Well, I had plenty of earth tones but almost no water tones and so the water tones arrived yesterday to, y’know, help me use up those earth tones and I wound and scoured all six new cones today and they came out so soft and I was going to show them off, all lined up in order.

Hopefully tomorrow my creaky old iPhone will let the photo escape. (It did, here you go.) Anyway, I have a good idea/I have no bleeping idea how I’m going to pull this next big project off but it is absolutely demanding that I do so and chomping at the bit.

And who am I to argue with a good yarn.

Speckles, he said, a little surprised. You don’t normally like speckles.

I looked at him funny, and answered, Since when?

It was just a thing he thought I didn’t like.

Now, for a little context, there was a beaded gerdan by a Ukrainian artist I adore where she made the water lapping the shore below the lighthouse and seagull become the hair of the Lady of the Sea, sunflowers alongside. Gorgeous (and very expensive, as an original work of art should be. Look at the detail on that beadweaving!) I couldn’t quite place what it was but something about it didn’t quite…

…Till I mentioned about it to him. To which he said, You never wear a face.

He was right. I had never quite put my finger on that feeling but he totally had and it was one of those moments where he knew me better than I did. He was right. He was right. It kind of blew me away.

Clearly he expected to nail this one as successfully but I was like, Nope nope nope nope nope.

And ever since that conversation at dinner my brain’s been going, I mean, you’ll never see me wearing calico, and canvasing the inner opinion I’d say Jackson Pollock neither for that matter, but a hat? Honey. As the late great Elizabeth Zimmerman said (and it is proven especially true the last day of this month every year), People will put anything on their heads.

I can handle speckles. Granted, I do plan to fob it off on the first victim to willingly cross its path.

Actually, I still adore that gerdan. If I were ever to change my feelings on the face thing, at least as a one-timer, that would be why. My art dealer dad would totally have understood.

—

I’m going to add a note here that I’m following the war in Israel carefully, in addition now to the one in Ukraine, and praying hard.

I found it! The yarn that I bought at Stitches West 2019 from this vendor! Slightly darker than mine. It would make a fabulous pair of socks at $20 on closeout. I used the first half of Ostrich Plumes lace for my rainbow effect, because as a lace stole what else could it be.

I didn’t run the end in because I didn’t cut it off because I wanted to have the option of trying it on again and maybe adding just a few last repeats. Again. But at about 16×76″, I think that’ll do.

I was idly wondering: you know, I’ve never knit a hat entirely in ribbing from a skein of Mecha. Ribbing eats yardage (plus it’s twice the motion spent per stitch and I like doing stockinette more) and I was never jumping at the chance to spend two for the outcome of one.

My right hand is still requiring enough breaks in the knitting from that tumble that I only got this much done but I’m thinking the answer is yes, it will be enough.

Did some of this standing in line at the pharmacy; got a few “wish I could spend this waiting time getting something done, too” looks.

Still need to find out if there will be much of a fold to the brim.

Now that I have you totally on the edge of your seat I’ll just have to finish it tomorrow.

Scene: a Saturday at church about twenty-five years ago. Our son was playing basketball; the teams were a way of getting kids from different wards to meet each other.

I was cheering him on when I suddenly realized that I was, yes I was, I was actually seeing it: a teenage girl over there was watching the boys going up and down the court. She had a small gun in her hands pointed at the opposing team as they moved. Including my son.

She was big, I was not, and my immediate instinct was to note the tall older dad with the deep voice who was in the building and I quietly got up, ran once I was out of her sight, and explained what was going on.

I didn’t know him well but I knew enough to expect him to be unflappable but firm, and he was. Given that I’d just ratted her out I stayed well out of her sight so he came and found me to tell me how it had gone.

You cannot bring a gun in the church. It needs to leave.

It’s not a church! It’s a gym!

This is a private church and guns are not allowed. It needs to leave.

She huffed and puffed angrily as denied teens do and then left.

I have been grateful for his courage and help ever since.

When we were flying home from the funeral three weeks ago, who should be at the window seat of our row but him! Truly it was a delight.

Except, after 36 years of our being familiar faces, he clearly had no idea who we were.

I named his daughter, to his slow-motion recognition and then delight and we had a little bit of a conversation at last, but he seemed uncertain of himself and it seemed kinder to offer his family my regards and require no more of this good man in his (it surprised me) old age.

It had made him happy that a stranger spoke well of his daughter, and that is enough.

I started this at my daughter’s in April; it’s the one where Mathias looked over from his Legos at the first few inches and pronounced, That’s pretty, Grammy.

I worked on it a lot while waiting for some of the yarn to come for Carolyn’s afghan, knowing which one would take priority the moment it did–especially given the fact that slippery silk/merino laceweight is not my favorite to work with, though I love how it turns out.

I got back to it yesterday, and again some today. It’s ~65″ long.

I have more yarn. Part of me thinks, it’s past my fingertips and that’s long enough, call it my Aftober project now, done, and part of me thinks, why not use up the yarn, and part of me thinks maybe I settled the argument when I went sprawling on the pebbled walkway at 5:00 and a gallon of milk went flying left and another gallon flew right right out of my hands. (Somehow they didn’t burst. Go Trader Joe’s.)

Richard in his astonishment watching helplessly could only come up with an amazed, Did you cut the corner?! (There are azaleas in the way, you can’t.)

No, I took my eyes off my feet because I was looking at you and hit the wood edging at the corner and went sprawling.

Oh. Don’t do that.

The Etsy vendor in Washington State who’d just made the corduroy skirt I was wearing for the first time assured me she does have more of that fabric.

It does go nicely with that scarf.

Which is backing away slowly….

(Edited to add in the morning: I don’t know if the milk jugs took the initial impact? But my hands and wrists are fine. Yay!)

Two texts from me:

Your mail is here.

(There.)

She wasn’t home and was utterly baffled as to why I would be saying that. (She reassured me afterwards that the box was pretty safe where it had been left.)

First, as she opened the box, a pack of three soft thick wool socks with a post-it note attached: Toenail guards. Please use. (Yeah, they said Last One when I bought a set for me previous to that. They say men’s, but they’re not too big on my feet after running through the hand wash cycle on the machine so I knew they’d be okay, maybe even for both of them.)

Then a Lands End zipped medium tote bag, and inside that, a ziplocked…

And below all that, several sheets of paper from different stages of plotting how I was going to knit this with a post-it note on each describing the journey. Including one sketch I liked but didn’t use after discussing how to get the the angle of the side of the house within the stitch count I had: “Don’t try for perspective, Mom, do it head-on.” And so I had.

Carolyn was absolutely blown away. She told me she had never been so surprised in her life.

And later that of course I could use her picture.

It is finally, finally in its natural habitat, where it looks the best it ever has. It has at long last come home.

Scene: New Hampshire. We were at a party at a friend’s house. Our first child was old enough to walk but not old enough yet to talk.

Music greeted the guests on entering, and soon Larry was taking a bunch of us to the living room to show off his very nice new stereo system while talking about how powerful it was. He was very happy with it.

Then it was on to some other topic and we all moved into the next room for a moment.

Which is when Sam decided she wasn’t done exploring what she’d just seen and toddled straight towards the enticing knobs and buttons the moment our eyes were off her. They were right at her height.

It felt like a physical wall of sound. Everybody else was just standing there gobsmacked at the sudden volume and what had just happened and not wanting to get any closer, so it wasn’t hard to be the first one to get to it to try to turn it down.

Finding the volume button when you’re in a bit of a panic takes longer and it was impossible to shout over that to ask.

The universal shoulder slump of relief at my success!

Gotta hand it to you, Larry, you’re right, we’ve never heard a sound system like that.

(Conversation just now: Did Larry have one of the very first CD players? Or did they come out the next year? Him: I don’t remember. But it would have been if they were, because, Larry. Me, Googling: First sold in the US in early 1983. Yeah, it probably was.)

That all was brought back to mind by the best political line of the day: “If you turn your base up too high you’ll blow out your Speaker.”

Actually, the good ones hold up to just about anything.

Me, yesterday, looking at the state’s update of where the new covid booster was currently available: Man. This is like when the original shot came out, where you have to get out of the blue areas to find any and the pharmacy chains haven’t improved their user interface one iota. Anyway, (it was almost not a question) you want to go up to Santa Rosa?

He gave me The Look. We were both remembering that day trip to get him his first shot in Antioch two years ago and that’s what that would be like all over again. How about we not.

I looked again today because I also learned last time that persistence pays off.

A small mom and pop pharmacy in Newark had just gotten some in. Openings today. Across the Bay and before rush hour gets too bad.

About an hour later we were hopping in the car for our appointments.

They had four chairs set up for giving the shots and the obligatory 15 minute observation afterwards–that was all the space they had. Clearly we weren’t the only ones who had found them and those chairs were filled, one right after another.

Afterward, given that the effects were likely to wipe me out the next day, when we got home I quickly threw together the long-anticipated package with the afghan to the post office a little before closing.

An aside here to Margo Lynn: Yes, that too. Caught the clerk ringing it up as New Jersey and got him to correct that real quick.

I drove away from there wanting to shout, I DID IT I DID IT I DID IT I DID IT!!!

It’s not enough to make the thing–you have to get it to its owner. They are on their ways now towards a sorting facility.

I think I’ll turn in a bit early…

I have had cheap Panasonic microwaves for years and years. They’re familiar. They look decent. They hold a big plate without taking up as much counter space as some. They’re fast. They cook evenly enough, and Wirecutter praised them for that, and you can find them anywhere when you suddenly need a new one.

Which you do, is the problem. Often.

I once came home from Stitches so exhausted that I broke the glass turntable and found out that replacing it cost almost as much as simply ditching the entire thing–and so each time I replaced the oven I would hold onto the previous turntable. Since that one was already paid for.

Bought the same one as ever as far as I could tell last time, and they’d changed the turntable size. Out with the old.

Thirteen months. Eleven months. They just kept dying. Maddening. Just inside warranty (but in the middle of covid lockdown), just outside warranty. I know the way to extend a microwave’s life is to keep it clean, and out of sheer I’ll-show-you! towards that company I did. Then they changed the interior from visible to dark taupe grey plastic that aging eyes couldn’t see the splatters in. Fine, I’ll clean it blind then.

Yesterday the latest one died. Brand new, its door had refused to open till the fourth or fifth try, but over time it had allowed me to get it on the second or even first try pushing in on the thing: my feral cat was getting almost friendly.

And then suddenly it was nothing but a 20x15x12″ digital clock.

Did I mention the lower one of our double oven died last week.

Lots of time got spent today hunting down descriptions, reviews, etc, but when I read Wirecutter praising Panasonic it was my moment of truth: I will never ever buy another one from them. I’m done.

I wanted to have one that I would actually want to have, whatever it might be. I wanted one that was expected to last, I wanted one that *would* last. I checked with Richard, I price-checked.

And then I spent $16 more than Amazon to buy it locally and came home with a Breville Combi Wave 3 in 1. Microwave, air fryer, convection, with a learning curve ahead.

The interior is chrome. You can see in there!

The door is soft close and self-closing and quiet. Quiet doors rah rah rah! in the company’s descriptions and I thought, yeah? So what?

Ohhh. That’s what. Huh. I had no idea that could be something I would enjoy so much.

My justification to myself is that it could help cover the baking, especially to tide me over if the upper oven starts having problems heating up too, and that I finally have an air fryer. But most of all: that it will be no more money than if I’d bought a string of one-year models again and a lot less electronic waste. Cross your fingers.

I got it in the house, then as his work day ended it was his back’s turn and he got it out of the box and onto the counter. It was gorgeous. I tested it with a bowl of broccoli. The display asked for the approximate weight and category of veggie and auto-cooked it on high for 2 min 36 seconds. I went in the other room–and heard the ‘it’s done’. *I* heard it. And it wasn’t even an obnoxious sound to get that to happen, and you can change the volume up or down or off entirely.

Someone really knew what they were doing on that one.

There’s just one thing that made me want to wince/laugh and ohmygosh! in horror. (Pushing me to go find this article referencing Breville’s quality controls that made me feel better about it.)

The turntable. It was the same bleeping turntable. The most-recent Panasonic one that hadn’t fit the previous Panasonic fit right in that Breville should I ever need a backup.

Four years, to prove me right in springing for this. That’s all I ask.

I can hear it!!!

I knitted the ribbing of the next big afghan project and wanted to dive right into the colorwork. But given that I haven’t even sketched the ideas out, bad as my drawing skills are… I thought maybe I should tell myself I wasn’t quite ready?

Conference sessions called for brainless knits anyway, so I pulled out a long-stalled hat. It’s the usual Malabrigo Mecha but it’s the only skein of it I’ve ever seen that was a mess. Wads and straggles, but at least no breaks.

And yet. It could be the hat it was a few inches towards; I just had to want it to. I didn’t want to. I didn’t even love the colors in the first place, though surely someone out there would.

I picked up those needles (I wanted it off them) and…sat down and made it work. Some kluging was involved (sudden thought: doing a Russian join seems an awkward term to my ears these days. Ukrainian? Who knows where it actually came from?) The hanging-by-a-thread part is now nestled inside a nice soft wad, which got stretched a little first. In the end I got a perfectly fine plain soft washable wool beanie that has nothing wrong with it and that someone out there is going to love.

I finished it. I even ran the ends in, specifically because it was the first day of Aftober, the annual get-out-there-and-finish-something-that’s-been-lagging month named after Afton, who started the tradition.

Although. More and more I’m thinking, you know? It’s not really done. Not till it’s found its person. Because that was always the point.

I had this old Ashford Traditional spinning wheel that I’d bought used 30 years ago.

My tall older son in his teens walked across the family room in the dark because he didn’t want to turn on the light that would shine in his sister’s room and wake her up–and tripped over the wheel, his size 13 shoe breaking the maiden (the assembly above the wheel itself) and his tumbling leaving the rest slightly off kilter.

He said he was okay. I said that’s what matters.

I had been using that wheel for Colonial Days history demos at the elementary schools’ fifth grade classrooms and it was known around campus, and so another parent, an acquaintance but trying to help, heard about it and offered to repair it. He unscrewed the maiden (that phrase took a turn later) from the body of the wheel and he took it home and it took me several years to find out that the reason he didn’t just give it back when I finally asked was that it was lost in his garage somewhere. I was later told that that was not the only mistake he was making; I can just picture his ex discovering a what-the-hell in a box somewhere and pitching it.

Meantime, I’d spent the painful $125 that it cost at the time–more than half of an entire new wheel with bobbins, second guessing myself all the way but an extra hundred bucks is a hundred bucks–and bought a new maiden.

And a dear friend’s husband offered to assemble it onto my wheel for me. She’s a knitter and spinner and he got how passionate we are about what we do; he wanted so much to help.

He didn’t know that the uprights are not supposed to move. He set it up so that you twist one to help release the flyer. It’s damaged the wood, and the flyer tends to shake until it frees itself of the drive band and projectile vomits itself across the room.

Which is why you haven’t read much about the spin part of the spin dye knit thing here in a very long time.

Nor have I mentioned any of this to anybody in a very long time.

My friends Sand and Kaye, who were the owners of the much-missed Purlescence yarn/weaving/spinning store that closed about a dozen years ago, have been selling some of their old wheels of late. They are clearing out space–but also because of a serious injury. Sand is finding new channels for her creativity because she has to.

She reached out to me a few days ago. There was this beautiful Kiwi wheel they’d painted. It’s not finished. Finishing it now would be…problematic. Would I like it? She could throw in a Super Flyer if I wanted, though she’d have to charge me for it, but the wheel itself? Free. She really wanted it to go where it would be loved.

It is General Conference weekend for our church, with Saturday and Sunday sessions, but in between those we drove on down. I got to share hugs with my old friends. Oh, man, it had been so long, and with Stitches gone now…

Kaye brought out a box and I got it in the car and thanked her and we continued the conversation and I thought that’s all Sand and I were doing as Kaye disappeared–

–but this time she came back with this.

That’s a gorgeous wheel!! I exclaimed in surprise, and I guess my deafness had tripped me up because I didn’t get it, what were they doing with a second one–I said, You already put the box in the car!

That’s the accessories.

They’d gotten to see my reaction to their painting and just how blown away I was, and man that felt good.

I reminded them a bit about my old wheel and said, I’d almost offered to give you that one to sell–but I, I, didn’t want to inflict it on you.

They laughed.

I promised to send them a picture, and they can decide. There it is. Lovingly stained years ago by–Sand.

A few days ago, it kept looking like a bright red pair of Keds with white shoelaces.

Now it just needs a good daytime photo. And maybe another line under the scuffed-out-grass area so you can actually see it. Or maybe that’s just the bad photo.

It looked like an apple coddling moth and it could have come inside in one of the ones I picked from the tree. But you never know.

200F for 40 minutes or so, carefully only touching the pan. I don’t remember what temp damages super wash treatment for wools, though I know boiling does, but that’s not an issue with these yarns.

Opening the folds up, the center registered 147F a minute or two after I took it out. I let it cool, then carefully zip locked it away for now.

Doesn’t everybody bake their afghans?

While I finish the ribbing on the other side of the afghan…

For those who’ve read my book, the woman in the intro worked for many years at the Fish Market restaurant, which just closed because the land under it became too valuable to the landlord. That beautiful old building with all the carefully tended flowers will be replaced by high-rise housing.

There was an online auction yesterday, local pick-up only: own a piece of your memories.

So. Many. Steamer. Trays. Which makes sense. The glass partitions between sections with fish etchings in them–must bring own tools to dismantle from wall. Etc. There were somehow two and only two springform pans, and they looked like the ones I used for decades till they gave up the ghost and you can’t buy them quite like that anymore, so I made one bid. Oh well so much for that.

I had always wondered about the mounted fish on the walls. Most, turns out, were fake, but they went for pretty good money anyway.

But one. One was not fake.

Caught in 1987, the listing says.

It’s the head of a Great White Shark and presumably the buyer has to find a way to get its 3200 pounds off that wall and carry it home. Probably the only time one would be able to buy shark for $3.55 a pound.

I want to know, how is a taxidermied fish head 3200 pounds? How did they weigh it? How did they get it up there?

How did that wall hold up all these years, especially during the Loma Prieta quake!

Can you imagine sitting under that thing at 5:04 pm for dinner that October 17th?

The idea is just jaw-dropping.