The Panopticon

Out of the Sketchbook

2009-10-29T15:54:00.005-04:00

Over the Water

I'll be popping across the pond in just two short weeks. On November 10 at 6* in the evening, I'll be at I Knit in London for an informal but lively evening of knitting, talking and reading from works old...and new.

In the Shop

The annual knitting ornament is newly available for your Christmas tree, Festivus pole, Hanukkah bush, Kwanzaa privet hedge, Solstice rubber plant, or Secular Humanist creeping charlie.

I enjoyed making it for you. I hope you will like it.

* Whoops. I mistakenly wrote 7 pm on first writing.

The Story of a Scarf

2009-10-27T15:08:00.009-04:00

I flicked open a discussion thread on Ravelry last week wherein a group of regulars had clustered around a new knitter to perform the customary dance of welcome, which in my imagination always mixes aspects of the Highland Fling with the “One of Us, One of Us” scene from Freaks.

The new knitter–let’s call her Petronella–had posted a shy query about something fundamental, like how to count rows in garter stitch or the proper method of stealing Alice Starmore books from the public library–and ended with a sigh about How Very Bewildering It All Is and How She’d Never Get It.

The regulars explained, encouraged, cheered, cajoled.

Of course you will get it, they said. And she will, will Petronella. She will get it, and then she will get more, and more still until the yarn begins to block out the sun from the living room windows and she joins the ring of knitters chanting “One of Us, One of Us” around an unsuspecting newbie–let’s call him Wenceslas–who was only looking for something to help pass the time while “Stargate” is in reruns.

We’ve all been there, or most of us have, and I have been thinking this week about how sneaky people are when they encourage you to take up knitting. They always emphasize the empowerment, the creativity, the yarn that’s as much fun to pet as a Shar-Pei but which will never chew your slippers or wet the carpet.

They glide right past the inconvenient truth that becoming a knitter (or a crocheter, for that matter) also makes you susceptible to an entire flotilla of neuroses of which non-initiates are cheerfully unaware.

For example, I am unable to contemplate the purchase of a winter hat–however fine or functional it might be–without a corresponding wave of guilt. I am a knitter. I do not buy hats. Why would I buy hats? It would be wrong for me to buy hats. I knit hats. Same goes for scarves.

Except that I don’t like knitting scarves.

My first project, years ago, was a scarf. So was my second project. My third was a pair of mittens. After that, four more scarves.

It was a joy, back then, to make my own scarves. You couldn’t buy anything long enough in a shop–just wimpy five-foot swatches of acrylic in WASPy oatmeal-and-rust plaids or boring stripes. It was empowering to motor through seven feet of garter stitch and end up with something superabundant that I could wrap around my neck and face, with enough extra to trail fetchingly in the Atlantic wind.

But, with all due respect to St. Elizabeth of the Schoolhouse, time and repeated exposure take the zing out of garter stitch, at least in the shape of a seven-foot rectangle.

That, kids, is why you’re not going to find a lot of scarves on my to-do list. I don’t cast them on for pure pleasure, portable though they are. On the other hand, life and winter make demands that cannot be ignored. When it happens, the best thing is try to liven up necessity with a challenge or two.

I just finished what I’m calling the Transatlantic Scarf. Last year, I made the triple-thick Transatlantic Hat for Tom, which he obligingly wore as we sailed home from London (hence the name) and which withstood a nasty and prolonged Chicago winter with nary a pill.

However, I wearied of seeing the hat paired with a selection of store-bought partners–thin and wimpy, not a patch on the rich, deep hand-dyed blue of the hat. I needed to fashion a proper mate. And I had enough of the identical yarn stashed away to make that happen.

Of course, the finished scarf needed to be six feet long, and the yarn in question (Sheep's Gift Solid from Joslyn's Fiber Farm) is DK. Garter stitch? No.

The hat was cabled, so I could cable the scarf. Parallel ropes of three-over-three twisted every sixth round would match perfectly. Perhaps with a nice moss stitch border.

Tried it. Got about four inches finished. Had visions of self lying in a box in a funeral home, with friends standing around whispering, “They say it was boredom.” Frogged it.

I dug into my stitch dictionaries and came up with a pattern that looked simple enough to

a) memorize, and
b) work without a cable needle

and which was also

c) the same in both directions–a visual palindrome, if you will.

That third quality meant I could use it to knit a scarf in the seaman's style, but end-to-end. No fuss with provisional cast-ons, working two pieces, and grafting.

A seaman’s scarf, if you don’t already know, consists of two wide, flat ends with the narrower center bit–the part that goes across the back of the neck–worked in ribbing. A tried-and-true concept with a comfortable fit. And psychologically, it would break up the work into three acts. Good enough for Puccini, good enough for me.

My first thought was to abruptly end the cable pattern when I reached the center and start ribbing. But as the transition approached, I knew in my gut it would be more fun–and probably handsomer–to somehow flow into the ribbing and out of it while preserving the integrity of the cables. After only two false starts (a new record for me), success.

And so it’s complete, and awaiting bestowal upon the intended neck. I keep looking at it and squishing it and unrolling it and rolling it up again. I’ve started writing the pattern.

I also realized, looking this morning through the box of winter accessories, that I have nothing decent with which to cover my own neck.

I’m thinking "cowl."

Fleece-to-Face with Janel Laidman

2009-10-22T09:13:00.007-04:00

Hi everybody it's Harry and I am so excited.

Because you know normally when we have a Guest Star visit Dolores gets to do the interview and all I get to do is sit in the next room in case they yell for help.

Well not today. Because it turns out that Dolores is having such an enlightened time at the ashram in Oregon that she did not come back yet and Franklin is in the room with the drawing board and the sign up that says ON DEADLINE DO NOT DISTURB UNLESS STEPHEN FRY IS AT THE FRONT DOOR NAKED AND HOLDING CASHMERE and so guess what I get to do the interview!

Our guest is Janel Laidman who wrote the The Eclectic Sole last time she wrote a book, and it was about socks. And now she wrote another book about socks which is The Enchanted Sole and when we got our copy I stayed up past my bed time reading it because it is very pretty and unusual, and so I have read the whole book. And also I am qualified to talk to Janel about knitting socks because as you know I am sock yarn.

And so anyway here is our chat which I hope you will enjoy or at least look at the pictures.

Harry: Hi, Janel! I hope you don’t mind if I do the interview. Dolores usually does them but Franklin asked if I would fill in, is that okay? I haven’t done it before but usually I get to watch Dolores so I know how I’m supposed to do it.

Janel: Well, Harry, I’m actually thrilled that you’re doing the interview. I’ve always had a bit of a secret crush on you. Dolores is all well and good with her antics and shenanigans, but I’ve always had a bit of a fondness for a guy who is clearly steady, useful and down to earth. If you ever need a place to get away from it all, I have a lovely stash you could come hang out with.

Harry: Oh gosh I am blushing! You are so cool, Dolores is going to be mad she didn't come home to do this interview! Okay, before we start would you like some milk and cookies? I made snickerdoodles and chocolate chip.

Janel: Mmmm…I’ll have the snickerdoodles, please. I mean really–snicker, doodle–how can I resist?

Harry: Excellent choice, madame. Now it's the question part so let me get my notebook. When you first tried knitting a sock, what sock was it? Was it plain or fancy? Did you think right away how cool it is to make your own socks, and dream you would make up your own sock patterns some day?

Janel: I first tried knitting a sock because I saw these really cool people called Danish schoolgirls and they were knitting socks in physics class! And somehow also learning physics, in Danish! I thought that must be the trickiest thing on earth and I decided I wanted to be a Danish schoolgirl too, so I tried knitting a sock.

It was a plain ribbed sock, and I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even know how to knit. It came out looking like an elephant might wear it if he liked mustard yellow cotton socks. I was in Denmark because I was an exchange student and I dreamed I would someday be a famous language expert and work for the United Nations. I had no idea that my special language would end up being the language of K and P.

Harry: I understand, because I really admire Danish too except when it's prune. So you have made two books now, and the new book is called The Enchanted Sole. It has a lot of patterns, and all of the patterns are based on make-believe. Like you have a Mermaid sock, and a Pixie sock, and a sock called Licorne which is unicorn when you are speaking French. So do you enjoy make-believe stories a whole lot?

Janel: Yes, especially when they end with lots of golden coins piled up in a vault with my name on it, and fairy princesses scattering flower petals and a magical fish dinner, with a goblet that sings…Where was I?

Harry: I don't know. I kind of got lost when you said magical fish.

Janel: Well, actually I just like stories a whole lot, both make-believe and stories of “true grit." I like to work with themes as an inspiration and this particular book had a make-believe story theme.

Harry: Do you have a most favorite make-believe story? Mine is the one about the shoemaker and the elves because I think it would be fun if elves did my chores, like if I made cookies they would come in after and load the dishwasher. I like to imagine that.

Janel: I always liked the one about the talking fish who grants wishes, and the stupid guy who wishes for sausages and his stupider wife who wishes they were stuck to the end of his nose. And I also like stories that are sad and a little wistful, yet the earnest and honest person gets the rewards in the end.

Harry: That's the best kind of story! When you were making your book, how did you get ideas? Did a story make you think of a new sock, or did you maybe see a good-looking ball of yarn and it made you think of a story that you read that would be an excellent sock?

Janel: Well, both actually. Sometimes it was the story, like for example with the Snow Queen sock which was inspired by Snow Queen stories, or the Tree of Life sock - that one was definitely inspired by the many stories with a tree of life in them.

Other times a handsome ball of yarn would come along and whisper what it wanted to be. The Tintagel sock was like that and so was the Atlantis sock. I knew when I saw that watery aqua color of Madeline Tosh yarn, it just had to be something about mystical water and the word Atlantis floated up into my brain. Sometimes I was inspired by the technique and then had to figure out which story it went with. Like the Traveler sock. I knew I wanted to make a sock with a secret pocket, but then I had to figure out who would be wearing that sock.

Harry: I love the one with the secret pocket! I'm going to make it for Franklin to wear when he goes to the nudist resort so he can have a place to put his room key.

Janel: I'm sorry...what?

Harry: Would you like some more cookies? I made tons and Franklin is on a diet.

Janel: Oh my, I’m on a diet too, but really it’s hard to resist. Snicker, doodle. Who named that cookie? Oh, alright, just one more.

Harry: Do you think it is a shame to make socks with pretty feet and then put them into a shoe and nobody gets to see the pretty part?

Janel: Well, I usually wear my socks with pretty feet in some kind of open shoes like Birkenstocks so I can be as much of a show-off as possible. But I think that sometimes it’s really delicious to have a secret pretty thing that only you know is there. It makes you walk around all day with a silly little Mona Lisa smile because you know that, secretly, you have princess feet.

Harry: I agree! Are there any make-believe characters that are too scary so you wouldn’t make a sock of them because while you are knitting you would get too scared and have to put all the lights on and call your best friend?

Janel: Well, usually I think the villains in the make-believe stories are more complex than they appear to be, so they don’t usually scare me too much. However, I don’t think I’d make a scary or ugly sock. I mean, there is just too much pretty out there to enjoy. I definitely wouldn’t make a sock from The Shining because that story made me put the lights on and stay up all night singing lalalalalalala.

Harry: Now these socks aren’t made out of scary stories but they might be scary to make. I will explain what mean. Like this one, Firebird, has a great big picture across the whole entire leg! If somebody is nervous about making a sock like that what would you say to be helpful and encouraging?

Janel: It’s actually not scary at all. Colorwork is a lot of fun because you can’t wait to see the picture emerging. And a colorwork sock is a much smaller project than that Henry VIII pullover by Ms. Starmore.

Most people are worried about getting the tension even doing colorwork on a small project like that. If you haven’t ever done a colorwork sock, try knitting it with the sock inside out so the floats are going around the outside, that makes the tension very even and allows for a little bit more stretch.

Also, that sock, and the other colorwork socks in the book have built in leg shaping so that they will fit the curvy part of your leg much better than a straight leg sock.

Harry: Okay, I think that is very comforting. Hey, do you only knit socks or do you knit other things, too?

Janel: I love to knit other things. It’s just that socks are kind of like potato chips, once you start it’s hard to stop.

Harry: Would you like to do more books about socks right away or do you need to rest for a little while?

Janel: My next two books will definitely not be about socks. I love socks, but I also love other items. I’m currently smitten by mittens and gloves so I think a book about those will be in order, and I’m also quite excited by lace, and textures and sweaters. I’ll come back again to socks some day, but I think my current books can keep sock knitters busy for quite a little while.

Harry: I think you're right! Janel, it sure was nice to meet you! Thank you for being interviewed. If you want you can take some cookies home as a souvenir.

Janel: Well, it was truly a treat meeting you Harry, remember what I said, if you ever need to get away for a while…

Okay everybody, that's the interview! If you want to get The Enchanted Sole you can go to Rustling Leaf Press or visit your friendly neighborhood yarn shop. And tell them Harry sent you and I said hi!

Observation

2009-10-06T15:55:00.006-04:00

I have an excessively negative iPod.

I was clicking around in search of Mimi's addio from La Boheme this morning and noticed for the first time how many songs I've loaded that begin with the imperative Don't.

"Don't Be the Bunny" (John Cullum, Urinetown Original Broadway Cast)
"Don't Answer Me" (The Alan Parsons Project)
"Don't Bring Lulu" (Gladys Mills)
"Don't Call Me Baby" (Madison Avenue)
"Don't Dream It's Over" (Crowded House)
"Don't Ever Leave Me" (Pearl Bailey)
"Don't Leave Me This Way" (Thelma Houston)
"Don't Let's Be Beastly to the Germans" (Noel Coward)
"Don't Like Goodbyes" (Pearl Bailey, House of Flowers Original Broadway Cast)
"Don't Look at Me" (Barbara Cook, Follies in Concert)
"Don't Put Your Daughter on the Stage, Mrs. Worthington" (Noel Coward)
"Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree" (The Andrews Sisters)
"Don't Tell Mama" (Natasha Richardson, Cabaret Revival Cast)
"Don't Waste Your Heart" (The Dixie Chicks)

To balance this I can find only Bessie Smith singing "Do Your Duty," which is not so much positive as pushy.

We Now Pause for Location Identification

2009-10-02T13:35:00.007-04:00

From where I'm sitting I can see a skyline, and the skyline includes the Sears Tower,* and I can hear the mayor's staff weeping softly,** so this must be Chicago. Which means I must have come back from somewhere and paused on the way to somewhere else. Which means I must stop dithering and write an entry before it's time to pack the suitcase again.

Travel Snapshots

Harry caught you up on the middle portion of the tour of Washington State (thanks, Harry) and here's the finale: Paradise Fibers in Spokane.

Spokane and Seattle are in the same state, but you wouldn't know it to look at them. To get from one to the other takes about four hours by car. And if you begin in Seattle, as I did, it's shocking to pass the through vibrantly green, rain-soaked mountains and find this waiting for you on the other side.

And I thought the two halves of my brain were a study in contrasts.

Paradise Fibers was ready for me.

I, on the other hand, wasn't quite ready for Paradise Fibers. Sure, they told me it would be...different. But I did not listen. And I was shocked.

In case you haven't been, here are some distinguishing characteristics that make the place Not Quite Your Usual LYS:

Shares street frontage in a warehouse building with a porn shop;
Sort of looks from the outside like a used auto parts dealership;
Has one (1) female employee, the rest (including the owner) being (cute) (straight) males;
Has enough square footage for the spinning wheels and looms to be in separate rooms;
Has a sound studio and a race car garage tucked into odd corners;
Served chicken kebabs to the students in both of my classes;
Combines excellent, friendly service and an encyclopedic selection with a cool factor that is off the charts.

Travis and Sara, who run the joint, are a trip.

After teaching two full-to-the-brim sessions of my lace class to exuberant and often far-traveled students (including one from New Mexico and a whole pack from Idaho), I was plumb tuckered out. But these two are so engaging–every bit as cool as the shop they run–that I had to sit and up and chat with them for a while before drifting off to sleep in my beautiful room at the fabulous Montvale Hotel, which I am told once functioned as a whorehouse. Kids, it don't get no better than that.

Yup. I used the words "cool" and "fabulous" to describe a trip to Spokane. If you haven't been there, go see for yourself.

And I'm just back from another trip to the Pacific Northwest–to Knit-Purl, in Portland. (Jet lag now! Ask me how!) But the write-up is giving me a headache because I've been threatened by the locals with grievous bodily harm if I tell you how every good thing you've heard about Portland is true, even the things you would swear couldn't possibly be true. So I have to find some way of telling you what I did in Portland and showing you photos, and not making you want to drop everything and hire a moving truck.

Eastward, Ho!

In the meantime, here's a heads-up on another trip coming soon: Delaware. I'm going to be doing two events on October 10 at Stitches With Style in Newark. There will be a brunch in the morning at 9 am, followed by the "Introduction to Lace" class at 11:30 am. Both require that you please sign up, which you can do by calling (302) 453-8130. So do come, won't you?

Widdle Biddy Kiddie Hat Korner

Remember when I translated the antique baby hood pattern for Knitty and used a grumpy five-day-old model for the photographs, and a contingent from the Society for Mandatory Infantile Lighthearted Expressions (SMILE) marched on Chicago and pelted my front door with Cabbage Patch Dolls and Precious Moments figurines?

Well, the baby has grown, as I am told they do. Aside from the occasional bout of melancholia, she seems admirably even-tempered and free of permanent scarring from the ordeal.

I promised her parents a baby hat*** as compensation for her services. The hat is complete and awaiting delivery. Knitting it was a snap. Choosing a pattern was not. I waffled like a Belgian with a full jug of batter until I saw the Wayna Picchu Earflap Hat from bluegirl knits. And then I knew I'd found it.

Another compulsive piece of knitting, much like the Oliver sock. I think I worked it in three hours. Had me from the get-go, it did. And there's a grown-up version that may wind up on my head this winter.

The yarn? More of that Nordique from Véronik Avery, in oatmeal and chalk blue. (Shut up. I can stop knitting with Veronik's yarn any time I want to. I just don't want to.)

I don't know why, but I'm in love with the tone-on-tone thing lately. I keep swatching with colorways that are so subtle in their variations they're almost, but not quite, monochrome. I have no idea where I'm going with it, of course–but since when has that ever stopped me?

*Yes, they changed the name. No, I don't care.
**You just know that when he gets back from Copenhagen, the beatings will begin. Good luck, Rio.
***We in the word biz call this "irony."

We Did Fun Stuff with Guys

2009-09-25T20:26:00.013-04:00

Hi everybody it's Harry! So Franklin is still figuring out which evening kimono to pack for Portland and he said hey, would you mind writing some more about what we did on the trip to Washington State and I said sure can I write about the men's retreat and he said okay sure. So here I am doing it.

So after our visit at Renaissance Yarns we went to a knitting retreat that was kind of like a sleep-away camp except everybody was grown up and a guy. There were no ladies which as you know is kind of unusual.

The place we stayed at was right by the water but that didn't bother me because I am superwash and I got to go down one day when the tide was out and take some pictures with my new camera that I bought off eBay with the money I made this summer from sellling lemonade on the days they have games at Wrigley Field which is right near our apartment.

So anyway this is how pretty it was where we stayed.

But weren't there all the time because we had field trips. The first one was to Skacel which is where Addi Turbo needles come from, and when Franklin found out we were going there he got all red in the face because don't tell him I told you this but sometimes when he doesn't know anybody is watching he pulls out the case with his Addi Turbos in it and he touches them and he has this look on his face like Dolores gets when she is looking at the new Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue.

First this pretty lady talked to us and her name is Karin and she owns the place so she told us a lot of interesting facts.

And we got to look around the Garment Room which is where they keep all the pattern samples and the guys had a lot of fun trying things on and they kept saying "I want this one" and "I have to have this one" and "This is so fabulous" and it was also like when Dolores is looking through the new Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. Here is a picture of Keith and some garments.

This is Stephen who loved one of the sweaters so much he decided to model it and I said you work it and he was quite fierce don't you think. Miss Tyra Banks if you are reading this I think you should have Stephen on your show next time he is so sassy and versatile kind of like Linda Evangelista but funny.

And we had a tour of the whole place, first we went into the warehouse. They had this sign on the door and I think they were being funny but as you know I am yarn and to be honest it made me kind of nervous.

Well I was relieved because inside there was no flying happening that day but boy there was so much yarn. Think of all the yarn you have ever seen in one room and it was more than that. No really I am serious, look here is a picture of my buddy Joe who writes a famous blog.

Joe is tall but the yarn is even taller than he is! And see, he has that look on his face which is like the one Dolores gets when she looks at the new Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue.

And then we went into the needle room and this is a picture of Rob who is the marketing dude and he is very nice too and smart.

So in the needle room they keep all these thousands of Addi Turbo needles and Addi Lace needles and like every kind of Addi needle including some we never saw before. You know what it was like it was kind of like that wand shop in Harry Potter or maybe it was more like the goblin bank except no goblins.

And Franklin said it was not how he imagined, he always thought there would be a moat around it or a vault door or a retinal scan or something, and when we were leaving he asked if there would be a body cavity search and Rob said no and between you and me I think Franklin was disappointed.

So then if that wasn't enough we were hanging around at Skacel and who shows up but Cat Bordhi, who writes the books about crazy ways you can knit stuff , and then suddenly she and Franklin climbed up in a tree. I don't really understand what happened but I am pretty sure it was Cat's idea.

Candice from Skacel sent us this picture. Shout out, Candice! Thanks girlfriend!

And Franklin said to me afterward when Cat Bordhi shows up you never know what will happen so be prepared and just in case wear grippy shoes.

Let's see, then the next day was another trip and we went to a farm where they raise alpacas which is called Moonshadow Alpaca Ranch, and I was excited to go because I think alpacas are always so cute don't you?

This is a picture of Deb and Nancy, the ladies who own the farm, they were so friendly and told everybody about what it is like to have alpacas and I think maybe some of the guys would like to have their own farms. I saw one alpaca that was not so big like maybe you could keep it in an apartment and I asked Franklin and he said if I can figure out a way to make Dolores move to a remote corner of Idaho he will buy me two alpacas!

Here is one of the cute alpacas.

This is picture of all of us guys at the very end of the weekend. Franklin is in the front row next to Mike who was the dude in charge, I am in the very front near the center wearing the new Persian Poppies ball band I made after I took a workshop about color knitting from cute James who came all the way from New Zealand for this!

The whole weekend was so much fun that when it was time to leave I think Franklin maybe cried just a little bit but I said hey it's okay, they will have one next year so we can come back again and he cheered up, and plus we still had a trip to Paradise Fibers in Spokane to look forward to, but I will let him tell you about that next time because it's time for me to go to bed because we have to be at the airport early tomorrow to fly to Portland.

So this is Harry signing out. Bye!

Cupcake Goes West

2009-09-21T19:00:00.013-04:00

When you grow up in a military family, as I did, it's a fact of life that you're going to see more of the world before you're ten years old than many Americans do before they're fifty. Every three or four years, orders come through to pull up the tent stakes and head west, east, north, or south as dictated by the whims of Uncle Sam.

My sister and I saw even more than we might have, thanks to our parents' fondness for road trips. For example, when our orders were to leave Tucson, Arizona (Davis-Monthan Air Force Base) for Fairborn, Ohio (Wright-Patterson Air Force Base) we made the trip in our Plymouth Scamp via a serpentine route that introduced me (aged five) to a number of firsts, including:

first encounter with a live chicken
first entrée composed chiefly of a creature to which I had been introduced
first swim in natural body of water
first contact with muddy bottom of stagnant pond
first admonishment for screaming like a girl
first ride on horseback
first fantasy involving cowboy boots
first plate of biscuits and gravy
first second helping of biscuits and gravy
first third helping of biscuits and gravy
first fishing trip
first attempt to get out of going on second fishing trip

And that was just Arkansas.

Over the years I wound up spending at least a few days in most parts of the country–but never the Pacific Northwest. I'm not sure why. It wasn't for lack of wanting to go. You hear such lovely things about the place. Ferns, coastline, fabulous cooking, yarn shops sprinkled thickly across the landscape.

It was the yarn that finally drew me out there: two shops and one retreat simply stuffed with it. The first was Renaissance Yarns in Kent. Owner Nancy (she's the one on the left, without the goatee) welcomed me into her beautiful shop with immense cordiality for a book signing. The place filled up with merry knitters, who I am afraid may have been a touch disappointed to find I was unaccompanied. They were too polite to say so, but something about the sweet table suggested who the real attraction was.

As you know, it's not uncommon to see Dolores toasted; but it's rather unusual to find her baked.

The multi-talented confectionary artiste behind the cupcakes was Allison, who kindly posed for a souvenir portrait with the charming bibelot she'd created just to commemorate the occasion.

A closer look:

The scary thing is that no matter where I put it, the eyes follow me around the room.

Renaissance Yarns was a terrific introduction to the Pacific Northwest, and set the tone for the rest of the trip. More about that in the next few entries.

Socked

I like to think of myself as a curious knitter, always interested in a new ways of doing things, but I have no illusions that this applies to my sock knitting. I learned cuff down, heel flap, Kitchener toe from dear Charlene Schurch and the only thing I'd ever done differently since was switch on occasion from four dpns to two circulars. Until now.

One of the goodies I got at the Men's Knitting Retreat was a pattern called "Oliver" by Marlowe Crawford, which had been created specially for a previous men's retreat. I confess that when I first saw it I thought, Oh, a sock pattern, yippee, and then I pulled out the next thing in the goody bag, which was a Della Q needle case, and I went all gooshy and forgot about the sock.

But when you hear ten guys out of thirty wax eloquent about a pattern and how it turns out the best-fitting sock they've ever met, and you know some of those guys have been around the block with quite a few socks, you can't help but take a second look.

So I cast on for it using Schaefer Yarns Heather in "Betty Friedan," and didn't get out of my chair for two days. I can't remember ever working through a project in such a froth. It was like racing to the climax of Anne Rice's The Witching Hour, except at the end of the sock I didn't want to knock on the author's front door and demand a personal apology.

Instead, I want to send a thank-you note. This sock hugs my foot like Dolores cuddling up to a fresh bottle of Ketel One. Marlowe, you're a freaky genius. Whatever weird gears in your brain turned in synch to help you create this thing, I hope they keep spinning for a long, long time. More, please.

Notion of Note

I was helped immensely in knitting "Oliver" by yet another prize from the retreat, a set of clever stitch markers by Girl on the Rocks. These are made of wood, and smell very faintly of hickory smoke.

Since I can never seem to remember which side of the damned gusset is k2tog and which is ssk, these are going to settle permanently in my knitting bag.

Hi.

2009-09-18T17:22:00.011-04:00

So, where have I been?

Let's get this bit out of the way first.

It’s been more than a month since I’ve written because the tiny black dog (see illustration) who almost always trots along behind me got out in front, teeth bared in an unambiguous snarl, and backed me into a corner.

It happens. It’s been happening for years. I was overdue. And now I seem to have put the little nipper back in his place, at least for the time being. And while I’m terribly sorry not to have been in touch, and I've missed you intensely. But better silence out of me than grouching. Trust me. Where I grouch, no grass grows.

While I Was Out

It was for the best that just when I was most inclined to hide under the bed with a copy of Sartre, scribbling you said it, brother and oh, mais oui in the margins, I had promised to leave the apartment and mix with knitters.

And oh, Sweet Nancy Bush, have I ever been mixing. I should have KITCHEN AID stamped on my forehead and a dough hook stuck in my mouth.

I mixed close to home, teaching three classes on home turf at Loopy Yarns. And then I mixed far, far from home in Washington, at Renaissance Yarns (Kent), Paradise Fibers (Spokane), and an all-male knitting retreat in a decommissoned convent.

There’s no way I’m going to try to cram all of it into a single entry. I know I’ll run out of energy halfway through and wind up back under the bed listening to a bootleg of Diamanda Galas/Fiona Apple mash-ups.

The only thing is to rummage about in the filigreed bonbon box of memory and proffer random sweet bits to you as I grab them.

Crochet for Mixed Marriages

The genius behind my trip west was Brian Kohler, who works at (and designs for) Skacel, Inc.–the nice people who have grown spoiled and indolent on all the money I spend on Addi knitting needles.

Brian is doubtless familiar to some of you as That Guy Who is Knitting Seven Pairs of Socks at One Time on Two Circular Needles, because he is in fact knitting seven pairs of socks at one time on two circular needles. You can read about it here.

When he is not knitting seven pairs of socks at one time on two circular needles, Brian creates designs that are not only clever and beautiful but may even help us realize the fugitive vision of Peace in Our Time. Don’t believe me? Have a gander at this enigmatic little number.

It’s a crocheted Easter Yarmulke, perfect for those who have to dash from a Seder to the Egg Roll on the White House lawn without time to change outfits. All you do is give it a spin. Brian, would you be so kind as to demonstrate?

The coalition-building power of millinery. It gives one hope, don't you agree?

Back and There Again

Until this month, the Pacific Northwest was the one part of the United States I’d never visited. And I’m going back again¬–this time, to Portland. (I've only been trying to get out there for twenty years. It's about bloody time.)

If you’d like to hang out, and I so dearly hope you will, I’ll be at Knit Purl for a full-day class (Elizabeth Zimmermann’s Tomten Jacket and Garter Stitch Jacquard) and book signing on September 27, and a brand-spanking-new illustrated talk on September 28.

And then from the west, I head east. More on that (and so much else, my dears) tomorrow.

Portrait of the Artist as White Rabbit

2009-07-24T18:23:00.003-04:00

Although I'm not late, I'm in a ripping hurry. But I hate not checking in for so long, and as it happens there's news and some knitting to show you. I've been dying to show you the knitting for months, but as it was done for somebody else I had to keep mum until the client lifted the lid. The lid, it has now been lifted. And the client lives in Montreal, so I bet she shouted, "Voilà!" when she did it.

This is the Prairie Spring Tunic.

I designed it for Véronik Avery, in support of her new line, St-Denis Yarns. When Véronik asked me to work up a children's pattern for the first St-Denis magazine, I didn't know who else (aside from my talented buddy Carol) would be contributing; and it's probably a good thing I didn't. For starters: Ysolda Teague, Mary Jane Mucklestone, Pam Allen, and (of course) Véronik herself. Intimidating company, what? You can see the whole august assembly on Ravelry.

The yarn is lovely. When the big box full of different colors arrived, I knew right away I wanted to use every one of them. I also knew I didn't want the colorwork to look like it came from Fair Isle or Norway. Those are gorgeous, noble traditions–but they're already being nicely upheld and propelled by people who have far more right to them than I.

So the tunic has a motif that wasn't inspired by sea or snow. It was inspired by a sooty, crumbly bit of Prairie School terra cotta cornice on an otherwise unremarkable two-story building my neighborhood. I know. That's far less romantic than telling you I was moved by the site of a chamois munching on edelweiss* in the morning mist. But a fellow has to work with what's to hand.

If you're curious, Véronik says that retailers (including WEBS and Patternworks) will start receiving both the yarns and the magazine in August and September.

Additions to the Calendar

In August, I'm going to be teaching a whole bunch at dear, sweet Loopy Yarns:

August 8, Introduction to the History, Methods and Styles of Lace Knitting
August 15, Elizabeth Zimmermann's Tomten Jacket (plus Garter Stitch Jacquard)
August 22, Photographing Your Fiber

You can click here for more details.

And, much further from home, I'm making my first visit ever to the Pacific Northwest in September.

Seattle, Washington. Sept 2. Signing and stuff at Renaissance Yarns, in the evening (exact times TBA).
Spokane, Washington. Sept 7. Teaching "Introduction to the History, Methods and Styles of Lace Knitting" at Paradise Fibers. For more information, click here.

There may be some additions to the Washington trip, but that's what's confirmed for now. I'll keep you posted.

For now, the naughty naughty clock says I must stop and post this.

*I have no idea whether chamois eat edelweiss, and I'm too busy to check. Please don't feel compelled to enlighten me. My illusions are all I have at the moment.

Much Too Cozy

2009-07-10T16:35:00.005-04:00

I have too much to do right now. I'm not worried, though, as my calculations indicate that I can easily nail every deadline on the calendar provided I only sleep for three hours between now and the end of August.

One of the things I do not need to do right now is knit a tea cozy. It's unlikely that I will ever need to knit a tea cozy. In spite of my otherwise rabid Anglomania, I seldom drink tea. I own a teapot, but it hasn't seen action in three years. A teapot that is never full of tea does not require a cozy.

Nor has anyone else asked me to knit a tea cozy. There are several people who are waiting for me to write things and draw things and photograph things. There are even people who are waiting for me to knit things–but not a tea cozy.

And yet, this afternoon while I try to keep my shoulder to the wheel and my nose to the grindstone and my feet to the fire and all sorts of other undeniably nasty expressions for getting work done, I cannot stop thinking about knitting a tea cozy.

Not just any tea cozy, either. A so-called "bachelor's" tea cozy, with openings to fit over the spout and handle. This is of course a subtly misandrist label suggesting that unmarried gentlemen are too lazy and/or stupid to lift the cozy off the tea, but never mind. I still want to knit a "bachelor's" tea cozy because without the openings what you really have is a hat pretending to be something else, and I am bored of knitting hats at the moment, even devious undercover hats.

Of course, there is somebody who expects me to be knitting a hat. But I don't want to work on the hat, I can only thinking of knitting a tea cozy. And I have the most dreadful sinking feeling that before long, I will be knitting a tea cozy.

End of communication.

Nupp-tial Bliss

2009-07-03T22:55:00.006-04:00

Today in the United States we celebrated Independence Day–the anniversary of our country's formal split with Mother England. It was a great moment in political history, worthy of fond remembrance even if it did mean that two centuries later I'd be unable to get a copy of Marie Lloyd, Queen of the Music Hall that will run in my DVD player.

It used to be the tradition on this day for every family or assembled group to read in full the Declaration of Independence. This is, sad to say, no longer common, as most folks are too busy rushing to the emergency room to treat third-degree burns from illegal fireworks or salmonella poisoning from improperly stored potato salad.

I'm fond of anachronism, so I've started reading it to myself. And I'm corny enough to get misty-eyed over the most famous passage:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men* are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

After that, I patriotically pursued happiness by blocking the Leaf and Nupp Shawl from Knitted Lace of Estonia.

Working this piece was an uninterrupted tango of bliss and chocolate kisses. For once, I made it all the way from Point A to Point Z without committing a thundering whoopsie and having to rip back fifty rows. I don't expect to do it again. I think the Knitting Gods only hand out one free ride per customer.

A boy can hope, though.

[Personal to Nancy Bush: I love you. But you knew that already.]

*In some parts of the country, it is customary to append here the phrase, "Except the faggots, of course."

Fleece to Face with Kristen Rengren

2009-07-01T08:57:00.011-04:00

Dolores’s occasional series of author/designer interviews continues today with Kristen Rengren, author of an absolutely splendid new book of baby knits (from the always reliable Melanie Falick Books/STC Craft) that draws inspiration from the not-so-distant past.

DVH: Hi, I’m Dolores. Who are you? I can never keep track of these things.

KR: I’m Kristen Rengren. It’s nice to meet you.

DVH: You look familiar. Wait–did you used to dance at Club Whoopee over in Sauganash? And call yourself Amber Waves O’Grain?

KR: Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls. And possibly to some of the boys.

DVH: What can I get you to drink? I just finished the last of the Dewar’s, but there’s plenty of everything else.

KR: Maybe I should just have a Shirley Temple. It looks like you’re doing enough drinking for the both of us.

DVH: This is medicinal. Like vitamins.

KR: Sure. Okay.

DVH: Now, the Supreme Commander told me the last couple of these little chitchats were too loosey-goosey, so before we start I need you to agree to some ground rules. Let me see, where's that list? Yeah, here we go: no vulgarity, no inflammatory political statements, and no trying to take my top off. Is that clear?

KR: Are those rules for you or for me?

DVH: Oh, will you look at that–you’re right. So, you’re still welcome to take your top off if you feel so inclined.

KR: I thought this was a family show.

DVH: We have a very broad definition of family. Now, let’s get the official business out of the way so we can have some fun. What is it that you brought to show me today?

KR: I just wrote a book called Vintage Baby Knits–it’s a compendium of over forty vintage patterns from the 1920s through the 1950s, all rewritten for the thoroughly modern baby.

DVH: Groovy. We love babies around here, as long as they go home at the end of the day. Is this your first book?

KR: The first under my real name. All the rest have Fabio on the cover.

DVH: You grow more interesting by the minute. These are some very classy baby duds you got in here. When Debbie Bliss sees it she’ll have a freaking conniption. I think that would be fun to watch, don’t you?

KR: Well, I wouldn’t want to ruffle Debbie’s feathers, especially if she’s got as many pointy sticks in her house as I do. Vintage knitting has taught me a lot, but I’ve picked up very little in the way of vintage self-defense.

DVH: Hypothetical situation: you’re in a coffee shop minding your own business, having a latte, and Debbie comes at you from behind the bagel toaster with a butter knife. How do you defend yourself?

KR: I suppose in a pinch I’d have to hold up the Louise cardigan from the book, and just hope that she keeled over from the cuteness. I’m not exactly a knitting ninja, but I do know how to wield some heart-stoppingly cute sweaters. And I carry some size fifteens with me just in case.

DVH: Another hypothetical: you, me, Debbie. Wrestling in a big vat full of Jell-o. Your thoughts?

KR: I think I’d like to talk about the book.

DVH: Fine, play coy. Anyway, this is obviously a top-drawer production. No schmattehs, and the babies are all good looking. Must have cost a fortune. A-list baby models don’t come cheap. Were they difficult to work with on the set? Anybody throw a sippy cup at the makeup girl? Or wee on the furniture? Come on, you can tell me.

KR: I have no idea how they got those babies to sit still for so long on the set. My initial guess was duct tape and baby aspirin, but I think my stylist just turned out to be an astoundingly effective baby wrangler.

Actually I do know one trick the photographer used – she rustled up about twice as many babies as they needed for each shoot, and then just didn’t photograph the babies who cried that day. We had a super cutie for the Christening dress in the test photos, but she apparently cried like it was The Exorcist when they put her in it on the day of the shoot, so we ended up with a still shot.

DVH: Baby diva tantrums! We loves it. Hang on, though. I see a pattern for a stuffed elephant and a lion. Are those the only toys in the book? No sheep? You got something against sheep?

KR: Half the items in here are made of sheep. I thought it would be redundant.

DVH: Nice save. You know, you have shapely ankles just like Amber at Club Whoopee. Maybe she’s your sister?

KR: I have three sisters, but none of them are taxi dancers. At least for their day jobs.

DVH: I swear looking at these pictures makes me want to push out a flock just so I can knit the hoodie on page 22. You know a good place to meet rams in this city?

KR: You don’t even need a ram anymore if you hang out in the right places. Just look at Dolly.

DVH: Forget Dolly. Can I take a closer look at your ankles?

KR: What a coquette you are!

DVH: Mais oui, ma petite! La plume de ma tante! Baba au rhum!

KR: Maybe you shouldn’t take so much medicine.

DVH: I’m sure this thing is going to be a big-ass hit, so can we expect a volume two? Or do you have other plans?

KR: I’m already at work on a book of vintage kids’ knits as a sequel. And I’d also love to write a book of vintage patterns for women. The only trouble is that ladies in the forties and fifties wore such punishing under-things. I’m working on how women can get that look today without restricting any vital organs.

At the same time, I’m also working on original designs, because it’s just too much fun to design my own patterns, too. You can expect to see a bevy of vintage-inspired original patterns from me this fall and winter – for kids and grown-ups. If you’re lucky there might even be something for lovely lady sheep... provided you’d actually keep it on, of course. Don’t make me pull that camisole down again, darling.

Other than that, it’s world domination, getting the bathroom cleaned… you know, the usual.

DVH: In addition to all that would you be interested in dancing at Club Whoopee? I know a guy. I just need a good picture of your ankles.

KR: If you saw me dance, you’d tell me to not quit my day job and to stick to my knitting. I promise.

DVH: You’re being way too modest. Let me put some James Brown on the hi-fi and we can get down and funky. Here, I’ll start.

KR: Gosh, will you look at the time? I have to…go…wash my….eyes.

DVH: You’ll be back. They always come back.

If you'd like to enter to win a free copy of Vintage Baby Knits, click here to learn more about the contest being run by STC Craft.

Pick-Ups Without Hiccups

2009-06-23T12:59:00.017-04:00

With all due respect to Mr. Aesop and his one-note tortoise, I'm not entirely convinced that "slow and steady" always wins the race. I can report, however, that it will get you through a long stretch of lace knitting. That leafy nuppy number from Nancy Bush's book reached a turning point on Saturday when I finished row 3,246,782 of the center. As Nero said after he broke a fiddle string, taa-daaaaaa.

Time for the edging. However, Tom and I had plans to go hear a little Rachmaninoff down at Millennium Park. And while the setting, the weather and the music were all gorgeous,

they were hardly conducive to the next step: evenly picking up about 800 stitches all the way around the panel. So I set it aside and–I can't believe it–sat through the entire concert without knitting. But my mind kept drifting to the task ahead.

The short ends were straightforward. One was already live stitches, the other was created with a provisional cast-on that could be easily removed to reveal live stitches. It was the long sides that would be a challenge.

Out of curiosity, I went over to Ravelry to see who else had made this shawl and how their edgings had come out. The results were telling. Among 20-odd finished examples, easily half had no edging, or kept it to the short ends. Nothing wrong with that, of course. One should knit what one wants to knit, however one wants to knit it. But me, I liked the look of the full edging and would simply have to buckle down and make it happen.

Scary

Occasionally we knitters will refer to a maneuver or technique as "scary." I know I've done so. At such a moment, it helps to step back for a fresh perspective. So I pulled out at a few photographs I made earlier this month of people in the park spinning fire.

Yes, spinning fire. They quite deliberately set bits of things ablaze, and then whirl twirl and toss those things around their heads and limbs. For fun.

Upon reflection, I decided that picking up stitches evenly is not the scariest thing a hobby can throw at you.

On the other hand, getting to the end of the long edge for the third time in two hours and finding you're supposed to have 274 stitches but you only have 236, or you've overshot to 286, could make a person consider setting himself and/or the project on fire.

Divide and Conquer

I might be typing this from a bed in the Burn Unit if I hadn't remembered a sewing technique shown to me long ago by my seamstress grandmother. She didn't invent it, nor did I, and for all I know y'all already know it. But I don't recall seeing it online recently, so here's a little demonstration.

When you're faced with picking up stitches evenly along an edge, you may get lucky and find that the ratio is (for example) 1:1, meaning that for every slipped stitch or garter bump or whatever, you need to pick up one stitch. Easy.

Often, however, you will have a number of edge stitches or bumps that bears little or no relation to the number of stitches you need. Nancy Bush, bless her, gives a clue for this project: about 3 stitches picked up for every two slipped stitches. Not all designers are so thoughtful, alas. Or it may happen that you are the designer, and have nobody but yourself to rely on.

In such cases, break your lengthy edge into smaller segments. Here's how Grandma did it, and how I do it now.

1. Clear off a flat, level work surface large enough to comfortably support your project at full length. (Hint: not your lap.)

2. Procure an ample supply of coil-less safety pins, or stitch markers (shown) that open and close like safety pins. (The pins make fantastic markers, but can be tough to find. Schoolhouse Press is a good source.)

3. Lay your project on the table and smooth it out. Then, carefully lift one end and fold it, creating a single fold line halfway down the length of the edge you'll be marking. Place a marker at the fold line.

4. Pick up the folded edge and fold the project in half again, in the same direction. Your new fold marks the quarter points. You'll see that this time there are two layers. Place a marker in each.

5. Continue to fold and mark in this way until you've divided the length into as many sections as you deem necessary. In the case of this shawl, I did one more fold so I'd have eight equal parts.

6. Unfold the piece to full length, smooth it out, and check your markers. They should be placed evenly along the edge. You can adjust them if you see great discrepancies, but I find that it's not necessary to be incredibly precise. Your eyeball should work as well in this instance as a ruler.

Now, instead of having to consider the whole edge at once, you can divide the number of stitches you need (in this case, 274) by the number of segments you marked off (in this case, eight).

I figured out that I needed 34 stitches in seven of my segments, and 35 in the eighth.

After that, it was easy to pick up according to Nancy's suggested ratio and check my progress every time I reached a marker. If I needed 34 stitches and had too few, I'd back up a bit and add more. If I'd picked up too eagerly, I'd back up and drop a few.

I kept track of the count for each segment on a sheet of paper, which allowed me to stop without hesitation and resume without error whenever I was interrupted by the telephone, or by Dolores falling off the sink and into the toilet. (Don't ask.)

When I was finished with the full circumference, I had exactly the proper number of stitches, and it was all done in under half an hour.

Thanks, Grandma–what do you know about spinning fire?

Idle Questions of a Fevered Brain

2009-06-17T14:33:00.006-04:00

While I await the return of my film (yes, film) from the lab so that I can do a proper post about this weekend's rip-snorting good time in Austin at The Knitting Nest, I offer the following points to ponder, transcribed from a page written in a shaky hand at 30,000 feet somewhere over Arkansas.

Q. If I were going to take down an entire jet plane with something in my knitting bag, what would be the best thing to use?

Single metal dpn (fuchsia, US size 2) from Boye. (Have never, that I can recall, purchased set of fuchsia needles in any size.)
4-foot tape measure shaped like laughing sheep. (Squee, etc.)
Scrap of paper with mysterious note in pencil to "yo2, k2tog, k6 at next m, dammit."
Small plastic box containing eight two-inch-long T-pins for lace blocking demonstration.

(The TSA's answer is number four, because that's what they confiscated at the O'Hare security checkpoint.)

Q. Which of these is incompatible with lace knitting?

Eating a BBQ Breakfast Taco from Salt Lick.
Waiting for next available urinal in crowded airport men's room.
Looking badass while seated at airport sports bar.
Avoiding the attention of woman at Gate 17 who wants to talk to somebody about the emotional and gastrointestinal consequences of her Pomeranian's separation anxiety.
All of the above.

Q. Which of the following is the best way to cope with the following announcement from the cockpit: "Folks, I need everyone including the flight attendants to be seated immediately, because we're heading into atmospheric conditions I haven't seen in twenty-five years of flying."

Grip both armrests very firmly in order to hold the plane up in the air.
Promise the Almighty Whatever Is Out There that if flight lands successfully, you will stop screening phone calls from Auntie Helen.
Cast on Sharon Miller's Princess Shawl since it's something you've always said you'd like to knit before you die.

Are they nupps? Or acne?

2009-06-05T14:50:00.006-04:00

Knitting lace, I have noticed, is like raising a child. You begin the undertaking with an equal mixture of trepidation, excitement, and anticipation. About halfway through, it's a bedraggled and incoherent mess. It's not at all what you had in mind. You would throw it out–but you've already invested so much time. So you keep working, determined that perseverance and discipline will win out. When it casts off into independence, you feel proud, though you know perfectly well where every fault and fudge is located.

I've been knitting lace today–the Leaf and Nupp Shawl from Nancy Bush's lovely book.

Maybe my lace parenting skills are improving, because this piece got through its awkward phase with a minimum of trauma. Indeed it seems to have raised itself, like one of those Victorian heroines who blossom into spunky, swanlike maidenhood in spite of having been tossed out of a slum and into the streets at age four with nothing but a crust of bread and a button hook.

When I picked it up this morning, I did a quick count of repeats and realized I'm only two away from finishing the center. This seems impossible. I've given it no special attention, as it has no deadline. I've knit a row here or there, in odd moments, usually with my mind on something else. I wondered whether Dolores might have been helping it along secretly, but she seldom does good deeds without trumpeting. (Last time she removed her dirty underwear from the floor without being told, she asked me to hire a skywriter.)

It's not quite ready for the debutante ball, mind you. A review of the instructions reminds me that there's a whole lot of picking-up to do around the long edges, and that's followed a border knit in long (long, long) rounds from the center outwards.

So. Will this shawl marry a rich-but-gentle peer of the realm and retire to a quiet life in the country? Or will it perish at the hands of Jack the Ripper after stumbling out of an opium den?

Time will tell.

Ruts and How to Avoid Them

2009-06-01T13:30:00.008-04:00

I don't know about you, but I can't knit all the time. Not that the idea isn't attractive in theory, but in practice it doesn't work. Sore fingers, carpal tunnel, waking up with a merino hangover in a cold pool of your own worsted. Not pretty.

You know how farmers rotate crops to keep the soil fertile? I have to do that occasionally with my creative focus to keep my brain from turning into a dustbowl. Put down the needles, pick up the camera. Put down the camera, pick up the pencil. Put down the pencil, pick up tomatoes.*

The strangest thing is that all this stuff cross-pollinates, even when it seems impossible that it should. I was doing squats at the gym this morning and got an idea for a sweater. Had to run back to the locker room to make notes.

Lately I've been pulling out my toy cameras again. They're Holgas–cheap, all-plastic babies from China that shoot weird, dreamy pictures on medium format film. When I first bought mine, you could pick them up for ten bucks at a good camera store. Since then, they've become a vogue among prissy art students and will set you back fifty, but I still enjoy using mine.

Holgas are, to use a polite word, quirky. The limited focus mechanism has a mind of its own, and occasionally will decline to operate. The body leaks light. The back will fall off unless you tape the camera together. The film doesn't advance properly until you jam a piece of cardboard under the spool. The shutter doesn't click, it just emits a half-hearted "sproing."

Using a Holga forces you to relinquish just about all your control as photographer. You choose what to point the thing at, but that's about it. You go out, you shoot a roll, you send your film to the lab and wait to see what happened. Sometimes nothing, sometimes fun stuff.

These pictures of the BP Bridge in Millenium Park–a stainless steel Frank Gehry production with a superabundance of curves–came back from processing not long ago.

I've taken quite a few shots of the bridge with my Canon, which has multi-point focus, a pro-quality lens, automatic everything with manual overrides–and yet these are the stronger images.

I was looking at them and it occurred to me that I need to do the same thing with one of my current knitting projects. It began with great excitement, then hit a wall as I confronted a million design questions at once. Should I zig? Zag? Both? Neither? I've decided to let go, the way I do with my Holga, and this morning I've finally finished the 4" x 4" swatch.

Only took me two months.

Back to Texas

Dolores, Harry and I are heading south for World Wide Knit in Public Day. The Knitting Nest in Austin, Texas has invited us to come down for the festivities, which at The Knitting Nest are always extremely festive, indeed. Last time I was there, they let me draw all over the wall!

(If you like it, it's available on shirts, bags and kiddie clothes here.)

From 11 am–2 pm I'll be teaching "Introduction to the History, Methods, and Styles of Lace Knitting" (visit the Web site for details) and for the rest of the day I'll be hanging around knitting in air-conditioned comfort. Stop by, won't you, and say hello to the visiting Yankees?

Double Dipping

The eye-popping Summer issue of Twist Collective is up, and I'm in it. Twice, actually. There's my usual illustration for Ann's and Kay's advice column, plus this. I love the Twist folks with all my heart. They said, "Do something. Whatever you want." So I did, and when they saw it they didn't send it back with a note reading, "Too weird. Try again." And what I did is pretty weird.

*For spaghetti sauce. Why, what were you thinking?

Nutty

2009-05-30T22:07:00.006-04:00

I was walking down Fremont Street today when I heard a weird chattering coming from overhead. I looked up and saw a squirrel running down the trunk of one of the big, old trees that grow along the curb.

"Oh," I thought. "Squirrel."

The squirrel chattered again, and was answered from above by an entire Wagnerian chorus of chatters.

"Oh," I thought. "More squirrels."

And then, as in a cinematic version of The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin as re-imagined by Alfred Hitchcock, this furry seething river of squirrels started to swarm down the tree trunk.

You think I'm exaggerating. I'm not. It wasn't two or three or four, it was two or three dozen, all heading madly for the grass upon which I stood, all chattering in a manner that sounded uncannily like a passel of zombies calling for another round of brains.

There are no photos with this post because I did not stop to take photographs. I beat it, looking back over my shoulder as they tumbled downward onto the parkway, chattering. Chattering, chattering. It's still ringing in my ears.

We have a lot of squirrels in this neighborhood. If they have decided to organize, we're in trouble.

Welcome, Summer

2009-05-26T16:28:00.005-04:00

As I write this the view beyond the window is temporarily sunlit, through a tiny break in a bank of clouds otherwise as gray, threatening and impenetrable as a fleet of battleships. This is late May in Chicago: glimpses of summer between stretches of cold, wet and windy.

This weekend we were granted a single perfect day, and on that day I helped to restore a friend's backyard. Once an oasis, it had fallen into ruin. We worked hard from Friday evening through Saturday evening: planting, dividing, tilling, grading, hauling, laying sod. It was heaven for me, the long-frustrated gardener with never more than a window box to fuss over.

I am happy to report that all those years of compulsively watching "The Victory Garden" and reading Gertrude Jekyll finally paid off. More than once, a question arose and from somewhere deep in my cranium emerged a surprisingly authoritative answer.

Time will tell, of course, whether things actually grow as we intended. But we are ambitious, and have put our faith in reinvigorated beds of hostas and daylilies; baskets and urns of assorted annuals; a large planting of herbs; and one experimental tomato.

In exchange for buckets of sweat and a few scrapes and bruises, I now have entrée to the garden whenever I like. It's close enough to home that my spinning wheel is now in residence. On Sunday, which was cooler but still pleasant, I sat on the porch and spun more of the Border Leicester for Susan's shawl. If the present pace persists, she can expect delivery in time for Fall 2015.

It's a commonplace that a good meal outdoors tastes better than the same meal indoors, and I think the same is true of needlework and spinning. When I first read Elizabeth Zimmermann's accounts (in Knitter's Almanac) of knitting in a canoe and by a campfire, I thought she must be cuckoo. Now, I get it. Provided you're not broiling in direct sun or being eaten alive by midges, fresh air can turn even plain passages of stockinette into moments of undiluted euphoria.

Our weather turned murky after that, and it's back to working indoors for the next few days, but I've had a taste of what's coming. And winter can't last forever, not even in Chicago.

Warning Signs

2009-05-14T07:52:00.004-04:00

You know that yarn is running your life when you're watching a documentary about Lizzie Borden, and you rush to pause the DVD for a closer look at the grisly police photo of her butchered father because it appears that the pillow under his (bleeding, disfigured) head is made of crochet.

And then you realize half an hour later that you've missed the subsequent details of the investigation and trial because you've been thinking about whether Lizzie did crochet, and whether that might explain anything, and feeling frustrated that the people who made the documentary didn't bother to find out.

Do Gay Martians Have the Right to Marry?

2009-05-12T11:04:00.007-04:00

It’s unthinkable for an American male of my age to say this, but it’s true: I do not, as a rule, care for science fiction.

I learned years ago not to air this singular lapse at parties. People don’t take it well. They insist, horrified, that I cannot be serious, as though I’d confessed a fondness for kicking stray dogs or pushing old ladies into traffic.

“What about Star Wars,” they gasp. “Didn’t you love Star Wars as a child?”

I didn’t, because I never saw Star Wars as a child. I still haven’t seen it, though I was persuaded to watch the final installment on a big screen. For a few minutes, it turned me into the screaming, bouncy second-grader I never was. But the thrill faded quickly and I’ve never bothered to watch the rest.

My imagination, I’m afraid, simply doesn’t thrive on what’s to come. I prefer to wander in the past. Given the chance and a time machine, I’d be tickled to pieces to sail around the world third class on a 1920s Cunard liner. If you handed me a first-class ticket to Mars, however, I’d hand it right back. I don’t want to visit Mars, don’t want to wear a space suit, don’t want to play zero-gravity badminton with little green men from some nebulous nebula.

It’s difficult to voice any of this without being accused of snobbery. And that’s funny, because it’s perfectly acceptable in America to say, for example, “I hate opera.” I happen to love opera, and when someone tells me she hates it, I often ask which opera she went to hear. The answer is almost invariably, “Well, I’ve never actually been to the opera…” Which is what I've always thought snobbery was–assuming that something (or someone) is not worth your time without taking a closer look.

In my defense, although I escaped immersion in Star Wars I’ve still sampled enough other stuff from the genre to have formed what I think is an educated distaste. Some of it was moderately highbrow (2001: A Space Odyssey) and some of it low (the original Battlestar Galactica). None of it grabbed me.

So imagine my surprise when, after watching the trailer, I conceived an undeniable urge to see Star Trek at the theater.

Now, skipping Star Wars is a walk in the park compared to evading Star Trek. There’s been so much of it; our culture is marinated in it. And it began as television. We didn’t go to the movies much when I was a kid, but we sure as hell had a well-used television.

Yet I never watched it, in spite of fierce peer pressure. When my friends wanted to play Star Trek, they always had to tell me what to do. Otherwise I’d act wildly inappropriate and order Scotty to beam me to Paris. (Hey–they said the transporter could send you anywhere.)

I hadn’t the faintest idea why the new movie caught my attention; but when Tom said he’d like to see it, I agreed to go. By Sunday afternoon, I was munching candy and watching everybody fight the Romulans.

Needless to say a whole bunch of the film zoomed right over my head, you should pardon the expression. Still, I enjoyed it. About halfway through, I realized why.

First, I love period pieces, and this is a period piece. It’s set in the future, yes, but it’s the future as imagined in the 1960s, re-created at the top of the twenty-first century. The costumers were splendidly faithful to the ironed hair, jump suits and go-go boots¬–indeed, the attention to detail is worthy of Merchant-Ivory.

Second, it’s one of the best gay films I’ve ever seen. It’s gayer than Milk.

I’ve been hearing for years that Star Trek, unlike a lot of other space epics, used futuristic situations at metaphors for contemporary issues. And so it is with this movie, which I interpret as a roman a clef exploration of the twinks vs. bears conflict within the gay community.

No, seriously. It’s so obvious.

In case you’re not familiar with the differing camps, twinks are the sort of gay person familiar to television audiences: young, fair, slender, with a fondness for form-fitting clothing and hair products. Twinks have taken over all the best-friend roles that used to go to actresses like Eve Arden.

Here, from the box cover of a gay Art Film celebrating (ahem) the twink lifestyle, is a representative sample.

Bears, on the other hand, are seldom represented in gay media and certainly never show up in mainstream media. Bears tend to be older, rougher, hairier, and heavier, with a fondness for tattoos, stout boots, and other trappings of untamed masculinity. Bears don’t appear in straight television or film because straight male executives can’t handle the idea of gay men who could kick the crap out of them.

Here, from another box cover from a very different gay Art Film, is a group of bears.

In Star Trek, the twinks are all aboard the Enterprise, along with their signature companion: a sexy, sassy female best friend. They're all wearing the same labels. The ship is new and exclusive, with custom retro furniture and perfect lighting–the de rigueur elements of a twink nightclub.

They are fighting the bears–thinly disguised as the Romulans–led by a pugnacious leather daddy named Nero, who struts around brandishing his gigantic staff. Aside from a nasty case of cauliflower ear, Nero is a prime candidate to get his own calendar from Colt Studios.

Nero’s ship, the Narada, is black and spiky on the outside. Inside, it’s all shadowy corners and well-worn industrial fittings, with no women in sight–the spitting image of your typical corner leather bar.

Let’s do a side-by-side comparison, shall we?

Twinks and the crew of the Enterprise.

Bears and Nero the Romulan.

I rest my case, earthlings.

Verses Scrawled on the Back of an Old Ball Band, Found Abandoned on a Street Corner in Nantucket

2009-05-08T12:01:00.004-04:00

There once was a knitter named Nell
Who knit lace like a bat out of Hell.
Said the lass, “My technique
Turns out three shawls a week:
Do it quickly, but not very well.”

There once was a knitter named May
Who went shopping for yarn twice a day.
'Til a sack of wool blend
Caused the shelving to bend
And she drowned in a sea of bouclée.

There once was a knitter named Andy
Who dipped all his needles in brandy.
He said, “After a snifter,
My knitting’s much swifter,
And all of my sweaters smell dandy.”

There once was a knitter named Mary,
Who liked to mix cables and sherry.
She explained, “When I’m pissed,
I can fearlessly twist.
When I work them cold sober, it’s scary.”

Ripping Yarn

2009-04-30T13:28:00.004-04:00

I've reached the ankle of the still-nameless sock that was inspired by a wallpaper from Upstairs, Downstairs.

You must pardon the photograph–I'm away from my proper camera, and used the one that lives in my computer.

After a day of pondering the leg I've decided to rip it all back and re-knit it. What you can't see in the photograph are the flaws and wobbles. They are legion. This is my first sock in two colors, you see, and a new design. I couldn't resist experimenting along the way.

I began on two circulars–my usual method–with the work right side-out. Then came a problem I've never had before: a slight buckling at the transition from needle to needle. No amount fiddling helped, so I flipped the sock inside out. This eliminated the buckling and gave me effortless, perfectly tensioned floats all around; but the flopping ends of the loose needle kept getting in the way of the working yarns. Annoying.

I switched to five double-points. First right side-out (satisfactory), then inside-out (perfect). I get a far looser gauge with the double points (though they're the same size and material as the circulars) and the ankle of the sock is bigger than the cuff.

You may be wondering who on earth looks so closely at my socks that any of this would matter to them. Nobody. Nobody but me, that is, and every time I put it on I'd grit my teeth.

So, my friends, it's rippin' time. But from the smoking ruins will rise a new sock, a better sock, a sock that the other knitters won't make fun of on the playground.

Rip rip rip rip rip.

Nuppin'

2009-04-22T17:40:00.005-04:00

I realized recently that I’ve been doing this needles-and-string act long enough to perceive, for the first time, certain trends in my output. These trends are not at all what I’d have predicted when I started out.

If one’s knitting is a journey, I set out for Sausalito and wound up in Angkor Wat. I remember distinctly an early vision myself with a closet full of rustic handmade sweaters, made by me for me. They would fit properly, which off-the-rack sweaters never do. They would be beautiful, like folk art; but practical, like Gore-Tex.

So far, I’ve started three and finished one.

I know how to knit sweaters. I still enjoy the idea of knitting sweaters. I have (oh sweet Sally Melville, do I have) enough yarn to knit sweaters. But I do not, for the most part, knit sweaters.

On the other hand, my lifestyle is not such that I often stand before the mirror and think, You know what would look great with those motorcycle boots? A lace shawl. Yet I have discovered that I don’t feel like I’m up to much unless there’s at least one lacy thing in progress and two or three others under contemplation. If you look through my finished objects, you’ll see I’ve knit way more than my share of holes.

Go thou, as the Bible says, and figure.

Right now I’m up to my clavicle in nupps, thanks to Nancy Bush and her book, Knitted Lace of Estonia. I waited a long time for this book–years, Nancy, but who’s counting?–and was so relieved to discover it was worth the wait. Before it was released, I got my paws on a copy of the preview and Susan ordered one (1) copy of Miralda’s Triangular Shawl as soon as she saw it.

I decided, for reasons that are still unclear to me, that I should spin the yarn for this myself, using some beautiful Border Leicester provided by a friend. It’s coming along slowly, though my speed continues to improve.

(There’s nothing so titillating as a shot of a partially-filled bobbin of handspun singles, is there? Unless it’s a low-resolution YouTube video of drying paint.)

Mind you, I refuse to wait until the spinning’s finished to try out a pattern from the book, so I grabbed some JaggerSpun Zephyr and started the Leaf and Nupp shawl.

Nupps, in case you are not familiar with them, are little bundles of wrapped stitches characteristic of Estonian lace knitting. The word is pronounced “noop” and means “devil’s rabbit dropping.” (Nancy Bush insists it means “button” or “bud,” but you work a few of them and then tell me who you believe.)

Ha, ha. I jest. Nupps truly are not difficult after a bit of practice, and well worth the effort for the striking texture they add to the finished piece. Still, when you are learning, do so on a swatch and not the shawl; and make sure impressionable children and sensitive relations are out of earshot until you’ve got the moves down pat.

Photographs of in-progress lace are even worse than photographs of in-progress bobbins. Unless you take a lot of time to prep the shot, which I could not, they look like the bastard offspring of cheesecloth and macramé. But I tried silhouetting it against the morning sunlight, and offer you these.

If you squint, they look kind of artsy. If you don’t squint, please don’t say I never offered you the opportunity.

Am I Here? Here Am I. I Am Here.

2009-04-21T14:16:00.007-04:00

That grinding noise you hear is rust working its way out of the joints in my cerebral cortex. My friend the Prominent Anatomist insists there are no joints in the brain, but I don’t believe it. I can feel them in there most days, creaking.

I have to stop every so often and oil the works to keep them from freezing up, which I neglected to do this month. Therefore, the extended silence.

And there has been so much to relate.

A talk at the Yarn Market News conference in Chicago. A talk at Knit in Public Day in LaCrosse, Wisconsin. A signing and a class at Loop, in Philadelphia. Two appearances in New York City at Knitty City and Annie and Co. And a visit to a live taping of my all-time favorite National Public Radio show, Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, at which a group of knitters presented Mo Rocca with a quite gorgeous hand-knit sweater and I gave him a copy of the little book. (There’s even a video of that one, if you scroll down to the bottom of the WWDTM page.)

And I’ve been knitting, though mostly on projects that’ll be published elsewhere.

Just couldn’t write about any of it. Could not.

When you are accustomed to writing at least with fluency, if not elegance, realizing that you've suddenly gone dry is terrifying. It’s like sitting down to knit, and finding your fingers have melted and run down the drain.

Every writer suffers from block now and again. It’s an occupational hazard. But this wasn’t a block, it was a wall of blocks. A big wall, like that one in China. I was on one side, and on the other were all the ideas. I could hear them having a marvelous time, blowing kazoos and playing tag. But I couldn’t get over the wall.

My usual tricks–scribbling randomly in notebooks, talking into a recorder, beating my face against the shower door–fizzled like a pack of wet matches.

I started envying people who aren’t usually sources of envy. Like the guy who hands out flyers in front of the subway station. Sure, I thought. You have to stand in the rain shilling for a mariachi band that’s paying you a quarter an hour. But you don’t have two unfinished articles staring you down, vulturewise, from a perch just above the keyboard.

In the end, this time I simply had to give up the struggle and wait.

Thank goodness for knitting. Knitting helped. When I couldn’t follow a noun with a verb, I could still follow a knit with a purl. It felt like progress, production, industry. It kept my fingers busy while the circuits in my brain rebooted. I know it's far more traditional for a writer to turn to drink, but I'm too much of a lightweight to handle Thunderbird and too cheap to pay for good champagne.

(Just imagine if, instead of glugging whiskey in excess, that nice Mr. Hemingway had thought to cast on for a mitten. I bet The Old Man and the Sea would have ended properly, with a round of mojitos and a fish fry.)

As to what I've been knitting and lots of other knitting-related chitchat, tune in tomorrow. And no, I’m not kidding, I mean tomorrow. I'd write more, but I have to take Dolores downtown for a go-see at Veterinary Practice News and she's getting antsy.

Toodles.

Strangers on a Train

2009-03-25T09:32:00.004-04:00

Typing this morning from LaCrosse, Wisconsin. I'm here to speak tonight at the town's annual Knit in Public Day. As the place is just close enough to Chicago to make it practicable, I came up by train.

Barring bandits or cows on the track, the trip is about five hours. We chugged along smoothly and I got a shocking amount of work done. Of course, there's not a lot to look at on a train and so five or six passengers, in passing by, stopped to ask about my knitting.

The most interesting conversation was with a woman who looked to be in her early twenties, and who began our dialogue in the usual manner.

"I've never seen a man knitting before."

To which I gave my standard reply, which I always deliver with wide-eyed surprise.

"You haven't? How odd."

She blinked. "Well, no. I mean, it's something women do, right?"

I smiled. "Not in my house."

"Oh," she said. "Well, I was brought up old-fashioned."

"So was I."

"Well, it's just surprising that you would do it in a public place."

I opened my mouth to say that, by coincidence, I was en route to an entire assembly of public knitters, but she went on.

"Don't you think about how it might look to the kids?" She indicated a few who were seated nearby in the coach.

"I don't follow you."

"Well, it might confuse them. The boys especially. A man doing something a woman does."

"I don't follow you."

She laughed. "Forgive me," she said. "I'm in the ministry, so it's second nature to me to minister. I'm always thinking about setting a good example for the young people."

I wondered if the window next to my seat could open, and if I could throw myself out of it.

"And you know,"she continued, "I have seen for myself that young boys need grown men to be role models of strength."

We were, figuratively speaking, at a crossroads. I could a) ask her why she felt a man peacefully doing something creative was not a strong role model, or b) feign narcolepsy and hope she'd go minister to the lady across the aisle.

Before I could do either, she asked, "Do you ever stop and talk to Jesus, and ask what He would want you to do?"

"I'm a Buddhist," I said. "Jesus and I don't usually go to the same cocktail parties."

"Oh," she said, stiffening. "Well, I guess there's nothing I can say to you then, is there? Have a good trip."

And she walked away.

Now, before some of you (you know who you are) start kvetching about Christian missionaries, let me ask you (firmly) please to not do that. We don't bash anybody's religion in here.

And as it happens, I have been just as annoyed on many occasions by Buddha-pushers who feel I am insufficiently Bodhi-fied because my practice is Zen and not Tibetan or Vipassana, or because I eat meat, or because I reflexively say "God bless you," when somebody sneezes. No single theology holds the monopoly on faith-based douchebaggery.

No. I wrote this conversation down because lately I worry (as you well may) about how we're ever going to climb out of the mess the world's in if folks won't talk to each other. Or rather, if folks won't listen to each other. Here was a textbook example of this large problem, shrunk to fit two people.

Missionary Lady and I had quite a chat but in the end, she didn't want to hear from me and I didn't want to hear from her. If we had kept talking, I doubt I would have been able to keep my cool well enough to be persuasive rather than combative. The end result: stalemate. If she and I can't speak and listen, how are opposing politicians and entire countries going to reach accord?

I hope you're not expecting a tidy wrap-up to this post, kids, because the heck if I can figure it out.

On the other hand, I did finish the knitting. So that's something.