A Whirl of Activity

It's been far too long since we had a cartoon around here, don't you think?



I don't think that's the final version of this idea, so imagine this as a tantalizing glimpse into the rehearsal room of my mind. Come on, try.

1,000 Knitters Shoot

The ladies at Arcadia Knitting have decided to open early for the 1,000 Knitters shoot. I am delighted. Here are the new details in a convenient, compact, clip-n-save format:

1,000 Knitters Photo Shoot
Arcadia Knitting
1613 W. Lawrence Avenue, Chicago
July 14, 2007 from 9 am-6 pm

Knitter 0001 casts on tonight. The scarf will begin with a skein of the first yarn I ever bought, on my first visit to a yarn store, in 1991. I've kept it all this time, trusting that a suitable project would present itself. And presto, a mere 16 years later, here it is.

By the way, there was a question about doing this at other yarn stores around Chicago. I have no objection to it, but offers to host have not been forthcoming and I've had no chance to do the legwork on my own. If you have a yarn shop (or other spacious, well-lit venue) and think this sounds like your cup of tea, drop me a note.

Christening Shawl

I'm on the move with the edging. As it is now off the circular needle, there will be a photograph. Just not now, because I have to get to the office and still have no pants on.

Speaking of Work

If good wishes count for anything, you all have guaranteed that my new gig will be equal parts boffo and socko. Thank you kindly. I wish to report with pride that I have now gone three days without wanting to hit anyone or set fire to the conference table. It has been such a long, long time since I could say that.

Valedictory

Yesterday was my last day at the old job. Monday is my first day at the new.

The old job was an adventure, to be sure. On the one hand, they usually sent me to Europe for two weeks every year, gratis.

On the other hand, the other fifty weeks of the year were an endless cavalcade of annoyance, humiliation and overwork.

Example:

We once benchmarked our Web programs against those at peer institutions, and found that in all cases, even those at which there was less to do, my job was performed by a minimum of six full-time employees. I asked whether I might be allowed to have a student aide, at a rate of $7.50 an hour, for five hours a week. They said no.

I should have seen it coming. My second round of interviews took place on September 12, 2001. I called the office on September 11, just after the World Trade Center collapsed, and asked what I should do. "Oh," the HR rep chirped, "It's business as usual around here. We aren't even letting people go home unless they take vacation. Chicago didn't get hit."

But I needed a steady income to escape from Mr. Ex, so I grit my teeth and signed on.

The new job is at the same university, but in a different division. To my unbridled joy, it isn't a Web design position. I'll be writing, I'll be editing, I'll be art directing and playing with photographs. In the university hierarchy, it's a lateral move, not a promotion. I don't care. It's exactly what I wanted: a step towards my ultimate goal of being a person to whom the sentence, "The database is down" means nothing.

And you helped. When they asked about my writing abilities, I pointed them here. I do believe the fact that 2,000 of you stop in once a day to see if I've written anything helped to convince them I could produce snappy copy for the magazine. Thank you.

My final duty last night was to photograph the fiftieth reunion alumni being robed and capped for commencement. It was a sweet way to end things. They were all wonderful people, in high spirits, genuinely happy to be back and to see each other. When they lined up to join the procession into the stadium, I handed off to another photographer who was assigned to shoot the ceremony, then said goodbye to my colleagues–who were suddenly my former colleagues.

And as I walked away, alone, the university band began to play "Pomp and Circumstance."

I laughed all the way home.

Observations, Upon Reaching a Lace Milestone

Ladies and gentlemen, the final row of the christening shawl center is complete.

A round of plain stockinette should not take a full week, but this one did. Hey, I've been busy. I had company, I got a new job, "South Park" was on, the sun was in my eyes, Dolores and Victorine are sewing costumes in the living room and Harry choked on a bugle bead, there are nine hundred unread e-mails in my box...you know, the usual.

As I prepare to begin the edging, it seems appropriate to pause and commit to electronic immortality the lessons I have learned while working the center square and borders.

1. Knitting swatches is vital to the success of a lace project.
2. Knitting swatches is a waste of time, because swatches fucking lie.
3. Do not knit from the center of a center-pull ball of laceweight. It will snarl beyond rescue, and you will attempt to kill the next person you see.
   
4. You can never use too many stitch markers.
   
5. Keep your work-in-progress away from colored liquids, Velcro, curious toddlers, grabby old women, chocolate, spring rain, airport security, zippers, smokers, and the rear deltoid machine at the gym.
6. Ted was right. Don't count rows, count pattern repeats. If you count rows, you will stop knitting entirely and stare out the window at all the people walking by who are not knitting lace, and try to imagine a time when you, too, will not be knitting lace, and decide this time will never come, and consider stabbing yourself with both ends of your Addi Turbo.
7. The road to Hell is paved with nupps.
8. At some point, you will be tempted to just bind off and call it a doily.
9. If you set about counting a round of 840 stitches without first clearing the room of friends and family, go ahead and call the ambulance first. It will save time later on.
10. A large lace project will teach you that you are much more of an idiot, and far more clever, than you ever suspected.

1,000 Knitters...Away We Go

Ladies and gentlemen, it is with the greatest pleasure that I announce the first of what I hope will be many open days for the 1,000 Knitters project: Saturday, July 14, 2007.

Sharon and Kathy of our own, dear Arcadia Knitting, have agreed to host the shoot in their shop at 1613 West Lawrence in Chicago (for more details about the location, visit their Web site). We'll begin promptly at noon and continue until ten minutes before closing.

I'm not going to ask for advance sign-ups, but depending upon the level of interest there may be a numbering system for participants so that nobody has to stand in line when s/he could be playing in the yarn stacks.

Those are all the details for now. If you're interested, just make a note on your calendar and watch this space.

If you can't make it on this day, don't fret. There will be others. And I am going to see as many folks individually or in smaller groups as my schedule will allow. I have finally got my own summer plans hammered out sufficiently to respond to the inquiries with firm suggestions.

Jeepers, I can't wait to meet y'all.

Baby Moment

Please indulge me as I present the latest photograph of my supernaturally cute niece.



It's almost disturbing, isn't it?

La Mère Coupable

I was riding home on the train last night when a woman in a nearby seat asked about the shawl. (Two more rounds to go, thanks.)

At this point, I've been carrying the thing with me for three months. Questions have been commonplace. My 30-second spiel was primed and ready,* and I delivered it.

What I wasn't expecting was her response: "Seeing you do that makes me feel so guilty."

I asked why. She said that she has two small children but doesn't knit, crochet, or sew. What's more, she doesn't want to. And so, "You're a guy, making something for somebody's baby, and I'm a mother and my kids get all their stuff at the store. I feel bad about that."

Her children weren't present, but I'm guessing they're not running around Chicago naked. More likely they're as well-fed and nicely groomed as she. And yet the fact that their clothes were bought, not handmade, troubled her.

Here was an aspect of the knitting-and-gender issue I've never pondered. Men sometimes get flak for knitting. But a woman suffering guilt for not knitting? Still? Now? In 2007?

Honestly, I figured that last vestiges of that sort of thing had drifted away when I was a kid in the mid-seventies, buoyed aloft by the heat rising from a million brightly burning brassieres.*

Is this just a mother thing? Or does it affect womenfolk in general? Needless to say, I'm interested to hear your thoughts on this.

More on "Missed Connections"

I didn't pursue the fellow on the subway because I couldn't recognize him from his description, and you'd have to experience the Freak Parade that is my commute to appreciate what a can of worms a blind hello might open for me.

I don't know why he didn't/doesn't just come over and say hello, unless he's painfully shy or was crushed to death by a bus immediately after posting his notice. In which case, I sympathize. But I have to finish this shawl, so honestly I'm not looking around much between my stop and the university.

Oh, and my guess about what happened to Patrick? My guess is that when the gangway hit the dock, Patrick suddenly remembered he had a boyfriend at home. They're called shipboard romances for a reason.

Or so says Dolores.

*Little-known fact: Large-scale lace knitting in public is the perfect training for making "elevator pitches" to film and television executives. Hollywood, here I come.

**In a moment of uncharacteristic candor, my grandmother once said apropos of this topic, "No way in hell I would walk around without a bra. But I would have burned my darn girdle if they asked me."

Only Connect

I heard it said once that we are most emphatic about correcting those "faults" in others that we perceive in ourselves.

If the 1,000 Knitters project leads me repeatedly to harangue the participants about learning to love themselves, that's why. You're reading the words of a fellow who for ten years never once looked at himself in the mirror. I even learned to shave my face by feel. I can deal with mirrors now, but I still don't like them.

Needless to say, this (what to call it? fault? attitude? neurosis?) peculiarity is an impediment when it comes to the pursuit of anything approaching romance. Fine, I know I'm not the ugliest man in the world. I know that I even have a feature or two that might be considered choice. However, my reaction to any indication of interest from my fellow men is still unmasked suprise, followed immediately by incredulity.

It came as a complete shock, therefore, when a former colleague alerted me to a notice somebody had posted on Craigslist (with which I was only vaguely familiar) in "Missed Connections," a section in which the lovelorn (or lustful) take a shot at finding those they have noticed from afar but been unable to meet.

The writer, in this instance, was looking to speak to a short guy, with a shaved head and goatee, who knit most weekday mornings on the Red Line heading north out of the city. I had to admit that did sound rather familiar.

There has been no subsequent connection, but I found the "Missed Connections" concept so amusing that reading them has become a regular feature of my day. Most of the time they follow a predictible pattern:

1. Man sees other man in gymnasium / restaurant / elevator / steel mill.
2. Man senses that other man shares mutual interest.
   
3. For some reason (i.e., "I was with my wife") man cannot approach other man at that moment.
4. Man suggests that if other man recognizes himself from the description and is interested, he should get in touch.

Occasionally, though–and this is why I can't stop reading them–I am rewarded with a "Missed Connection" so delicious that I feel it should be collected in an anthology and set to music.

Here are a couple recent gems for your delectation. The titles and commentary are mine, of course.

Two Guys in a Nightclub

"Got the courage to talk to you just before I went home. You said your name was like the animal. I would like to see you again." (Giraffe, are you out there?)

Two Guys in Another Nightclub

"I wish I had given you my number. I'm the guy with similar hair." (Two guys with similar hair in a gay bar? What are the odds?)

Two Guys Eating Burritos

"You were having lunch at the Chipotle around 2 or 3pm maybe. You're pretty hot.
What's up?" (Well, that narrows it down, doesn't it?)

Two Guys, One of Them Clueless, On a Cruise Ship

"Patrick? Met you on a Carnival Cruise and haven't heard from you since -- what happened? I hope you see this..." (I bet I can guess what happened to Patrick.)

Two Guys and a Hard Disk

"You fixed my computer. Thank you." (Is this a euphemism? Or just a rather odd way to offer customer feedback?)

And I only read the "M4M" listings. I can't even imagine what must go on in the "M4W" and "W4M" sections. I bet you straight types get up to some freaky stuff. I've heard rumors.

Photo Developments

The title is a pun. Get it? Ha, ha.

I'm going through the 1,000 Knitters messages in a more organized fashion, trying to figure out how we're going to make this work. You perhaps are thinking I should have considered this before announcing the project. However, my life to this point has included far too much thinking and far too little doing. Had I imagined what my mailbox would look like stuffed with hundreds of excited messages waiting to be sorted, I would have retired, shaking, into a dim corner and sat there until the vision faded.

Until I can answer all individually, I'd like to address a few common concerns collectively.

1. Please rest assured that it is not possible to break a camera merely by sitting in front of it.
   
   
2. No, I will not need my wide-angle lens to fit you into the frame.
   
   
3. You are not the ugliest person I will ever have photographed. That honor belongs to a prominent socialite, a twig-thin product of goodness knows how many expensive spa treatments, who earned the title by continuing to call me "Manuel" after she had been introduced to me by name and reminded of my correct name several times. Ugly is as ugly does.
   
   
4. Everyone is photogenic while they're knitting.
   
   
5. Indulgence in self-deprecation during your shoot will result in my giving you That Look, which I inherited from my mother. Believe me when I say that you do not want to be on the receiving end of That Look.
   

And what will you be knitting? Well, here's what I've decided.

The image of a common thread–or yarn, in our case–is too potent to resist. So I've decided that when it's your turn to sit, you'll pick up and work on a scarf, one scarf, in which all 1,000 of you will have a hand. The first knitter will cast on 22 stitches. The final knitter will bind off. If you're in the middle, you'll knit rows, join a new ball, fix dropped stitches or do whatever happens to be needed at that point before passing the scarf along.

(Don't ask what'll happen to the scarf when it's finished. I haven't thought that far ahead yet.)

Knitting Update

So close. So close. Four more rows to the end of the center of the christening shawl, and two of those are plain.



I tried so hard, so very hard, to make this look like anything other than used cheesecloth. Perhaps, some day, the shawl will look at this pre-blocking photograph as I do my eighth-grade school portrait: a dreadful mess of acne, too-large glasses and impossible hair waiting to blossom into the sprightly, long-limbed Adonis you all know today.

Shut up.

I do have to set it aside briefly this week to finish up my final Dulaan pieces, of which there are two in progress. I will not have been the most prolific Dulaan knitter by a longshot, but I'll have met my modest goal.

Hey, Konchog–is there anything particularly Mongolian I should drink to celebrate?

Shawl Stuff

1. I have completed the little pine trees in the final section of the shawl border. All that remains before the edging is a couple rows of plain stockinette, two rows of k2tog, yo, and couple more rows of plain stockinette.
   
   
2. I cannot now remember what it feels like to knit anything other than white laceweight on a size zero circular.
   
   
3. My next project, whatever it may be, will involve color. Lots and lots of color. Enough color to make Kaffe Fassett say, "Wow. Don't you think this is a little busy?"
   
   
4. When we visited a craft sale today, the old Maine ladies admired first the baby, then the Glencora shawl wrapped around her.
   
   
   
   My sister kindly informed them that I had made it. When they recovered the power of speech sufficiently to express surprise, it was fun to say, "Of course, I'm working on something much fancier for the christening." Girls, that's how it's done downtown.
   
   
5. I'm afraid there's no pattern for Glencora, Lauren, though I'm flattered to be asked. To make it, all you need to do is knit up the baby shawl from Elizabeth Zimmermann's Knitter's Almanac(it's in February, I think), and when you have enough room put a tulip from Barbara Walker's A Treasury of Knitting Patternsin each quadrant. Above that, after a bit of plain knitting, put in two rows (staggered) of rosebuds from Sharon Miller's Heirloom Knitting. Then a little more plain knitting. Surround the whole with the Wave Edging from Heirloom Knitting. Block severely. Wrap around baby. Ta-daaa.
   
   
6. I knew I would love Abigail but I didn't realize how much. Leaving is going to be difficult. Yesterday while Susan was taking a much-deserved nap I was in charge of keeping the baby happy and had her all to myself. She started fussing, so I picked her up and we drifted around the room to my off-key rendition of the Emperor Waltz. She gurgled happily and briefly attempted to nurse on my left bicep; then we sat on the sofa and she fell back to sleep on my chest. From her point of view, at that moment I was both needed and sufficient. I've seldom felt myself to be either of those separately, let alone together. Thanks, kid.
   

In Other News

Meanwhile...

I'm a Writer

Sid Leavitt, whose name you may have noticed in the comments recently, has begun a blog in which he blogs about blogs: Readers and Writers Blog. Sid is and has been a pro in the word biz, and so I admit I was gratified to find out I'd been noticed, and favorably. Many thanks to Sid's mother-in-law, Virginia, for sending him over. And many thanks to Sid for his blog, which of course is beautifully written and a heck of a fun read.

Just one quibble, Sid. You say I don't have much in common with you "he-men" out there on the East Coast. And you're correct that I do knit and am a gay Zen Buddhist, but don't drink beer or watch sports. Instead, I bench press 80% of my body weight five mornings a week, and bike four miles on the other two, usually at dawn. Then I come home and do thirty minutes of zazen before heading to work.

So, I'm curious: what is it that qualifies one as a he-man? Must one kiss girls, or will a total lack of self-discipline suffice?

I'm a Reader

Over at Cast On, Brenda Dayne's Podcast for knitters, my essay "Advice from a Poncho" is the wrap-up to Brenda's series "The Secret Lives of Stitches." If you listen and like it (and you don't need an iPod to listen), please tell the boss so she'll have me on again.

Brenda herself presents some interviews she conducted at Wonderwool Wales, which for me is the highlight of the episode. Such wonderful people there - no wonder she stayed. (Although I suspect Tonia had something to do with it, as well.)

I'm a Knitter

The christening shawl has reached the final motif before the edging: a row of little pine trees all the way around the border. This child is a Mainer, after all.

I set off the row of trees from the preceding diamond trellis pattern with two rows of yo, k2tog. And I would like to tell you, in case you are wondering, that yo, k2tog on a round of nearly 900 stitches is boring as all fuck.

I'm a Photographer

I have not been able to count the number of responses I've had to my call for models for the 1,000 Knitters project. This makes me happier than words can express. I swear, there cannot be a more enthusiastic, can-do group of people on the planet than knitters.

Since it will be a little while before I can get back to all of you - we're talking hundreds of messages, I haven't even been able to look at all of them - here is a little mass update:

1. Thank you for your interest. I can't wait to meet you.
   
   
2. For those who can come to Chicago, it looks like I'm going to schedule one or more days for folks to come by and be snapped, probably at my home or some location on the north side, in the city proper. All the shots will be set against a simple, white drop, so the location itself is not terribly important.
   
   
3. For those who can't make it on group days, we'll see about setting up individual times.
   
   
4. For those who cannot come to Chicago, wanderlust is overtaking me at the sight of your various locations. There must be some way to get my Canon together and take it on the road without bankrupting myself or losing my job, and I'm going to find it.
   
   
5. I have heard from a potential sponsor at the Stitches Midwest Marketplace. A really good sponsor. I would totally tell you more but I can't tell you more right now. Isn't the suspense just awful?
   

Destination: Baby

I'm in Maine.

As you might expect from my household, preparations for the trip east combined the tender drama of "Grey's Anatomy" with the spectacle of Cirque du Soleil.

Dolores spent much of our final day in Chicago on the telephone, trying to make nice with Barbara Bush, who was extremely put-out that we would not be flitting up to Kennebunkport during our stay. According to Dolores, she and Mrs. Bush crossed sticks during a field hockey tournament at Wellesley years ago and have kept in touch ever since.

"I remember junior when he was only this high," said Dolores. "I used to throw a blanket over his head and we'd watch him try to find his way out. Took him about three hours on a good day. Bar says now he can do it in under two if Condoleeza Rice stands nearby and shakes a bag full of Jolly Ranchers."

Harry, who couldn't join us because of an improvisation class at The Second City, presented me with a sampler for Abigail's room done in quite accomplished cross stitch. Over a picture of a bunny rabbit in an onion patch he'd worked the alphabet and a verse:

LIFE IS LIKE AN ONION.
YOU PEEL AWAY
LAYER AFTER LAYER
UNTIL YOU HAVE
NOTHING IN YOUR HANDS
AND TEARS IN YOUR EYES.

"I believe in telling kids the truth," said Harry. "Plus I thought the little bunny was totally cute."

"It's...crying," I said, peering closely.

"Life is suffering," said Harry.

I couldn't argue with that.

Mrs Teitelbaum came over and contributed a small but heavy package wrapped up in pink paper with little green kittens all over it and a tag that read FOR BABY FROM MRS T AND TINKLES.

"Do I need to worry about putting this through the security X-ray?" I asked, giving it a delicate shake.

"I don't think so," said Mrs Teitelbaum. "It's tomato paste. The nice government man on the phone said it's okay."

"Tomato paste?"

"I'm always running out," she explained. "But I can go to the grocery and get more. A baby can't do that. So I got ten cans. That should last a while."

"Indeed."

"I hope nobody else has already given her some. I know you have Italian relatives and whatnot."

"I believe they're all giving pasta and sardines," I said.

"Oh, well then," she said brightly, "I'm so glad I went with my second idea instead."

With all the baby gifts there was barely room enough in the suitcases for clothing. I had to resort to the usual subterfuge of locking and hiding my bags to keep Dolores from secretly substituting three extra hats and a kimono for my underwear and socks.

Meeting Abigail

She was sleeping when we got to the house, but shortly after she roused herself enough to hang out. They handed her to over to me, took a couple of photos, and then wandered off, leaving us alone together.



I have precious little experience of infants but remembered that they like being sung to. I opened my mouth and realized that suddenly the only song I could remember was Bessie Smith's Gimme a Pigfoot.

Oh, what the hell.

By the time I got to They all congregates at an all-night strut, Abigail was gurgling and bouncing and we carried on nicely all by ourselves through two verses and a go-for-it encore.

On the whole, very promising. Tonight I'm going to see how she feels about Stephen Sondheim.

Glencora Goes to Work

On May 8, 2006 I wrote the following in my entry about the finished Glencora Baby Shawl:

Now that the shawl's finished, it'll be wrapped up and laid away to await a baby, as yet unborn, who might need it.

I had no idea that a little more than a year later, the hypothetical "baby born in spring" for whom I knitted the tulips and rosebuds would be not only a reality, but an addition to la famiglia. And with infinite thoughtfulness, her parents chose Glencora to wrap her up for the trip home.


Mommy made the hat.

And it has become her naptime companion, too.



Could I be prouder? Indeed I could not.

1,000 Update

I am thrilled with the response to this. If you've written to me, you will hear back. If you don't live near Chicago and can't get here, don't fret. I will find a way to get out there and cast the net far and wide.

There have been a few responses in which folks have felt the need to qualify themselves, i.e., "I'm fat, but if that's not a problem...".

No, that is not a problem. When I said you need only be a knitter, I meant you need be only a knitter. I am beyond sick and tired of everybody who is not a supermodel feeling the s/he needs to hide from the camera lens. That, my dears, is a poisonous notion fed to us by marketers who know that anxiety sells products. If you were already happy with your skin, you wouldn't buy their cosmetics, would you?

Just as many of us who knit and spin are in rebellion against mass production, I am in rebellion against mass self-hatred. I'm coming to realize that this will definitely be a theme running through the portrait project.

You are the only you out there, and you are the one I am looking for, because this project is about celebrating you. Don't apologize for being yourself.

(There will now be a pause while I try to practice what I preach.)

So, I Have This Idea

But First, A Word of Thanks

Your messages about the arrival of Abigail have been icing on the cake, a delight to me and to my entire family. Thank you all so much for taking the time to write words of encouragement and congratulations.

I can't wait to record my impressions of the new arrival after our first opportunity to meet in person, which is scheduled for next week. (Note to Susan and Phil: Auntie Dolores is coming with me. Please tie up the dogs so we don't have a repeat of the Christmas Eve incident.)

Oh–And a Word About the Shawl

I've tried four or five approaches to writing a nice, fat entry about the christening shawl and admit defeat. The fact is, even if I had hours to style a good photograph it would still only look like a pile of string. Since it's on a circular needle, I can't spread it out to show you details.

So, a mere slip of an update. I've nearly finished the main portion of the border, which is worked in the diamonds-and-mesh pattern I showed you last time. Then there will be a narrow strip of buttercups on a stockinette ground. Then, and I can scarcely imagine it, I will work the edging.

At the moment, it feels as though I were born knitting this piece, and that in my next incarnation I will emerge still clutching it.

Now, the Idea

Ages ago a photographer who was acting as my mentor encouraged me to take on a large project, something that:

• could not be completed in a month;
• was outside the normal scope of my work; and
  
• that pushed one or more of my fear buttons.

I decided to undertake an ambitious portrait series: 1,000 gay men from Chicago. I still think the idea has merit, but the logistics have proved beyond my ability. For every man who has agreed to sit for my camera, there have been ten who:

• consider themselves model material and feel I should pay them a sitting fee plus royalties,
• are really looking to live out a sex-with-the-photographer fantasy, or
  
• back out at the last minute because, suddenly, they feel fat.

At this rate, I'll drop dead before I have thirty images.

But I'm still fascinated with the idea of capturing concretely something as nebulous and ephemeral as a community. And last week, as I was lying in bed contemplating mortality, the ill-fated portrait project intersected with an essay I've just recorded for Brenda Dayne's podcast, and a new idea emerged.

Why 1,000 gay men? They're not my only community. Why not honor 1,000 knitters?

Announcing: The Thousand Knitters Project

Beginning today, I'm seeking anyone who self-identifies as a knitter to become part of The Thousand Knitters Project. Here are the particulars:

• Subjects will be photographed anywhere from half- to full-length, displaying a work-in-progress or finished object.
• There will be no payment for sitting, but subjects will be given either an electronic file or a finished 8"x10" print.
• Individual sittings will take no longer than 15 minutes.
• The portraits will be assembled for display in at least an electronic venue (i.e., Web site), and other formats depending on how the project evolves.
• All subjects will be asked to sign a standard model release, giving me permission to use the images in my work and waiving the right to compensation.
• Subjects can (and I hope, will) be any and every age, shape, size, race, religion, gender, orientation, nationality. The only thing that matters is that you knit and/or crochet.
• For the time being, sittings will take place in Chicago, so you'd need to be able to get here. If this takes off, we'll see about shooting in other cities.
• Yes, if you crochet or spin, you're welcome to join in. But I have to draw the line somewhere, so let's wait see how this goes and then maybe I can get to the quilters and the cross-stitchers and...
  

Knitters have always given, and still give, so much to the world. But with a very few exceptions they are lost to history. Let's see if, in some small way, we can change that.

Interested? Write to me at portraits at franklinhabit daht cahm with the subject line "1,000." That's it, just "1,000." I'll be using the subject line to pre-sort the messages, so please be sure to use the correct subject. Give me some idea of when you might be available and we'll go from there.

And one more thing: If possible, I'd love to tap into the crowds coming in for Stitches Midwest. If you'll be a vendor at the market, and are willing to discuss the possibility of allowing me space to set up a chair and small backdrop–about as much as you'd need for a book signing–contact me at franklin at franklinhabit daht cahm. In return, I could offer advertising, photography, and possibly some monetary compensation.

*Not a ground-breaking idea; Richard Avedon's American West series is my inspiration.

Man in Crisis

No, not me. Not this time.

My friend Jonathan, the boy half of the Two Sock Knitters, has misplaced his copy of Simply Shetland 2 during a household move and this has brought his Fair Isle sweater (which is freaking gorgeous) to a standstill.

If you are in a position to loan a copy, won't you please let him know? The world needs this sweater to be finished. Seriously. It's that beautiful.

I hope to be back with a shawl report tomorrow. It's crunch time here. I'm heading out to Maine next week and have to finish the remaining artwork I promised for the nursery. (The bunnies and the giraffe, at least, are already there; so Abigail won't spend her first night at home in a room with bare walls.)

This is how she looks when she's sleeping.



Yeah, another baby picture. But it could be worse. I could have a cat.

Call Me Uncle

Abigail Ann was delivered today, wriggling and dancing, at 10:36 a.m. Eastern Standard Time. Parents and baby are doing fine. Susan made it through the whole thing without anaesthetics. Abby weighs 7 pounds, 15 ounces and has dark, wavy hair. 19.5 inches long. Ten fingers, ten toes, and all the rest presumably in order.

After she was born, she was given to Susan and started nursing in a split second. Typical of our family–upon arrival, the first thing she wants is lunch.

At what point do you suppose I will stop jumping up and down and grinning like an idiot?

This just in! Pictures!



I see Grandma Ann made it through the experience with her manicure intact. I'd recognize that shade anywhere. Way to go, Grandma.

We Interrupt This Blog

I was in the middle of posting, finally, about the Looptopia knitting event and the Loopy Yarns "yarn tasting" that preceded it, and then my mother called at 2:39 p.m. CST to let me know my sister's in labor.

And now I can't really focus on anything. I'm going to go light some incense and say a prayer.

And I should probably work on this here shawl, too.

God Is a Woman

How do I know?

Yesterday when it was sunny and in the seventies, I made a joke about going to the beach instead of motoring ahead on the christening shawl.

This morning, it's in the mid-forties in Chicago and raining.

Alright already, I'm knitting.

Cross Your Legs and Wait

I am (still) working the borders of the christening shawl. They must be getting deeper, as I've put in at least seven dedicated hours on them in the past three days. Therefore, I will not let it worry me that they measured (unstretched) 4.5 inches on Sunday, 5 inches on Tuesday, and 4 inches a few minutes ago.


From the ménu fixe at Ye Sygne of Ye Boyled Asse*

Indeed, I have no reason to worry at all. Susan's baby was due two days ago, but is taking its sweet time to make an entrance. At first I thought it might have decided to hide until Bush is out of the White House. (Wouldn't you, if you could?)

But then I remembered Stephanie's dictum that "Babies always wait until their knitting is done" and it all made sense. My little niecephew, who obviously knows that it's the Fabulous Gay Uncle who gives the Really Good Presents, has decided with precocious tact and courtesy to wait for notification that the final blocking is complete.

This might mean a baby born in September, rather than May; but autumn in New England is so picturesque, no? In the meanwhile, Susan, maybe you could stuff some fashion magazines and a Sudoku book up there so the kid won't get bored.

Hey! Now I have time to go to the beach!

*It's a Rabbitch joke. You don't read Rabbitch? What the hell's wrong with you?

Dawn of the Dumb

My favorite neighborhood coffee shop is always buzzing, but for the past several weeks it's been especially packed with students cramming for exams.

Such a comforting sight, with their weighty stacks of economics and medical texts. It takes dedication to focus on gross anatomy while listening to your iPod, having three Yahoo! Instant Messenger conversations, talking on the phone with your girlfriend, and updating your MySpace profile with pictures from last night's beer wallow.

These are the people who, one day, may be called upon to remove my gall bladder. The thought makes me want to dig it out myself, pre-emptively, with a grapefruit spoon and a pair of embroidery scissors.

Last week I slipped deftly into the lone vacant chair, and a moment later felt a tap on my shoulder. The tapping finger was attached to a nacsent trixie, still in the fledgling (university) stage, with a couple of medical books and a fully-grown sense of entitlement.

"Are you, um, going to be here much longer?" she asked.

"Yes, I just sat down," I said.

Her brow furrowed under her Depaul baseball cap.

"Um, okay. Well, I have a lot of work to do, and I was really hoping you might be getting ready to leave."

"Well, no. Sorry. I just sat down," I said slowly and distinctly, "and so I plan on staying put for at least an hour."

"There are no chairs right now," she said, biting her lower lip.

"I know," I said.

"And I really need to study," she said. "I have a midterm."

"Maybe somebody else is ready to leave?"

"They're all working, and you're just crocheting or whatever. So I thought maybe you wouldn't mind giving up your seat. This test is really important."

"Oh," I said, suddenly smiling. "It's an important test and you need a place to study."

"Right!" she chirped, visibly excited that the weird old man's brain had finally encompassed the gravity of her situation.

"You're a Depaul student?"

"Well, yes." She pointed to her cap and giggled.

"Are you homeless?"

"What? Um...no."

"Did the Depaul library burn down?"

"Um...no."

"Then I believe I've just solved your dilemma. You're very welcome."

She didn't say anything, she just stared at me. Probably memorizing my face so that one fine day she can exact painstaking revenge upon my gall bladder.

Dolores and the Siege of Lakeview

Last night I was sitting in the big armchair, alternately working on the christening shawl and wondering how in the hell Giada De Laurentis got a cooking show, when the front door banged open. Dolores staggered in, breathing hard, carrying a whimpering Harry under one arm.

"Let me guess," I said. "Ann Coulter's violated the restraining order again, hasn't she?"

And suddenly Dolores was pinning me to the back of the chair with a pointy hoof and glaring with a hatred she normally reserves for the bartender who announces Last Call.

"You...fool," she hissed, still panting. "You're going to get us all killed."

"Come again?"

"They tried to rip off my ball band!" screamed Harry.

"Harry," said Dolores, "Round up the other guys and get under the bed and don't come out until I give you the all clear. And stay calm, goddammit!"

"We're gonna diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie," Harry squealed, skidding toward the bedroom.

Outside, on the street, I heard the rumble of many angry voices. A crowd was seething around the corner, blocking traffic and yelling...my name?

"Shit," said Dolores. "They cover ground faster than I thought. Quick, we gotta pile the furniture up against the door. You take that end of the sofa."

"Dolores, put the furniture down."

"This is all your damn fault," she said. "You just had to go and shoot your mouth off in that freaking blog, didn't you?"

"What did I do?"

"You insulted the crafters!"

"I did?"

"Yes, you did. And now–"

The rest was drowned out by a sound not unlike a heavy hailstorm, as thousands of tiny objects began to ping against the living room window.

"They're shooting Popsicle sticks at us!" shrieked Harry.

"Get back under the bed!" shouted Dolores.

On the street, lights flashed. The cops had arrived, but their patrol cars were immediately overrun by a pack of women who unfurled an appliqué banner suggesting that I do something Addi never intended with my knitting needles.

The phone rang.

"This is Ernie at the front desk. I got all these people down here say they wanna découpage your mouth shut. What the fuck is découpage?"

"Ernie, don't let them in here, please–"

"What? Hang on, hang on. No, lady, I don't want my picture taken. No, I don't wanna be in your scrapbook. Jesus, lady, back off...Ow! Franklin, what the hell am I supposed to–Ow!"

There were sounds of a scuffle, and then suddenly another voice boomed into the phone.

"Is this Franklin?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Listen, you stuck up little yarn sniffer, my name is Loretta Fortescue and I'm from Grand Forks, North Dakota, and I'm here with my Mama and my Granny and our cousin Bruce and about ten thousand of our best crafter friends and we'd like an apology."

"Um. How about if I just apologize from up here?"

"Oh yeah?" said Loretta. "Well, you got two minutes to reconsider that idea before we bust up there and give you the Rubber Stamp Treatment."

And she hung up.

I just stood there, limp, with the phone in my hand. Dolores was pacing back and forth, brow furrowed. And then I uttered a sentence I never imagined would come out of my mouth.

"Dolores," I said. "Help."

"Gimme the phone," she said. "I gotta call in a favor. It's a longshot, but it's the only thing I can think of."

I collapsed into a chair. Dolores tapped at the phone and talked to a seemingly endless number of different people, passed along from one to the next until finally she shouted, "Martha! How the hell you been, girl? It's Dolores Van Hoofen...Dolores...Right, from Woolrich! You do remember! Uh huh. Yeah, as a matter of fact I do still have the negatives from our duo shoot after that gig. That's kinda why I'm calling. We have a situation. There's ten thousand pissed-off crafters outside, looking to make my boss into a tree ornament because of something he wrote. I was thinking, you say the word to 'em, and these pretty pictures go back into the vault. And wouldn't that be a good thing?"

I heard some yelling on the other end of the phone. Dolores listened placidly until it stopped, then said, "Aw, I knew you'd help an old girlfriend out. Say, while we're talking, any way I could get tickets to the show?"

More yelling, then a click.

Almost instantly, the shouting downstairs ceased. I ran to the window, and saw the protestors leaving the building in a steady stream, two by two, in docile silence.

"She works fast," whispered Dolores with an unmistakable tone of admiration.

"Let's just hope she never decides to use her powers for evil," I said.

"Not on my watch," said Dolores.

News Flash: Late Night Knitting

Darlings, are any of you in the Chicagoland area going to this?

Knitting at Looptopia: A Knit-Night On the Town
May 11, 2007
10pm – 12am, 1st Floor Garland Room
Chicago Cultural Center
Hang with knitters, crocheters, and spinners at the Windy City Knitting Guild’s first late night craft circle. Knit a boa, crochet a flower pin, or craft a bracelet or two. New to crafting? No worries, the Guild members will teach you the basics and get you started on your first project.

It's part of this. (Special thanks to homegirl Katerina for alerting me.)

I'm tempted, in spite of the copy, which can't have been written or approved by anybody who actually knits or crochets. I mean–crafting?

I refuse to get into an argument about whether knitting is an art or a craft; the distinction is artificial and arbitrary and silly. However, will you non-knitters kindly remember that knitting is not synonymous with "crafting"? Using ancient techniques to fashion warm socks, handsome sweaters, or ethereal lace from spun fiber is not akin to making trivets out of Popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue.

Now, who's going? I might be tempted to forego a twirl in the arms of a studly cowboy at Charlie's if I can be assured of not sitting alone in a corner talking to my shawl.

Apples for Everybody!

In honor of National Teacher Day, I salute those who stand up in classrooms every week in a valiant attempt to stem the rising tide of mediocrity that threatens to overwhelm the nation.

By way of tribute, a sampler of unforgettable things my teachers said to me, and what I learned from them (whether they intended it or not).

Teacher	What S/he Said	Why	Lesson Learned
Mr.Wortman (kindergarten)	"Fine, fine, I concede."	My indignant rationale for including a black-and-white photo in a collage of Things That Are Yellow. "It's a banana. Bananas are yellow. This banana is printed in black in white, but it's still yellow."	If you can defend your work cogently, oftentimes people will shut up and get out of your way.
Mrs. Herayda (first grade)	"What a nice bunny! I think you may have a quite a talent for drawing."	My arithmetic paper was covered with doodles in the margins.	When unsure of your subtraction skills, create a diversion.
Mrs. Brown (third grade)	"Charlotte had to die at the end because otherwise the story would not have had truth."	I was deeply, deeply pissed off at E.B. White.	Beauty is truth; and truth, beauty.
Mrs. Hess (fourth grade)	"I don't believe you. This is not real food. I expect you to take my assignments seriously. No credit, and no recess for you today."	We were told to draw last night's dinner at home. We'd had Lebanese food. She had never heard of tabouleh or pita bread.	The person with the biggest desk is not necessarily the person with the biggest brain.
Mrs. Bain (fourth grade, art)	"You're taking the easy way out. Stop drawing the same bunny over and over and show me what you can do."	I had worked my hitherto no-fail bunnies into four consecutive assignments.	No risk, no growth.
Sr. Mary Regina (fifth grade)	"God made you the way you are for a reason. It means you're special. Your life may be hard, but that's not your fault. Be who you want. Don't ever give that up."	We were discussing my tendency to be more...artistic...than the other boys.	You can't judge a nun by her habit.
Mrs. Baldessano (gym, sixth grade)	"I don't care if you're a goddamn pacifist. Kick the ball!"	I wasn't in the mood for soccer, thank you very much.	Not all angry dykes are interested in politics.
Ms. Scharf (twelfth grade English)	"When people in a town like this don't understand you, take that as a compliment."	A female classmate called me a "freak" after I admitted to a fondness for Sophocles.	Better to be a noted weirdo than a noted mediocrity.

Nibble, Nibble

There's a standard motif in Japanese painting of a teeny-weeny mouse chowing down on a great big daikon. In some renderings, instead of a mouse it may be a rat. Or instead of a daikon, it may be a radish. But the basic idea is the same: small thing eating big thing.*


Mouse and radish (detail). Not my scroll, but the motif is the same.

I've a nice specimen of this is in my collection. I'm so fond of it that I kept it over my altar for two months; usually I change the altar scroll every thirty days. The image of the little guy fearlessly tackling a gigantic project appeals to me at a very basic level. If you've ever stood next to me when I'm barefoot, you know why.

Last night as I was giving the homestead a general wash-and-brush I replaced the mouse with a painting of Jizo, the bodhisattva who watches out for expectant mothers and unborn children. (My sister is half a continent away, but she's uppermost in my mind at the moment.)

The mouse is rolled up and tucked away, but I'm reminded of it every time I pick up the christening shawl. The rounds are getting really long now (somewhere in the area of 600 stitches). When I consider how long they'll be before I start the edging I begin to teeter like Dolores after a wedding reception with an open bar.

So I try not to consider that. The mouse, you will notice, is not standing back casing the daikon and wondering whether he should have ordered the shrimp appetizer instead. He's just eating the bit that's in front of him. And that's what I'm doing. I'm knitting what's in front of me. 50,000 stitches? Big and scary. One stitch? Not scary at all. No sir. No reason to be scared of one tiny stitch.



(Squeak.)

*Omigod, that totally reminds me of a wild story about something that happened in Ogunquit one summer which I'm not going to tell you because I'm sure my mother is reading this.

Potpourri

I must be getting better. Instead of not blogging because the prospect of getting out of bed and going to the computer makes me cry, I'm not blogging because it turns out my employer does, in fact, own me body and soul. Or so they think. I'll be setting them straight a little later on today.

Depending upon how that meeting goes, I may have all the time in the world to blog very soon.

For now, whilst I eat my morning oatmeal and yogurt like a good gym boy, I offer the following bits and bobs.

The Mother's Day Project

Reader Anne, my neighbor to the north in Milwaukee, has begun a collaborative art project to express opposition to our own, dear Mr Bush's little undertaking in the Middle East. I've read her description and find it to be a fine idea. Read for yourself, and perhaps you may be inclined to participate.

Old Yarn

Those nice ladies who run Arcadia Knitting are pulling out all the stops for the shop's birthday week, May 1-6. There's a full calendar on their Web site. I've already missed Point Protector Day and will have to miss Spinning Day because I'm working, but there's still a Norah Gaughan Trunk Show coming up and I rather think I must show up for Book Day.

Fun fact: Kathy and Sharon say they've sold 14,000 point protectors since going into business seven years ago. According to my calculations, if you laid them end-to-end, 14,000 average-sized point protectors would form a line 583 feet long. (Of course, this could never happen. We all know it's impossible to locate two point protectors when you want them, let alone 14,000.)

Schadenfreude Corner

Gym membership: $50/month
New, smaller Levi's 501s that fit recently refurbished physique just so: $75
New heels for favorite cowboy boots: $35
Round of drinks for old friends at Charlie's Bar on Saturday night: $35
Running into the "younger man" that Mr. Ex dumped you for and realizing he's easily put on forty pounds in the past year: Priceless

I Shall Scream and Rage If I Can't Have One

Stephen Fry persists in ignoring my offers to relocate to Caviar-on-Toast, or whatever English village he lives in, and be his love slave and knit him socks.

However, thanks to this ingenious device I could still live out my fantasy of waking up to his voice purring in my ear. Unfortunately, the Web site does not indicate whether "Franklin, you titan among men, please do that to me again!" is among the pre-recorded sayings.

I admit that installing an electronic man in my bedroom is slightly pathetic; but I've just about had it with the Genuine Article. They should all come with off-switches.

Dolores On the Air

Speaking of flipping men's switches, Dolores asked me to pass along word that she's going to be recording her maiden (?) Podcast as soon as her voice recovers from an accident during rehearsals at the Lucky Horseshoe. Apparently there was a mix-up in the sound booth, and her backup track for "I Would Die 4 Ewe" transposed up three keys and by the end of the release she had shattered a chandelier, the mirror over the bar, 138 beer mugs, and the glass eye belonging to Jimmy, the bouncer. Didn't do her vocal cords any favors, either.

The ENT guy put her on total vocal rest which has made the apartment remarkably quiet. Were it not for the usual aromas of Kookaburra Wool Wash and patchouli, I'd barely know she was here.

Shawl Come Back Now

My sister, Susan, is due any second. I've never known nine months to flit past so quickly in all my life.

Athough she has reassured me that the baby won't be christened for quite some time, I still feel a sense of urgency about the shawl. It seldom leaves my side these days, and I am pleased to find that a few stitches here and there does, in fact, add up.

This is it as of five minutes ago, looking crumpled and forlorn as unblocked lace will insist upon doing.



The center panel, which was knitted flat is complete. I've picked up stitches all around the edge and am now working the borders round and round and round and round. And round.

The first bit of border is just a simple band of stockinette with the flower motif Sharon Miller adapted (in Heirloom Knitting) from the traditional cat's paw pattern. I wanted something to buffer the transition from the center to the borders; this seems to have done the trick.

The borders proper - of which I've worked exactly one round - will be a mesh-and-diamonds motif. It should pick up the geometry of the center panel, but instead of diagonals made from decreases, it has diagonals made from yarn-overs.

Reader Richard from DC asked about picking up stitches from the center panel. I made it easy on myself, Richard. When casting on, I added an extra stitch to either side of the pattern, then slipped the first stitch of every row as I knit. Since the standard rule for making a square is to knit twice as many rows as cast-on stitches, when it was time to pick up those edges I had the perfect number of little loops on either side waiting for me. No guesswork, no fuss. Not a revolutionary idea–it's the way Mary Thomas (and many, many others) work the edges of the heel flap on a sock.

I've also eliminated a lot of fuss by restricting myself to patterns that have a plain row every other round. Now that I'm working circularly, it means every other row is just knitting, except at the corner points where I increase by 1 yarn-over on either side of a central stitch. This is the same increase method (out of Elizabeth Zimmermann) that I used in Glencora and it reasonably approximates the look of the grafting done in traditional Shetland Shawls. (By "reasonably approximates," I mean it looks sort of the same if you have no idea what you're looking at and you squint.)

So you see, it's not much of an accomplishment to work this piece on the subway. (You want to see really impressive stuff, go here and here.) The stitch patterns are small - the largest repeat being 12 stitches wide and sixteen high - and grow so logically that after four rounds I don't need the pattern for reference.

Of course, when it's finished and everyone's getting ready for the christeninig and I unfurl it and they all say "ooh" the Official Story will be that I had to sit naked in a mountain hermitage for six months and learn Tantric breathing just to work the provisional cast-on.

Eleanor's Library

My dears, thank you all for the kind wishes you left while I was under the weather. I'm still somewhat cloudy, but as my father the pilot might say, visibility is improving.

No knitting today, if you don't mind. Knitting soon. Books today.

You may recall that a little while ago I wrote about buying books for a colleague's daughter, newly turned thirteen. In that post, I delineated at length my opinion of most novels being published for the not-a-girl-not-yet-a-woman market. In brief, they want to make me gouge out my own eyes with a grapefruit spoon.

I don't wish to retract a word of what I wrote, although one or two commenters did make me wonder whether I ought to have been nicer about Meg Cabot. Thanks to your dizzying 194 comments, I did think deeply about the books we read when young, and how dear they can become to us.

I turned from my desk and faced the five-foot Victorian case where I keep humor and children's books, with Eleanor's Library on the topmost shelf.

To tell you about Eleanor's Library you'll have to step back with me to the early nineties, when I was a recent graduate working for starvation wages at New England Conservatory in Boston.

One good thing about starvation wages: they really teach you to focus your spending. I was quite the thrifty housekeeper in those days, making one chicken and two dollars' worth of vegetables bought from the stalls at Haymarket last for a full week. I didn't eat in restaurants, I didn't go to movies or theater, and I didn't buy clothes that weren't marked "final clearance."

Looking back, I wouldn't have minded so much, really, except for one thing: the budget left me little or no money for books.

When I really couldn't stand it any more, I'd let myself shop a little at the Brattle Bookshop near Downtown Crossing. In the vacant lot next to its tall, old building, the shop would wheel out a fleet of library carts piled with hundreds of books in absolutely no order whatever. They were unguarded and totally unprotected from the elements. These were the rejects, acquired en masse in estate sales and deemed unsellable at retail prices.

And every book cost a dollar.

However, on the money I was making even that was too pricey for more than carefully planned visits. I was pretty careful to stay off Winter Street if I hadn't made sure of my finances in advance.

One day, however, I slipped. I was in the neighborhood to buy dress shoes. My only pair had crumbled to dust. I had to either replace them or go to the office barefoot in February. I got the shoes, but was left with eight dollars: enough to just pay for food until my next check arrived three days later.

It was an awful feeling, and I walked toward the subway in a gray stupor, head down. Passing Winter Street, something in me snapped. I felt sick, and I needed a book to make me feel better. One book. One damned book, or I might well go insane. Surely, I could spare the dollar. Far cheaper than a month in a mental hospital.

I'd been among the carts for about ten minutes when I spotted a decorated spine with the title Hester Stanley's Friends. I picked it up; the cover design was classic Edwardian:



I was surprised to see it outside; normally the Brattle (and most shops) charge a premium for this sort of artwork. Looking inside, I found this inscription on the flyleaf:



I was torn. On the one hand, this was a splendid binding. On the other, it wasn't something I was likely to read. An interesting curiosity, yes. But my circumstances did not permit spending on interesting curiosities. I decided to put it back.

Then I noticed the book next to it. Another decorated spine: Kitty Landon's Girlhood.

Inside, an inscription:



I looked at the shelf again. More decorated spines. Inside each, the same name the same bold script. Somehow, in the midst of all this chaos, these six of Eleanor's books had landed together in a neat row.

My heart started beating. For a bibliophile, this was a moral quandary. I felt like I'd stumbled over a basket of abandoned, infant sextuplets and been asked, "Which one do you want to save from certain death?"

I pulled them all off the cart and held them, debating. I wondered who Eleanor was. I imagined what these books might have meant to her, since they'd been kept together all this time. I wondered if she'd sold them herself, or whether they simply arrived in a mass shipment after her estate had been broken apart.

I looked at the inscriptions again. Eleanor. Eleanor. Eleanor. From Mother. From Uncle Bill. A Happy Birthday. A Very Merry Christmas 1911.

And then it started to rain.

I was hungry for a couple of days, but a sense of Having Done the Right Thing can be very sustaining.

This has been a long post, longer than I intended. More about the books themselves will follow, if you're interested. Plus knitting, I promise. Believe it or not, the christening shawl has grown.

Bleargh

Am (and have been) sick as a dog, and an overly-full work schedule is not helping. Posting will resume as soon as possible.

Lacy Nothings

Today for a change we shall have no squiggly drawings about knitting, no parables about knitting, and no explanations of why this, my knitting blog, contains no knitting.

No, today we shall have knitting.

This, friends, is a close-up of the near-complete center square of the christening shawl, at present my sole project and constant companion.



The icky pink acrylic at the bottom is a provisional crochet cast-on, and it will not be part of the finished piece.

For those of you who don't get into the whole shawl thing, here's a brief overview of how this one will be constructed.



Beginning at the bottom of the square (A) I cast on the full number of stitches needed for the central panel. The panel is knit upwards to completion.

Next, the live stitches at the top of the square, the stitches on both sides of the square, and the stitches at the bottom (freed from their crochet bondage) are all picked up on one circular needle.

The borders (C) are then knit round and round and round, with double increases at each corner point every other row.

When the borders are complete, the edging (D) is begun near one corner and knit back and forth widthwise, with a k2tog joining the edging to the border at the end of each inward row.

When the edging has made a full circumnavigation, the begining and ending are grafted together (E) and you drink an entire bottle of Veuve Cliquot and lie down.

Then, to stretch the piece to its full dimensions and open up the lacework, the whole is blocked severely. I know that "severe" blocking sounds harsh, but il faut souffrir pour la beauté. It also appeals to one's sadistic proclivities, which one seldom mentions in one's blog because one's mother is a regular reader.

I invented none of the above method. It's a perfectly standard, modern way of working a shawl in the Shetland manner, as described by that lovely Sharon Miller in Heirloom Knitting. You'll notice there's no real cast-on or cast-off edge in the entire piece, which I'm thinking must make for an incredible amount of elasticity in the finished object.

We will now take a moment to bless the memory of those many, and mostly anonymous, Shetland knitters who figured all this out so we don't have to.

Two notes on some of the stitch patterns I'm using.

The alphabet, which you can see in the swatch I posted here, was designed by Bridget Rorem and can be found in Piecework, the May/June 1998 issue, which you can still buy here. I'm indebted to Jean's commenter Susoolu for finding that out so I didn't have to.

The pattern for the center panel



can be found in the first volume of Barbara Walker and she calls it (with an uncharacteristic lack of specificity) Leaf Lace/Fern Lace. Well and good. But this baby is going to be born in Maine, and Maine's state flower is (I kid you not) the fir cone. And to me, this looks like a fir cone, and it's my shawl, so as far as I'm concerned it is a fir cone. Hell, if even Barbara can't decide whether it's a fern or a leaf, I figure it's an open question. If you wanna fight about it, let's step outside.

There is, of course, a Shetland lace pattern actually called "fir cone," but I found knitting it to be supremely annoying (it puckers), the motif doesn't look much different from Leaf/Fern, and it lacks the lovely diamond grid created by the decreases in this pattern.

At least my sister isn't giving birth in West Virginia. West Virginia is a beautiful place, but I'd have to come up with my own pattern for the rhododendron and right now I don't even have time to walk to the dry cleaners. I tell you, sometimes I wonder how poor Margaret Stove doesn't run mad in the streets.

Zen Interlude: Spring Awakening

It's terribly unfair.

Chicago, like most of the United States, is experiencing wintry weather that has no business showing up in mid-April. Mind you, I know better than to expect a balmy, shirtsleeves spring beside the Lake. But I do look forward with desperate longing to the arrival of the daffodils every year. Once they bloom, I feel a certain sense of accomplishment in having survived yet another nasty go-around on the Hivernal Carousel.

This year, they bloomed, and then got sucker-punched by snow squalls and freezing temperatures. The bed of daffodils I pass every morning on the way to the office is blackened and shriveled, and I don't feel so well myself.

On the other hand, the other spring arrival–baseball fans–is right on time.

I've nothing against professional baseball. Truly. In general I regard it as most Americans do the opera season, which is to say not at all. Because the transit line I ride services both ballparks in Chicago, however, I do have to deal with baseball fans. Especially Cubs fans.

And yesterday was the home opener.

Illinois is supposedly a blue state, but I've noticed that North Shore (i.e, white and affluent) parents who bring their offspring into the city for Cubs games turn a violent shade of tomato red.

I've tried to understand why this is so. I've concluded that it's because they see a trip to Wrigley Field as a to connect their children with their own past, in those halcyon days when America led the free world, gasoline was cheaper than milk, and Certain People had to sit in the back of the bus.

As the train heads south and Addison Station looms, the parents become so emotional that some actually produce handkerchiefs to deal with the tears. "We're almost there," they gasp, choking on rising nostalgia. "Can you watch for the stadium, Caitlyn? Do you see it coming up?"

I'd be the last person to have a problem with this except that in the midst of a crowded commute, the parents get pushy about art directing the experience and become visibly (and sometimes audibly) annoyed at any extras (that would be the rest of us) who don't fit the motherhood-flag-apple pie aesthetic they're after. For example:

• Passengers occupying window seats, including the elderly. (I once saw an able-bodied man unblushingly ask an old woman if she could give her seat to his five-year-old daughter so she would have an unobstructed view of the Wrigley Field sign.)
  
  
• Persons of African, Latin or Middle Eastern descent.
  
  
• Persons speaking languages other than English.
  
  
• Persons whose appearance deviates in any way from the white, suburban, middle class idea of "normal," i.e. goths, punks, transvestites, homeless people.
  
  
• Males of any stripe who are knitting lace.

During yesterday's commute, I of course fell into at least two of these categories. Possibly three, depending upon how you feel about earrings on men.

This was a source of enormous consternation to a father whose daughter–she was perhaps six–was interested in the progress of the christening shawl.

I didn't notice the family of three–Dad, daughter, son–at first because I was, well, knitting lace. But the daughter kept getting up from her seat and leaning toward my needles. After she'd done this three times I glanced up and gave her a smile.

She smiled back. And then her father yanked her away and pushed her firmly into her seat.

But she got up again, and came over, and this time asked if the design had flowers in it. I was about to explain that the shapes were fir cones when her father yelled, "Halley! Get back here now."

I honestly thought he was concerned that she might be bothering me, so I smiled and said, "It's okay, I don't mind questions."

To which he replied, "You leave my kid alone!"

And then, not directly to me, but just as audibly, "Goddamned freaks."

Rude? Oh yes. But this is not supposed to be another man-knits-in-public-and-attracts-idiocy story. Those are too common to be interesting in and of themselves.

This is a reminder to myself that my own brain's not so different from his.

I may not be inclined to tell a stranger on the subway she's a freak, but it doesn't mean I don't think it. I do it all the time. In fact, I did it at the beginning of this entry, no?

I look, I categorize, I judge. And just as I believe that man got me wrong in believing me to be a threat to his child, I'm certain I often misjudge others.

One of the aspects of elusive Enlightenment I'm pursuing through Zen Buddhism is (I hear) a genuine understanding that between yourself and myself, there is no difference. If I didn't believe that to be so, I'd probably give up sitting zazen. But even though I believe it, I haven't grasped it sufficiently to act upon it.

Hmph. Back to the damn cushion.

Tomorrow: actual knitting. (I know! I can hardly believe it, either!)

Dolores Announces

Hi, it's Dolores.

What a freakin' week, cupcakes. Not only have rehearsals for my upcoming revue at the Lucky Horseshoe kicked into high gear, but I have big news about some other new projects.

First: the Boss has finally agreed to launch Dolores Bébés, my new line of clothing for the Very Young and Impressionable. Check out the shop for designs and details. It's never too early to expose your children to a positive role model, so spend lavishly. Furthermore, I get a cut of the profits and I need not remind you that Virginia Slims don't come free.



Second: response to my call for questions has been, in a word, tremendous.

I knew the world was full of troubled souls, I just didn't know so many of them read this blog. Harry got emotionally overwhelmed trying to screen the letters and so I'm sending him to Branson, Missouri for a couple of days to chill out and maybe catch a few shows. (Ever since he discovered Franklin's hidden stash of Donny and Marie bootlegs, he's been a big fan of the Osmonds.)

Now I've read your cries for help, and I've decided there's too much good stuff for just a blog entry. Would Oprah settle for a blog entry? Would Dr. Phil be content with 200 measly words? Would those smug bitches on "The View" consider the humble written word a suitable outlet for their messages of hope and goodwill?

Me neither.

The networks don't seem to be returning calls this week, so I've decided to sidestep them and pour forth my wisdom via a Podcast to be produced by the newly-formed Dolores Van Hoofen Omnimedia. I've taken a leaf out of Barbra's book and designated myself producer, director, and star. I'm trying to get Sondheim to write me a love theme, but he doesn't seem to be returning calls either. What's the matter, Stephen? You still sulking in your tent over Bounce?

I guess maybe I would be, too.

A Whole Lotta Harlot

I was having a typical, ulcer-inducing Tuesday morning at the office when I got a message from Stephanie "Yarn Harlot" Pearl-McPhee.

She was in Chicago for a book signing. She had just been awoken from a nap by all the civil defense sirens going off. She had been reassured by the reception desk that we were not, in fact, being invaded. But she was not going back to sleep, and wanted to know if I felt like bumming around the neighborhood a bit.

I did. We did.

I'd met Stephanie twice before, but only in the frenetic atmosphere surrounding her personal appearances. This was the first time I could look forward to seeing her off-duty, as it were. To glimpse the Knitter Behind the Mask.

Well, I can tell you without doubt that the rumors you've been hearing are untrue. At no point in the afternoon did she kick little children into the street, throw her cell phone at the paparazzi, or press me to procure illicit hallucinogens so that we could trip while picking the angora fluff off her Bohus. She's quite normal, on the whole, although she does tend to say a lot of things twice–first in English and then in French. But I understand this is not so much demented as merely Canadian.

The three of us–Stephanie, her Traveling Sock, and I–strolled up Michigan Avenue in blessedly temperate weather for a visit to Millenium Park. The park is home to one of Chicago's newest but most popular attractions: Anish Kapoor's gigantic, reflective metal sculpture Cloud Gate. Only nobody (except perhaps the Anish Kapoor) calls it Cloud Gate. It looks exactly like a colossal, alien kidney bean and so we all call it The Bean. (Sorry, Anish.)

Stephanie loves the Bean. The sock loves the Bean. The sock was, of course, photographed in front of the Bean. Here, I offer you a glimpse behind the scenes:



I also took this very meta shot of me photographing Stephanie photographing Stephanie photographing the Sock.



Maybe we were tripping a little.

That might explain why, for example, we not only took a spin through American Girl Place, but actually considered–for one chilling moment–eating lunch at the American Girl Café.

However, the sight of overprivileged children, many of whom were dressed as princesses, waiting in line to have their expensive poupées professionally coiffed at the doll hair salon snapped us out of it and we fled back to the street, swearing never to speak of this to anyone.

Sorry, Steph.

The hours simply flew past and suddenly it was time to head out to Oak Brook for the signing.

It was what many of you will recognize as a typical Yarn Harlot event.

There were boatloads of enthusiastic people:



Stephanie's presentation was top-notch:



I was delighted to encounter adorable friends:



(Clockwise from back left: Knitting Camp buddy who prefers to remain nameless, Jonathan and Meg aka the Two Sock Knitters, and the Sock Knitters' very delightful friend Thorny.)

And quite a few nice readers–many of whom I'd never met–came over and said hello to me. I love that. That does not get old.

Meanwhile, Stephanie signed 25,683 books, posed for pictures, blessed babies, petted the socks of strangers, and generally handled the situation with unflappable élan. Except when the nice woman from the bookstore brought her Perrier instead of Evian and it was chilled to 67 degrees intead of 64. She'll never do that again, let me tell you, even if it turns out there won't be a scar where the podium hit her in the head.

And then, high on the energy of all those knitters rallying together, we rode back to the city. I wished her good-night at her hotel, then headed north to my place. And realized, sitting in the taxi, that I'd forgotten to have her sign my copies of the book.

It figures.

Notes on Shawl Design

Now, as Miss Cleo was wont to say in her heyday, I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking,

"Cut the crap, child. We know perfectly well that the extended ruminations on literature and the squiggly cartoons and the guest appearances by your fictitious slutty sheep houseguest are mere smoke and mirrors intended to distract us from sad reality. You haven't been knitting anything interesting, have you? Have you?

To which I can only respond, in the words of (I believe) Oliver Wendell Holmes, "Neener neener neener."

Because I have been knitting my furry little fingers to bits. But since you had to get huffy, all you get to see for now is the swatch.



This is the "final" swatch, in which the yarn, the needles, and the stitch patterns at last got together and danced in perfect lockstep around the living room while the orchestra played a spirited rendition of "You Got to See Your Mama Every Night (Or You Can't See Mama at All)."

We have here a laceweight cashmere/silk laceweight procured my homie in Boston, manipulated with size 1 Addi Turbos using stitch patterns collected by that nice Miss Walker, plus a lace alphabet to which I was introduced by one of the goddesses in my household pantheon.

As I will never have the pleasure of regaling a child of my own with stories of the labor pains he caused me, I instead look forward to forcing my niecephew to listen as I tell of how Uncle Franklin turned the world upside down and shook it so as to discover novel, seldom-seen lace patterns to put into this christening shawl.

As evidence I shall present a series of swatches which, laid end to end, would stretch all the way from Rhinebeck to Toronto and back again, except these days good luck getting customs officials at the border to cooperate. These swatches include motifs from the Estonian, Shetland, Orenberg, Asian, and Eastern European camps. They were begged from august lace knitting authorities, painstakingly recreated from fuzzy magazine illustrations, puzzled out of antique books and magazines.

And, ultimately, the winning patterns were taken from Barbara Walker, volume one, where they are located on facing pages directly opposite one another.

(But don't let that make you feel guilty. I did it out of love.)

And, as you will have guessed from the A-B-C, there will be a special message for the little kid worked into the finished piece. I'd like it to be a surprise for the parents on the Big Day, so I'll just share some of the options that were considered, then rejected:

• WHERE DID YOU COME FROM, BABY DEAR?
• WELCOME TO THE CLUB
• GOD BLESS THE CHILD THAT'S GOT HIS OWN
• PEE ON THIS SHAWL AND YOU WON'T GET ANOTHER PRESENT OUTTA ME UNTIL YOU'RE FORTY-SIX
  
• BE THANKFUL THIS ISN'T A BRIS
  
• DON'T WORRY, YOU CAN STILL BECOME A BUDDHIST LATER ON

That's my problem, you see. I just have so many good ideas, there could never be enough time to knit all of them.