Mind-Jazz

I'm reading _Wild Heart Dancing_
by Elliot Sobel.

A gift from a friend,
the book is a guide
to restoring and sparking
your inner child, the artist
within.

The exercise I love best:
Write your ten favorite words.

I can do that.
Piece of cake...

yarn-over
lace
lavender
wild
soft
grace
cashmere
shawl
skein
unravel

Wait, I need at least
two dozen words
or maybe more
to wax poetic
in knitting terms.

Sobel would have you write
your words on cards
shuffle them.

Turn each card over
one at a time.

Record each word
in the order it appears.

Line break pattern,
your choice.

Walla!
A sound poem
Read it aloud.
Enjoy!

Do it three times.
Combine the three pieces
to create a longer poem.

I have seven inches
of plain knit
on the "In the Pink"
dress...

It morphed
from tee to dress.
Who could resist?

Soft pink cashmere
spilling off the needles...

So! I'll knit and knit and knit
and shuffle cards
and babble sound poems

A crazy old lady
doing mind-jazz
on a sunny Sunday
afternoon...

Don't tell!

Follow the Thread

Today is the day
I finished reading,
_Knit One, Haiku Too_
by Maria Fire.

A lovely book!
Very generic praise,
I suppose.

But the other option
would be to quote
almost every page.

I shall restrain myself
and quote from Fine's
reference to
William Stafford's poem:
"The Way It Is."
(Page 153).

"There's a thread you follow...
...But it's hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can't get lost."

I'm transversing
the landscape
of rounds and rounds
of pink rows
in the quest to create
seven boring inches of shirt
for my "In the Pink" tee.

I'm holding tight
to the thread.

I'm not lost,
just temporarily benumbed.

On the Knitting Treadmill

"Let your fingers
do the walking
through the yellow pages."

Like that ad!
Meant for a knitter...

Daily I watch a neighbor
walk past the window
as I blog.

It does inspire guilt.

So, I have opined
that my hands are not idle
and my fingers are flexed.

Today I'm knitting
a pale pink cashmere
tee for Miss Frances.

It is a new yarn (to me)
by Bernat.

I'm thinking to name
this project:
"In the Pink."

The tee should be
a perfect accessory
to Frances'
"Jumping Jacks" leotard.

It is many a year
since I could do
jumping jacks.

And since today
the energy level
is in the blue zone
way down on the scale
aided and abetted by
the high heat and
lack of rain...

I'll knit a bit
and hum encouragement
to my idle feet.

"Git Her Done"

Confession:

Everyone has a vice, right?
Today is the day
to own up to mine.

Back-story:
Jim has the power.
He controls the clicker.

You know,
that object
that allows one to
surf through the channels
on the TV.

I believe that I hold
the all time record
for watching 3 to 5 minute
segments of:
news, weather, history.
You name it.

Not that it matters,
I am a reader
not
a television watcher
but...

In five minute blips
I really like "Larry the Cable Guy."
I wouldn't admit this predisposition
to just anybody but I thought
this once confession would be good
for the soul.

Larry is a consummate
story teller in off-color
fashion and his tag line
is "Git her done."

The line "Git her done"
brings the house down every time,
produces gales of laughter.

I've taken the bait.

When the unfinished projects amass:
on the table in the corner of the den,
in the knitting box,
on the top of the hope chest...

I prompt myself:
"Git her done."
And laugh.

Sometimes it works.

I need to finish
just the trim
on a cranberry shrug
for Grace.

Four rows at most...
lots of stitches though.

I tried "Git her done,"
a few times yesterday.

I just laughed.
And started a new project.

I could try guilt.
I have a knitted hat for Frances
and nothing for Grace.

Nah!
Guilt isn't fun.

Discipline:
No new library book...
No playing with the new yarn...
No surfing for knitting patterns on the web
until you finish one project.

Jeez!
Talk about killing joy.

I think I'll watch
"Larry the Cable Guy"
on Comedy Central
and git Grace's shrug
done.

Stripes

Synchronicity:
Listen to this!

Stripes were my premier
knitting thought for the day
when we left for Saratoga
with a first stop
at Tang Teaching Museum and Art Gallery
at Skidmore College.

STRIPES
An exhibition of stripes
as an a art form is on show
from August 4- December 30, 2007.

"As visual language, they conjure
a multiple of contradictory meanings..."

Prisoners, clowns, artists wear stripes.
Generals wear stripes.

Stripes are vertical or horizontal.

My favorite work:
a huge canvas with
stripes of red satin ribbon--
long vertical bars--overlaid
on newsprint articles
slavery themed.

In November
there will be a screening
of "Spellbound" starring
Gregory Peck as a imposter
psychoanalyst with a fear
of stripes.

So, today,
I have stripes on the brain.
They are just everywhere.

I plan to
knit my stripes
in the round
and practice neat jogs
and count all the ways
to use stripes in knitting.

A Fix

Most mornings
I get a fix--
not to worry:
we're not talking
Jack Daniels or snuff.

Think Stephanie McPhee
"the Yarn Harlot."

Today I read the commentary
and moved on for a look-see
at her free patterns.

Tiptoe socks enchanted me.
But!

It was the "fix it"
tips that made my day.

First, "jogless jog."
When knitting in the round
with more than one color
add the new color and when
you get back to the first
stitch of the new color,
drop down, pick up a stitch
of the old color from the
row below and knit the two together.

Now I have heard
this bit of wisdom
many times before.
But this morning
it makes sense.

Next, "knitting in ends."
McPhee describes knitting
in those pesky ends with an
under over procession using
a length of the old color and
the working skein.

I've died and gone to heaven.
Well, not quite, but the door
to all those striped patterns
I've avoided just opened.

Now if someone
could fix the leak
in the shower faucet.
Maybe another day...

Off for a coffee fix...

Elegance

My children used to say:
"Off to see the wizard."
Not quite,

Actually we are traveling
to Saratoga Springs to stay at
the Gideon Putnam Resort and Spa.
Built in 1935 and remodeled in 2003
it is surrounded by 2300 square acres
of Adirondack beauty.

We are meeting friends for dinner
and bridge... a birthday treat
although belated.

A taste of elegance...
Time to peel off the sweat pants,
ditch the sneakers and wear
nylons and real shoes.

I'll use my Chinese silk
knitting bag (Christmas gift from Jenn)
and tuck in a book.
No stuffing a knitting project
into a baggie on this trip.

I'm knitting a soft off-white
spiral-patterned hat
for Frances.

It shall be quite elegant
and brings to mind Sonja Henie
Norwegian Olympic skating champion.

When I was girl
we would go
to Madison Square Garden
to watch her skate.

Sonia Henie was lithe and blond...
a first tier super star.

Ice-skating was never one
of my accomplishments.
(Weak ankles.)

Give me roller skates
wedged to my leather shoes
and a skate key on a string
around my neck and I'd transverse
the sidewalks of Port Washington.

But the soft white hat
carries a touch of elegance
and when it caresses
Frances' straight blond hair
she'll shine like Sonja Henie
for me.

Note to Grace:
You have a Sonje Henie hat
with cables. And I have a picture
of you in it.

Ta da!
The little hat and I
are off for an overnight
to imbibe a touch of elegance.

Muddling

Don't you just love the word?

Last night Pat O. of the infamous
Porch Ladies writing group did
a timed-writing on muddling
Mojetoes ( have spelled it six
ways without finding a recipe or
the correct spelling).

Anyway.
I'm muddling today.
Can't seem to center.

A young lady is painting
the outside of the house.

Two air conditioner installers
are working in the garage.

Jim is off to Home Depot
to buy yet again another gallon
of paint.

I'm waiting for the Time Warner
expert to come and tell me
why I fail to get internet service
every day between noon and six o'clock.

But on the plus side
of being slightly fey this a.m.
I'm taking time out to
browse my new knitting booklet.

_Iowa Crew/Cruise Socks_
produced by "Cottage Creations."
"(It) is a small, personal, mail-order company
dedicated to the hand-knitter
who takes great pride in her knitting."

Carol Anderson has produced the
quintessential pattern booklet for
socks.

Patterns for every size
from child's small to men's large
are interspersed with
historical facts about Iowa
and Carol's fond memories
of 40's and 50's facts.

Delightful!

She hones back to the days
of argyle socks and big bands.

She names her socks for songs:
"Pretty Baby" (Roy Orbison)
"Paper Doll" (Mills Brothers)
"Unforgettable" (Nat KIng Cole)

Song titles sure do ignite the memories.
So many choices... let's see:

"Loving You" (Elvis)
"Pretend" (Nat King Cole)
"I'll Be Seeing You"

On and on the list goes.
I'll have to knit a passel
of socks to use
all those titles.

Well, I guess I'll muddle along.
Dig out some old records,
hum a few bars, cast on a few stitches
see where it all goes.

Knitting Out Loud

The current " Knitter's Review"
headlined the news that
knitters will be able to knit
and listen to knitting
i.e. "Knitting Out Loud."

Kathy Goldner
the innovator of the golden
mien "Knitting Out Loud"
has purchased the rights
to such tomes as:

_American Knits_
by Melanie Falick

_Knitting Memories_
by Lela Nargi.

It will be possible to purchase
either book in a four CD format
for $29.95.

In the pipeline "Knitting Our Loud"
will record:

_Stitch 'n' Bitch_

_The Art of Fair Lisle Knitting_

_No Idle Hands_

Do a little jig.
Get me a CD.

AND LIFE IS GOOD!

Happiness

_Cross Creek_
Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

“The magnolia tree”

"I do not know the irreducible minimum of happiness for any other spirit than my own. It is impossible to be certain even of mine. Yet I believe that I know my tangible desideratum. It is a tree top against a patch of sky. If I should be crippled or long ill, or should have the quite conceivable misfortune to be clapped in jail, I could survive, I think, given this one token of the physical world.

The tree was a magnolia... "

I do not know my irreducible minimum for happiness.
I suspect that I can not reduce my choice to one.

This morning my choose would be
the panorama of the fog
lingering on the east shore
hiding the hillside and mansion...

During the night I'd have chosen
the sight
of a huge black cloud
hovering over the river...
a monster shape.

This noon I'd have to select
a sailboat bobbing
on the river
in the September sunshine.

Now it's a baby cap
knit with bright yellow yarn
in a twisted rib pattern creating
a bell shape.

I must conjecture
that my survival is aligned
to river watching and
knitting.

Needles and twisted threads
engage my hands
and spark the yarns
incubating in my imagination.

Let me tell you about the monster
threatening the river folk
in the year of Our Lord 2007.

Confetti

Scattered, blowing in the wind,
confetti...

Can't settle or focus.

Birthday bash was stupendous.
Roses, brownies, books, cards,
calls...
What more could anyone ask?

Jame brought her triangle
head scarves for show and tell.
She used Sassy Stripe yarn
with great results. Think
intricate Norwegian design
without all those bobbins.

I think I'm about to embark
on a hat making binge.

I found a baby hat pattern on
janelleknits called "Fruit and Veggies."
It is lime green with a dark green leaf
securing the crown.

Outrageous!
Totally out of my color zone.
I love it.

I'm being lured into
a knit for babies hat project.
Knit 20 Hats!

I could do that.
Let's call it Tuesday Morning Madness!

Knitting in the Lull

I was born in the lull before the storm:

September 15th 1938
Two months early
Share my birth date with
George Henry Lewis my paternal grandfather.

Arrived six days ahead of the Hurricane of 1938.

But my birth story always held snippets of the hurricane.
My Mother would say:

"They kept waking me to tell me I had a girl.
And I would say, No, I had a boy."

"The nurses told me not to worry when the power
went out. They had put hot water bottles in the incubator."

"The roads were flooded. Daddy and Mae had trouble
getting to the hospital... had to take back roads."

"They had to move the Lewis office to the new building.
Shore Road was flooded. People used row boats."

It took me years to discern that Mother was in the hospital
for ten days. So, her story always accounted my birth
as part of the storm.

I googled the storm:

Facts of the 1938 Hurricane (Francis, 1998)
(*Dubbed the Long Island Express)
Peak Steady Winds - 121 mph
Peak Gust - 186 mph at Blue Hill Observatory, MA.
Lowest Pressure - 27.94 in (946.2 mb) at Bellport, NY
Peak Storm Surge - 17 ft. above normal high tide (RI)
Peak Wave Heights - 50 ft. at Gloucester, MA
Deaths - 700 (600 in New England)
Homeless - 63,000
Homes, Buildings Destroyed - 8,900
Boats Lost - 3,300
Trees Destroyed - 2 Billion (approx.)
Cost - $6.2 million (1938), $15 billion (1998 adjusted)
September 21, 1938.

Today is a stormy day.
Nothing like a hurricane... cloudy, windy, a little dismal.

Jame has been knitting kerchiefs for the girls.
Triangles knit in garter stitch with crocheted chains
for ties.

I think I'll cast one on.

I'm confident that the girls
attired in their kerchiefs
will be photograph worthy.

In fact, I have in mind
that they will probably look like
immigrant children arriving in New York
at the turn of the century.

I'll knit in this birthday morning lull
and wait for the wee girls to come...
and the party to begin.

Felting

FELTING:

ABOUT.COM: Knitting

How to Felt:
Sarah White

Sarah uses a seven-step process.

Let’s summarize.

Knit twenty-five stitches for a sample.
Use 100% wool.
Take care to weave ends in judiciously.

Set washing machine to:
lowest water setting
highest temperature
longest agitation

Bag your sample or not.
Use soap or baking soda or not.

Add sample, start process.

Check every five minutes
Remove sample from water, place on towel, measure.
(At first the piece may have expanded, the wool has relaxed.)

Continue to check until:
fabric starts to become firm, solid, and smaller.

Check every two minutes.

When is it done?
The sample has reached the desired size.
Stitch definition is no longer visible.
Fabric has the desired body heft.

Drain the machine.
Rinse the fabric in cool water.
Wring gently.
Place on thick towel, pin block to desired size.

DONE!

During a recent trip to Vermont
the Brandon Art Guild gift shop
displayed numerous examples
of beautiful hand-dyed felted
scarves and hats.

I resisted the temptation to buy one
and counseled myself against learning to felt.
I mean who needs another project.

But as you must realize
I’m getting sucked in.

My resolve is melting.

Knitted Bowl

Elation!

Yesterday I found
a pattern for a knitted bowl.

I had given this idea
some thought but had
discarded it as one of my
more eccentric ideas.

Once upon a longtime ago...
the 1980's probably...
Jim and I saw burl bowls
at the Rhinebeck Craft Fair.
It was love at first sight for me
but they carried a hefty price tag.

Jim guffawed, "I could make those!"
And he did.

"Burl: A large rounded outgrowth on a tree."
(American Heritage Dictionary definition.)
(Essentially a cancerous growth.)

Jim made three bowls.
He peeled away the outer bark.
Gouged out the center rings by hand...
deep craggy inner bowls resulted.
He sand papered each wall with care.
Linseed oiled all the surfaces.

I have two bowls.
Jenn has the third.
Jenn chose the bowl from
among my mother's possessions
when Mom died.

I used the bowl as a writing topic once.

BURL BOWL

The burl bowl sits on the kitchen countertop. Its irregular shape, and hollowed space--gouged out of an aberrant tree growth--accepts apples, Christmas balls, mail, or sunlight filtering through the window.

Other times the bowl remains empty. Transformed into a legendary "begging bowl." Myth holds that monks take their empty bowl into the world each day to be filled or not as fate wills.

Emptiness engenders simplicity, wisdom, gratefulness; the bowl becomes a blessing.

And now I can knit a bowl.

The process is quite simple.
Cast on five stitches and join them.
Increase on the even rows
Knit all stitches on the odd rows.
It works on the same principle as knitting
the thumb of a mitten.

Kathryn Vaughn the designer
of the pattern then felts her bowl.

Of course,
I will have to learn
to felt yarn.

My experience with felting
has been by default...
a knitted garment
dumped into hot water
by mistake or
a sweater allowed
to agitate
for too long.

Anyway!
Today my emptiness
has been filled by a
gracious knitter willing
to share her insights
with an unknown kindred spirit.

Post 9/11

The days after tragedy blur.

The prevailing wisdom was:
New Yorkers took to gathering
after 9/11.

Yarn shops blossomed.
New knitters signed up for classes.
Old knitters formed circles.

Wholeness, healing, holiness
always chain together in my mind.

For centuries people have
deemed cloth holy.

Jews wear a Tallit,
a prayer shawl.

In my childhood women clutched
scapulars or holy cloth relics
during child birth

Doesn't it make sense
that we of the 21st century
would gather to create
new fabric?

Knit our lives back together.

Years later
I can't recall
what I was knitting in
September 2001.

A very strange occurrence indeed...

On the other hand
I can recall each of the
personal accounts
of 9/11 written by
Pat, Nancy, Agnes, Susan,
Steph (my writing group-
The Porch Ladies.)

Agnes was in "The City."
She couldn't leave until way
after dark. On the way north
she and Bob watched the National Guard
trekking their way to ground zero.
They longed to be home, to be safe,
Arriving home after midnight
they found access to their lane
blocked by a checkpoint. All
sense of safety was forfeited.
Living on the route to the
Ashokan Reservoir--New York
City's water supply-- they
would barred easy access to home
for years to come.

Susan wrote about sending
Hannah, a little girl, at the time
off to school with her library book.

On and on the stories go
welded to my memory.

Today I will rewind
scraps of yarn, sort
leftovers, retag usable
skeins and once again
mend the rent made by
9/11.

9/11

9/11 will always be a linch pin...
a day in which the world changed.

On the morning of 9/11/2001
Jenn (2nd daughter) called.

"Have you heard the news?"

"No"

We never watch early morning TV
or turn on the radio first thing.

"A plane hit the World
Trade Center."

God forgive me.
My first thought was, so.
Another plane accident...

"Turn on the TV."
We rushed to the den
in time to see the second plane
hit the twin tower.

It was much later that we realized
that one of the planes had flown
down the Hudson River past the house
to trace its route to the Trade Center.

Terrorism entered one's vocabulary.
Evil deeds were not relegated to a few crazies
somewhere else.

Six years later 9/11 remains incomprehensible.


At the time I wrote a flash fiction
through the eyes of an old woman
in the mansion across the way.

Fiction is always my easiest venue.
One step away from reality...


UNRAVELING

The old woman on the bench had been unraveling the torn green sweater for a long time. She likes to unravel yarn. Raveled yarn is better than new. The wool fibers hold a bit of lanolin, the scent of lambs. The yarn holds the memory of the garment's shape and the wearer's presence. The winding rhythm enhances her memory.

On Sundays she often looks up at the sound the bi-plane buzzing the mansion, crossing the river, completing the circle and heading home. She likes the lazy confident loop he makes-a circle, a complete circle every time. The pilot has been doing it for years. He takes city people up on a twenty- minute flight: a small adventure, exposure to the heady thrill of a flight in an un-pressurized cabin.

Sometimes the pilot waves. She likes to imagine that he is acknowledging her. But no one acknowledges the old and lonely.

Yesterday a quick succession of sounds: rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat startled her. *Gunfire,* she’d thought, and was disoriented for a moment before she realized that it was the jackhammer being used to repair bridge.

She'd have to stop making-up scary stories. Sometimes she pretends-the Red Baron- is a spy plane;

Other times she fantasizes that it is cosmic plane come to take her to another realm.

But she doesn't dare share these imaginings. If she did, the matron wouldn't let her sit out here in the sun. Miss Manson would make her stay in her room, take pills, call her psychotic.

She doesn't tell anyone that she has seen a bald eagle twice this summer. The staff would scoff and say that an eagle hasn't been seen in these parts for years.

She tried to tell them the story of the mansion before it became the home: how the bride in the white silk kimono ran down the hillside to the railroad tracks to escape the drunken groom… and a stranger on a stallion had crashed through the woods and spirited her away. Nurse Alice had chided her, told her in no uncertain terms to stop telling tall tales.

So, on Tuesday, September 11th, when the commercial plane--a big plane, a 747- dipped and wavered and almost hit the bridge, she didn't say a word. Terrorism wasn't a word in her vocabulary; a reality she could unravel.

Cross Stitch

Margaret sits in her wheel chair
and cross stitches pillow cases
and runners hour after hour.

The soap operas keep her company.
Shadows flash across the screen.
Captions punctuate the actions.
(Her hearing is impaired.)

With small hands and thick glasses
she makes perfect stitches in peacock
colors.

Multiple times I have purchased
embroidery floss and the prerequisite
cloth but failed to grasp the technique.

Plying the strands takes practice.

My crosses are uneven.

My knots unravel or make large bumps
on the underside of my fabric.

In no time at all the underside
of my work becomes tangled
and snarled.

Surely not the work
of the good fairy
but the wicked witch.

The family has always encouraged
Margaret to make alphabet samplers.

Margaret has always demurred.

"But your skills are superb
and they would be great
money makers," we prod.

"Your work would sell
at antique and craft fairs,
be shown on gallery walls."

She shakes her head and
remains on her own path.

Recently I found a pattern
for a baby sweater
accented with delicate
cross stitches.

The self talk went like this:

That wouldn't be too difficult...
It's only a few stiches.
Give it a try.

I mean...
if a ten-year-old
could stitch those samplers...

And embroidery floss comes in
hundreds of beautiful colors.

Heed the call!

Knitting in Cyberspace

The Nine Patch...

(This letter is the response to a friend's query
about the art of knitting a Nine Patch.)

I would probably use a worsted weight yarn.
It would give you a block with a substantial weight.

Determine the size of your square.
Think four inches.
I would guess 20 stitches on a size six needle.
Knit across.
Knit 2 stitches, purl 16, knit 2 stitches.
Repeat.
Keeping a knit border would give your block definition.

Weavers wind yarn around a 3 by 5 folded card and then sort the cards to create the color sequence they want.

You could knit, sew, or crochet the squares together.
Crocheting them would probably give you the look you want
and be the easiest method. It is just a matter of pulling up a loop and making a slip stitch.

If you are thinking in terms of a wall hanging
I would do three strips of three and use a long knitting needle or rod to display them.
The space between strips would give you definition.

WARNING!
Knitting is addictive.

Let me know how it goes.

Scarlet Ribbons

Willie Nelson sings
a haunting verison of
"Scarlet Ribbons."

I'm intrigued by ribbons
at the moment...
a rather new passion.

I have never been
a girlie girl. Not
given to buttons and bows.

Never owned a camisole
with all those sexy ribbons.
Left them to the heroines
in the cowboy movies
of my youth.

Never wore ribbons
in my hair or danced
around the Maypole.

But I found a knitting pattern:
"Little Angel" tank top.
You knit an eyelet border
just above the waistline and
gather it with ribbon.

Ambivalence has set in.
Vevet ribbon in a shade of wine
or jade green would
be lovely.

But then again:
a Christmas plaid ribbon
with a hint of gold sparkle
to it would be smashing.

Oh! I forgot to tell you.
The yarn is soft, off-white,
a lamb's wool look alike...

The tank would work well with a
taffeta skirt or velvet pants.

I could make more
than one top or could
buy multiple ribbons.

After all Christmas
is far off, time is not
of the essence.

I shake my head
and play "Scarlet Ribbons"
yet another time and
realize that in truth...

it is the miracle...
the child's faith
of the scarlet ribbons,
I seek.

Small Fictions

September being my birth month
always elicits memories of my father.

Several years ago
a neighbor delivered a piece of
mail incorrectly delivered to his box.

One thing led to another.
It turned out that Carl Meyer was from Long Island.
He remembered my father and his brothers and
several of my cousins.

It was a heart stopping moment.
My father died in 1965.

At the time I wrote: "Camelot"
A small fiction created to
integrate my life stages.


CAMELOT

The courier arrives with a scroll--a message of some importance. He bangs on the etched glass door.

His Lordship opens the door slowly.

“A message for M’ Lady,” the courier extends the invitation to His Lordship who in turn hands it to the lady standing just behind him.

“It’s an invitation to a ball, James. How wonderful!”

“Who sent it?” James asks.

“The Lewis clan. It’s to be held at Camelot. It will be a feast like the days of old when romance and fairy tales reigned supreme.”

“You’ve come from home,” the tiny figure in the doorway of the castle with its stucco walls and locked gates observes. “You’ve come a great distance, had a long journey.”

“A matter of days,” the courier responds.

“And do you remember the old king, John the First?” the lady asks. “He was my father. He lived in the days before the world crashed.” She rewinds the invitation and carefully slips the ribbon over the cylinder.

“And you were Princess Pat, the fairest in all the land,” the courier says. “You were the child dressed in velvet and finest silk always with lace collar and cuff... a crown of curls on your head.” The old man smiles at the reminiscence and bows courteously. “Who could forget the little princess?”

His Lordship scowls.

“I could,” the woman whispers. “I don’t remember who I am. I forget that I was ever a princess.”

The courier remains silent.

She looks past him to the sea “I don’t know how to get there.” She glances at her husband.

“It’s not far, the courier says. “I could get you a map.”

She shakes her head sadly.

“I’ll take you there,” he says in a pique of passion. “Anytime,” he gestures grandly to his steed in the driveway.

She steps through the doorway into the light. “I wouldn’t know the names of the guests. So many are gone.” She frowns in concentration.

“I will introduce you,” he says. “Surely you will remember your royal friends at first sight.”

“I have nothing to wear--just these rags, summer fare: shorts and tee shirts.”

“A cloak! I have a great red cloak made of the finest wool. It is in my bag.”

“And shoes?” she asks.

He looks downcast. “Ah! I have leather thongs--fine slippers they will make.”

She nods and turns to study her reflection in the glass of the door; pats her hair. “‘Tis gray,” she says.

“It has golden highlights,” he offers.

She moves into a patch of sunlight. “It was lovely there. I can remember the music and the lights. I loved to dance.” She hums, and dances a few steps. “The king was so beloved. And remember the parades.”

A dark cloud passes overhead. Everything shadows. The clock strikes the hour.

She shivers. Drops the invitation. His Lordship puts his arm around her. “Come Patricia. You’ll catch a chill.”

He turns to the courier. “Thank you so much for delivering the invitation. Please extend our regrets. We can’t get there from here.”


Little princesses become old women leafing through knitting patterns
looking for heirloom worthy patterns.

I seldom choose an old fashioned pattern from the 40's or 50's
Little girls wearing delicate cardigans and Patten leather shoes
induce nostalgia but not desire.

I knit for contemporary princesses,
align my choices to the new era.

Food Knitting

Holiday weekend buzz!

Knitting on the wayside.
Swim... eat... swim.

i'm chuckling!

I should be a fiber artist...
one of those folks who:
knit hamburgers or rolls
or veggies on the side.

How do you make
the leap over the bar?

Or...
How do you do the limbo?
squeeze under the bar
and become a fiber artist?

Sculpt knitting or life
into untried shapes...

Do you disregard the bar?
Choose to leave the circle broken?

Knit a long circuitous I-cord
and bungee jump?

Geronimo!

Birth Month

This is my birth month.
Always the start of the new year.
The heck with Jan 1st.
This gal has the new school year personna.
Years and years of going to school, teaching school,
and sending my youngin's off to school has trained
the brain to think new beginnings.

Jame and gang are here
to celebrate the end of summer
and the coming school year.

Excitement reigns.
Jame sent an e-mail to the Yarn Harlot.

"New fan of your blog, so, sorry if you have already mentioned the answer to
this: my mom and I are wondering if you will be reading, writing/signing,
knitting and/or eating lamb kebabs (isn't that kinda weird?) at Sheep and
Wool in Rhinebeck this year."

Response:

"Yup, I will. Or the signing and knitting part at least."

So, since Rhinebeck is just across the river
we are into planning an October adventure to the festival.

On to other new year plans.
I think I'll knit...