A Little Tribute

The bicycle and the chicken warmer I wrote about yesterday were both entries in the Knitting Camp contest. The theme–pieces celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Schoolhouse Press–was inspiring. But given the frantic and fraught nature of my spring and summer, I figured I'd skip it because there'd be no time (and less money) to prepare something really good.

Then, as I was packing for the Provincetown trip, I got an idea for a project that would be portable, inexpensive, challenging, and attainable in a short time. I knit and mounted what is possibly the smallest-ever traveling exhibit of works by Elizabeth Zimmermann.



All three sweaters are "true" miniatures, meaning I followed Elizabeth's formulae exactly as written, including ribbing, sleeve decreases, underarm grafting, etc. The trickiest bit was working out new numbers for the Baby Surprise Jacket to keep it in scale with the others. The yarn is laceweight and sock reinforcing thread, all worked on size zero needles.

I displayed them in a glass-fronted box under the heading GENUS ZIMMERMANNII with individual Latin labels for each specimen. My Latin's shaky (to put it mildly), but the effect is pretty funny.

And to my immense surprise, when the votes were tallied–I won.

Here's a closer look.


Tunica mirabila infantis


Subucula mathematica, var. Retinaculorum


Tunica tomtena

All the patterns (for full-size garments) are available in Knitting Workshop. They were fun to make, though I will advise that if you wish to enjoy a nice, relaxing knit I advice against working a 12-stitch sleeve in laceweight on four needles.

The Horror, The Horror

I have half a mind not to bother writing about my week at Knitting Camp. I have pictures that convey better any paragraph the terror to which I've been exposed.

Would you, knowing full well what lay ahead, choose to sequester yourself in a small hotel among the sort of people who knit bicycles with cabled tires?



Or who carefully craft rib warmers for rubber chickens?



And always, always at the front of the room was this crazy woman who kept showing everybody her underarms.



At regular intervals the "campers" (not like any Boy or Girl Scouts I've ever seen, let me tell you) would parade shamelessly in front of the class with objects they had created.



When that was over, we'd have to knit some more. For hours at a time. Hours!



And then they would start again with the fancy-ass knitting parade.



So ostentatious.

I do not exaggerate when I tell you it was like this the entire four days. And don't even get me started on the piles of wool and knitting books that were just lying around in plain sight waiting for somebody to buy them. Disgusting.

So if you've been wondering whether you ought to check out Meg Swansen's Knitting Camp, obviously the answer is no. When the lottery opens for the extremely limited spaces in next year's camps, you should not consider trying to get in. It was an ordeal, darlings, an absolute ordeal.

Of course, I shall feel it is my duty as a photographer to return and document the moral turpitude, but then you know me–I'm all about sacrifice for the Greater Good.

You're welcome.

Heads Up, Huntsville

Darlings, I write in terrific haste as it's just about time to head up to Wisconsin for Knitting Camp. Dolores will not be going to Knitting Camp this year. Dolores has had quite enough excitement for one month, thank you very much, and if she knows what side her hot rum is buttered on she'll sit quietly in the living room this weekend and watch re-runs of "The Streets of San Francisco."

I've just confirmed with Meg, merry proprietress of Yarn Expressions in Huntsville, Alabama, that the final public shoot for 1,000 Knitters will take place down below the Mason-Dixon line on October 11, 2008. I crunched the numbers and found that there was just enough room to allow for one more trip; and as Meg had been sitting patiently at the top of the waiting list for so long that she'd built a shack there and begun having her mail delivered to it, Yarn Expressions is where it'll happen.

If you'd like to sit, and I do hope you'll consider it, advance registration is requested. Registration will open on Monday, July 28. Call the shop (check the Web site for contact information) and they'll get you signed up and send along a model release. There's more information for models here about how it all works.

It seems impossible that it was just about a year ago that Knitter 0001 (hi, Wyett!) cast on the scarf. At this point, it's so big it takes up about one-quarter of my largest suitcase. I haven't measured the exact length yet. I'm almost afraid to.

There will be dispatches from Knitting Camp, unless I encounter Internet issues or actually drop dead from excitement upon shaking hands with Emily Ocker. Yes, I am told Emily Ocker will be there. The Emily Ocker. How often do you meet a knitter who is also a technique?

Teeny Tiny Madness

This morning I completed a census of the active works-in-progress residing in my apartment and discovered that every one of them is being knit on size zero (2 mm) needles. I was prompted to take stock after looking into my needle stash for another size zero, for a new project, and finding nothing smaller than a size two.

Reasons why this may have happened:

1. My yarn stash has grown to the point where I have to choose smaller projects, the better to fit into what space remains.
   
   
2. I'm engaged in a blood feud with Sharon Miller.
   
   
3. I'd like to be rid of what's left of my eyesight by Christmas.
   
   
4. I'm trying to win a Dream Date with Eugen Beugler.
   
   
5. Too much time at the drawing board has atrophied my biceps and I can no longer lift anything heavier than fingering weight.
   
   
6. All those re-readings of The Tailor of Gloucester have finally taken a toll on my sanity.
   
   
7. I believe that holding smaller needles will make me look taller.
   
   
8. I have developed a split personality and the other half of me is Margaret Stove.
   
   
9. Julia Roberts was spotted knitting a Kiri shawl and where goeth Julia, so must I.
   
   
10. This, the terminal stage of my knitting addicition, has destroyed my sense of perspective and I honestly thought I was working with Malabrigo Super Chunky.

Send help.

Souvenir of Cape Cod

In case the urge should ever strike you, please take it from me that spending a week on Cape Cod with an adventurous (you should see the list of adjectives I rejecting before selecting that one) sheep is a bad idea.

I know. You saw it coming, right? You saw it coming a mile away, speeding toward us at 75 miles per hour, blasting a trumpet and waving a large, flashing neon sign that said “DANGER DANGER TURN BACK.” And I’m a fool and deserve what I got, right?

In my defense, I must say that we made all arrangements in light of previous travels with Dolores. We picked an early, less crowded flight. We arrived at the airport hours prior to take-off. And when going through security, we pretended we didn’t know the sheep. We were just two perfectly normal gay guys and a ball of sock yarn.

I was removing my shoes when I heard the tell-tale bellow from two lanes over.

“Lady,” the red-faced security guard was saying, “listen to me. I’m not gonna say this again. You gotta take off the overcoat before you go through. No exceptions.”



“You listen, Barney Fife,” said Dolores, tapping her hoof on the terrazzo. “ I already told you three times. This is not a coat. It’s a fleece. It does not come off. Now be a good little monkey and clear the path between me and the Admiral’s Club because my second mimosa is wearing thin.”

“Should we be concerned?” asked Tom, nervously.

“No,” I said. “But he should. Keep moving.”

We were on the other side, double-checking our carry-ons, when a call came over the loudspeaker for emergency medical assistance at the private screening area.

A second later the medics rushed past, pushing a gurney.

“She bit him where?” shouted one.

“On the ass!” said that other.

“Told you,” I said. “Care to split a Cinnabon?”

“I want two,” said Harry.

* * * *

Honestly, at this point a little thing like Dolores sinking her teeth into an impertinent guard’s gluteus maximus is not enough to derail my holiday. I’d already put her favorite bail bondsman on alert and figured she could clean up her own messes.

Don’t ask me how she did it–would you really want to know?–but she cleared security and stumbled onto the plane with only seconds to spare. Tom, bless his Platinum-for-Life heart, had arranged for us all to sit in First Class; so by the time we touched down in Boston, six complimentary vodka-and-tonics later, Dolores was feeling like a friend (or more) to all mankind. We had a spot of trouble rolling her down the gangplank to the Provincetown ferry, but after she slumped into a chair and fell asleep we were able to pass her off as a whimsical and capacious weekend tote. “Fabulous!” said a fellow passenger from Palm Springs. “Bettina Duncan, no? Do you think I could pick one up at Fred Segal?”

“Oh, you can pick her up lots of places,” said Harry.

After three days of quiet, I dared to hope that we might after all have a tranquil stay in Provincetown. Honestly, strolling down Commercial Street in the evening, surrounded by throng of drag performers, gentlemen with outré taste in resort attire and portly, eccentric ladies of a Certain Age, Dolores almost blends in.

And then we met Rutger.

* * * *

We first saw Rutger during a morning chat at the Boatslip with Chuck and Andrew, friends from San Francisco. He was sitting by himself on a far corner of the deck, peering moodily at the bay over a half-empty Cape Codder. He was easily six-and-half feet tall, with jade green eyes and a shock of blond hair sticking up from a leonine forehead. I reckoned each of his biceps, which oozed from a supertight t-shirt, to be about the size of my head.

“He looks so very lonely,” tutted Dolores.

“Don’t worry,” said Tom. “In this town he won’t be alone for long.”

“He might,” said Chuck. “Don’t you know Rutger? He’s a local. He owns Pilgrim Parasailing. And he’s straight.”

“Oh,” said Dolores, falling off her stool. “Is he now?”

“And single,” said Andrew, before I could kick him under the table.

Fifteen minutes later Dolores was back, gasping for breath.

“Well,” she said, “remember how was saying that no trip to Cape Cod is complete without a parasailing expedition?”

“No,” said Harry.

“Shut up,” said Dolores. “Anyhow, it turns out that Rutger actually owns Pilgrim Parasail!”

“No kidding,” said Tom.

“And guess what I’m doing tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock?”

“Taking a pottery class?” said Andrew.

“Pretty,” she said to him. “You’re so pretty. And it’s a good thing.”

“Dolores,” I said, “If you’re thinking of putting this on my credit card you can forget about it.”

She cackled. “Don’t fret, cupcake. We’ve arranged a little barter. He’s giving me a ride after lunch, and I’m giving him a ride after dinner. A ride for a ride. If you catch my drift. You catch my drift?”

“We just floated all the way to Boston on your drift,” said Chuck.

“I wanna parasail too,” said Harry. “If Dolores gets to go I wanna go!”

“Maybe tomorrow would be a swell day to drive to Wellfleet,” said Tom. “Or New Hampshire.”

“Do whatever the hell you want, pookie,” said Dolores. “I’m outta here. I need a new bathing suit and a pedicure if I’m going up in the air. Harry, come with me. I have an assignment for you.”

“I’m not done with my Shirley Temple,” said Harry.

“I’ll buy you the I GOT SCROD ON CAPE COD t-shirt you wanted from the souvenir store.”

“Bye!” said Harry, jumping off the table.

“So,” Andrew said to me, “what made you decide against just getting a dog, like everybody else?”

* * * *

That night and into the next morning we debated whether we ought, in fact, to leave town for the day; but in the end curiosity got the better of us. Dolores came back to the cottage just before dinner, toting a well-stuffed bag from one of the Cape’s most celebrated purveyors of beachwear. Harry was dropped off shortly thereafter by taxi, along with two cardboard boxes that Dolores snatched away and hid in her room before we could get a look at them.

Harry wouldn’t spill the beans, even when we tried to bribe him. He met the offer of a deluxe dipped double cone of Fudge Ripple and Chocolate Chip with a stiff-lipped, “I can’t tell you. It’s official business.”

We double-checked the ferry departure schedules and moved the suitcases near the door. Just in case.

And there was another surprise. The evening ferry brought us Victorine, Dolores’s French-Canadian cousine. She said nothing to us but “allo” before locking herself in the bedroom with the other two, but at the best of times she’s not exactly chatty.

At ten the next morning, they all left in a pedicab for the pier. Dolores looked like a firework, decked out in a brand-new in a star-spangled bikini with little mirrors that spelled AMERICA across the fanny.

Around noon the gang snapped up a table at the Boatslip with a view of the bay. Andrew and Chuck were quite excited about the whole thing.

“I’ve never watched a sheep go into space,” said Chuck. “Have you?”

“No,” I said. “But over the past few years I’ve often fantasized about it.”

“Will we be able to see her from here?” asked Andrew.

“Fairly well,” said Tom. “Of course, for safety reasons the boat won't come too near the shore."

At about five after one, I spotted her. In the far distance, a blue-and-yellow parachute caught the sun and beneath it swung a white, fluffy speck.

“Ahoy!” said Tom.

“Gentlemen,” said Chuck, “A toast to the maiden flight of the Dolores.”

We clicked our glasses.

The parachute slid gracefully through the air in slow arcs, hither and thither.

“Funny,” said Tom. “It looks like she's coming closer.”

She was. Much closer. All over the Boatslip deck, cell phones began to ring. We heard a siren. I snagged a passing waiter and asked what was going on.

“Sounds like some crazy Canadian separatist hijacked the parasailing boat,” he said. “And she’s heading for the inner harbor. Look, here they come!”

We heard the roar of the motor, and then above us, like a Thanksgiving Day balloon gone terribly wrong, was Dolores dangling from the end of the cable. Victorine was screaming “A nous la victoire!” as she drove the boat nearer and near the beach, and suddenly from up above came a shower of paper.

“What the hell?” said Andrew, snatching one of the pamphlets that were raining down on our heads.

“What’s a Fibertarian?” said Chuck, reading over Andrew’s shoulder.

“Get the suitcases,” I said to Tom.

The harbor police were now in hot pursuit of the parasail boat. Victorine tore mad circles around the other craft while Dolores, having completed her tour as a propaganda bomb, started screaming to come down. And then Victorine made a sudden, sharp starboard turn and with a nerve-shattering SPROING! the cable snapped. Dolores, freed from her tether, took off upwind.

“Holy crap,” gasped Tom. “She’s heading for Truro.”



By now every siren in Provincetown was going off and we could hear people screaming in the streets. The parachute careened from current to current and the breeze brought to us a faint but emphatic stream of obscenities.

“Dolores!” I shouted. “Dolores! Try to make it to Hyannis and land in the Kennedy compound! And for God's sake steer away from Kennebunkport!”

She couldn’t hear me. She was high now, up among the seagulls. A million thoughts raced through my mind. Would Harry be traumatized by all this? What would I say to her fan club? How long should I wait before clearing out her half of the closet?

And then a downdraft grabbed the chute and dragged her down, down, down. I screamed. Tom screamed. The boys screamed. The gulls screamed. And in the nick of time her star-spangled bikini bottom snagged the aerial on the top the Pilgrim Monument. And there she stuck, like the angel on the Christmas tree, except this angel was half naked, and yelling FUCK at the top of her lungs.

“Do you think if I asked nicely they’d just leave her there?” I asked Tom.

Alas, they did not. They got her down, fined her a couple of bucks for disturbing the peace and trespassing, then paid her fifty because the aerial had ripped a hole in her fancy swimsuit. By the next day she had five offers to appear in local cabaret acts.



Victorine, last I heard, was holed up in the Canadian embassy in Boston hoping to evade conviction for tying up a captain and stealing his boat.

And Rutger keeps calling the house.

Oh, yeah. Provincetown was really relaxing. How was your week?

And Away We Go

Never fails. I get the apartment back in order and something happens to mess it up again. But at least this is a happy mess. Suitcases. Many suitcases. Tomorrow, we're away to our summer vacation.

"Don't you dare tell where we're going," said Dolores as I sat down to type. She was at the table eating breakfast while Harry mulled over the packing list.

"And why not?" I asked.

"Because mama needs an absolute rest," she sighed, running a hoof through the tangled fleece falling down over one eye.



"You just slept for fourteen hours," I said. "How tired can you possibly be?"

"Does it still count as sleeping if it starts as passing out?" said Harry.

"The point," huffed Dolores through a spoonful of Hay-Os, "is that the giddy whirl of my life requires periodic absences from the public eye. I gotta recharge. I need peace. I need solitude. I don't want to get there and find a bunch of smart-ass photographers waiting to catch me off guard. Remember what happened last time I went to Montreal to see Victorine? We were barely past baggage claim when they swarmed the car."

"That was because Victorine ran over a porter," I said. "Twice."

"It doesn't matter why they were there," she insisted. "The point is that they were there, right up in my face, snapping and flashing and asking impertinent questions. What's your name, madame? Why are you here? Did you not hear him scream the second time? Feh."

"I asked one of the policemen if I could get some copies of his photos for my scrapbook," said Harry. "But he never sent me any. I don't think his English was too good. So I just bought some postcards instead."

"Have you finished the packing yet?" said Dolores.

"No," said Harry.

"Then how is it that you have time to sit here and run your mouth?"

"I've got some questions about your list," said Harry. "I found all fourteen bathing suits, but I don't know what this is." He pointed to an item halfway down, surrounded by asterisks.

"Oh," said Dolores. "That's in the back of my bottom drawer. It's pink. Do me a favor, precious, and put it in your carry-on instead of mine, okay? Mine's a bit heavy. And throw in some extra batteries."

"Righty-o," chirped Harry.

"Don't give me that look," said Dolores as Harry rolled away. "Where we're going that's all the action I'm gonna get."

"I thought you needed absolute rest," I said. "And to be left alone."

"There's alone," said Dolores, "and there's alone. I don't mind being Lorelei on a rock as long as I can entertain the occasional sailor."

"The Lorelei used to entertain sailors so much that she killed them," I reminded her.

"I know," sighed Dolores. "Now that's technique."

While We're Away

I need a little vacation as much as Dolores, and while we're gone this blog will be quiet unless you'd care to chat amongst yourselves. However, if you'd like to hear me, please listen in on the next episode of the Knitmore Girls Podcast, which should pop up early next week. I had merry time with Jasmin and Gigi, mother and daughter 'casters.

We'll be back in a week or so, and will miss you terribly. If you wouldn't mind watering the violets, airing the sock yarn and taking in the newspaper I'd be much obliged and will bring you back a little something.

Lace Present, Lace Future

June was such a nutty month around here that I didn't get to cast for Wedding Ring Shawl 2.0 until earlier this week. At about an inch and half into the center pattern, I'm already desperately in love with the Gossamer Silk from Heirloom Knitting.



Lace is such a pain to photograph, particularly lace in progress. I wish you could see this in person. The silk has no halo whatever, so the patterns look...what's the word I want? Etched? That comes close. The lines are so crisp and sharp I keep thinking of ice crystals on a windowpane. It was worth ripping back and switching to a finer yarn.

By way of comparison, you can see that I used the first yarn–which was laceweight–to work the provisional cast-on for the cobweb weight. The cobweb's about half as thick.

I promised myself that when the manuscript of little book was finished, I'd pull out my spinning wheel again. But I didn't want to spin aimlessly, I wanted to spin for a project. Well, when I was at TNNA I saw a preview of Nancy Bush's Knitted Lace of Estonia - and when I showed it to my sister she happened to admire one of the pieces I liked best, the Miralda Triangular Shawl. I asked Interweave to let me slip you a sneak peek, and here it is.



Palpitations. Palpitations, I tell you.

The preview included the yarn specs for the project, and I since it uses a fingering weight yarn I've decided that spinning it myself is within my capabilities. The book won't come out until November, so I have a few months to finish preparing this:




before it's time to make this:



Excuse me. I have to go spin.

Another Sneak Peek

Since you liked the top-secret prototype Ravelry remote, here's another sneak peek from TNNA.

I was sitting around with Clara Parkes and Cat Bordhi in the food court and we were talking about which "Sex in the City" character we most resemble (I'm totally Samantha, while we agreed that Clara is, like, so Charlotte except when she gets all Miranda) when this lady walked by with a big plate of soba noodles and Cat said, "I wonder how those would knit up?" and wandered away and while she was trying to persuade the lady that her lunch would make a kickin' pair of lacy socks, Clara and I accidentally rummaged around in her bag and found this.



And my dears, just wait until you see the centerfold.

Sports News

No, seriously.

I have word that it's not too late to get tickets to this year's Chicago edition of Stitch 'n' Pitch. That's a baseball game plus knitting. The "White Sox" will play the "Tigers" on Wednesday, August 6, at 7:15 pm.

You can get ticket forms at these places:

1. Arcadia Knitting (Chicago - North Side)*
   
2. Loopy Yarns (Chicago - Loop)
3. Three Bags Full Knitting Studio (Northbrook)
4. My Sister's Knits (Chicago - South Side)
5. Chix with Stix (Forest Park)
6. String Theory (Glen Ellyn)
7. Wool and Company (Geneva)
8. Windy City Knitting Guild*
   

Sources with an asterisk also have the form available online for download.

A portion of the proceeds from every ticket will go to the Night Ministry and the Helping Hands Foundation.

No, I won't be there. I'm afraid that living within screaming distance of Wrigley Field hasn't done much to alter the sense of helplessness and despair that overwhelms me when I contemplate spending a couple hours held captive in a stadium seat.

And while we're on the subject–this is a lifelong, very personal shortcoming. It has nothing to do with being gay. I wonder how long it'll take for that stereotype to die?

While hanging around with Tom I've undergone a crash course in baseball and football, because his best gay friends are all sports nuts–the scary kind who own season tickets and quote stats and wear weird necklaces made out of buckeyes. They've all made the effort to learn the difference between merino and cashmere, and have listened attentively to Knitting Camp stories, so I feel it's only polite to respond in kind.

There has been progress. A couple weeks ago at Crew I successfully deduced that:

1. the game on the screen was baseball and
2. the Cubs were "at bat," and
3. the guy holding the "bat" had just "struck out," and
4. this was not a nice thing for the Cubs.

It was akin to the scene in The Miracle Worker when Helen Keller finally makes the connection between water and W-A-T-E-R.

G-O-C-U-B-S-G-O.

Sneak Peek

While I was cleaning up yesterday (I'm about half done) I ran across the bag of freebies I picked up at TNNA. When I wasn't acting dumb in front of respected industry figures, I was prowling the show floor admiring products slated to hit the shelves of your local retailer in the fall.

Most of the time if you're not a shop owner looking to place an order, all you get to do is look. Sometimes, if you're cute or famous enough, or if you're willing to flash your boobies, you can get free goodies. It's like Mardi Gras in New Orleans, only with yarn instead of beads.

Since you and I are close, personal friends I think it's only fair to give you a sneak peek at one of the most exciting things that accidentally fell into my bag when Jess and Casey were busy playing Twister with Cat Bordhi and Pam Allen. Just don't tell anybody, okay?



I tried to use it, but I guess it's just a demonstration dummy. However, I plan to pre-order one the day the list opens.

If you want to see some of the other stuff I got, let me know.

Bulldozer Wanted

Remember a while back when I put up pictures of my workspace? I'm not going to do that today. I can't, because at this moment I can't see my workspace. What Vesuvius did to Pompeii, a month of heavy travel has done to my apartment.

All systems have broken down. The window box is beset with rigor mortis because I forgot to water it. The stack of knitting magazines and books has slid into a pile and begun to compost. Where the table was I now have a cairn built of yarn ball ends, orphaned double-pointed needles and junk mail that hasn't been shredded because the shredder is full. I opened the refrigerator and something inside wished me a good morning. I either have to clean up, or move out.

I am a disgrace to my very tidy grandmother, the one I wrote about for this month's PieceWork.* She was a housemaid for years. She taught me the importance of clean baseboards and scrubbed windowsills when I was only five years old. If she saw this living room she'd slap my eyebrows right off my face.

Before I begin to dig through the archaeological layers, I have to show you the little hoodie I made for Abigail. The pattern is the Baby's Neck Down Cardigan #982 by Diane Soucy, published by Knitting Pure and Simple. Me, I am a lover of the Knitting Pure and Simple patterns. They're well written, reasonably priced, fun to knit, and easily adapted.

I used Lorna's Laces Shepherd Worsted in the "Franklin's Panopticon" colorway and I think it looks well.



Abigail tried it on and the fit is excellent, although she has quite long arms and so I'm going to rip back the cuffs and give her another inch or so of sleeve to allow for growth between now and fall, when she'll most likely wear this.



I should mention that while Abigail was a very agreeable model, she wasn't inclined to follow my instructions to "Sit still for a second, honey." I understand now why the photos for so many baby knitting books are shot against an infinite white drop. I always figured it was because it looked airy and pure and innocent, but no. It must be out of practicality. You can just put the kid in the sweater, chuck her on the floor under the lights, and follow her around shooting madly while she crawls and wiggles and so forth. Very sensible.

Do you love the wee, colorful buttons, or what?



This is my first piece with real buttonholes. I confess I did not follow the pattern's instructions, but instead used this one row version, adapted from a technique first published by the incomparable Maggie Righetti. It eliminated the need for marking the band with safety pins and all that tomfoolery.

I just picked up the band stitches, counted them, calculated proper button placement as taught long ago by Meg Swansen (thanks, Meg!) and knit them in. Maggie Righetti famously wrote that "Buttonholes Are Bastards" (it's a chapter title in Knitting in Plain English) but these four lined up like obedient little ducklings.

I bought the buttons at Loopy Yarns immediately upon my return from Indiana. And I do mean immediately. After an extended (five hours, as opposed to the usual three) ride on a Megabus full of drunk students and alumni from a certain university in the state of Ohio, Pride-bound gay guys throwing attitude,** and a flock of evangelists going to a revival who decided to have a hoot-n-holler hymn-sing en route, I decided it would be a good idea to inhale yarn fumes and calm down before I killed somebody.

So I wheeled my little bag from Union Station right over to Loopy, which you should know is presently having a rather incredible sale including deep (25% off) discounts on Rowan and other good stuff. Vicki and Zoë were sweet and understanding and helped me find my center (and a perfect ball of fine white cotton) while keeping me away from the sharper needles in the rack.

As much as I adore travel, it's good to be home. At least, I think this is my home. Anything could be hiding under this mess.

* It includes my first-ever published pattern–a ridiculously simple little lace edging that's supposed to look like a row of coal company houses in the Pennsylvania hills. The same issue includes an entire, new Estonian lace shawl from Nancy Bush. Boy, do I have some kind of timing.

**Dudes: if you're riding on the Megabus, you have no business throwing attitude.

Blockin' with Ma

Indiana was a good place to rest and recuperate. Fresh air, open space, great stretches of soothing greenery, and this.



Such a sight for a weary uncle's eyes. Gosh, did we have fun! We blew bubbles, and splashed in the pool, and read Proust, and played on the swing, and put all the animals into Noah's ark, and pet some doggies, and discussed the application of Kant's categorical imperative to the present political situation, and built a tower with alphabet blocks.

While I was there I finished the little hoodie I was working on–pictures in the next post–and got to check out the Baby Surprise Jacket that my mother made for Abigail. It was her first shaped garment and she did a bang-up job. She hadn't washed and blocked it, though, so we did that together.

When I first started knitting in earnest, I remember that blocking scared the daylights out of me. I didn't have anybody to show me what to do, and the instructions I found in books were labyrinthine. I remember one authority who wrote that it was impossible to block a sweater properly without a waterproof board–five feet square, marked with a grid of one inch squares–and a dozen clean, white bath towels.

I don't remember who she was, but I'm pretty sure she didn't live in a city apartment.

Since then other, kinder authorities have shown me how easy it is. I've also learned how vital it is not just for cleaning a piece, but for giving it a properly finished appearance. Not blocking is akin to not weaving in your ends.

If you're just beginning, here's what I've been taught to do. It works for me. There may be a better way, and I'm sure there are flourishes and refinements I have yet to learn, but so far I haven't turned any of my sweaters into potholders and that's good enough for me.

Mind you, these instructions are for wool. Wool from sheep. Other fibers or blends may have other requirements. If you need to wash and block the shrug knit from a cat/mohair/rayon mix, do your homework before you take the plunge.

Here's what you need to do the job.



An absolutely clean, watertight basin. The kitchen sink is fine, if you make sure to get the stubborn, dried on pasta from last week's spaghetti dinner off the sides. Since we were doing baby clothes, we used a large pot.

A mild detergent. I am presently in love with Soak, but you can use a mild dishwashing liquid or baby shampoo–which is what we did.

A couple of bath towels. They don't need to be white, just clean.

Now, let us begin.

Step One. Fill the empty basin with tepid water. Lukewarm is fine. Don't use hot. Hot can shock wool fibers and encourage felting. When the basin is full and you've turned off the water, add a few drops–maybe a teaspoon per gallon–of your detergent. Swish the water gently to mix in the detergent, but try to avoid making suds.



Step Two. Place your knitted thing on top of the water and watch it sink like the Titanic. It can be fun to pretend to be the hand of God and push the knitted thing gently under the water and scream "Help me! Help me!" in a tiny voice as all the little Edwardian people are drowned for tempting Providence with their "unsinkable" ship. Fools!



Do not agitate the knitted thing. Agitation can cause friction, and wool plus friction plus water equals felting.

Let your knitted thing soak undisturbed for up to an hour. I soak stuff with thicker yarns for longer times to make sure the water penetrates completely. Just let the thing soak. Leave it. Walk away. Go.

Step Three. Gently lift the knitted thing from the water. Keep all of it well supported in both hands. Don't let the sleeves or other bits hang loose or they'll stretch like taffy. Somebody–Elizabeth Zimmermann?–compared this part to handling a baby.



If you are using a wool wash that doesn't require rinsing, go to the next step. Otherwise you may repeat the first three steps, omitting the detergent.

Step Four. Holding the knitted thing over the basin, squeeze it. Don't wring it or rub it, just give it a few good, firm squeezes to drain some of the water. (This part is not like handling a baby.)



Step Five. Wrap the knitted thing in a towel. Put the towel on the floor. Jump up and down on it to press out more water. You may enlist help with this process.



Step Six. Lay the knitted thing out on another, dry towel which you have spread out in a space that is unlikely to be invaded by inquisitive pets, curious children, or nosy adults.



Arrange the thing into the shape you'd like it to hold when dry. This is an opportunity to make small adjustments to the fit, including length or width of sleeves, curve of the shoulders, and so forth. A yard stick is useful for making sure that you keep the hem even, the sleeves the same length, and so forth.

The yard stick is also useful for beating back inquisitive pets, curious children, or nosy adults.

Let it dry. You may set a cool fan to play on it in order to hasten the process. But just leave it alone. Leave it! Walk away. Go!

When it's absolutely bone dry, put it on the recipient and have a fashion show.



I think Abigail loves her jacket. I hope Nana's proud.

Color

Sorry to have been silent. After a month of much travel and more than a little work, my body rebelled and collapsed. So I've kept still. Keeping still is, I have learned, the surest cure for whatever ails me.

It's sad that stillness is so out of fashion these days. Exhausted is where it's at. The way some ancient cultures made a personal display of their material wealth, today we're expected to festoon ourselves with anxiety brought on by careers, children, politics. I was privy to a conversation recently in which someone said he didn't trust anybody who looked relaxed in this day and age, because that person was clearly out of touch with the world.

So be it. I spent the first three decades of my life struggling to be a serious, engaged person. It was highly unpleasant, both for me and for those who had to deal with me. I endeavor daily to become less mature.

You can see some of it in how I dress.

I spent my college years and quite a bit of time after living in Boston, land of earth tones. I will never forget the first time I strolled through the Back Bay wearing my first biker jacket. People stared. People pointed–and not out of admiration. It was then that I realized I was not, and was never going to be, a real Bostonian. It only took me eleven years. I'm often slow on the uptake.

Chicago is a great deal less concerned with how one dresses, which has allowed me gradually to reclaim the things I set aside when I went to college. Color is chief among them.

Not that I walk around Lakeview in a purple beret and a pink ascot. One has one's limits, and you can't undo the habits of a decade in an eyeblink. I have fifteen identical plain, black t-shirts in the closet. But more and more stuff is turning up like the green socks. Oh, those green socks. They truly were buds heralding the arrival of spring. In my case, a long overdue spring.

Still, when Beth Casey of Lorna's Laces suggested that I be part of her new "Color Commentary" series, I had to laugh. "Color Commentary" is a line of colorways designed by and named for bloggers. I'm in high company. Grumperina was first, and coming down the pike for the next several months will be many others, all far more notable than I.

My first thought was that five shades of black would not make for a particularly fun skein, except perhaps among the Goth Knit set–and I wouldn't want Zabet and friends to think I'm trying to muscle in on their territory.

I looked around the apartment and through my "design morgue" of inspiring stuff (postcards, magazine clippings, etcetera) and realized that William Morris's palette is the one that really makes my head spin. On the outside, I'm wearing black; but in my heart I truly am a greenery-yallery, Grosvenor Gallery sort of fellow.

So after much fooling about in the dye pots Beth took my favorite Morris wallpaper, Pimpernel,



and arranged the key tones into a colorway that works in Lorna's Laces skein.

Ladies and gents, for your consideration I present "Franklin's Panopticon."



Ahem. Sorry about that. Her modeling gig was part of the deal.

Another, less exuberant view:



I'm in the midst of knitting a small garment for a small person with two skeins of the Shepherd Worsted, and so far I like the way the colors play together in stockinette.



You can get it in sock, worsted and lace weights from Lorna's Laces retailers both traditional and online. I'll show you soon what I'm making out of the dreamy Shepherd Worsted.

Once I dreamed of being a playwright and having a theater named after me. Instead I became a knitter and there's a colorway named after me.

This is better.

O Canada

When I was a little kid, my mother's parents lived in Detroit, Michigan. Detroit is, of course, mere spitting distance from the Canadian border. I thought that was fascinating. There was sign: BRIDGE TO CANADA. Grandma's American television caught Canadian broadcast signals; I became quite a fan of "Mr Dress Up." In any handful of change, you were bound turn up a Canadian penny with a picture of an honest-to-goodness queen on it.*

It was all impossibly exotic and alluring and I wanted desperately to go visit the strange (and reputedly very tidy) country just a few minutes away. We never did.

I finally saw it in person for about an hour when I was sixteen. My family, including our dog, had been on the road in a van for a month, driving from California to our new Air Force assignment in upstate New York. We made a brief detour north to look at Niagara Falls. They were wet.

But now I've really been to Canada, and really met Canadians. All the good stuff you've heard is true. In fact, there's a lot of good stuff you haven't even heard about because the entire country is way too modest. Or maybe they just don't want the Americans to know, for fear we'll move up there en masse. Heaven knows I was tempted to stay.

I remarked several times that as an American I found it relaxing to spend a bit of time in a country that is not concerned with what Mrs McCain thinks, if she can be said to think, of Mrs Obama; that has long been accustomed to high gasoline prices; and that is not suffering what honestly feels like a new natural, political, or economic trauma on a daily basis.

I found it positively titillating to walk down the street in country where I could, theoretically, get married. Not domestically partnered or unionistically recognized or surreptitiously blessed but actually married. Mind you, my heart's rather spoken for at present and no proposals were forthcoming; but it was exciting to be so close to the action.

The reason for the visit was, of course, for a 1,000 Knitters shoot at Toronto's own, dear Lettuce Knit.

Lettuce Knit surprised me. It's located in Kensington Market, a divinely scruffy neighborhood full of artists who put their mark on everything in sight, from the sidewalks to the rooftops. The shop itself is tiny. Somehow, given the reputation, I'd expected room after room. No. Two tiny, packed show rooms in a Victorian row house, with gorgeous yarn spilling right over the threshold and onto the front steps. Behind these, a small kitchen/storage room with access to a back garden. Nothing more.



I had come to shoot in this remarkable location thanks to the creative thinking and beneficence of two right-on women, Rachel H and Stephanie Pearl-McPhee. The latter writes a pretty good blog. You should check it out some time.

They enlisted the help of their friends to make everything work, and work it did. I owe enormous special thanks to these six folks.



Top row left to right: Rachel H, whose talent for planning is such that she could arrange world peace by next Tuesday, given the opportunity; Denny, who is...forget it, I'm not going to try to describe Denny; Megan, who owns Lettuce Knit but let us play with it for a whole day.

Bottom row left to right: Juno, whom I long have admired from afar and now know is even wiser and funnier in person; Ken, who kindly housed me during my visit and also made sure I got from Point A to Point B without wandering into the woods; and Stephanie, who as I mentioned before is a blogger of some note. [Note to self: I think she writes books, too. Double-check before posting.]

They had planned everything so well that all I had to do was show up. Ken understood my neurotic need to always arrive early and we got to Kensington Market in time to savor the local cocoa.



(I don't drink coffee, which puzzled the natives. When they found out I also don't drink beer, several heads exploded.) Ken's working with some of that new Noro sock yarn, which I have not yet tried but feel I soon must.

No sooner had we opened the doors than the knitters began arriving and the scarf, which already took up a quarter of my large suitcase, began growing again.



In this batch, there are a few folks you might know including Debbie New (second row, center) and Amy Singer (fourth row, right). Debbie, whose previous knitting projects include a lace boat (you don't believe me? read the book), spent the time before her portrait knitting a windmill. That's what she said, a windmill. Amy, who is famously allergic to wool, graciously donned gloves so that she could work with the same yarn as everybody else.

The steady stream of knitters never slowed. Stephanie made sure I paused between sitters to have a bite of this or that, knowing full well that left to my own devices I would eat nothing and die. Every so often, I would hear screams from the front of the store as Rachel and Denny drew the winners of hourly prizes. Two winners got sock yarn in a colorway I'm particularly excited about...more on that later, though.



In the sampling above, the second row from left to right shows Stephanie's daughters Sam and Meg, and their charming friend Maddie. Stephanie's friend Rams (third row, left) showed up all the way from America as a surprise, and brought along her lovely pal Vicki (third row, center). Just below Rams is the delightful Fiona Ellis, who I hear writes books. So prolific, these Canadians. Must be nothing else to do in the winter.

And we had an American writer on hand–Leigh Witchel, who took notes and is writing up the day for Vogue Knitting. Leigh is a friend of mine, based in New York, who has been trying to get into the series forever. But I was away when he came to Chicago; he was away when I came to the East Coast. We missed each other just slightly in California and Pennyslvania. Finally, we intersected in Toronto.



If that doesn't confirm Toronto's reputation as Knitting Crossroads of the World, I don't know what could.

By the end of the day I was flying on adrenaline and cupcakes, and got everybody who was still hanging around to do something I've not done before: try on the scarf. All at once.



How could I not have enjoyed a day with that lot?

Usually the morning after a shoot I fly home, but this time I got a bonus day to spend with Stephanie, Juno, Rams, and Vicki; and in the evening Ken, Rachel H, and Steph's whole family. Aside from getting hassled by a roving mariachi gang (I'm serious) it was a perfect way to ease down from the high and prepare myself for re-entry.

It's always good to come home, but part of my heart's up there in Canada. I think I left it behind the Chesterfield at Stephanie's hoose.

*American money has a portrait of a queen, too, but only on the ten dollar bill.