Trick or Treat

Cookies, candy corn in paper napkins,
Mars bars and... YUM!

A friend just sent me
rules to a novel writing contest.
You sign on to write 50,000 words
in thirty days.

Not Tolstoy just 50,000 words.
Scary!

Now look at it this way.
A pair of knee socks equals
13,500 knitted stitches.

A sweater dress (Frances size)
equals 18,000 stitches.

Following this line
of reasoning.

Two sweater dresses and a
pair of knee socks plus- let's say-
a knit baby hat would equal a novel.

I could do that
and maybe cook the
Thanksgiving turkey
between bouts of knitting.

But then again
the turkey might have to go.

That's the trick
deciding what can stay
and what has to go.

Knitting vs. writing.
Writing vs. turkey basting.
Turkey basting vs. knitting.

I'll give it all some thought
on my way to Florida
while I eat my candy corn
and Mars bar and...

You get the picture.

Trick or treat!

Masks

During our visit to the Tang Museum
we saw an exhibit titled:

West African Masquerade
Photographs by Phyllis Galembo
July 14-December 30,2007

Viewer Guide:
“Masks disguise, alter, identify, express, and
invent our character.”

Galembo’s portraits were taken between
2003-2004 in the West African countries of
Nigeria, Burkina Faso, and Benin.

The costumes are full-bodied works of art:
woven, crocheted, knotted, and knitted in
stunning array of colorful patterns
using yarn, raffia, and cloth
they hide the identity of the wearer.
In several photos a hint of a smile
or a gleam in the eye peeks out
of the helmet like mask to intrigue the viewer.

Other costumes include a headdress
with a head perched on top or
a doll cradled in the wearer’s arm.

The photos are 30 by 30 or 50 by 50.
They are processed with a multiple
of intricate techniques
and color enhancements.

The show was a fiber artist’s dream.

The most heart-stopping, mind-blowing costume was
a suit and helmet worked in fine stripes of many colors.
The accompanying information deemed it crocheted
but my knitting sense would vote for fine yarn
knitted on small needles.

Think: a striped sock
knit to cover a giant
worked on size two needles
and fingering yarn.

Of course, I would like to see their jogs.

Do knitters wear masks?
Hide behind their knitting,
peek out... smile
but remain an enigma?

I won't tell.

Visions

This morning
I watch my scarlet capped
neighbor as he winterizes his house.
Back and forth he marches
taking in lawn furniture,
sealing windows,
stacking wood.

I'm sorting computer
disks--back up
to years of timed-writing.

I stop to read another
morning's observation
written years ago.


THE MARK ON THE WALL

The mark on the glass pane...
fascinates her...
A thing of beauty...
It’s the first sight her eyes seek
in the morning.
Some days it’s a hill,
a small mounded shape.
Other days it has defined features.
She imagines it’s a Madonna--
a Virgin she could pray to.

But if she waits too long
the morning grows warmer
and the Madonna begins to disappear;
it smears into indistinguishable droplets
leaving a dirty windowpane...
unanswered prayers.

Her husband talks about improved insulation,
weatherproofing. But she holds back,
pleads the unnecessary expense,
the mess created
by tearing out a wall.

She never finds words to explain
the disappearing Madonna--her attachment
to such a fragile ethereal vision.

The days are growing colder;
the window is more often frosted,
crackling in the pre-November chill.

Today the virgin
has been driven off
by a cold wind.

It must be time
to find another spot
on the wall,
a sun shadow
or a leaf pattern,
a new image to reflect
the inner need
to manifest a vision.

Time to put away the disk.
The busy neighbor has ceased
his endless toil.

I'll weave in the ends
of warm wool socks and
mail them to grand children
in need of boot socks.

And seek another vision.

Moody Blue

Yesterday was one
of those days...

You wake up
cold...
I mean
bone chilling cold.

You turn up
the electric blanket
and determine to not
get up.

But you do.
Hibernating is not really
a choice.
And deem the day
"moody blue."

The rain pours
down from the heavens
and the dampness won't
let up.

You have two
choices.
Go back to bed
or
go for a better mood.

I lugged out the crock-pot
and filled it aromatic spices
garden veggies


Sliced up some Granny Smith
apples and over did the
cinnamon. Baked apple
with a dab of ice cream...
"Ah man!" as the grandchildren say,
talk about comfort food.

Twisted the husband's arm
for a fire in the fireplace
amid all the Florida preparations.

Knitted on my blue wool sock
for hours on end.

Watched the flames
turn a deep blue
to complement the sock.

Seldom have I been more awake
or more content...
to knit a moody blue day.

Rationale

Time to pack up the old
kit bag and move on.

You see, I'm leaving
for Florida. And I need to
take a fair supply of stash
to get me through the winter.

And I was so good
at the Wool and Sheep festival.
275 dealers and I only spent...
Sparingly, let's say.

Florida, of course, has
yarn stores but one just
couldn't get caught mid-trip
or mid-stream with less than
a full sack of yarn and all the
correct size needles.

Add to that rationale:
Christmas is coming.

I know,
I'm always griping
and complaining
about the ads that ask:
"Have you begun your Christmas
shopping?" Or worse yet, "Have
you finished your Christmas shopping?'

Put me down as one of those folks
who has not bought Halloween candy
yet.

But knitters need to look ahead.
Allow a decent amount of time
to start and finish holiday projects.

And take into consideration
that I woke up this morning
relatively brain dead.
Couldn't think of one single thing
to write for the blog.

And I just took myself to
B&N and bought a knitting magazine.
And would you know it had the most
marvelous jumper recipe- have
never been able to discern the
difference between recipe and pattern-
and it would be perfect for Frances.
Poor child, she is so lacking in
hand knitted attire.

Solved two problems at once.
Found the perfect new knitting project
and produced a blog entry.
How good is that?

Started my Christmas gifting...
And now I only need to time
the Halloween candy purchase
so that I don't consume all that chocolate
before the big day.

Picking up Stitches

Rainy days and Monday's
get me down
or is it Sunday's?

Anyway it is a rainy day.
I'm going to play bridge
with an old friend.
An uplift for the spirit...

Nancy, Pat, Bobbie, and I
were once a band of
merry women who met
weekly to play bridge.

My children dubbed us
"the bridge ladies."

You know those women
who sit around the pool
at the country club, drink
martinis, and neglect their children.

In truth, we drank tea,
ate gingerbread, and laughed
a lot between hands of bridge.

The bridge ladies are disbanded
Two us live in Florida half year,
one lives with a daughter in New Jersey,
and one stayed home (NY).

So, today is a meeting for
old time's sake.

Picking up stitches if you will.

I can probably knit half a cuff
before it is time for lunch and bridge.

Color My World

The orange leafed tree
sways and bows in the
north corner
of the front yard.

Visually beyond it
across the road
behind a split rail fence
a row of pumpkins
await Halloween.

I long for the artist's brush...
Not even a possibility

A roll of color film...
Maybe.

I have a photographer's sensibility
but lack the skills
and/or the patience
for a whole new endeavor.

But two factors
keep prompting me.

One.
The dozens of color photos
on the knitting blogs I surf
keep nudging me.

Give it a try.
You could do that.
Stray a little from all those words
and tell your story with pictures.

Two.
The long skeins of yarn
hanging in the buildings
at the yarn festival
were arts works.

Jame said,
"I could buy this one"-
a hand dyed wool/silk palette
of rosy hue-" and
display it. Never need
to knit it at all."

I tell myself:
Picture a book of photos:
Visualize: yarn in art postures
Knitted pieces in funky settings
Color warps line dancing in the wind

Go, girl, go.
Color your world.
Leap with abandon
into a passion.

The Morning After

A bloody hangover...
Aye!

But not the kind
you are expecting.

Jame and I went
to the sheep and wool festival
and it exceeded all of our
high mark expectations.

Lovely fall day,
a tent with a dozen
knitting books,
the opportunity to
meet Stephanie McPhee
and have our books signed.

A hot dog and French fry lunch-
Ah! Junk food-
enjoyed to the beat
of the bango music
supplied by a folk group
assigned to the food tent.


We took a turn through the main building
with dozens of booths.

Hand dyed yarn, lace shawls made
with gossamer threads, yarn of
every description: alpaca, silk, merino.
You name it. It was there in every
shade and description.

Fiber artist heaven, need I say?

And then we went to hear a
presentation by Stephanie Pearl- McPhee
(the Yarn Harlot).

She spoke to a packed house.
Jame had to stand.
Some lovely man gave me his chair.

Her Canadian accent, her comedic
timing, her hilarious accounts of
a knitter's observations and
misadventures defies description.

I'm still replaying her witty lines.

About the Kauni cardigan*
she was wearing...
"Yes, I did a perfect job
on the color repeats. (Pause)
But I did one repeat too many
and ended with one sleeve
several inches longer than the other.
I only had to rip it out ONCE
and do it over.

We perused a few more booths.
Had a diet soda.
Came home
too tired to knit.

But the hangover
of good feeling
prompted
by McPhees' humor
lingers
into the morrow.

Please Lord,
help me to turn
my mishaps
in knitting and life
into fodder for
amusing anecdotes.

*To die for...
multicolored...
think rainbow in
tiny squares
separated
by stripes.


























































































antecdotes.

Craving

I know you're thinking
CHOCOLATE!

Wrong!
Today I want to knit
tube socks.
Nothing else will satisfy
my craving.

I've been poring over
the Knitting Central sock
pattern page.

Think menu selection
after a 40 day fast.

Well, not quite.
I do exaggerate upon
occasion.

But let's face it,
It's not the
propitious time
to order yarn.

I mean.
I am going to the
Sheep and Wool Festival
tomorrow.

Need to save a little cash
for tomorrow's splurge...
not blow the yarn allowance
at this juncture.
Right?

But I am fidgety.

And I read this wonderful
tip:

Knit with a needle
one size smaller
than the one recommended
on the wrapper.

It will produce a tighter sock.

I'm eager to give it a try.
Aren't you?

And in truth
I'm not the one for tips.
I walk right on past
that broad who tells
you how to get a stain
out of the sink or the
scum off the shower.

But tell me to use
a circular needle with
a different size point
on each end to make
my purl tension match
my knit tension and...

I'm hooked.
Have to try it
post haste.

Best I shut down the computer
before my fingers do the walking
and the yarn order
slips past the censor.

NY Sheep and Wool Festival

I am going to the
"NY Sheep and Wool Festival!"

I am going to the
"NY Sheep and Wool Festival!"

I am going...

You get the picture.
Am I excited?
Well, let's say a little bit.
Nah, let's say a whole lot.

Follow the yellow brick road...
(from my house)
the Dutchess County Fairgrounds
is in Rhinebeck, New York: Take route 199,
cross the bridge, hang a right
at the second light, go to the next light
hang a right, and travel three miles down the road,
it is on the left.

Marvelous facility.
Lots of parking.

The festival attracts tons of vendors,
with gorgeous yarns: handspun,
hand-dyed, skeined and ready to go.

Not to mention live sheep
and goats and such.

The highlight of the adventure
will be the book signing on Sunday.
It reads like the Who's Who of
knitting... all there to sign and chat.

And my favorite author, knitter,
Stephanie Pearl-McPhee (the Yarn Harlot)
will be speaking at 1 o'clock as well.

Think: the Erma Bombeck of knitting.

And the icing on the cake:
Jame, Frannie, and grand girls
are coming.

Jame and I will venture forth
and the rest of the gang will
hot tub it.

And the knitting warriors
will return with pizza and beer.

Life is good.

Perfect Ten

Message on the tape:
"Measure your foot
from heel to toe.
Send the result
via e-mail."

Let's back track.
The lovely blue flecked
wool I bought a few weeks ago
has worked up into
a great sock prototype
for Ms. Jame.

Therefore, the need
for the foot measurement...

Jame called.
"I'm a perfect ten."

The "perfect ten"
comment produced
delighted laughter.

Years ago,
when Jenn lived and taught
at A&M she was always grousing
about all those Texas freshman...
aka, perfect tens: perky, pretty, popular...
Fill in the blanks.

After assuring Jame
that she is definitely
a perfect ten...
(a mother's prerogative).

I measured the sock
and it was exactly
ten inches.

Praise God!
How often does one
estimate the correct
length?

Now, I only have
to knit its mate
another perfect ten.

Encounter

Walmart Super Center
thirty minutes before closing...
the young girl squatted next
to the bin filled with
fluffy yarns in muted tones:
buff, olive green, pale blue...

She cradled three skeins
in her arms.

"They are so expensive,"
she said, looking up at me,
"four dollars each."

She sighed.

"I want to make an afghan
for my mother-in-law."

"How many skeins do you need?'
I asked.

"I don't know," she said.

"What is your pattern?"

"I don't have one.
I'll choose one out
of one of the books on the rack."
She gestured to a rack
behind us and slightly
left.

"What needle size?"
I pressed.

She shrugged.

I looked down at her
and realized that I
was throwing tacks
on her path.

Her longing for that yarn,
the need to make that afghan...

Well, it didn't need
some well-meaning knitter
tallying up the number of
skeins and number of repeats
and the hefty cost.

So, I smiled, nodded, and
drifted away.

But the girl
she haunts me.

Hunched in the aisle
while the migrant workers
perused the aisles buying
necessities she sought
beauty.

I wonder about the back story,
the beloved mother-in-law.
Will the afghan comfort her,
heal her, make her feel loved?

I will never know.

But the memory of the girl
cradling the yarn,
the scent of her need,
the image of longing
on her face,
it will last a lifetime.

Going to the Mountains

When I was a girl,
yes I was a girl, a
very long time ago.

My family would make
the seasonal jaunt
to the mountains
of northern New York.

Uncle Andy would
always proclaim,
"We are going
to the mountains."

Leaving them unnamed.

At first we rented
a farm house and later
built a log cabin.

"The mountains" always
denoted the Adirondacks:
Gore mountain, Oven mountain,
Saddleback.

The cool breezes...
the scent of scotch pine,
the beauty of the maples,
delicacy of the white birch,

the fields of dried hay
dotted with munching cows-
post cards come to life-
lured us back year after year.

Jim grew up
in the shadow
of the peaks.

I was "summer people"
and remain so forty-five
years later.

Jim and I are going north
for a mini vacation:

genealogical research
a book signing for _Judge John Richards_
visits with extended family

But that's only the half of it,
as my mother would say.

For centuries
pilgrims have set out
on spiritual quests...

on foot
on horseback
in caravans

traveling hundreds
of miles...

crossing continents

For me
our journey...
going to the mountains
is tantamount to need...
instinctual

like the geese
drawn to fly
thousands of miles
to get to where they
are supposed to be.

Migrants now...
half year spent in Florida's warmth
and the other half in New York
we are accustomed to moving
our lives and our possessions
twice yearly.

The ritual of going home
to the mountains
sustains us.

The Adironcacks
strong, proud,
stark protectors...
anchor us.

They stand secure
in the knowledge
that their magic,
their majesty,
will always draw us back.

We are marked
with the seal
of mountain people.

So, I take up my backpack
of yarn, a satchel with
needles, scissors, stitch
holders...

I'll pick up stitches
cast on in my youth
add new rows,
another skein of
a different hue, perhaps

and have another length
of joy filled memory

engendered by
going home to the mountains.

Bless the Work

The greeting:
"Bless the work"
resonates, doesn't it?
It seems to be a common
salutation in Ireland.

It has a Buddhist sensibility.
Makes one mindful
of the work at hand.

Prompts images:

the fine lines
of Shaker furniture

a 20/3 cotton/linen thread
warped 40 ends to the inch)
woven into a runner or hand towel
graced with a delicate Shaker lace
pattern.

a crocheted doily
miming a spider web
a dainty circle with scalloped
edge

knitted square
block of lace
white against
the dark cherry table
host to the cut glass vase

Lord, Bless my work!

May my hands make a
worthy offering.

Twist

Author's Tea:
Walter Keady wrote
_Mary McGreevy_ and
_The Dowry_ and
several other Irish
themed books.

A gifted Irish storyteller
and an all together
grand reader
his presentation
was a delight.

His tone and cadences
brought to mind the actor
Barry Fitzgerald. (The movie:
"The Bells of St. Mary's.")

He read from _Mary McGreevy_.
Mary left the convent circa 1947,
inherited the farm and became "the farmer,"
chose to have a child but not a marriage.

You might say she set rural Ireland
on its head. And to add insult to
injury she refused to identify the father.

Well, can you believe the gall of herself?

Keady opines that Mary most closely
aligns to his personal history.

He loves mysteries but dislikes corpses.
So, he wrote a novel that created life
instead of death. An unnamed father
(giver of life) instead of a murder.

Brilliant! as the Irish would say.

You know...
I have never knitted:
a sweater starting with the sleeve
a scarf lengthwise
a sock toe up.

What if I twisted
my cherished prejudices
just a degree or two?

What if I tried
a different way?

What if I kicked over
knitting conformity?

I might just
stand my world
on its head.

How lovely!

Purple Crayons

Childrens' books
Knitting:
What is there not to love?

_Harold and The Purple Crayon_
by Crockett Johnson tops my
list.

Harold decides
to take a walk
in the moonlight.

He draws:
the moon
the path
the shortcut
the tree for a small forest
the dragon that scares him...

Has adventures.
Gets lost.
And finds his way home.

What draws me to this book?
Harold thinks about taking the walk
and does something about it.
He wields power with that little crayon.
He scares himself, protects himself,
finds his "own" way home.

Such a deceptively simple plot
line, uncomplicated illustrations
but:

Don't we all child or adult
need to empower ourselves?

And a purple crayon is right there
in the crayon box available, waiting.

I've gifted my grand boys with
the book and the crayon and
to adults as well,,,

usually gifted to an adult
when life seems
especially difficult
and faith in the journey
at a low ebb.

Years ago,
Jame and I went
to a book signing
for a knitting book.

The authors gave
each participant
pointed chopsticks
and a butterfly of yarn.

The gift was meant
to function as a vehicle
to teach others to knit.

To be used
when the stranger
on the bus says,
"I've always wanted to knit,"
or the child in the doctor's
waiting room says,
"Could I try?"

The authors encouraged,
"Share your joy, your skill,
teach a friend, neighbor,
or stranger to knit."

I think I'll tuck
the teaching needles
and skein in my purse,
just in case...
there is a nonknitter
waiting for:
the right moment,
and the needed instructor
to appear.

Purple crayon,
pointed sticks,
a hunk of yarn...
I'm ready.

Time to follow
Harold's example.

Embark on an adventure.

Try, Try Again

I was born
and bred
with the
American
work ethic.

Work hard.
Work harder.
Success doesn't count
if easily accomplished
and/or fun.

Sorry!
Whine! Whine!

But you know...
I'm tired of trying.

I'm designing a vest.
A child's vest with
very simple lines.

Nothing to stress about.

By now I've researched
three different patterns
and done the math
in my head-

Yes, I can still do math
in my head...
Mostly at night
when I have given myself
insomnia-

for possible approaches
to this friggin' vest.

The harder I try
to untangle this web
of options...
the faster the wheel
in the cage goes
BUT
without producing a clear cut
vision.

So, for today
I'm going to float.

Lean back
wait to see where
the stream will take me.

Maybe the vest
will turn into socks
or a hat.

And just maybe
I will become
proficient at "not trying."

Gender and Knitting

For the past few weeks
I've been reading articles
by female knitters lamenting
that more males are not
entering the vortex of knitting.

I have tried without success
to intuit why this topic
keeps crossing my screen.

I lack passion
for the subject.

My husband
(God Bless Him!)
took textiles in college.

He can repair a loom,
design a weaving project,
spot a threading error from
across the room.

He could knit if he so chooses.

My grand boys
find my knitting interest worthy
strictly from a civil engineering
perspective.

"Nana,
What is that going to be?
How wide is it?
How long will it be.
What is it made of?
What shape does it make?
On and on."

I do hope they will appreciate fiber art:
Design elements
Fiber
Texture
Color

And will not ask
me to design and knit
a mock Sears' tower or
a full-length cloak for
Dark Vader.

And if they choose to knit
God Bless!

Seaonal Disconnect

October:
Pumpkins
falling leaves
chill in the air

Pumpkins-- yes
Falling leaves--yes
Chill in the air--no

It's 77 degrees
on the porch.

And me
with that lovely bag
of wool...

Waiting
for the crisp
autumn day...

I said to self,
Think positive!
Use a little imagination, woman.

So,
I put a pot roast
in the crock pot:
used the last
of the garden vegetables...
Smells heavenly!

Found a vest pattern
for that lovely
blueberry flecked Irish wool
nestled
in the little brown
shopping bag
poised on the fireplace ledge.
And set about swatching for gauge.

The yarn is Galway Colornep
"Wool Blend Knitting Worsted Weight"
with a shamrock on the label.

Bless my little Irish heart.
Yarn from the Emerald Isle...
Right?

Taking a break
I took a closer look
at the label.

It read:
"Select wools spun
for Plymouth Yarn Co.
Made in Peru."

For the uninitiated
Plymouth Yarn Co.
is in Pennsylvania.

My "Irish" yarn has
an international pedigree.

In truth
I'm pretty provincial.
I read the international headlines.
Watch the business station
(Correction: Jim watches the
business station. I knit.)

And now I have become
a connoisseur of wool
produced by the global village.

Pretty impressive
for a sedentary grandmother.

And I've just imagined
myself into a new season.

Needle in the Haystack

Needle, needle,
who stole the needle?

It has to be the gremlins,
of course.

I mean
one minute
I had four
perfectly good # 6
double pointed needles
and the next...
I only had three.

I made a cursory
search several times.

Even mumbled a plea
to the ever famous
St. Anthony...
securer of lost items

And I finally did the inevitable
and cleaned the catch-all
table in the den...
the repository of all things
knitting related.

I found the missing needle
just in time
to finish the sleeves
on "the pink dress."

Note:
The doubled pointed needles
produced a tension
that was markedly different
than the body of the dress.

Blast!

So, I whipped out
my new nickel-plated
number # 6, 12 inch round
needle.

It was a lifesaver.
The body of the sleeve
and the body of the dress
now have the same tension.

The knitting mavens will not,
I repeat, will not be able to fault
the transition.

And the new needle
priced at the value of gold
will be honored
on the fireplace mantel
as a favored icon.

I hereby pledge:
No more searching
for the needle in the haystack.

Not for a day or two
anyway.

Shapeshifter

Christopher Vogler wrote:
_A Writer's Journey_ in
which he defines the characteristics
of the archetypes most commonly
found in films and novel.


The "shapeshifter" seems
to shift constantly reflecting
confusing and changing aspects.

Eg. the character is a friend,
and then a foe, and reemerges
as a friend again.

Me, I'm having my own issues with
shape shifting.

The darling little pink dress:
shifts and shapes and shifts.

The head opening is unwieldy.
Large and small by turns...
It will block out or in.

The plain knit expanse is boring.
The ribbed border offset
improves it some.

The whole dress is:
going to be too long.
I swear Frances will look
like a little ole lady.

It isn't long enough.
Too short for a dress.
Too long for a tee.

What can I be thinking of?

Short sleeves:
Only short sleeves
Frances doesn't do long sleeves.

Knit two inches beyond
the last raglan decrease...
Won't do! Maybe two and half.
Add a border.

Buy the child a dress
for God's sake.

Give knitting a rest!


Oh!
Did I tell you?
I met an old friend today.
And you should see
the baby sweater she made.

It had this lace panel
up the front and a fleck
in the tangerine colored
yarn...

Fabulous!

Maybe she would
send me the pattern.

A Good Enough Day

October first
the chill of fall
is upon us.

I've knighted today
"Marge Piercy Day."

I'm scrambling to
remember a poem
she wrote about her
mother.

Piercy gave her mother
innumerable gifts.

The tokens of affection
were always tucked away
in a chest or trunk to be
used on a special occasion.

When her mother died
Piercy found that
the gifts had gone
unused.

Piercy observes that
her mother never had
a good enough day.

My mother
hide her treasures
in her beloved hope chest-
a cedar chest- imbued
with the smell of mothballs.

I remember
a lovely velvet robe
with satin cuffs
that was found to be moth eaten
when it was retrieved for
a seasonal airing.

Those moths
were wily.

Piercy's poem is playing
its warning in my morning meditation.

So!
I'm going to wear my best sweater
knit my most expensive yarn...
Have myself "A good enough day!"