture device. The doorknobs on the heavy old doors in grandma's house were either metal or china. They were slippery when nude. Tricked out in equally slippery acrylic, they became almost entirely impossible to turn, even with both hands.

And there was one on the bathroom door.

Place yourself, if you will, in the tiny shoes and underpants of a newly housebroken child who has had three glasses of Kool Aid and has just felt the alarming and unmistakeable call of nature. He heads for the commode, but finds the way barred by the immovable head of a smirking clown. He struggles, he bangs, he cries a little bit.

Finally, in desperation, he goes against everything Grandma and Sunday School have taught him rather than face the shame of admitting to the grown-ups that there's been an accident.

Grandma, if you're reading this, I used one of your good tablespoons to bury the doorknob cover over by where the plum tree used to be. I'm sorry. The tree is long gone; but since the clown face was made out of Red Heart, it's probably still there. At least you didn't have to mop the hallway.

A Stroke of Genius

After the Fall Men’s Knitting Retreat back in September, I staggered home under the weight of one of the most voluptuous goodie bags ever to be seen outside of an Academy Awards gifting suite. Somewhere in the middle, between a handsome book by Brandon Mably and a typically gorgeous skein hand-dyed by the inimitable Rabbitch was a small bundle wrapped in tissue paper.

Inside was a quantity of this:



It’s a blend of merino, silk...and possum. Yes, possum. I couldn’t quite believe it, either. In fact, I recoiled, as this



is not an image that makes me feel all kinds of cuddly.

The yarn–which is called Supreme Possum Merino–comes from New Zealand and was a gift to the retreat from the guy who replaced Kiri Te Kanawa as my favorite Kiwi. (Sorry, Kiri.) James is the proprietor of the Joy of Yarn Sock Wool Boutique in Greytown, New Zealand, and no slouch when it comes to picking out great fibers.

Still–possum?

But as my dear grandmother once said to me regarding pickled beets, and as I once said to a Marine Corps lieutenant regarding nevermind, how can you know you don’t like it until you try it?

A short swatch later, I was typing a frantic e-mail to James asking about the immediate availability of more, more, more. This stuff, dear kiddies, is like a kiss on the forehead. Buttersoft, cloudlight, gently haloed. Not quite cashmere, not quite qiviut, but also not quite the same cost per ball as a spa vacation. You have got to try it. (And yes, James sells online.)

I got a second color, an ineffable mauve through which the natural shade of the possum still glimmers. And I decided that the original fuchsia and the mauve would, together, make a fantastic pair of striped socks.

Then I got to thinking, which never bodes well for me.

I started thinking about how boring I was about socks when I first started knitting. I wanted them in blue or brown, I wanted them without patterns, and I wanted them to match.

Gradually, the hoodoo of sock knitting jangled my brain, and I started to imagine what fun it would be to make colorful socks, so I made a pair in lime green. Then I thought a pair of colorful, mismatched socks would be just the ticket, so I knit a pair from a self-striping ball.

And the suckers matched perfectly.

I tried it again. Different self-striping yarn, different pattern, advised by an expert to start the second pair in a different part of the color repeat.

And again, the socks matched perfectly, except for the heels. Heels don’t count.

Here, with two yarns, I could at last control the color changes with an iron fist and force the socks to mismatch. In fact, why not make them mirror images of each other? And call them–Lewis Carroll dork that I am–Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum?

And in what book do the frères Tweedle appear? Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There.

And what is the central motif of Through the Looking Glass? A chess game.

And how many colors in a chess board? Two!

And how many colors of yarn had I to work with? Two!!

Eureka!!!

Chess board socks!!!! With the colors reversed!!!!!

!!!!!!

If you are not quite so confirmed a dingbat as I, you have already spotted the flaw in this vision. If you are, pray allow me to offer this demonstration.

I'm striping them. It's only been two months, and I'm almost three inches past the cuff on sock number one. Hooray for me.

Yammertime

I recently had the great pleasure of talking with Lara over at Crafty Living and the Math4Knitters Podcast, and the episode (number five) is now up if you’d care to have a listen. I promise she’s not nearly so frightening as you would expect someone to be who has put the word “Math” in the name of her Podcast.

In the Shop

Newly in stock: gift enclosure cards and signed prints. New designs are in the pipeline, too. Many thanks for all the positive feedback!

Knittin' to the Oldies

I've just had a curious snowdrift of messages asking whether I'm finished posting about that little stack of vintage patterns that came my way. Heavens, no. But after the parade of toilet dollies I thought we might all need a wee breather, and perhaps a drink.

Project Runway: The Lost Episodes

[SCENE: The "Project Runway" workroom. One hour until the next runway show. Tension reigns as the four remaining designers feverishly add finishing touches to their latest creations.]

(Enter TIM GUNN, host and mentor.)

TIM: Hello, designers!

DESIGNERS (wearily): Piss off, you great prancing queen.

TIM: Excuse me?

DESIGNERS (brightly): Hello, Tim!

TIM: That's better. Now, you've all had fourteen dollars and two days to prepare your looks for tonight's show, and your challenge was to create an ensemble that your model will wear on the red carpet at an exclusive gala benefit sponsored by our friends at AngelSoft Bathroom Tissue.

I don't think I need to remind you that the winner will not only receive immunity for the next challenge, but also a layout in Marie Claire's upcoming Colonic Irrigation special issue sponsored by Activia.

I'm looking around the room and, frankly, I'm concerned. Schuyler, let's start with you.

(SCHUYLER snaps to attention. He's about 22 years old, six feet tall, and weighs 190 pounds, half of which is biceps. The heat of the competition has caused him to remove his shirt. Again.)

TIM: I see feathers. And beads. Feathers and beads. Again?

SCHUYLER: Right. Well, see, my inspiration was my Native American heritage, but with a contemporary twist.

TIM: A sort of fashion-forward Pocahontas?

SCHUYLER: Yeah.

TIM: I'm a little confused, Schuyler, because until now we've all been under the impression that you're fourth-generation Italian-Scottish from White Plains.

SCHUYLER: My high school football team was the Redskins.

TIM: Fair enough, fair enough. Do you feel confident about this look, Schuyler?

SCHUYLER: I feel confident that I'm the only cute gay dude left and if I get kicked off the ratings will drop fifty percent.

TIM: Carry on.

(TIM turns to LILA, a quivering waif who has been weeping softly for the past three episodes.)

TIM (gently concerned): Lila, honey, how are you?

LILA (sniffling): Fine.

TIM: I have to say, you don't sound fine. Talk to me.

LILA (sobbing): It's just...all the pressure...and...my boyfriend...sent me a break-up text message last night...and then I accidentally sewed a bugle bead to my left nipple...and my cat got out of the hotel and I can't find her...and...

(She breaks down.)

TIM: Can I ask you a question? How much sleep have you had in the past two days?

LILA: About six minutes.

TIM: And how much coffee?

LILA: I kinda stopped counting when Starbucks cut me off.

TIM: Okay, well, let's see what you have to show me. Are those...bunny ears?

LILA: Yes. The inspiration is a childhood memory.

TIM: How...sweet.

LILA: We lived on this beautiful farm outside of Moline, Illinois...and every day I used to run through the woods and gather leaves and flowers...and I'd use them to create these fantastic outfits for myself...and all my imaginary friends...

TIM: And one of them was a rabbit?

LILA: No.

TIM: Are we going to hear about the rabbit soon? The clock is ticking.

LILA: Can I blow my nose on your lapel? I ran out of Kleenex.

TIM: No. And Kleenex is not a sponsor of this program, so we're going to have to charge you $15,000 for that unscheduled product endorsement, okay?

LILA (fingering her scissors): Okay.

(At the next table, TIM convenes with XIAO FOU, who has tied up her unruly hair with a length of Vienna sausage links.)

TIM: How's it going, Xiao Fou?

(XIAO FOU stabs her model, INGRID, with a straight pin.)

INGRID: Ach du lieber! Dat vent right through vere my thigh vould be!

XIAO FOU: Serves you right, stupid cow.

TIM: Xiao Fou, what seems to be the trouble?

XIAO FOU: Last night she swallowed a Tic-Tac and now I have to re-fit the whole effing gown.

TIM: Oh, dear.

XIAO FOU: Plus this is like the eleventh episode and you still can't pronounce my name.

TIM: Well, if it's any consolation this is the fifteenth season and I'm still not sure how to pronounce "Klum." Let's talk about your piece, and then Ingrid can go vomit and see if that helps at all.

XIAO FOU: Okay, well, the inspiration was my family's roots in colonial New England.

TIM: Hence the mob cap.

XIAO FOU: You have a problem with mob caps?

TIM: No, no. I would just hate to see this get too costumey, if you know what I'm saying? You're going to have to style it very carefully.

XIAO FOU: I was thinking of using the butter churn off the Macy's accessory wall.

TIM: Brilliant. Carry on.

(TIM steps over to MAARV'YN's work table. MAARV'YN is madly sewing fur trim onto his model.)

TIM: Maarv'yn, talk to me. What is this?

MAARV'YN: It's a dress.

TIM: Can you be more specific?

MAARV'YN: It's a...long dress.

TIM: Can you be less specific?

MAARV'YN: It's an expression of who I am as a designer.

TIM: Better. And is that real fur?

MAARV'YN: Yeah.

TIM: How the hell did you buy real fur at Mood with only fourteen dollars?

MAARV'YN: I didn't get it at Mood.

TIM: Then where did you get it?

MAARV'YN: Seen Lila's cat today?

TIM: Make it work! Make it work!

[Cut to commercial.]

And Now for Something Completely Different
In times of crises, each must do what he or she can. And so I've put an original sketch of Dolores (originally seen here) on sale in the shop, with proceeds going to Haitian relief.

Even if you'd rather not expose visitors to your household to the sight of Dolores in full cry, please consider making a contribution in some way to the relief efforts. Much has been done, but more will always remain to do.

[Alrighty - the first sketch sold about 40 seconds after this post went live, which was gratifying. I've put up another, also from the archives, in case you were interested but showed up too late.]

How to Propagate a Stereotype (1968 Edition)

1. Design a charming floral block in crochet.



2. Make it the dominant motif in your pattern for a bedspread.



3. Publish it with instructions sized only for a single bed.



4. Style the photograph to look like Room 148 at Shady Acres Community Home for the Terminally Lonely and Criminally Aged.



5. Name it after a religious movement most associated in the public imagination with never, ever having sex.



6. Wonder why the rising "Me" generation is not flocking to purchase your yarn.

Dang It

Why do they always put the mailing label over the best part of the cover?

Fancy a Shag?

Those of you who are too young to have experienced the 1970s can never fully comprehend them. The cultural débris it left behind like a retreating glacier–Qiana, est, "Three's Company," the BeeGees, The Poseidon Adventure, Watergate–is easy to sneer at. From a distance, through eyes jaded by experience, it appears hopelessly naïve, tacky, excessive, ridiculous.

Yet it was an exciting time. A time of experimentation, free thought and gleeful rule-breaking. Take the matter of carpet, for example.

Yes, carpet.

For centuries, carpet had been something you mostly put on the floor. Sure, the odd Renaissance muckity-muck might use a nice bit of Turkish in lieu of a tablecloth,



but for the most part, carpet = floor covering.

In the 1970s, this practice was called into question. I know it was, for though I was a mere child (having arrived in January of 1971) I recall distinctly the happy excesses of the Cult of Shag Carpeting.



Devotees of the cult, who included (or so it seemed) all persons responsible for decorating airports, airplanes, public schools, upscale homes, fashionable hotels, retail showrooms, and cocktail lounges, felt that shag carpeting–though hardly a new invention–was the wave of the future. It was a magic wand, a panacea, a sure cure for all aesthetic and architectural ills.

According to some estimates, between 1970 and 1979 as much as 62% of the surface area of the United States of America may have been covered in shag carpet.

In many rooms, shag spread across the floor and then, like a moss that fed on patchouli and disco music, jumped the skirting board and ran right up the wall. It obliterated the boundaries between floors and walls, even between floors and furniture. My kindergarten classroom, in what was then a brand-new and forward-looking Arizona elementary school, had almost no chairs. We sat on tiny cubes upholstered with red shag carpet, arranged in a circle upon a floor covered by red shag carpet, surrounded by walls swathed in red shag carpet. Indoctrination at an early age was of paramount importance.

The stuff was so popular that fashionistas even carried it as an accessory. Sound incredible? Take a look at this striking image from a booklet published in 1973 by Coats and Clark.



In 1973, nothing said "comfort" and "style" like a handmade shag carpet muff. You could work it colors to match your polyester mix-and-match wardrobe, or your favorite faux-Tiffany swag lamp.

It kept your hands warm on the way to the singles bar; and once there, it allowed you to flirt shamelessly, yet coyly, with the leisure-suited airline pilot two seats down. The next morning, after you'd had a "meaningful connection" on his Broyhill waterbed, the 100% acrylic muff could be hosed down and drip-dried before your next outing.

What's that, youngster? You're sorry you missed it?

You should be.

I Most Certainly Did Not

Behold the cover of just one of a short stack of such publications that I received with great joy on Christmas Day. I think we may need to take a little wander through them together. What do you say?

Feelin' Epiphanic

Here we are, then: Epiphany. The finish line. I cleared the triple hurdle of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve with no more than a bruised knee and periodic outbreaks of flop sweat.



And how, my dears, are you?

Are you perhaps thinking, as I do, that it might be nice if we spread the winter holidays out just a shade more? Frontloading all the Big Stuff into forty days is an appalling strain on the nerves, not to mention the finances.

It also leaves one staring forlornly across the frozen tundra without the comforting beacon of even one really good all-inclusive reason to get down and boogie. Valentine’s Day is for couples. St Patrick’s Day is for the Irish. Easter is too damned early in the morning.

And when I speak of the frozen tundra, remember that I live in Chicago, where global warming is something that only happens to other people. Come March, when we could really use it, the holiday glow has long since fizzled to a heap of dead ashes. So we huddle indoors, eating and drinking too much–kinda like Christmas, except that without decorations and presents and Very Special Episodes of “Gossip Girl” it’s mostly just depressing.

I haven’t felt my toes since late November. And according to the scum-sucking hag weather lady* our present blast of cold air is about to be supplemented by an additional blast** plus a blizzard.

At a time like this, knitting ceases to be a fiber art. It becomes a martial art. Me and my yarn versus frostbite and cabin fever. And if Old Man Winter throws down with me, he’s going to get a US 7 right in the groin shins.

He'd better steer clear of my posse, too. Especially this one.


"You know what would be great in these?
A slug of bourbon."

In case you don't recognize her, that is my Exceptional Niece Abigail,™ just a shade over two-and-half years old and already a dab hand at mixing our family's traditional butter cookies.

I arrived at Abigail's house in a gray mood, disinclined to rock around the Christmas tree. She was such a tonic to my nerves that a few days later, when Santa landed on the hearth rug, I forgot to kick him in the nuts shins.

One highlight of my stay was a guided tour of her stuffed animal collection. What began in 2007 with a cow and a bunny is now the largest private zoo in the Western hemisphere. It rivals, both in numbers and biodiversity, the population of the Serengeti Plain.

But the animals are as nothing when compared to the babies. Abigail has in her care enough infants to make Mrs. Duggar pay a call on Planned Parenthood. They're quite literally everywhere. On the couch, the windowsill, the stairs. Under the kitchen table. In the bathroom. They drip from the eaves. They clog the gutters.


"Let's play Count the Handknits."

To keep track of so many, Abigail has had to eschew traditional names like Wilma and Cherise in favor of more starkly descriptive labels like Naked Baby. This is Naked Baby.


"Form is emptiness. Emptiness is form."

Naked Baby arrived wearing clothes, but they were removed within minutes and haven't been seen since. Her only concession to modesty is this burping cloth sarong, which I think makes her look like a mendicant Buddhist nun.

This is Hair Baby, so called in recognition of her crop of brushable, tuggable hair.


"Mama says I'm the pretty one."

I also met, but neglected to photograph:

• Purple Baby, whose sewn-on purple pajamas saved her from being christened Naked Baby II.
  
  
• Pink Baby. As Purple Baby, but in pink.
  
  
• Band-Aid Baby, who has an oval logo on her knee that looks like a Band-Aid. (Abigail is fond of Band-Aids and often applies them decoratively, like temporary tattoos.)
  
  
• New Baby. No longer, strictly speaking, new; but retains the title out of courtesy.
  
  
• Mexico Baby, who short-circuited after falling down the stairs and now speaks only Spanish.
  
  
• Pajama Baby, who came in a car seat. We expected she would be christened Car Seat Baby, but Abigail likes to throw a curve ball now and then.
  

Christmas Knitting

Christmas knitting was very subdued this year. No great plans, no big surprises.

Last year, I knit my first pair of mittens as a gift for Abigail. Through the entire Maine winter they kept her hands warm and dry, and they wore like iron; but by first snow this year, she'd outgrown them. So I presented a new pair.



These are improvised along Norwegian lines, by way of Elizabeth Zimmermann in Knitting Around. The orange blossoms are out of left field. I think Dolores slipped something into my Virgin Egg Nog.



Not fancy, but she seemed taken with them and they've already seen action.


"I call them Romulus and Remus."

There was also a sweater, of course. Here's a peek, while I await the full photographs of her in it. If it looks familiar, it's because you've seen it here once before.


"Get off my front porch before I call the cops."

I made some small tweaks to Abby's version, because apparently I can't even knit my own patterns as written.

I've been thinking about and working on socks, too; but more about that after I've polished off the last box of chocolate. (If you eat Christmas candy after Epiphany, the calories count.)

*I know. The weather lady is just doing her job. But I hate the way she smiles when she says, “Stay inside or die.”

** Thanks again, Canada.

Out of the Sketchbook

I'd like to have done a more finished version of this, but–well, read the caption and draw your own conclusions.

Up to My Neck

Feh. Blurgh. Yuck. Five days laid up with a cold. And such a cold. Such a cold as I would not wish on my worst enemies, not even parents who let their five-year-olds push the grocery cart.

This was no pissant, garden variety, off-the-rack sniffle. It was epic. Five days of ceaseless misery; of labored breathing; of lying in bed and looking up to find a flight of angels beckoning toward a bright, bright light.



And I was like, Are you kidding? Have you seen all the Christmas knitting I have left to finish? And they were like, Whoa–nevermind.

So I was not gathered to my reward, and am expected to make a full recovery; but Dolores is working on a screen treatment of my story. We're hopeful that HBO or Lifetime will option it for a new picture in which I'll be played by either Steve Buscemi (if the former) or Valerie Bertinelli (if the latter).

I'm back on my feet just in time to trot up to Madison, Wisconsin to speak to the Madison Knitters' Guild (details here). The topic will be Antique Knitting Patterns. And you can wipe that look off your face because that's what they asked me to talk about. Those knitters up in Madison are hardcore. They appreciate the entertainment value of this kind of thing:

You just know it's going to be a wild night.

Calaf

I finished knitting something. It's the neck warmer that launched a thousand swatches, and was begun in earnest while we waited in New York for the flight to London.



I could have skipped the swatching and been done with it in a week, if I hadn't decided it would be fun to work out my cable pattern.

And then I thought, wouldn't it be fun to work the cables the long way so they'll wrap around the neck? And then I thought, wouldn't it be fun if the cables flowed out of the edge treatment? And then I thought, wouldn't it be fun to make the edge treatment flow out of the cast-on edge? And then I thought, wouldn't it be fun to make the cast-off edge the mirror image of the cast-on edge?

And then I thought, wouldn't it be fun if I stopped swatching and knit the damned thing?



Look, children, at all the fun.



It still needs buttons. I haven't found the right ones yet. I'm being hyperfussy about the buttons. Surprise.



It has, to my eye, an air of chinoisérie, therefore I'm naming it "Calaf" after the hero in Puccini's Turandot. Calaf tells Turandot the Ice Princess that he thinks she's groovy, and she threatens to have his head cut off; so there's a subtle jest in using his name for a neck wrap. Okay, a very subtle jest.

Shut up. I bet they're laughing in Madison.

P.S. Lorna's Laces Fisherman Yarn in "Pine." Good stuff.