Each One Teach Twelve

Glorious Comrades:

Let none among you say I am not doing my bit to increase the tribe. About a month ago, I was asked if I'd teach knitting to my colleagues in the office. I kid you not. Once per quarter, we're herded into a room together for an afternoon class of some kind. This time, they decided it would be fun to play with yarn. And who am I to argue with that?

However, I firmly declined to teach basic knitting to a crowd 35 people, many of whom have no interest in the subject. I said I'd take on a dozen–and they had to volunteer to be there. I can imagine few chores more thankless than trying to frogmarch an unwilling horde through the longtail cast-on.

And so we assembled last week in a sunny room looking out to the lake. A funeral and a sick child reduced the class to ten. Everyone sat down with a ball of bulky Louët Riverstone and a pair of US 10 bamboo needles,* and about an hour later everybody had cast on and done at least a row or two of garter stitch.

This was my first time leading a group, and I was fascinated by the differences among the students. I'd divide them roughly into three categories.

1. This is interesting, but... Comprised about a third of the students. Will probably never pick up the needles again. I'd like to think it's not the fault of my teaching. It's certainly not because I lack evangelical zeal. They were all politely enthusiastic, but when the opportunity to break for cookies presented itself they took off–and didn't take their (free!) yarn and (free!) needles with them.
   
   
2. Hey, this isn't half bad... The majority reaction. Pressed on through the terror of casting on and the first, tentative row of stitches to reach a point where they were knitting without dropping, adding, or holding onto their needles like Dubya clinging to the last shreds of his authority.
   
   
3. St Paul on the Road to Damascus. One student, an absolute beginner. Fumbled the cast-on once or twice. Then, as though she'd been kissed by the spirit of Elizabeth Zimmerman, knit about seven perfect rows and could not stop. When it could no longer be denied that class was over and it was time to go back to work, she looked positively stricken. "I don't want to," she whimpered. "I just want to knit. I don't want to do anything else. It's not fair."

Remember the first time you said that?

Honest to goodness, I don't know to feel about her. It may be that she'll always remember me as the fellow who ushered her into a world of limitless creative possibility. Alternatively, she may remember me as the reason she's in rehab, couples therapy, or credit counseling.

Mercury Is a Punk-Ass Chump

Nothing too exciting on the needles at present. I'm afraid even to touch the christening shawl, considering my abysmal track record over the past several weeks. I've never been much of one for astrology, but the idea of a Mercury retrograde* screwing up my knitting seems downright logical. I mean, the problem can't possibly be me.

Against all odds, I've finished the Earth Mother socks and they look fine. They aren't exciting, but they fit and they match. Right now, that feels like Achievement.

On the other hand, the Mystery Square has been frogged. Again.

The altar cloth? Ripped back to the start of the Endless Knot pattern. Again.

Will somebody please tell me when Mercury is going to get its ass back in gear? Will it be soon? Or should I just give up and start blogging about découpage and popsicle-stick birdcages?

*Thanks to our outfitters at Arcadia Knitting.
*Thanks to commenter Tamar for telling me about this. If you're one of the 5,000 people who needs an e-mail from me, that's Mercury's fault, too. Also, Mercury made me eat a lot of peanut M & Ms last night, and hid my laundry detergent. And my dishwasher.

Gather Ye Rosebud

Once upon a time when the world was young and I was a college student, I had the luxury (which I did not, then, appreciate) of spending hours lying about discussing topics of High Import with my classmates. Imagine Plato's Symposium, only instead of growing drunk on wine we were getting buzzed on chocolate chip cookie dough.

One of my pet themes was whether one can impose a hierarchy of values on the world of art. For example, was it valid to declare, as the French academics did, that history painting was the pinnacle of achievement, with other genres (still life, portraiture, etc.) ranked below. At times I was known to become quite heated about this and say "ergo"-and even, when I'd had too a little too much dough, "quod erat demonstrandum."

(Heh heh. Crazy days. Remind me to tell you some time about the great Schopenhauer Kerfuffle of 1991. Man, I wonder how we didn't all wind up with police records?)

Anyway, without fail I was on the side of those who felt the creation of an absolute hierarchy of either individual works of art, or of media (i.e., oil painting is "higher" than watercolor) was silly. I'm still of the opinion that an artwork itself has no inherent value; it acquires it in the mind of the beholder. The Mona Lisa, for example, is nothing but mineral pigments when there's nobody standing there looking at it.

I feel the same way when it comes to shoving needlework techniques into a caste system. For example, there are those-and they are entitled to their opinion-who hold that knitting is somehow superior to crochet. I don't happen to agree. I think it's not the technique, it's what you do with it. Knitting snobs would do well to remember that nice yarn and two needles do not always result in a work of art...or have you forgotten You Knit What?

By the same token, crochet can be used to create an object so hideous that just looking at it takes seven years off your lifespan, or it can be used to make the rather spectacular filet tablecloths I bought in Greece last summer.

But.

I must admit to certain prejudices. For example, when I was child every household had at least one revolting zig-zag crocheted afghan over the back of the sofa. I hated them. Hated them so much that I can't even stand the Shetland lace "feather-and-fan" pattern because it makes me think of those afghans.

Ditto granny squares. I know, I know. They're hip right now, they're funky, they're vintage. People just love them. They're on the runway, they're in the books, everyone's making them, blah blah blah. I look at them and have unfortunate flashbacks to sitting around watching Lawrence Welk and eating stale cookies while the grown-ups discussed their gall bladders.

However, like a good Buddhist I do my darnedest to avoid Fixed Viewpoints and, on occasion, even my congenital aversion to certain yarn-based atrocities can be overcome.

John Brinegar, over at Yarn Ball Boogie, has just done it. He's come up with a granny-square scarf with which I am in love, to the extent that I may lie in wait outside his door so that I can conk him over the noggin with my copy of Five Little Peppers and How They Grew and steal it.

If you've seen John's work, you know he's good at pushing the boundaries enough to make you look twice at things you've seen so often they're easy to overlook. Rosebud is definitely a pattern like that. I love the metal connecting rings, and I love subtle shifts in color.

It makes me...it makes me wish I could...crochet...granny squares...

Excuse me, please. The room is starting to spin. I think I need some cookie dough.

Simple Needs

The Slump and the Jolt

Elizabeth Zimmerman's immortal advice to the Yarn Addicted was to "Knit on, with confidence and hope, through all crises." And I try, Elizabeth, I do try, but at the moment my knitting is the crisis.

I don't know whether Jupiter has collided with Mars a bit too heavily, or the Moon couldn't find the Seventh House and went to the corner bar instead, or what. All I can tell you is every time I've picked up my needles lately, something stupid has happened.

Take the second Mother Earth sock. It's nothing remarkable, just another garter rib out of Sensational Knitted Socks–the sixth such I've made. I'm working it on two circulars and haven't had to pull the book out, because at this point the pattern has burrowed its way into my skull. This makes it all the more puzzling that I knit blithely down the leg, zipped through the heel flap, and then neatly and flawlessly picked up stitches for the gusset without turning the fricking heel first.

One of my other assignments is a piece of mystery knitting, courtesy of She Who Cohabits with the Black Bunny. I received by a post a nice parcel of her yarn, gorgeous as always, with a note instructing me to pick a stitch pattern, knit a square, and return it to her with no questions asked "or the mouthy sheep gets it."

You would think such a simple, straightfoward task is well within my grasp, no? She's basically asking for a washcloth, albeit in yarn you'd never want to touch a dirty dish. So why, darlings, why, have I had to rip back twice after inadvertently creating an amoeba and a trapezoid?

I'm hoping the deep freeze (which may, just may, be ending) has caused some lever in my brain to become stuck temporarily in the "off" position, and with any luck the onset of spring will unstick it. If not, I'm afraid my niecephew is going to be christened in a shawl that looks like it was knit in the dark, on a moor, during a windstorm, by one of the hounds of the Baskervilles.

On the Other Hand...

It was not a weekend without high notes.

First, in tandem with a good buddy I produced a chocolate soufflé (the first for both of us) with crème chantilly that, were it human, would be husband material. We shoveled it down with cries of delight, then felt rather sick, then realized what we'd just eaten was intended to serve eight.

It was still worth it.

And then my brain got a much-needed jolt of creative energy when Leigh Witchel parachuted into town and whisked me over to the Auditorium Theater to see what the Joffrey Ballet is up to.

I will admit that I'm not entirely in my element watching dance. I come to it with no more than layman's knowledge. I don't know Who is Who as I do in opera, so I can't keep score. I always enjoy myself, but with limited pocket money for tickets, opera wins. I only make it to the ballet when sponsored by a Generous Benefactor. Thanks to Leigh, I'm considering whether I ought to revisit that policy.

The Joffrey presented a triple bill under the title of Destiny's Dances. The first piece, Les Présages, is a period piece–an allegory (with appearances by Fate, Frivolity, Energy, et al) choreographed by Massine to music by Tchaikovsky. It wasn't engaging emotionally; few of the dancers seemed to buy into such drama as there was. So it came across as a series of extremely pretty late-deco café murals come to life. Me, I loved it. Chiffon, bouncy music, and symbolic characters striking portentous "Ode on a Grecian Urn" postures? Yes, please. And I'll have seconds.

The second piece was Balanchine's Apollo. I have a feeling this production won't be hailed by the cognoscenti as an immortal interpretation, but it was charming. And the fellow who danced the title role has what my late grandfather would have referred to as An Ass That Won't Quit. I was also deeply amused by Calliope. She was...qu'est-que c'est le mot juste...animated. So animated that from our seats in the fifth row she came across as both cross-eyed and insane. If Ricky Ricardo decided to do a Balanchine night at the Tropicana, and Lucy secretly locked the prima ballerina in a closet and took over the part herself, this is how she would have looked.

They wrapped up with The Green Table, an anti-war period piece. At first, it worried me. After a stunning opening involving grotesque diplomats dueling around a (surprise) green table, suddenly there were Weeping Women and Grim Soldiers and I thought...ugh. I'm a devoted peacenik, but it seemed a bit ham-fisted. I won't summarize what came after–I'll just tell you that within five minutes, I'd changed my tune. By the curtain call, I was damn near devastated.

Between the performance and the opportunity to Talk Knitting with Leigh, I'm feeling re-energized about picking up my needles and getting some real work done. So thank you, Leigh. If I manage to produce a square with four even sides that meet at right angles, I'm totally going to dedicate it to you.

Ten Alternative Ways to Say "I Love You" to a Knitter

1. The lady at the yarn shop said you like cashmere but she wasn't sure which color to suggest, so I just bought everything she had.
   
   
2. You shouldn't have to pull boxes out from under the bed every time you need to get a ball of yarn. Let me give you my closet.
   
   
3. Which would you prefer for vacation this year, sweetheart–New Zealand, the Shetland Islands or Rhinebeck?
   
   
4. Is that all you want? Why don't you have another look around in the sock yarn while I get out my credit card?
   
   
5. You look so hot when you're reading lace charts.
   
   
6. I can see you're counting, so I'll just make dinner, clean up afterwards, and put the kids to bed, so that when you're finished you won't have to wait for me to massage your hands. Okay?
   
   
7. Too much yarn? Don't be ridiculous. We can always add another room.
   
   
8. But, dearest, I think it would be silly for you to have only one spinning wheel.
   
   
9. It's called "Koigu." Do you like it? Is twenty pounds enough to make a sweater?
   
   
10. Put down those needles and come here, you sexy thing. One more row? Of course I'll wait.
    

Ice Queen

We're having a comparatively mild day in Chicago. As I write this, it's 21 degrees Farenheit. Quite a relief, as for the past two weeks our thermometers have been registering temperatures well below zero.

Dolores reacted to the onset of the Deep Freeze by going into near-hibernation. I'd leave the house in the morning to sounds of snores coming from her cushion near the Victrola. Returning ten hours later I'd find her a few feet north, on the sofa, covered in sedimentary layers of blankets, books, magazines, empty Sun Chips bags, and dirty dishes encrusted with the remains of frozen dinners from Whole Foods.

The sock yarn colony dissolved into anarchy. Deprived of discipline and daily jaunts to the park, they started getting into drawers and cupboards I prefer to keep undisturbed. When Harry rolled over to me after work, held up an assemblage of black leather and chrome, and said, "Can you settle a bet? Me and the guys are trying to guess how you're supposed to wear this," I decided it was time to wake Rip Van Hoofen from her slumber.

"Dolores," I said, "We need to have a talk." I picked up the remote and clicked off the television.

She stirred, dislodging an avalanche of Ho-Ho wrappers and back issues of The Journal of Hellenic Studies. "Put that back on," she yawned. "It's almost time to throw cocktail nuts at Emeril."

I pushed aside a pile of Janet Evanovich novels and sat down.

"Now," I said brightly, "Let's have a cozy chat about the running of the household, and your place in it, shall we?"

She burped.

"I can't help but notice that the sock yarn hasn't been taken for an airing in quite some time," I said. "Would you care to explain why this is?"

"Too friggin' cold out there."

"Yes," I said. "I have experienced the inclement weather first hand. However, one might point out that the sock yarn is made of wool, and that you yourself are covered in wool, a well-known source of protection from the elements. Why, I even heard of a Herdwick sheep in the English Lake District that survived in a blizzard on a hillside for several days by chewing its own wool."

"Chew on this," said Dolores, gesturing weakly, but evocatively, in my direction.

"Hey, boys," I shouted, "Anybody who helps me get your den mother off the sofa gets to go to Windy City Sweets for sundaes."

Dolores's vitality surged when she was set upon by sixty balls of sock yarn excited by the prospect of extra whipped cream. She swatted at them like Tippi Hedren fending off a flock of seagulls; but she was outnumbered and outmuscled, and in short order was dumped into the bathtub for a much-needed soak and shampoo.

The hot water revived her sufficiently to allow further conversation about her responsiblities. While she was setting her hair, she agreed that she had been remiss, and offered to make up for it by taking the sock yarn skating in Millennium Park the next day.

"I can show them a couple of tricks while we're down there," she said, adjusting a curler. "I was quite famous for my figure eights, you know."

"You figure skate?"

"Please," she said. "I was a headliner with the Ice Capades in the late 70s, until I gave it all up."

"What happened?"

"That little bitch Dorothy Hamill," said Dolores. "With the pixie cut, you know?"

"I seem to recall the name."

"The producers were putting together a new show and as the stars, we were given a certain amount of creative input. I got to the production meeting first, and had everybody all excited over The Oresteia on Ice–with myself as Electra, of course. Then she bounced in from filming a shampoo commercial and shook her pachongas and smiled, and suddenly we're doing The Wonderful World Mother Goose and she's Bo Peep and I'm her freakin' sheep. So I took the role very seriously and got lost."

"What a pity."

"I wanted to raise ice dancing to the level of high drama, and those bastards turned it into a circus sideshow. Oh well. Tant pis. Ancient history. I've forgotten all about it."

Dolores wrapped a kerchief around her curlers and went to bed. I passed by in the night on my way to the kitchen, and she was moving about in her sleep, undulating delicately like one cutting a figure eight on a pristine rink. She murmurred softly to herself. I paused to try to make out the words.

"You can skate but you can't hide...just wait...I'll get you...Dorothy...I'll get you...and your little...dog...tooooooo..."

Anthology

I missed putting up a poem on St. Brigid's Day. It must be an effect of creeping Buddhism. When I was a little Catholic kid, studying Lives of the Saints (it was always capitalized) was lagniappe to me and on most days I could tell you who one should be celebrating and in what grisly, picturesque manner he or she or they had died. This came in handy in college, when I was able to impress a professor or two with my ability to decode complicated Renaissance altarpieces on the fly.

Now that Buddha has taken up residence in the living room, however, the liturgical calendar isn't as much of a concern and I forgot all about Brigid. But why confine poetry to one day, eh?

I like poetry, good poetry, when I can find it. This happens less often than one might wish. When I do find it, I like to collect it.

This is an old habit of mine, begun in the mid-1980s. I can pinpoint the exact day.

I was in another interminable class at the dreadful high school, sitting around waiting for a test to end. I'd written my answers down on a sheet of notebook paper with fifteen minutes to go. I couldn't read, of course. And so I tried to pull a book out of my head: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

I realized I could see the opening page of the fifth chapter, "Advice from a Caterpillar," clear as day. And that I could remember words, as well. So I pulled out another sheet of paper and started writing them down. "The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence..."

It was the first time I ever realized that forming letters is, for me, a sensuous pleasure. The first stroke of the A in "Alice" sent a shiver up my spine. I completely forgot about the classroom, and the test, and lost myself in the writing. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, it's entirely possible that I spent at least one lifetime in a scriptorium merrily decorating the Book of Genesis or the Koran with arabesques or fleurs-de-lys.

After school that day, I stopped in at a drugstore and bought a black marble composition notebook. If I had enjoyed copying down Alice, I decided, it would be a lot of fun to copy down everything that I'd loved reading, all in one place. Choice excerpts, just for me.

I still have it. Here it is.



I can state with certainty that I bought the book in 1985 because the first quote is a lyric from Stephen Sondheim's Sunday in the Park with George, which premiered that year: "Work is what you do for others, Art is what you do for yourself."

The notebook went everywhere with me and filled up at an alarming rate as I copied in everything from one-line aphorisms to the entire first chapter of A Passage to India. For a long time I thought this was a practice I'd invented, until two years later I read Alberto Manguel's article "Sweet Are the Uses of Anthology" in the New York Times Book Review and found out that mine was a hobby quite popular in the Victorian and Edwardian eras.

(The article appeared in the August 23, 1987 issue–I know because I copied an excerpt into my book.)

There are things in this book and its successor that make me roll my eyes today, such as a lengthy piece from, dear me, the Reader's Digest, in which Aleksandr Solzhenitsin avers that everything evil in the world (especially Communism, natch) has arisen because mankind has turned away from Christianity.

And there's my handwriting...



I dotted my i's with little circles. Oy. I was but one YM subscription away from being a teenage girl.

And then there are things I am immensely pleased to see–things I encountered in books that were not mine, or in newspapers long ago crumbled that I'd no longer have if I'd not pinned them to the page.

Here's one. It's poem that against all odds made it into a textbook put into my hands by the dreadful high school. I discovered it on my own, flipping through the pages looking for something better than the Rod McKuen dreck the teacher had assigned. The first time I read it, it thundered.

I might have discovered Lucille Clifton on my own, later–but then again, I might not.

I know the St. Brigid reading was supposed to be silent, but this isn't Brigid's day and this poem is not to be read in silence. Stand up and read it out loud. Hell, stand up and shout. It'll do you good.

Miss Rosie by Lucille Clifton

When I watch you
wrapped up like garbage
sitting, surrounded by the smell
of too old potato peels
or
when I watch you
in your old man's shoes
with the little toe cut out
sitting, waiting for your mind
like next week's grocery
I say
when I watch you
you wet brown bag of a woman
who used to the best looking gal in Georgia
used to be called the Georgia Rose
I stand up
through your destruction
I stand up.

Slow Down, Baby

Lo. It is begun.

I looked at the calendar yesterday and realized with a shock that the arrival of my little niece or nephew, which once seemed so remote, is now disconcertingly near. It may not seem so to my sister, but she hasn't promised to knit a large square of lace to wrap the baby in once it arrives. All she has to do is sit around and let it bake, or whatever babies do in there.

I don't have anything to show you at present, but in the interest of keeping track of the process here's what I've done so far.

1. Contemplate the many, many beautiful shawl patterns available commercially for today's lace knitter.
   
   
2. Imagine completed shawl being shown on edition of "Antiques Roadshow" in 3014 and great-great-great-grandniece being told that it was made from chart bought for $2.75 and is worth $4.53.
   
   
3. Decide baby absolutely must be given shawl of original design.
   
   
4. Ponder approximately 14,000 lace stitch patterns as recorded by various authorities the form (Walker, Khmeleva, Miller, Bush, Kinzel, et al.)
   
   
5. Swatch about two dozen of the above.
   
   
6. Wash swatches. Block swatches. Accidentally step on swatches. Exclaim emphatically. Remove t-pin from bare foot. Re-wash swatches. Re-block swatches.
   
   
7. Compare the construction of shawls as practiced by the Shetland Islanders, the Estonians, the Russians, the Scandinavians, Jean, Marianne Kinzel, and Elizabeth Zimmerman.
   
   
8. *Decide to do it the Shetland way.
   
   
9. Decide to do it the Orenberg way.
   
   
10. Decide to do it Elizabeth's way.
    
    
11. Jean's way.
    
    
12. Marianne's way.
    
    
13. Repeat from * until freak out and start throwing yarn and patterns and itty freaking bitty needles at the wall.
    
    
14. Stop. Breathe. Pick cobweb swatches out of chandelier, retrieve needles from behind fainting couch, stack patterns neatly under paperweight shaped like Meg Swansen.
    
    
15. Sit zazen and think of lace.
    
    
16. Go to bed and dream of lace.
    
    
17. Survive 153 pointless staff meetings by doodling lace charts on what looks to civilian eye like Very Serious Excel Spreadsheet.
    
    
18. Experience epiphany. Consult with dear Margaret Stove regarding best methods of plotting a new design.
    
    
19. Send Dolores to Lucky Horseshoe for five hours of pre-paid lap dancing.
    
    
20. Screw courage to the sticking place.
    
    
21. Cast on. Knit.
    
    
22. Wonder if pregnant lady can "cross legs and wait" if shawl takes longer than expected.
    
    
23. Hope baby has perhaps inherited its uncle's predisposition to procrastinate.
    

While I Was Out

Hello again.

I had a long rest, and thank you so much to everybody who sent good wishes. I'm told I'm better now, and I hope so, because Resting Quietly is a royal pain in the kazoo. More than once I was put in mind of Charlotte Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wallpaper. However, unlike the poor lady in that story I was allowed to knit and so did not attempt to merge with the bedroom walls out of sheer boredom.

Not that the knitting itself is much to shout about. Here's the lot:



Another sock, obviously–once again in the same pattern and these and these. Why a third pair? First, because it wasn't too taxing on the mind or the fingers. Second, because at this point I can work it from memory and even my bookcase was verboten for the duration.

The other thing is a new altar cloth, using the pattern for the first one on the edge. In the center, in progress, is a panel out of Barbara Walker's second volume. She calls it "Scrolls," but I'll be a waltzing dakini if it isn't a dead ringer for the Endless Knot, one of the auspicious symbols of Buddhism.

That's it for knitting, I'm afraid.

Since I don't more to offer you, I'll answer a few questions that came in via comments and e-mail after I wrote about cataloguing my library.

Q. Do you actually have two copies of Maurice or did you make a mistake?

A. Yes, I have two copies of E.M. Forster's Maurice, but one of them is in French. It was given to me by my first true love, and is dear to me. Alas, the ending is just as implausible in translation.

Q. Can I borrow your copy of [title]?

A. Absolutely, provided you fit into one of the following categories:

1. You are a member of my immediate family.
   
   
2. You and I are presently involved in a committed, long-term relationship and I'm not planning on breaking up with you in the near future.
   
   
3. I have an enormous crush on you which I hope may develop into a long-term relationship and I'm trying to seduce you with literature.

If you are in category three, and nothing develops, and the book is not returned in short order, I will hunt you down and kill you if necessary to get it back.

If you fit into none of these, I'm afraid the answer is no. I'm very Polonius about my library, and usually prefer to be neither a borrower nor a lender. Having another person's books in my care gives me horrible jitters, lest something should happen to them.

Q. Have you actually read all of those books?

A. Of course not. Have you ever tried to read a Baedeker guidebook cover-to-cover? However, anything I haven't read through to some great extent, with the expectation of picking it up again frequently, doesn't stay on the shelf very long. Space is too precious.

Q. How does a book earn the tag "beloved"?

A. There are many ways. It may be a book that reminds me strongly of a particular place or time I hold dear. It may have had a profound impact on my worldview or my writing. Most likely, no matter what, it's a book I've read so often that to be without a copy is unthinkable.

Q. Why did you label certain authors with the tag "pompous ass"?

A. Because I find those authors come across as such. It doesn't mean I necessarily dislike the book. Alden Amos's Big Book of Handspinning is an example. I love the book, and I even love his sense of humor–until his coyness gets in the way of his scholarship. When he remarks that "most" Lazy Kates are unfit for their intended purpose, but doesn't bother to say why, or which designs do work, I want to smack him.

Q. How dare you say that about Madeleine L'Engle, you heartless sonofabitch?!

A. Because I'm sorry, but I've never liked her books. At all. I read A Wrinkle in Time in fourth grade because it was damned near compulsory, and by the fifth page I could tell she was going to try to slip a badly-disguised Sunday School lesson past me. C.S. Lewis did the same thing, of course, but I liked his writing enough to make allowances. And, frankly, I find that in her later works she went completely off the deep end and wrote book-length inscriptions for sappy greeting cards.

This doesn't mean that if you love Madeleine L'Engle I think you're a moron. It just means our tastes differ on this point. And wouldn't life be boring if we always agreed on everything?

Q. Okay, smartypants–so why do you keep all those books by Madeleine L'Engle if you think she's a pompous ass?

A. I'm letting them appreciate. They're all signed with personal inscriptions (long story), and one of these days they're going to help me finance a house. Thanks, Maddie!

Q. How the hell did you make it through Middlemarch?

A. I'll tell you the same thing I tell everybody–even when they don't ask. Skip the prologue about Saint Theresa. When you finish the book, with tears in your eyes, you'll go back and read it and understand it and very possibly read the entire book over again...I did.

Intermezzo

Hey kids,

I've been asked-nay, commanded-to step away from the keyboard for a couple of days and get some profound rest. I expect to be back on Monday, full of piss 'n' vinegar.

In the meantime, talk quietly amongst yourselves.

Bookish

I came home last night to the smell of baking brownies. The embroidered cloth I bought in Budapest was on the table, along with a stack of the best dishes and the silver epergne full of baby roses.

Dolores was in the kitchen, pulverizing a pile of avocados into fresh guacamole.



"This is a pleasant surprise," I said. "Is it by any chance a...belated birthday dinner? Hmmmm?"

"Book group," said Dolores, tossing a pinch of salt into the bowl.

"You joined a book group?"

"No, I started a book group. You think I can sit around with the sock yarn all day watching Nickelodeon? I pulled out Catullus the other night just for shits and grins and realized my subjunctives are slipping. I need stimulation, cupcake."

"Did your batteries go dead again?"

"Vulgarity is not appreciated. Now get out of the way so I can mix the sangria."

"How many people are coming?"

"Just three of us. It's only our first meeting. I put up a sign in the laundry room but this building is full of Philistines. So we got Harry, Mrs. Teitelbaum, and me."

"She's not bringing Tinkles, is she? Harry's still got that twitch in his eye."

"Of course not. How could Tinkles read the book? He's a cat."

"Oh. Of course."

I went into the bedroom to change clothes. Harry was reading quietly on the chair in the corner.

"Good book?" I asked.



"I think so," he said. "I don't understand all of it. But Dolores says if I expand my mind it will give me greater range as an actor."

"How true."

"Also she said being smart is a great way to pick up guys."

"Did she really?"

"Yeah. Like, she said if it weren't for your brain being kind of big you'd get about as much action as a shy cloistered nun with a suspicious rash."

An hour later, the Coven of Intellectuals convened in the living room while I sat nearby spinning the last of Rabbitch's merino. Dolores, naturally, took the lead.

"I think we should begin by discussing our initial reactions to the work," she said. "For example, I found it to be a profoundly moving exegesis of the female mind, and a testament to the power of exploring the depths of one's own soul. Mrs. Teitelbaum, what did you think?"

"I don't understand what it had to do with airplanes," said Mrs. Teitelbaum.

Dolores rolled her eyes.

"Well," said Mrs. Teitelbaum, "it's called Fear of Flying."

"That's a metaphor," said Dolores.

"What's a metaphor?" said Harry.

"It's when a caterpillar turns into a butterfly," said Mrs. Teitelbaum.

"No," said Dolores, sucking in her breath. "That's a metamorphosis."

"Oh," said Mrs. Teitelbaum. "Pardon me for living."

"I couldn't finish it all," said Harry timidly. "And I didn't understand a lot of it. Like, what's a zipless fu–"

"Harry!" I said, jumping up from the spinning wheel, "How about we go in the other room and have a brownie and I'll read you the next chapter of My Friend Flicka?"

"Yay!" shouted Harry, rolling off the sofa.

"Is the meeting over?" asked Mrs. Teitelbaum vaguely.

"Yeah," said Dolores. "We're adjourned. Here, take some guacamole home with you. Shalom."

She shoved our neighbor out the door and pulled her coat out of the hall closet.

"Where are you off to?"

"I gotta go buy batteries."

Welcome to My Library

It's been very bookish in the apartment lately, quite aside from Dolores's attempt to establish herself as the kultur maven of Lake Park Plaza.

I've been a bibliomaniac literally for as long as I can remember. The first gifts I can recall were books. My earliest memories of my parents involve bedtime stories. And I'm told that as a toddler I used to smack our patient German Shepherd, Sandy, with The Poky Little Puppy and command, "Read!" My appetite for a good yarn is far older than my appetite for good yarn.

My personal library has grown like a bed of mushrooms since the first pile of Little Golden Books landed next to the crib. Now, I'm not one of those people who never gets rid of books once I own them. I have a strict schedule of two cullings a year, spring and fall, during which deadwood is ruthlessly removed. But I usually get rid of three or four books each time. In a given month, I usually acquire five or six. Or ten.

Get the picture?

I've never counted or catalogued them, until now. That nice Brenda Dayne, hostess of Cast On, mentioned librarything.com many episodes back and I was intrigued. I opened an account and am slowly working my way to the finish line, enjoying the process of handling every book individually. I estimate that I'm a bit less than half done.

Care to have a look at the work-in-progress? Feel free.

Tips: If you choose Display Style "D" you'll see my comments, where I record marginalia, inscriptions, or other aspects of the book. And if you search for the tag "beloved," you'll pull up the list of volumes dearest to my heart.

Also: No liquids, no cigarettes, anything before 1850 must be handled with gloves, and you will be frisked at the door before you leave. I understand Book Lust all too well.

And Finally

Many, many thanks to everyone who sent birthday wishes and comments. It was good day. I am happy to be alive. And I am so happy you are all out there.

Each One, Teach One, Finale

In Which Willibald Leaves the Chrysalis and Takes Flight

When last we saw him, my student Willibald was sitting on my couch trying to kill me with dirty looks as he struggled with his first swatch of purl stitches. I understood the fellow. He, like me, feels compelled to master anything, however difficult, with speed and ease. If this does not happen he gets angry with himself.

At such a time a cooling-off period is the best remedy. I knew his subconscious would keep on purling, and when he next gave it a go there'd be a marked improvement.

We ended the lesson, and I sent him home.

"You just need some practice," I reassured him. For the fortieth time.

"I'm doing this for fun. I'm not going to do this if it's not fun," he said. For the fortieth time.

It so happened that almost the next day Willibald left Chicago for the holidays, and so did I. In the spirit of optimism I'd given him a copy of The Knitting Answer Book and he promised to pack it along with his needles, yarn, and London Beanie pattern.

A good night's sleep stiffened his resolve, and he called from the East Coast to tell me he'd decided to just purlpurlpurlpurlpurl until he cracked it.

I waited expectantly for word, and when it came it surpassed my hopes.

"I finished the ribbing!" he crowed. Apparently he'd leapfrogged right over the swatch.

There were misplaced stitches here and there, but not enough to make him rip back. I wished him godspeed as he headed for the crown and his first encounter with multiple decreases.

Willibald's holidays were busy, but he called me to say he was sneaking in knitting here and there, even as he drove with friends from one destination to the next.

I smiled quietly. Knitting in the car. Most promising.

Sure enough, I got a message just before New Year's Eve. He'd jumped from the circular needle to the dpns without a hitch and could see the Promised Land. And then, another message.

"Call me! I need you! Emergency! Emergency!"

When he answered my ring, he was audibly distraught. On practically the last row, he discovered what he thought was a dropped stitch–several rows back. I smacked my forehead. I hadn't shown him how to pick one up. On the other hand, the fellow was a surgeon.

"Do you have your book there?" I asked.

"Yes."

"I'm sure you can follow the instructions for fixing a dropped stitch," I said. "It's simple. All you need is a crochet hook. Did you remember to pack your crochet hook?"

Pause.

"No."

Sigh.

We decided he'd secure the rogue stitch with a safety pin and bring it to me after New Year's Day, and I'd show him how what to do. But his tone drooped. "I was so excited. I really wanted to wear it to my next lesson and surprise you," he said.

Poor fellow. I was still thinking about it two hours later, as I clicked along on a lace swatch. The telephone rang. It was Willibald. Shrieking.

"It's done!"

"What?"

"It's done! It's done! I picked up the dropped stitch and finished the hat and you can't even tell where the problem was! I did it! It's done!"

"But how did you–"

"In a pinch," he said proudly, "a fondue fork makes a decent substitute for a crochet hook."

Of course it does. Clever boy.

Since finishing his first hat Willibald has kept on trucking, altering the beanie pattern on his own to make a second hat in colors and proportions specfically requested by his partner–who is contentedly wearing the first one. He bought the yarn at Arcadia Knitting on his own, and had a chance to bask in the praise of the lovely ladies who'd sold him his first yarn.


Willibald's First Finished Objects

Of course, he keeps telling me it's still not fun yet. He swears he may just stop at any minute.

Yeah. Right. Me too.

FYI

I have it on the authority of a guy who was preaching in my subway car last night that because our city allowed a Gay Pride parade and hosted the Gay Games, Lake Michigan is getting bigger and deeper and is going to rise up and destroy the greater Chicagoland area.

I asked him if he knew exactly when this was going to happen, but he didn't. He just said we're living at the end of days, and so we have to repent now. Right. Like I don't have enough to do this weekend.

He couldn't even tell me exactly how to repent, although I understand vaguely that it involves a trip to the South Side. That's one heck of a train ride. Maybe I could get Aidan take care of it for me, since he lives down there anyway.

I also asked the guy if only the gay people would drown, but he said no, everybody's going under. Unless, I suppose, they've gone outlet shopping in Gurnee for the day.

On behalf of my tribe, I 'd like to say that I'm really sorry, especially if you just bought a condo near the lake. I didn't think repeated viewings of The Women and a fondness for leather motorcycle gear could lead to something so catastrophic or I'd have been more careful. But this guy swears it's true. Hurricane Katrina, it seems, was brought on by the evil convergence of lycra t-shirts, back issues of Honcho and old Barbra Streisand LPs.

He did take care to point out that it's just the gay men who are responsible. Lesbians, you're in the clear, because you're "kinda hot, whooo-eee!"

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go pump up my Floaties and put on my swim fins.

Each One, Teach One, Part Two

If you missed the first part of the saga, it's here.

In Which We Grapple with Continental Purl

As you might expect of one who has cut people open, rearranged their insides, and stitched them up again (without killing them), Willibald has steady nerves and nimble fingers. Teaching him the long-tail cast on and the knit stitch was as easy as Britney Spears just before last call.

I got him started on a garter stitch scarf in alternating blocks of gray and gray. After pulling back his work twice he sped forth, jumping right over the color change without a hitch. His first block or so showed the variations in tension that we all deal with at the beginning, leading him to insist the scarf was not a scarf, but an "irregular polygon." But he persevered, and when the scarf had reached about half its length we began to discuss his next move.

Slippers were briefly considered, but he liked the idea of knitting a hat to go with the scarf. And so I pulled out the old reliable London Beanie. It has stripes to give it a bit of interest, and the tight, short fit means it moves quickly.

"All we need to do," I said, "is teach you to purl. That way you can do the ribbing at the bottom."

"Is it difficult?" he asked.

"A little fidgety at first," I said. "But with some practice it becomes second nature."

So we sat down cozily with two cups of green tea and soft music, and picked up our needles. Half an hour later, Willibald was eyeing me with the sort of beady-eyed hatred normally reserved for ex-boyfriends who sleep with your sister. (Or brother.)

"I don't like purling," hissed Willibald through clenched teeth.

"I can see that," I said. "But you just need to keep trying, and it will click for you. I promise."

"Do I have to purl?" he said.

"Well, strictly speaking, no. But it'll keep you from doing a lot of cool things if you can't."

"This doesn't work," he said. "There has to be a better way."

"Well, it's been done like this for at least a couple of centuries, so it has been proven to work. But if you can figure out an alternative, please make sure you let me know."

"Don't take that tone with me."

"You need to relax."

"I am relaxed."

"Dude, you just bent a steel needle in half."

"I have extremely muscular fingers."

"I think we're done for tonight."

What will happen next? Will Willibald ever learn to purl? Will Franklin strangle him with a 24" Addi Turbo and bury him under a pile of stashed Rowan? And what about Naomi?

A Little More About the New Wheel

Nothing magnifies joy like sharing it with others, and so I was delighted at the response to the new arrival in our house. There were a couple of questions, so let's take a minute and answer them.

Szarka asked whether the crank hole (giggle) in the drive shaft (giggle) was elongated from wear and whether this interfered with operation as it does on her wheel. I took a look, and the hole is as it was made - no distortion. It operates perfectly, although before I could get the drive wheel to rotate consistently in one direction I did have to treadle quite a bit to get a feel for how much force and frequency (giggle giggle) to use.

Ted asked if the wheel is tiny, and suggested that it might be designed for flax. Sharp eye, Ted, just as I'd expect. The wheel is quite small (though not miniature) which I like because when I sit at it I look like a basketball player. It also has a distaff, and the flyer hooks are placed so as to encourage spinning Z—or it is S? Whichever is the opposite of the usual direction for wool. The orifice, though, is no smaller than the orifice on my Ashford. (Heh heh. Big orifice.)

Heather asked for a closer shot of the inlay (yes, it's inlay) on the bench. Here you are.



Odd, isn't it? The top bit is obviously a shield. There's more inlay around the rim (giggle, snort) of the table. If anybody reading this has similar marks on their wheel, needless to say I'd love to hear from you.

There were questions about, and suggestions for, names. I don't know that I'll name it. I used to be a namer of inanimate objects. My computer in college was called Fanny. But when your sock yarn starts to talk to you and impinge on the hospitality of friends, it sort of kills the thrill.

Hippie Feet

Sometimes knitting turns out to be more than just knitting.

The lime green socks I started on the Los Angeles trip are complete. So complete, in fact, that I'm wearing them as I type this. Right up to the bit of weaving, I doubted whether I'd truly have the gumption to wear them.

Turns out I do.



These are dear to me, even though they're knit with simple wool (Wildfoote) in a pattern I've already done once before. Buying the yarn was an act of rebellion, an alliance with everything I thought I didn't like and wouldn't wear.

I will turn 36 on January 24th. Often I feel a bit sad to think how I spent my twenties–the years in which one is supposed to be wild and adventurous–strapped into roles and clothes I thought I wanted because almost everyone around me was insisting I should want them.

I was such a buttoned-down little thing. On the outside, polo shirts, topsiders and, I blush to remember, a collection of waistcoats* and bow ties. Inside, a dedicated assimilationist who believed quite firmly that the gay community would be granted its civil rights if we could only act "straight" enough.

I lived in a state of chronic discomfort and couldn't figure out why. Now I know it was because I was being suffocated and strangled by my own choices.

Like it or not, I've turned out to be the very thing I despised at the time: a damn hippie. An eccentric, spinning-wheel-owning, tree-hugging, meditating, earth-loving, war-hating, man-kissing, drum-beating hippie. Who wears loud socks. Or whatever else he wants to.

And bless my soul, it sure feels good.

Peace.

*Upon reflection, I still like the waistcoats. Properly tailored, they look kind of snuggly on a small man. Peter Rabbit-ish.

It Followed Me Home. Can I Keep It?

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

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

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

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

I fully expected the wheel to be:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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







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

On the Charts

If you look over my list of finished objects in the sidebar, you'll notice something that I admit came as quite a surprise to me. Well before my skill level justified it, I began to rebel against published patterns. Not that they weren't useful, and often appealing. It's just that the initial urge–"Hey, I want to make that!"–is usually followed closely by another–"Hey! I want to change that!"

When I started to experiment with color knitting and lace, I realized drawing up charts was a skill I ought to acquire so as not to waste time and yarn. I invested in a giant pad of graph paper and found I quite enjoyed the process...provided the patterns were relatively small.

Sketching by hand was no trouble for smallish motifs, covering perhaps 25 stitches square or fewer. But when I started dreaming in lace and decided I wanted to mix an array of Shetland stitch patterns into a single piece, my troubles began.

It's one thing to painstakingly map out part of a stole that's 200 stitches wide and 100 stitches tall. It can be an exhilirating contemplative experience, and a wonderful exercise in concentration.

It's quite another thing to knit from your chart, realize you want to shuffle the motifs a bit here or there in order to improve the piece, and then contemplate redrawing the entire...freaking... chart...

And for me, the impulse to tear out my hair is doubly frustrating as nature long ago anticipated me in that area.

I knew charting software was available, but when I began to hunt for it none of the well-known applications supported Macs (a situation that has since changed). I bleated about this in a blog entry, and got a message from the dear lady at the helm of the Knit Foundry. Fear not, she said, help is on the way.

And so it was.

For the past several months I've had the pleasure of working with Knit Visualizer. It's the first and only charting software I've ever used, so I can't offer you a comparative review. However, by happy chance one is available from my comrade Marilyn, who knows from software.

What I can tell you is that I was able to use Knit Visualizer out of the box with little initial reference to the documentation–and the documentation, when needed, is excellent. As Marilyn points out, this software is what you get when a knitter and a developer inhabit the same body.

I'll give you the two limitations I've found, and they're minor. First: the software does not allow the creation of color charts...yet. The next upgrade, I am told, will take care of that. Second, there seems to be no simple way to substitute one stitch for another. For example, if you've used the diamond symbol to represent "red" in your chart and wish to change all instances of the diamond to another symbol, so far as I've been able to find this isn't possible.

On the other hand, the ease of use is admirable. A stupendously broad and deep palette of symbols is provided for the user, with everything from the most common symbols for purl and k2tog, to a cavalcade of cables and esoteric increases and decreases. Quite complicated charts can be put together with surprising ease.

I agree with Marilyn that the stand-out feature is the pattern text parser, which allows you to type pattern instructions into the software and watch, amazed, as the finished chart appears before you. The parser is optimized to work with patterns as written in Barbara Walker's famous Treasuries, and to date I've used it countless times to do up charts for lace patterns I've needed to swatch.

This is no small boon. I'm hard at work on the christening shawl for Phil and Susan's baby, a piece I hope will become an heirloom. Less time drawing dots in little boxes means more time knitting, and I estimate conservatively that I've probably saved six to eight hours thanks to Knit Visualizer.

I also used it to chart the donkey for the Littlest Democrat sweater. I could probably have done it by hand, but using the computer freed me up to tinker and manipulate until I was absolutely satisfied with what I'd done.

The slick, flexible print interface means I can share the chart with you quite easily. Ive turned it sideways so that I could make it bigger. I've tested it to make sure it should come out legibly on any decent printer.

(Republicans, I'm afraid I just don't have time for an elephant, as I'm busy knitting helmet liners for 21,500 under-equipped soldiers who are being sent to Iraq. Je suis désolé.)



In Other News

I had a wonderful, wonderful weekend. Those responsible know who they are, and I thank them. Select details in the next entry. Or, you know, when I get around to it. It's going to be another week of 5 a.m. to 11 p.m. This, too, shall pass.

I hope everyone's week is off to a beautiful start.

Deux Ewes

Yes, I know. I promised a write-up of the charting software last week. I want to do it right, is all, and there simply hasn't been time. Every day this week has seen me leave the house at 5 am and not return until about 11 pm. Daddy is tired.

Victorine has also picked this highly inconvenient time to pay us a visit. She's doing wardrobe for a Canadian all-sheep opera company that's on tour with Massenet's Manon Gigot and Poulenc's La Voix Ewe-maine.

The rest of the crew is staying at the Allerton Hotel, but Victorine was asked to vacate her room after she and Dolores drank everything in the minibar, ripped the shirt off the bellhop who was sent to provide refills, and then attempted to do the same to the security guard who responded to the bellhop's desperate cries for help.

Dolores was unapologetic. "If they want to be left alone, they shouldn't wear those hot little uniforms," she said.

"Oui," grunted Victorine. "Les épaulettes, elles me font boum-boum à la coochie-coochie."

Victorine's presence is not helping little Harry, whose nerves were shot after a week of living with Mrs. Teitelbaum and her cat, Tinkles.



Mrs. Teitelbaum sent him home with a special Memory Scrapbook she created to commemorate the visit, but we have to keep it hidden because every time Harry sees it he starts to fray. I've tried to keep him quiet and calm, but Victorine has taken to sneaking up behind him and screeching "MIAOU!" and I'm afraid the twitch in his left eye may become permanent.

If you were coming home after an eighteen-hour day to this, would you have time to do justice to a very cool piece of charting software? Yeah, I didn't think so.

So have a little pity and a little patience. Or Victorine may show up at your house next.

Each One, Teach One, Part One

In Which We Select a Project and Purchase Yarn

Over the past two months I've been doing my bit to Increase the Tribe by teaching a good friend to knit. He is not, to be strictly accurate, my First Pupil. That title belongs to my sister, Susan.

However, Susan had only one lesson, approximately one hour long. After that I sent her back to Maine with a book, yarn, needles and an encouraging word. We're a family of auto-didacts, and I knew she'd pick up the rest on her own with little or no difficulty. She did not disappoint.

My present student is a medical professional and the owner of his own consulting firm, for which he works long and arduous hours. His life is, as you might guess, something of a pressure cooker. His partner suggested that he learn to knit in order to:

1. Pass the time spent waiting in airports when flying to and from various clients;
2. Keep his brain and fingers nimble; and
   
3. Calm the hell down, already, before you drive me crazy.

The student–let's call him Willibald, just to piss him off–began as an absolute newbie. Our first order of business was to go yarn shopping. No, I lie. Our first order of business was to choose a project. The conversation went something like this:

Willibald: So, what should I make first?

Me: Well, I think for your first project we can start you out with either a scarf or a hat. Which sounds more exciting to you?

Willibald: I want to make a sweater.

Me: Hmm. Okay. See, a sweater is a big commitment and fairly complex. You might want to make that your second project. Or your third. A hat will have a lot of the same techniques in it, but it'll be smaller and bit easier to handle.

Willibald: I want to make a sweater.

Me: I understand that. I just don't want you to get discouraged, and for most folks a sweater takes a while to finish. You won't see results for probably a month or two, at least. A hat would be a good project, though, and would teach you just about everything you need to know to make a sweater. How about a hat?

Willibald: It could be a sweater vest.

Me: Why did you ask me what you should make first when you've already decided what you're making first?

Willibald: I was just being polite.

And so to the yarn store, Arcadia Knitting.

We were greeted as always with great cordiality by the owners. We began with a brief orientation in yarn weights and basic fibers. The shop is arranged by color, so we started out in the Red Section nearest the door and proceeded eastward.

Me: How about this? This would look nice on you.

Willibald: It's too loud.

Me: How about this? This would look nice on you.

Willibald: It's too loud.

Me: How about this? This would look nice on you.

Willibald: It's too loud.

Me: It's beige.

Willibald: It's a very ostenatious beige.

Never try to have the last word with a doctor.

On the other hand, Willibald went into cardiac arrest when confronted with the price of decent yarn and immediately lowered his primary target to making a scarf in two colors. After about three hours of browsing, he made his first personal fiber purchase: four skeins of Berroco Ultra Alpaca.

In two shades of gray.

Men, I swear.

To be continued.

Friday Cartoon

I realized we haven't had a new cartoon in here since the now-infamous "p2tog," so here's a little in-progress something from the sketchbook.

This bubbled up during my trip to Los Angeles with John. Guess why.



I was already scanning it when I realized that perhaps the signs ought to be changed to "Solid," "Variegated" and "Self-Striping."

I'd apologize for putting an unfinished scribble in front of you, but maybe you could just think of this as an extremely short behind-the-scenes factory tour of my creative process. Don't forget to visit the gift shop before you leave. There's an entire section of discounted, slightly irregular sheep.