I grew up in a contemporary house that doubled as an art gallery, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the woods out back for the natural light to flow over the paintings and the hand-dyed handwoven wool tapestries. I have always liked being surrounded by color.

So that’s my excuse.

Reading Franklin’s blog about the moment he decided he was going to knit himself lime-green socks if he felt like wearing lime green socks, so there, I was laughing, thinking, the umbrella hat!

It was maybe eight years ago. We had the kids back in Washington, DC visiting both sets of grandparents and playing tourist. All the things that were just simply there and taken for granted for my husband and me, growing up, were things new and unexplored to our kids. So. Time to go see the museums, look at the pandas, and ride the Metro with them.

We were standing in line at the US Mint, and it started to drizzle. We’ve lived in California long enough now to become stupid and forget to pack any rain gear. It doesn’t rain in summer here. Period. It rains October to April and then forgets how for six months, and when it does rain, it’s always ocean-fog cold. So here we were that July, we were starting to get rained on, which is no big deal, unless you happen to have several thousand dollars worth of electronics in your ears that you can’t get wet. I took my aids out and put them in my purse, but that meant being deaf until my hair dried again; it was too short to pull back, too long to keep off my ears. I would miss anything they might say on the mint tour if this kept up, and it clearly was only going to rain harder. Great.

Just then I noticed that the street vendor hawking his wares to his captive audience in that line, standing a little forward from us, had umbrellas in his lineup. Only, they were hats, too. You open up this small vivid multi-colored half-beachball thing and instead of a full handle it goes to a tight elastic band to put around your head. Look, Ma, no hands! And it was all of two bucks. You won’t go broke.

“Mom, NOOOOO…!” wailed the first teenager to realize what I was thinking. Then the next. Then my husband pitched in, going, “Tell me you’re NOT going to wear that!” But I did. A dollar bill and a few quarters and the deed was done. Cheerfully mortifying one’s teenagers over things of absolutely no consequence is one of the jobs of a good parent.

Nowadays, I pull it out every Halloween, the world’s easiest and most cheerful costume: Mary Poppins meets Jerry Garcia. (Picture later, now, where is that thing?)

Here’s what a little water and wire can do for a little baby alpaca. Pattern on my website, with notes in the 11/30 post.

So. I heard from Evelyn at Knitty-Noddy after I wrote that last post. Whether the 939 page views my stats claim my website and blog got yesterday had anything to do with it or what, I dunno, but. Come next Friday or so, she will have her next special order of Sea Silk in Teal arriving. Hey, y’all: enjoy. Shoot a picture for me of whatever you make with it, wouldja? Thanks!

Months ago, I took a rather expensive chance on a yarn I’d heard only a little about but was quite curious about, where the only way I could get near any was to order it online. I can’t say sight unseen, since there were pictures; how about, touch unfelt? And that is how the two-skein shawl in my book for my younger daughter came to be. Which also means that it’s off at the publisher’s at the moment.

I looked at Knitty Noddy’s website a few weeks ago, and went OOOH!!! I had been wishing severely that there might somehow be a Sea Silk colorway that was a relatively solid-shade teal. (It didn’t exist in Handmaiden Yarns’ dye lineup.) And that I could justify it in our budget right now if there were. Well guess what. Turns out Knitty Noddy had special-ordered some to be created just for them, and there it was right there on my screen. Exactly what I’d wished for. They had four skeins left. It’s that Constance Harker “Color is everything” quote again: I don’t usually go wishing hard after material goods, but this one was really getting to me. But I’d told my husband I would hold off on buying more yarn for the moment, since I certainly have enough baby alpaca and wool to keep me happy.

Given how fast Sea Silk stocks tend to disappear–which I understand now–I knew those skeins would be gone in no time. There’s nothing else I’ve ever felt that feels like this stuff when you’re knitting it, all those hours it’s running through your fingers, and later, when you’re wearing it: nice. Verrrrrry nice. It does smell strongly of silk, being 70%, in case that stops anybody. But anyway. (Repeat the mantra: I have enough yarn to keep me happy.)

So there I was looking at this, my colorway dream come true in my dream yarn, and said to my husband that there wasn’t anything else on earth he could possibly buy me for Christmas or birthday that I’d enjoy more than two skeins of that teal to go play with. That was it. He thought about it, and said, Okay, then, I guess, go ahead and buy it. But no knitting it before then!

Long as I had him agreeing, I said, okay, that’s for Christmas; how about the Sea Shore colorway–just one skein for my birthday? That got me a bit of a growl, and then a, sure, go ahead. He saw the $100 total and winced, and then the deed was done.

So. The box came. I was home, he wasn’t. I…yeah, I did, I opened it, fondled it, and oh-so-dutifully put it back. Just to check out that shade, you know; after all, monitors always differ a bit, you know. Said to him later, how about if I wind it into balls so it’ll be all ready to just zip away with it come the day?

No! No fondling! WAIT. You’re just going to have to wait.

Well, so I sort of wait; I take it out about every third day, pet it some more, and then stuff it back into the box out of sight. Nope nope nope, can’t knit it yet. Back. Nope.

But you know, right now I’m really glad I was born a week early rather than a week late. Thanks, Mom! If ever a yarn deserved to be knitted at the beach, too, while we’re at it… Half Moon Bay on my birthday with that Sea Shore Sea Silk, dear? A romantic lunch or dinner on the… (You won’t mind if I bring my needles with us, right? I’ll need to wind it up; do you think you could hold your hands out while we wait for the main course? I just don’t want to trip the waitress up by putting it around the back of the chair leaned back from the next table over there.) Dear? Dear?

This is the first pattern I ever had published, in the Knitting Pattern-A-Day 2005 calendar (and on my website). I’ve decided I like it better with an extra stitch added at each side, the way I did here, so, add two to the count when casting on. This one used six repeats. I know, the eye is more pleased with odd numbers within patterns, but this leaves you with seven scallops at the bottom and seven columns among the yarnovers, so it works.

Once, when I was quite new at lace knitting, I started an ambitious shawl project in superfine cashmere, thin as sewing thread. It looked terrible, like crumpled tin foil, and I finally just bagged it. It wasn’t till several years later that I pulled it out, rinsed it, and let it dry with the stitches settling down into their natural shape: it was about 6″ long, absolutely beautiful, and would have become a gorgeous piece. But, by that point, not even protected in a ziploc bag, it was bugbitten and broken.

I let that be a lesson to me that yes, lace tends to look like a random mess while you’re knitting it: but you can rinse it, still on the needles (keep those tips dry if you’re using wooden circulars like I do) and spread it out in an approximation of its future blocked self over a white towel or sheet so it won’t absorb any dyes. This is an easy way to get enthused about it, and to be able to show it off a whole lot better if you’re going to be working on it in public. So, to demonstrate here, I got this shawl halfway knitted, rinsed it, and then finished it and snapped the photo so you could see the difference.

But what I did not at all expect is that this fingering-weight yarn with 51 stitches on size 5.5mm needles (9 American) could turn out to be a wedding ring shawl. It helps if it’s a big ring, definitely. Mine’s a 7; this is a ring for which my grandfather drove out onto a reservation in Nevada many decades ago, picked out a stone, and watched the ring being made for my grandmother. I wear it for best occasions and it connects me to the grandfather I never knew before his passing and the grandmother I only barely did before hers. It was created just for them.

As this shawl was created just for…someone who hopefully doesn’t know about this blog…

About seven years ago, I used Barbara Walker’s Diamond Mesh pattern to knit a large, very soft kid mohair stole to wrap around an old friend recovering from back surgery. The memory of her surprised, thrilled face as I gave it to her is one of the great little joys of my life. I wasn’t about to tell her, though, that the pattern had driven me nuts: I could see how it should be so easy, but it just wasn’t coming to me. How do you see when it’s a yo, k1, yo at the top of a triangle and when it’s a k3? I’d kept picking it up, working on it awhile, and putting it down to go work on something I could actually relax with while doing. It had taken me two months to finish.

Last week, going through my stash, I stumbled across a partial ball of Jaggerspun Zephyr laceweight in jade and one of Misti baby alpaca laceweight in forest, and the two of them together! But there wasn’t as much of the Zephyr as I was comfortable with. I didn’t want to run out.

The day before, someone had posted on one of the knitting lists that she had some expensive cashmere, couldn’t afford to buy more, wanted to make a really nice gift with it, but what? When she wasn’t sure she had enough? I told her, go for a mesh lace pattern and largeish needles to stretch the yardage out; it’ll work.

Time to take my own advice. Let’s try that Diamond Mesh pattern again.

Four days. Fingertip-to-fingertip, and the best part of it, was, I immediately got it! It was intuitively obvious, just like I had known it could be if I only had enough experience. And somehow this time the math of it, the numbers and the geometry in its structure, felt inherently satisfying, like a well-written piece of music.

Anne and Mary Anne asked about my meeting Rachel Remen. Here’s the story.

Dr. Remen did a booksigning at Kepler’s, a large independent bookstore that is a local institution. I love her “Kitchen Table Wisdom” and her “My Grandfather’s Blessings,” and made a point of going to hear her. This was a little after “Grandfather’s” was released.

She talked a bit, she read from “Grandfather’s” a bit, and then she asked the large crowd for any questions or comments. One woman told her how much she’d enjoyed the books; the next one went on and on about saving the planet, imploring Dr. Remen to write about the dire condition of the earth. Dr. Remen heard her out, then gently said that this was clearly this woman’s passion and that the questioner would do well to write the book she had in mind herself for what she could bring to it.

Then she said she had time for one more question. There were a lot of people and many hands went up. I was about a third of the way back in the crowd, and thought, she’ll never call on me. I can only wish. I raised my hand, but only barely; I wasn’t sure she could even see that I did.

There was what I can only describe as a sense of white light that somehow passed between us as she looked in my direction and called on me anyway.

Like the others had done, at her invitation I stood to ask my question. I tried not to make it too long. I told her:

I have lupus. I also have a hearing loss. I have an ear doctor who discovered that the cause of my growing loss was a severe reaction to aspirin, and I quit taking any and the progression of the loss stopped.

Ten years later, I developed Crohn’s disease (something I knew Dr. Remen could definitely relate to.) I was put on a med that, with my history, put my hearing at risk, and I got sent back to that ENT for testing.

He walked into the examining room at the edge of tears, and asked me, “WHY are YOU!! being put on ototoxic drugs!”

I explained that I had Crohn’s now. He stood there a moment, taking it in, and affirmed, “That’s bad.” Another breath. “But…*I* thought you had breast cancer, or lymphoma, or…” as he shook his head, grieving at the loss.

(I didn’t say to Dr. Remen that I have a Daniel Wallace lupus book that says that 80% of lupus patients whose intestines start bleeding die in the first episode.)

I had walked into his room with a heavy burden, and that good man lifted it right off me by his empathy. I walked out with the weight of the world gone. He had heard me, he had been there for me, and he had remembered the cause of my hearing loss–ten years later! I wasn’t just another face passing through, it was important to him that I be okay. He remembered! It felt like my life expectancy was being stretched forward right there in front of me in those moments.

I wanted some way of telling that good man what he had done for me. How much it had meant to me. I knit, I told Dr. Remen–and here I held up a gossamer-fine lace shawl I was working on, by way of show-and-tell–and after reading your book, I knew what I wanted to do. I knit his wife a wedding ring shawl, one that can pass through a ring (again, the one in my hands demo’d) as a way of conveying how grateful I was.

(Note to my readers here: this was when I was new at knitting any kind of lace, much less of that fineness, and had never considered giving all those weeks of work away to anyone other than immediate family.)

I told Dr. Remen, “I did not know what to do or how to say thank you till I read your book. You gave me my voice.”

And then I sat down, as the room exploded in clapping.

Yesterday morning I went with a couple of friends to visit our favorite potters, Mel and Kris Kunihiro, at a show in San Jose. Got home, got the hubby, got in our own car, and turned around and drove north and over the Golden Gate. As we went around Mt. Tamalpais, I mentally waved hi at my favorite author, Rachel Remen, who lives up there somewhere; I’ve met her. She’s as wonderful in person as she is in her writing. And then, on to the party.

Cajun sweet potatoes are definitely the way to go, and I want to know how they did that. Maybe a lace scarf bribe would help? Good food, good people all around, good times.

It wasn’t till we’d been home awhile that I noticed. I’d known for awhile that it was probably going to happen at some point. I’d lost weight, it had gotten awfully loose, and at some point yesterday my ring went flying off. (I can only hope it didn’t clog the sink at my husband’s boss’s house.) I have not the slightest clue where or when it went, only that I’d had it on in the beginning of the morning.

I’m not much of a jewelry person, but I liked that one: four turquoises, the birthstone of both me and my mother, one to symbolize each of my kids. Sterling silver, which stays bright and lovely only if you keep it shining by paying attention to it–I thought that was a good way to symbolize a relationship. It was my substitute for my wedding ring, back when the IV steroids had puffed my hands out so much that I couldn’t wear the original anymore. The steroids proved useless, and I never have to take them again. But I was in the habit of wearing that turquoise ring by then, and that was fine with Richard, so, for over three years, I did.

San Jose to San Rafael. There is no way to know. All I can do is hope that it’s in good shape, wherever it is, and that whoever finds it loves that handmade piece as much as I do, and that it fits them. That would be so cool.

…to Auntie’s house we go… Actually, she’s more a sister than an aunt, age-wise, we just call her Auntie when we want to tease her.

When we moved to California, she was thrilled to finally get to have some relatives nearby; she had us tour some houses up near her in the Santa Cruz mountains. It’s gorgeous up there in the redwoods. But for us, the commute would have been awful.

Tell us, what are those mini water towers we keep seeing there for?

The firetrucks can’t negotiate some of the switchback roads. The county required some places to have those after the big Lexington Reservoir fire. Did you notice how bare the hill was above the water?

Oh. What about the fault line? It’s right there, isn’t it?

We don’t worry about earthquakes! We’re Californians!

Oh.

Her kids went to Loma Prieta school, and if that phrase rings a bell, it should. We went up there to help dig up and repair the breaks in the water line from her neighborhood’s tower to her house. The stories that came out of those mountains! The near misses, the lucky breaks, the people pitching in and helping each other recover.

It’s so beautiful up there, so peaceful in the trees. I love spending Thanksgiving up there with her family.

Every place has its joys and every place has its faults. In California, we just tend to name ours.

One strand of Lanas Stop kid mohair (from stash, and this laceweight version seems to be discontinued, as far as I can tell via Google). Knitted with one strand of Gentle, an 85/10/5 superfine merino/tencel/cashmere blend laceweight from Purlescence in Sunnyvale, California. I love how it shimmers against the fluff.

I got this as part of a letter from my Mom yesterday. She was talking about someone at church she’d been paired up with to go visit and keep an eye out for some of the older women in the congregation. I thought it interesting enough to share, with permission:

“My new companion is a Dutch convert in her 80’s, a lovely soul with a strong conviction and sense of duty. We had a few minutes between appointments, and I got to know her a bit. She lived in Rotterdam as a young woman during the German occupation, and she had some stories to tell. I have heard Uncle Wally talk about Dutch potatoes sent to help German saints after the war, but Truus (that’s her name) was there, helped grow the potatoes. She said that they were not told at first who the potatoes were for; they assumed they were growing them for themselves. They had had a very hard time under the Germans; she called 1944 the hunger year, when the ration of bread was 1/2 pound of bread per person PER WEEK! Lots of people starved. The farmers sold food at first to those who could get out into the country, but toward the end of winter refused to sell. She said that the stake president called everyone together and sent them out to forage in the fields and byways for whatever was growing and edible, and then bring what they found back to the community soup kitchen, where things were boiled up and served nightly. This finally broke down when people quarreled about who got the best portions.

But you can see why they were delighted when the church sent seed potatoes and told them to plant them. She said their potatoes grew better than anyone else’s, because they were prayed over. There was a huge harvest and people were ecstatic. Then the church leaders called them together and said the potatoes (or at least a large part of them) were for the German saints who were starving. She said it was a real lesson, hard but necessary, in learning not to hate. The brethren were not only feeding German saints, they were helping Dutch saints spiritually. I had never heard the story that way before.”

(p.s.: No doubt lots of other people prayed over their potatoes and whatever all else they may have been growing. And of course, participation in sharing the ones Truus was talking about was strictly voluntary.)

Okay, I’ve lived in northern California for almost 20 years. I’m almost used to the Christmas-lights-in-the-palm-trees weirdness. But today’s front page photo! Picture a cake with white frosting with two lines of candles marching in a circle. Now: the cake is an ice-skating rink in a park, and the candles are palm trees. Tall, towering palm trees. Which die if they freeze. Bordered by ice to both sides just outside their cutout space. Exactly what image was someone trying to convey? Is this park mocking all the people who wear super-skimpy clothes when the San Francisco fog is rolling in and it’s downright chilly, but hey, this is California, so it’s hot, right? The down-jackets-and-Birki-sandals image? Will those palms drop coconuts on the iceskaters’ heads?

Totally nonpsychodegradeable. (My stars. I’m beginning to sound like my kids. Like, tew-tuhtallyyyyy…)

So, where are my ancient-by-now skates? Let’s go!

Last night, heading out the door to my knitting group, I had my show-off shawl project ready… but grabbed a simple throw-in-my-purse scarf project that I had sitting there. It had a pattern I could do in my sleep; always good for when you want to listen to what’s going on.

The woman next to me had a soft pink scarf in a simple pattern, and I reached out and touched it and went ooh aah. “It’s nothing like what you make, though,” she answered a bit apologetically. I laughed, “It’s not a competition!” and she laughed back. She reached out to my scarf that I’d reluctantly picked up out of my bag–I really did want to make headway on that shawl–and went wow as I told her it was baby alpaca. Left over from my daughter’s afghan. Nice, she said. And from that point on, it felt like she was trying not to look at it too much. Trying not to wish for it too much.

I looked at her and thought, this is exactly your shade of red. Eight inches done so far, well, we can try. I started knitting as fast as I could.

It’s a large group, and we all chatted as we waited for people to come in. Knit! There was the usual go around the group, say your name (there’s always a new person, after all), talk about what you’re working on, maybe a little of what’s going on in your life. Talk, you guys! There was one person who always says, simply, “I’m _ and this is my _” and that’s it; she actually added a few more sentences as I silently cheered her on. Knit!

I wrapped it around my neck, holding the needles. Too short. A few more people. Knit! When they got done, the topic of changing the date of the December meeting came up, and a lively discussion ensued. Good. Keep going. That done, I wrapped it around my neck again. I think so; I turned to my neighbor and asked her opinion.

“For throwing over your shoulder?” (I wish!) “No, for tieing like this.”

“Oh, then, it’s perfect!” And with that, somebody else came up to talk to her, the meeting being officially over, and I concentrated on binding off fast before she could walk out. I was in too much of a hurry; I totally hashed that first stitch there, and tried to work some looseness back into it with my needle. No time to frog. I didn’t have a yarn sewing needle, so I had to work the end in by using my needle to imitate knitting, more or less, to pull it through each stitch across the bottom of the scarf, pulling the strand all the way through each. Slow.

There: did it! I put it in her lap, and the look on her face! Surely I’m only showing off that I got it done. Right?! She dutifully held it up and handed it back. I stuffed it in her knitting bag: no, I meant it, this is for you!

She was speechless. She was thrilled. She told me, “I so much love that color!”

It’s not a competition. But I still would say I definitely won. It’s people like her that keep knitters knitting for others.

Blogger has been refusing to post that other picture. Let’s try this one, of the finished skein. 

I was thinking about posting about the uncertain lung x-ray that called for a repeat, putting off the repeat, finally going and getting that done a couple of days ago, and getting the report that all was cleared up now. I was thinking about posting about the half pound of cocoa powder I managed to drop across the kitchen floor this morning–but it made the kitchen smell SO good that I had to celebrate with a mug of hot cocoa (from the other tin, thank you very much). I was going to mention…

And then I remembered this bag of brown cashmere fiber I’d found yesterday while cleaning up. I’d bought it via Ebay, very cheap, because, according to the description, it was full of noils.

I haven’t spun in ages and ages. I spent from January to June where I tried a few times, but just couldn’t manage the three limbs going at once thing without finding myself breathless and so exhausted, after doing one bobbin’s worth, as to need a nap. But I liked spinning! The only way not to be frustrated with the loss was to push it far from my sight so as to concentrate on my knitting instead. Focus on what you have and be glad for it, let the rest go.

I’m doing far better now. I finished cleaning the cocoa and pulled out that bag. I made one small skein just now, plying it with a never-used-up half-bobbbin’s worth of baby alpaca/silk in a lovely gold that had been waiting its turn on another bobbin.

Noils was the least of it. No wonder I’d forgotten this stuff. You want natural fibers, hon, this is definitely au naturel: a few guard hairs mixed in, uncombed, short haired, the occasional bit of straw, noils and neps and slubs and sudden thin spots as I spun. All the charm of spinning dog fur. Tell you what, if anybody wants the rest of this–it is very soft, after all–give me a shout out at spindyeknit@nospamgmail.com (skip the no spam part) and it’s yours, first come first served, winner take all. It gave me what I needed: it got me back to my spinning fibers again, and made it clear that I can. Yay!!