I had a post in mind to write today, but then I read Stephanie’s. Go read yarnharlot.ca if you haven’t yet. Beignets and bottle trees–that is the best-written piece on New Orleans I have ever read. Absolutely essential. And boy did it bring back memories: I will try to add some old pictures in when the technical help in the household is around. I loved the place.

I was 16, my little sister was 15. We had had a fabulous dinner at the Commodore Inn, where the cute waiter actually flirted with me, which, when you’re 16, is totally and dizzily mindblowing. We were staying in the French Quarter.

After dinner, Dad told us, “Come on, girls, I want to show you where jazz was born.” We started walking along Bourbon Street. There was a street musician sitting at a corner, playing a jazzy tune, smiling and nodding to us as we went by, including us in in his fine summer evening.

Being a good little Mormon girl, I knew nothing of the culture of the bar scene, so when I saw one door that was right up against the pedestrian-only street with a sign saying, “No Cover,” I opened my mouth to ask Dad what that meant. Just then the door was thrown open and a girl stumbled out, fast. I looked at her and what popped out of my mouth instead was, “Dad. The sign’s right.”

My father, boulevers’e with embarrassment at exposing his teenage daughters to more than he’d expected, wheeled around on the spot and pronounced emphatically, “I think you’ve seen enough of where jazz was born!”

So, having been successful with the niece’s sweater, I went back to the dyepot. There was a cashmere turtleneck the color of a dustbunny, so I threw some purple at it. This was the first try:

Now, can you just picture yourself bounding out of bed in the morning, eager to start a new day full of verve and vigor, glad the weather’s cooling because at last you get to wear that fabulous sweater?

Yeah, me neither.  Even the birds ignored it.  Try again.

Okay, that’s better.

I kept hearing a woodpecker today, and couldn’t quite find it. Whether it was ringing the apple trees or trying to insert acorns in our foam roof, I’m not sure.

A few years ago, one of my daughters’ friends handed down a cashmere T that her mom had bought her. When you are a teen, it is the kiss of death to an article of clothing to have your Mom pick it out, even if it’s something you instantly would have snatched up if you’d seen it first.  No, to the moms, it’s not fair.  And yes it is–you did it to your mom too.  So. It ended up over here, and neither of my girls really wanted it either.

I was talking to my brother three days ago, and he laughed at my wondering out loud if I could shrink it enough to make it fit his small daughter: “That would take a lot of washings and dryings!”

Hey. Issue me a challenge like that. Guess what I did. But then, it all came back down to that color. If I were to describe what it was, it would be something like a three-year-old wailing to their mommy that they’d dropped their ice cream cone in the dirt. I went through my stash of dyes, telling them to inspire me. The pink did.

I set it outside to dry when I was done, hoping to beat the 5:00 post office closing. I almost made it, too–but the funny thing was the bird that came at it while it was out there. I grabbed the camera, but it could fly faster than I can point.

Now, Stephanie has her squirrel nemesis (her yarnharlot.ca post today had me in tears, it was so funny. Who was that masked bandit?) For me, it’s the birds. Fer cryin’ out loud, it’s not even nesting season! Is it the wet wool smell that first catches their attention? The colors? If you’ve read my book, you know they like blue. They do seem pretty omnicoloriverous. I once found a bird’s nest on our roof: old brown twigs and dead leaves impressively artfully woven with fuschia-pink wool for their chicks’ nursery. (Hey, lady, mind putting some blue outside next time, too?)

So of course I had to let Nancy’s penguin peck out a few keys on the piano with it.

Happy birthday, Patricia! I used the orange background in your honor. And happy first birthday to my blog. Shall we make a wish together and blow out the smoking knitting needles?

Note to anyone who’s ever gotten something knitted from me: moth holes happen. Ergo, I figure the way most likely to be successful in getting someone a leftover strand of matching yarn, however much later, is to have it be there in the first place. Thus, I weave the beginning long-tail yarn end all the way across the back of the first row, if it’s a scarf, or, if it’s a circular shawl, across the bottom of the shawl after the cast-off before breaking the yarn. I find, when I’m doing the cast-on tail in, that that is one of those times it helps to be someone who knits by grabbing the yarn each stitch: I work four fingers at a time on the right hand to grab and flip it while knitting. My left hand mostly works to keep both needles held in place. Mozart in merino.  I also use a sewing needle and work the ending strand over the back of the cast-off row on a scarf or stole, so it has two lengths there for repairs.

All those years, my folks thought they were paying for piano lessons.

When there’s a huge push to get a project done fast, and you do it and you succeed, somehow for a little while after that, other projects feel almost like a letdown for a day or two.  I picked up Johnna’s shawl–c’mon, let’s get going again–and saw I had 1000 stitches to have to rip out, that there was a botch back there and just too big a botch to fudge it gracefully.  You know, I honestly don’t usually have this sort of problem!  Eh.  But that’s the good side of knitting: you can always re-create it to the way that you demand that it live up to.

Meantime, the Fleece Artist Sea Wool  is singing a sheepy mermaid song to entice me to jump in.   I find the kelp content is good for the merino as well as their Sea silk: I wish you could see it in person, ooh, doesn’t this feel wonderful.  My apologies to the sock knitters out there, and I do love handknitted socks, but there’s no way I’m turning this into footwear when it could be beautifully draped across a friend’s back.

Okay, that did it, I think I’ve got my knitting momentum back.

So. Sunday night we got an email from Dave, familiar to those who’ve read my book as Dave-and-Wanda Dave. He was going to be in northern California on business and wondered if he could stop by Thursday night for a visit on his way back to the airport? Well YEAH! I asked him if he would mind going and asking Wanda her favorite color?

Note that the original shawl I knitted for her was in a color that was a total guess on my part. Blue is a pretty safe bet for most people, but there are all kinds of blues. White would have been good, too, but at that particular point in my life I couldn’t bear to knit any more white stitches for awhile.

Purple, he emailed back a few minutes later.

I did not have enough purple yarn in the right weight. And every single store in the Bay Area that sells Blue Sky Alpacas AlpacaSilk (which is an exquisite yarn) was going to be closed Monday. Every one. My stash and I were on our own.

I had some lightweight baby alpaca and what was once a full pound of Jaggerspun Zephyr silk/merino (thanks to my friend Karin, who used to own The Periwinkle Sheep.) Together, those would give me close to the same weight, and I could dye it when I was done. I did have purple dye in the stash. And so, as I blogged, the race was on.

I showed a picture of some of those rows I frogged. What I didn’t say was that after that I made another brainless mistake and had to frog it again. So I started 11 pm Sunday night, but in effect I might as well have started Monday.

I alternated knitting with icing my hands and was able to keep on going, hour after hour, Monday all day, Tuesday all day, then Wednesday I was the speaker at a lupus support group meeting and didn’t get to my needles till mid-afternoon. At about 7:30 pm the shawl came out of the dyepot.

I figure, Wanda knew what I was up to the moment she was telling Dave purple. And that’s fine. I love the way the silk in the Zephyr took up the dye a little more slowly, and so came out a little lighter than the baby alpaca and the merino fibers: it shimmers against them. I love it. White is nice, but purpleifying it brought out the best in it.

And I got to give it to him in person. That is SO cool.

(Now, did anyone get my visual pun on that metronome? Given what Dave did for us in the story I wrote in the book, I had to reference the piano while anticipating his coming.)

The clock is ticking…

By the sweat of thy brow

Shalt thou eat thy bread? (sorry dinner was late, hon…)

All the dyes of thy life.

Posted with permission.

There are times when no gesture you can think of is enough, but you have to
do something. Something.

And so it was that I sent off that copy of “Don’t Let the Turkeys Get You
Down,” along with a baby alpaca shawl. (What? You think I wouldn’t send
some knitting with it? Now hey, come on.) It seemed utterly inadequate,
especially the book, butttt… If there was any chance I could get her to
laugh…

Her group works on contract, and they were nearing the end of their contract year.
Her boss wanted everyone to put in the kind of workweek that medical
residents do, to try to make themselves valuable so they would get renewed.

Only one problem with that for her: Saturday a week ago, she was the victim
of a violent crime. Tuesday, she was out of the hospital to show up in court
so the judge would not grant bail. (He was going to; he saw her there
and changed his mind.) And Monday, got a restraining order, just in case.

Meantime, I had that package flying to her. A guy with a knife is a heck of
a lot more than a turkey, my stars, but it’s what I had.

Now, that thing should have arrived sooner for what I spent on postage,
but–somehow, things work out. Today, she got laid off and told to clean
out her desk. She had fully expected to be continuing there.

And came home, and there was that package at last. Don’t let the turkeys
get you down, hon. She told me she cried…and, somehow, through it all,
looking at those silly Sandra Boynton turkeys, she laughed. And cried some
more. And wrapped herself in a long-distance alpaca-knit hug from her friend and smiled.  (She added that last sentence.)

If you ever think the gesture you’re thinking of isn’t enough, know that
sometimes you’ll never know. But the message in the trying is important
enough to put yourself out there and offer the effort.

Meantime, the knitting continues with the occasional break.

The first full pattern repeat of four and a half I plan to do in the bottom section is nearly finished. Note that this morning I had barely begun–I was at row 14 at 72 stitches. For anybody who might ever think my shawls look like they take too long to do… (Note, though, that I have no toddlers yanking my needles out of the stitches, bosses intruding on my time, nor cats batting at the yarn.)

Okay, back to work!

Sometimes you suddenly need a project knitted yesterday.  I figure this is going to take me about seven hours of knitting a day to get done in time.  What am I waiting for!  And yes, this picture means that 1,2,3,4,5 does not add up to 6 and, since that meant missed yarnovers and thereby more stitches absent than just the one, I gave up and had to rip out three rows to make it look right.  Argh.  I am not good at reading email and knitting at the same time.  Turn on the Michael Brecker jazz to get some quick rhythm going into those stitches, and I’m off!

So, we got an enrollment option form from the company my husband works for.  Longterm care benefits to cover us and our four parents (who are all close to or over 80)  for five years for under $20/month total?  No having to prove we’re healthy enough to sign up if we do it right now?  Hey.

And then the conversation went to being about me.  I tried to deflect it.  Dontwannagothere.   The coverage could be done at home or in a facility, and I was asking, you wouldn’t want that five year clock to start ticking while you could still take care of things at home, would you?

“Yes, but c’mon, where would you rather be living if you could?”

I smiled at him… (wait for it…)   And then, with a look of utter innocence, answered him sweetly (along with a ‘you-so-set-yourself-up-for-this’ grin), “Why, where my yarn is.  Of course!”

Usually, I like to surprise someone, but in this case, my friend K needs to know right now that I’m thinking of her. So while this is in postal transit, here’s a photo and something for her to look forward to. From Sandra Boynton, of the “Hippo Birdies Two Ewes” famous birthday card. I would have sent Boynton’s “Chocolate: The Consuming Passion,” the funniest little book on the planet, but I think K already has it.

Because sometimes you just need a good laugh in the middle of… (Well, K knows.) And a friend’s arm around you. This is the fastest I could reach over there for right now.

A box? I didn’t order any… To “Author Alison Hyde.” Return address simply Mountain Valley Growers. Huh?

Opening it up, I found every variety of mint plant you ever thought of, plus marjoram and oregano, a little Italian seasoning on the side. It was from my daughter and son-in-law in Vermont as a congratulations on the success of my “Wrapped in Comfort” book–put these to grow under the skylights in the bathroom or out in the garden, and make a mint!

Okay, our husbands think we’re weird, but that daughter and I like to rinse mint leaves and dip them in sugar for a snack (do NOT tell my diabetic brother that–oh, wait, hi, Bryan, she whistled innocently…) I will definitely put these in pots, though, rather than letting them run around willy-nilly–mint plants take over every molecule of space they can reach, they’re like bamboo that way. I will concede that that is good if you keep enough sugar on hand, but when the mint might knock on the door to nicely but emphatically demand that you buy the house next door and tear it down so that it has enough room to spread out comfortably in, well, the neighbors might take exception to that. I watered them after opening the box, and even the one that looked dead was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed a few hours later.

Pop question, who was the political figure in DC who archly declared that they were “not a potted plant”? Did they really mint that the way it sounded?

And by the way, did I mention that one of these is a Chocolate Mint plant? Bring on the Green and Black’s. Very cool. Thank you, Jennie and Jonathan!

I got a good start on Johnna’s shawl.  At the 48-stitch point, I thought, you know, better count those…  But why?  C’mon, I know I did those increases right, it’s not like this is rocket science!  I did a brief check without paying enough attention to the doubled strands, which of course tend to tangle stitches over each other on the needles if you’re being in a careless hurry.  It went past 48, and I just figured I hadn’t been paying attention anyway, so I must have missed a stitch or two in my hurry.  Eh.  Whatever.  I went merrily on.

It wasn’t till I hit what was supposed to be 193 stitches, and had 204 (still didn’t know that) so that the  new pattern section came out totally hashed, that I found out what I’d done: I’d cast on with 13 instead of 12.  Wayyy back there at the beginning.  I frogged just a bit, trying to finagle it, which is the point at which I snapped this shot, and then started knitting it again.  Stopped, looked at it, realized how bad my fudging job looked, and finally gave in to the inevitable and frogged all the way back down to the cast on.

One simple single stitch, all by itself.  Just one.  One quarter of an inch, max.  And everything built on top of that, over and over and over, until the whole thing was way over in left field.   All I had had to do was stop and take a full accounting of where I was going, while I was so sure I knew what I was doing that I ignored my inner gut check and kept right on, thinking I was following the instructions.

I love the way knitting gives occasional life metaphors.  I also love the fact that when it doesn’t work out right, you can rip the thing all the way back to the beginning, painful though it may be, and start fresh.

You should see it now.  More pictures later as there’s more and more to show off.