There will be no complaining about work ...

I have not actually given my blog address to many of my friends. I figure most of them won't care about knitting. And some of them will just think I'm crazy.

But today, one of my friends -- the recipient of the travelling sock -- got his hands on my blog address. Since he is also my boss, it means I have to say nice things about work. Like, he is the best boss ever. I am so lucky to work for him. He brings joy everywhere he goes. (Even though he makes me cry every day.)

Actually, he is the best boss ever, and more importantly, he's a great friend. I'm blessed to have him in my life. Really.

On a knitting note, I've actually been pretty productive. We'll pretend I didn't wait more than six months since my last post. As promised, there were brighter socks in warmer weather. Scott and I went to Florida for our 10th anniversary.

We went here:

The socks are brighter:

My brother's daughter-in-law had a baby this summer -- so there was a sweater:

Starts like this, and then

Origami magic!

The whole clan went camping up north --

Next post, through the magic of fast-forwarding -- Christmas!

Knitting Memories

Thank you to those who wrote or posted comments to express sympathy on the death of my brother. It is much appreciated.

This has been a week of memories, some of them related to knitting.

At my brother's funeral, his partner gave me a bag that contained almost everything my brother owned -- a stuffed toy soldier my grandmother made him when he was 2, an afghan my mother had crocheted, and this --

an Aran cardigan I knitted 17 years ago.

He loved it, wore it often at his office and took really good care of it. It was in close-to-perfect shape -- after a quick bath in Eucalan, I've worn it twice.

It moved me to realize that a man who'd lost almost everything, who'd been through bankruptcy twice, who was living a life tormented by addiction and had few possessions kept these three handmade things. It speaks to me of the power of emotion and memory that can attach to the things we create.

When I look at this sweater, I remember what was going on in my life when I knitted it -- at that time, knitting was my refuge. I would stay up half the night knitting -- everything from a stuffed jellyfish for my daughter's kindergarten "under the sea" project to a knitted snapping turtle for my son's nature studies homework. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off the husband passed out in the next room, and the rum bottles hidden around the house.

It sounds as if this sweater should call up a host of bad memories, but it doesn't. When I see it, or wear it, what I remember most is the pleasure the knitting gave me more than the pain I was trying to escape.

Some knitting memories are simply happy -- no angst, no hidden sorrow. A couple of weeks ago, my nephew sent me a text message with this photo -- he was cleaning out his baby things. Or as he calls it, his "box of repressed memories." This is the very first sweater I ever knitted. It was from Vogue Knitting's premiere issue and I thought it was adorable. I still do.

But I'm glad the photo is taken from far enough away that I can't see the finishing. I'd probably want to take it apart and reseam everything.

As he prepares for his wedding, it makes me smile to think a child of his may wear this some day.

Also as promised, here is Mr. Greenjeans, which went from this --

to this --

This is one of those very few patterns that I know I'll be knitting again. Next time in wool, with long sleeves instead of bracelet length -- and a full complement of buttons instead of a single.

I wonder if I'll always look at this sweater and remember that I was finishing it on the day I got the phone call my brother had taken his own life. I hope that instead I remember better times -- when we were happy and life was filled with promise.

Spring?

Remember this?

We are almost there --

I have about 3/4 of a sleeve left to do before Easter. Because of course, for Easter I want to wear something springy -- like the cotton/silk blend of this yarn

But when I woke up this morning --

I wondered whether I need to dig Mom's fur coat out of the back of the closet instead.

I'm trying to keep a hopeful thought:

g8

Wonderful weekend

There was a meeting of the Spinner's Flock --

I hadn't been there in a long time. I mean, a reaaallly long time. I was warmly welcomed -- and I got to show off my Irish Diamonds shawl during show and tell. The group is growing --we're at member number 800 and something.

And yesterday, it was 82 degrees. It was short-lived, but gave me hope that yes, indeed, somewhere out there is spring.

I'll know it's really spring when there is a sighting of these --




But best of all, I had both of these in my house this weekend --



Doesn't get better than that.

Not my grandmother's knitting

My grandmother didn't knit. But she did sew. If there was a scrap of fabric lying around, Grandma made into something beautiful or useful, or both. My Skipper doll (Mom didn't believe in Barbie) had the best outfits in the neighborhood. My favorite was her fully-lined red wool suit with bracelet-length sleeves -- it would have done Coco Chanel proud.

I think of my grandmother a lot around Easter -- a time of year that usually meant a new outfit from her Singer. I still have a few of the dresses, and a gorgeous designer suit. My daughter wore them on her own Easters, and, like my mother before me, all I had to provide was the round hat and patent-leather shoes.

I am sure my grandmother would have been thrilled if I had learned to sew. She tried -- but I was not only abysmally untalented with a needle -- I also loathed it. As a mother, I made sure my kids learned early how to sew on buttons, mostly so I could avoid it myself.

But mostly, Grandma was a maker. She took next-to-nothing and made it spectacularly "something." And she encouraged me to find my own way to be a maker too.

When I saw a neighbor girl knitting, and thought I'd like to give it a try, Grandma got me needles, cool flecked yarn, a pattern for two -needle mittens and a little workbag.

She knew enough to show me a backward-loop cast-on and the basic knit and purl stitches. And she knew enough not to nag me about my little project.

I didn't finish the mittens -- and I don't know what happened to them. I didn't take up knitting again for 20 years, when books taught me all the techniques and tricks my grandmother didn't know. And then you couldn't stop me from making things -- baby sweaters, Christmas stockings, Aran sweaters, intarsia, lace -- even the top to my wedding dress.

So, my grandmother didn't exactly teach me how to knit ...

But I still have at least one of the needles she gave me

and the pattern book -- somewhere.

and have acquired the love of making things that my grandmother passed on as her legacy.

For that, I am forever in her debt.

Starting over in the frog pond

I spent most of yesterday turning this, the Mirage pullover from More Big Girl Knits,

into this

and then this

and finally this

Now, it is becoming Mr. Greenjeans.

When I began the Mirage, I weighed 30 pounds more than I do today, so I knew it was no longer going to fit the way I'd originally envisioned. Not that that is a bad thing, you understand.

As the swift was spinning, and the sweater was raveling at my feet, Scott asked me if I had regrets about all those hours of work being undone.

Yes and no. I'm sorry to lose the work -- it does feel a bit as if it's time wasted. But I learned something from the process and I'm fired up with the vision for Mr. Greenjeans, so I'm looking ahead more than looking back.

I've done that a lot, I realized. With education, with work, with marriage. Once upon a time, I began each of those things with a vision for the finished product, the happy ending. Eventually, though, I looked at them and realized, "That just doesn't fit right." I pulled the loose thread and raveled. And then made something new -- I went back to school, I got a new job, I met Scott. I learned to take nothing in my new life for granted -- having experienced the worst, I am grateful every day for the best.

I had a vision for this sweater when I began. I knew what pants to pair with it, what jewelry I would wear. I could see myself wearing it. Then I couldn't.

Now I am imagining a new sweater--can't wait to try it on!

A yarn about yarn

Irish Diamonds is finished.

And it's huge.

It's more like a cape than a shawl. I think I love it.

I made this from Bartlettyarns 2-ply fisherman's wool in Blackberry. It's not the recommended yarn for this pattern. And it's not what I originally intended to make from the yarn. My plan was to knit an Aran sweater -- a twin to the one I made my brother almost 20 years ago, during the summer I really became a knitter.

My 3-year-old son and I had gone to a cottage in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. It belonged to my ex's aunt, and she wasn't using it that year. So we were blessed with a free stay in a home overlooking Boothbay Harbor, on a balsam-covered island, during a summer that was, at least in my memory, sunny every day.

My ex was supposed to join us after two weeks, and then we'd drive home together.

He "forgot" to get his plane ticket.

Which meant I had 11 weeks alone in Maine with a 3-year-old, no TV to speak of, and not enough to read.

But there was a yarn store in town. All she sold was Bartlettyarn from Harmony, Maine. It may not have been the softest, but it came in heathery colors and still smelled a little like sheep. Somehow, it went with the rocky coast. I bought enough to make a sweater from Maine Island Kids. It had a little sailboat and some fir trees on it.

Then I made two more -- with apple orchards and chickens.

I made a Christmas stocking for a new nephew.

I made a sweater with intarsia loons on the front for my then-husband. The irony does not escape me.

Then I began the Aran sweater.

It was for my brother, who was my best friend. He came to visit me in Maine and we shopped for just the right pattern. He wanted a cardigan, no collar, and classic creamy wool. The Bartlettyarn was perfect for this project, and the yarn store owner had the perfect, out-of-print pattern, which she gave me.

I cast on that summer, and knit about half of it -- but then life and other, smaller sweaters got in the way.

When I finally picked it up again, the pattern was gone -- tossed in the trash by my then-husband. I was not as yet proficient enough to carry on without a clear map, and thought I'd have to rip back. But, amazingly, I found the pattern in a tiny, old yarn store in Tecumseh.

I finished the sweater just in time for Christmas that year. My brother loved it, took it to work, and wore it often.

A couple of years ago, I was on a fiber and winery tour in the Fingerlakes region of New York and bought this yarn. I planned to make the exact same sweater as my brother's.

Then life intervened again. My mother died. My brother, who had struggled with alcohol for a long time, gave into grief in the most destructive ways. He survived, but our relationship has not. He no longer speaks to any of us, least of all to me.

When I picked up knitting again, I knew I wanted to do something with this yarn. It reminds me of when I first learned to knit. It is simple and warm and its smell takes me back to long quiet evenings in Maine -- when I knitted while my son slept.

I didn't have the heart to make the Aran, though -- and so I chose something else. I wanted to keep the Irish theme, and I wanted something warm enough for chilly Michigan or perhaps for visits to Maine. I also wanted something that would wrap around me like the hugs I miss from the people I have lost.

This will have to do.

Mildly annoyed

I am almost finished with Irish Diamonds. I'll post photos tomorrow or the next day.

And there are things about this yarn I really love -- mostly having to do with the memories it holds -- more about that tomorrow or the next day as well.

But there is one thing about it that really irks me --

This skein alone has had at least four.

I have had a lot of practice untying them and grafting the yarn with the "Russian join." My mouth is getting dry.

A time for fiber fun

Friday, I drove to Grand Rapids to see my daughter's play. We stayed up until 2 a.m. talking, and then I hit the road at 7 a.m. so that I could get home in time to go to the Black Swamp Spinners Guild fiber event.

Scott chatted with the people who make spinning wheels and spindles.

I chatted with fiber and yarn.



Briar Rose was there --


I managed to resist the temptation at their booth, but I did buy a couple of skeins for felted slippers from Amazing Grace FarmsThey had other stuff, too --




I could not resist some gorgeous English Angora fiber from Prissy --one of Jan Vandenhout's lovely bunnies:

And what about the shawl?
I knitted in my hotel room before my daughter's play, and afterward, while we talked.
I knitted while Scott drove us to Bowling Green for the fiber fest.
I knitted last night.
I knitted this morning.

I started promising myself little rewards for completing a row -- like a couple of these:
or a trip to the bathroom.

I am on the last patterning row, followed by two rows of stockinette, an eyelet row, two more rows of stockinette, and then 12 rows of garter stitch -- which I am referring to as the Bataan Death March edging.

While knitting, I've been singing --
"This is the shawl that never ends; it goes on and on my friends;
some knitter started knitting it, not knowing what it was, and she'll continue knitting it forever
just because
this is the shawl that never ends ..."

You know the tune -- feel free to sing along.

This is the shawl that never ends ...

Why do so many shawl patterns begin at the neck?

Is it because the construction is more efficient?
Will the shawl fit better?
Does it make the stitch pattern line up correctly?

No.



It's because nobody in her right mind would voluntarily start a pattern that began,
"Cast on 810 stitches."



That's why.

It's never going to end.

More yarn?

When I came back to knitting last month, I virtuously proclaimed my intent to knit only with stash yarn. After all, I still have yarn. A lot of yarn. When I went to visit the stash, it was like greeting old friends -- the Cherry Tree Hill silk in the Dusk colorway (so pretty), the Fleece Artist mohair and worsted combo skein for mittens (so warm), and of course, the balls of alpaca roving (so soft)

So how come the mail delivery personnel brought all this to my house?

Zen Garden 20

Knitpicks Gloss Knitpicks Palette

The Zen Garden is for socks for a friend who had surgery. Merino, cashmere. How could I resist?

The Knitpicks yarn came with a delivery of these. I thought I'd use them to block the Irish Diamonds shawl, but I think I'll need a few more sets.

Can you see how long one row is? I put a pen on the floor for comparison -- hundreds of stitches .

But back to the yarn. Obviously, I had to avoid shipping charges, right? So I needed to get up to $50. I was being thrifty.

Where exactly has May gone?

Obviously, not to blogging. May is one of my busiest months -- we have an annual gathering of all our editors to plan the upcoming year. Getting ready for it and hosting takes more time and energy than I thought I owned. I'm also on the committee for our local historical home tour event -- so I spent last weekend dressed like this -- I got more spinning done in two days than I've done in two months. And thank God it was not too warm. If I had actually lived in the 1800s, I think I would have gone quietly mad with the clothing. The thigh-high woollen stockings, the petticoats (plural), the hoops, the separate sleeves and collars, the voluminous dresses ...

And as a side note, I love how the clothing adds about 30 pounds. Charming.

Memorial Day weekend means a trek to Alma, Michigan (Scotland, USA) for the annual watching-guys-in-kilts event otherwise known as the Highland Festival. The bands were great -- sorry I don't have sound, but hum Scotland the Brave to yourself.


And really, is there anything sexier than a man in wool knee socks?