My sister-in-law asked two days ago if we were enjoying everything.
?? Enjoying what?
Today the doorbell rang: it was the truck driver she’d been expecting to arrive here. All those pictures she’d taken last year, all that inventorying, all those ranked choices between the siblings, the conference calls–she was looking forward to all that work on our behalf paying off for us.
Boxes and boxes and boxes and I’d had no real idea.
The soft but entirely synthetic afghan, so not my thing but made the way my allergic mother-in-law had asked for. I was just at the very start of teaching myself to knit lace at the time–there was no such thing as online knitting anything other than this still-new little group called the Knitlist.
But then the Barbara Walker books came back into print.
I stretched it out and looked it over, quite pleased: I did a good job with that, and that was actually really nice yarn.
I have grandkids coming in two days and my living room was stacked high with moving boxes and I wanted them out of there. Books, quilts, old cameras. An electric can opener! Something we’ve never bothered to buy, but it would be nice and now we have one. The yellowing plastic dated it to, I dunno, around the time we got married? Things lasted then, and so have we.
Richard was surprised at my surprise: everybody knows those work, right? Of course they hold water!
How?!
You’re the fiber artist, you tell me!
Me, slightly bug-eyed, feeling that rough fabric: it was tightly woven, but. Uh… No. Just no.
But the thing does say it’s patented, so? If we believe hard enough? Or something.
It’s got to be waxed on the inside. Surely. Right, so I don’t need to make myself have to try to figure out how to dry it back out.
Where on earth do I put such a thing?