A Thousand Miles to Get to the Beginning

It all started with a fleece.  It always does, I suppose, whether we know it or not.   My pal Carson made me buy this one.  He is the second worst enabler I know.  And I know quite a few string-loving yarn-enablers, as you may imagine.

I bought the fleece at the Black Sheep Gathering.  And it's a Black Sheep.  I named her Caora Dubh (pronounced "Kway-ruh Dew"), which is Scots Gaelic for - you guessed it - Black Sheep.

I had to learn how to scour fleece.  And comb fleece.  And spin about a kabillion miles of it.

And as I neared the end of the project, which was not unlike eating an elephant with a shrimp fork, My Darling Husband accidentally threw away the remainder of Caora Dubh.  You will remember that I DID let him live.  For some reason.

I made 5-ply sportweight yarn.  Quite a bit of it, as it turned out.  Which was exactly enough to make this sweater, with bobbles and cables and collar, oh my.

And that's when the Yarn Gods really blessed me, because as much as I loved Caora Dubh, it turned out my knitting friends did, too.  And one of those knitting friends, the delightful Marilyn King of Black Water Abbey, said she'd really like to see it done up in her dreamy Irish yarn.  And so my fabulous pal Lisa made this gorgeous reproduction, following the pattern that I wrote.  I think Lisa's knitting and Marilyn's yarn are just about the Living End.

And now you can have the pattern for your very own Caora, either Dubh, or some other color.  Click "back to main page" up above, and then choose the patterns tab to download it.  And then you will be - at long last - at the beginning.  

Thanks for sticking with me, my friends.  This was a long journey, even for me.  I'm so happy I took the trip, and I'm even happier you were along for the ride.  

                                            The Beginning


Caora Dubh, in Blackwater Abbey 2-ply sportweight, colorway "Jacob", 1750-2100 yds.  Pattern available on Ravelry.com, and at Black Water Abbey.

 

Plight of the Bumblebee

I lost a ball of yarn.  De Rigueur for a weekday morning at my house.  It was around somewhere, but of course these things have a way of rolling away from us, don't they?  I could have switched to another color for the swatch I was working on, but my inner three-year-old took over and I wanted that ball, not another one.  Knitting is one of the very few places in my life where I want it how I want it, and I very often get it.  So I started lifting things up in the neighborhood of my knitting chair.  Under the quilt? No.  Behind the basket? Nada.  What's that box again? Oh yeah, the yarn for the adult-sized bee sweater.  Heart aches a little, thinking of the now-lost original. 

Oh, the bee sweater.  Everywhere I've been, it's the favorite.  Everybody loves the bees.  Wants bees in an adult size.  Needs a baby version for that newborn they're preparing to meet.  Tells me this is the design that made them try colorwork.  Begs me to buy the sample.  Clearly I have to make an adult version, if I'm ever to be allowed out of the house unmolested.  And so a few weeks ago, I took the original baby version to the yarnmaker's lair.  I struggled and imagined and petted and piled skeins together, getting the combination just right for the adult bee.  It has to be perfect, you understand, because the original is a lot to live up to.

Here's what I chose that day:

I think it's got everything.  The colors, the hand, the fluffiness, the luminous depth that only this particular hand-painter can make.  It's going to be outstanding, and it's going to be soon, because now that my sweaters are gone, I have such a hole in my heart.  Not having my pile of work to physically point to is so bizarrely invalidating.  It's like part of my reality has vaporized.  Like all that knitting never even happened.  The rebirth of the bee sweater in long-requested adult form will be a healing step into the future.  What better way to move on?  I lifted the box up with a new resolve to move this project nearer to the top of the pile.  And what do you think was underneath that box?

Nothing less than the original baby bee.  The real live little sample which should have been with its lost brethren in the stolen sample case, but which wasn't, due to my having taken it to the yarnmaker's lair.  I never put it back in the sample case at all, only thought that I had.  So all the hours and days that I sobbed for its loss, it was right next to my knitting chair, under a box.

Funny the way things are.  Forgetting to put it away saved it for me.  I only had it out of the case because I was listening to the Knitters, who wanted more.  Thank you Knitters, for always telling me what I should do next.  Listening to you saved this wee bit of my work; this small piece of my self.

The Bees' Knees were never lost, except in my imagination.  I have one sample left from my book.  And I am one lucky insect.  Who says bumblebees can't fly?

Back Story

Today is a rare delight for me:  I get to tell you about something I made, which you can actually now see.  Some of you might even already have it, since the Blue Moon Fiber Arts Rockin' Sock Club  first shipment has officially gone out.  I am privileged to have been chosen to make this design for the coolest, toughest, and most devoted group of sock knitters that ever was.  No pressure.  

Sometimes I feel like the character in Greek mythology (I think it might have been Midas' barber) who couldn't keep a secret and had to dig a hole and whisper it into the ground to keep from exploding.  There are so many things I dream up, and work on, and tangle with, that I am forbidden to share with you before they are ready for prime time.  And as those who have met me know, I was born without the Shut Up Gene, so things get dicey for me at these times.  When I am knitting on a deadline, and every minute has to be spent on one of these Project X items, I can't even go to knit nite, because I can't be trusted not to spill the secrets.  Bummer.  So with great glee, I herewith spew the goods on the Distelfink Socks:

I was really surprised to learn that the lovely and talented Lucy Neatby was selected for this project as long ago as Sock Summit, because I was asked only this fall.  Maybe the enormously busy and productive Ms. Newton forgot that she wanted a second design in the space between?  Or maybe she was mulling over whether traditional stranded colorwork was really the way to go?  I would never ask, since I hate to look a knitting job in the mouth.  What I do know is that this project represents the very first stranded colorwork sock that Blue Moon has ever offered, and I am well and truly flattered by the honor I was given to make it.

The idea for this sock originally presented itself to me a couple of seasons back, when Abby Franquemont and I first met.  I was trying to think of a collaborative project that was all about friendship, and could somehow incorporate her killer spinning with my saucy knitting.  At the time, I thought it should be mittens, with each friend knitting a mismatched pair, and then exchanging to make sets.  She was going to spin some yarn, and I was going to design a motif.  Abby and I both got distracted, and well, you know how it is.  Even the best of friends can find themselves sidetracked, and promise to pick up where they left off some other time...Abby, I still want to trade mittens with you, and someday we will do it!

So Tina asked me to meditate on the nature of friendship, to let it inspire a sock design.  She asked me my favorite color, and I answered "Aubergine", without any clue that she had already made a new aubergine colorway and given it to Lucy to work with a full 2 years ago.  Weird, no? 

I fell in love with Distelfinks when I was a kid, studying american quilts.  A mythical bird with magical powers?  And two of them together signify a blessed friendship?  Sign me up!  For a while I tried not to put that picot edge on the tops, and then I realized that resistance was futile.  The picot is my first love, my all-time favorite edge, and I just couldn't fight it.  Besides, I reasoned that the people getting this pattern were not necessarily going to be familiar with my sweater designs, so why not introduce myself to them properly?

Working with two brand-new, still nameless Blue Moon colors was completely transcendental.  The yarn came in the mail, without a ball band, note, explanation, or anything.  It just arrived, and immediately started whispering to me what it wanted to be.  And after forming an intimate friendship with it, I couldn't help but give the colors names:  The multi-colored one reminded me of a tropical cocktail in a coconut cup.  I dubbed it "Fuzzy Sunrise on the Beach".  And the dark semi-solid could only be "Auber-Genius", like what Wile E. Coyote has printed on the business card he hands to Bugs Bunny.  Last week, when I visited Tina, she presented me with my very own January kit (Rockin' Sock Club: I'm not just a designer, I'm also a member!) I saw then that she had actually adopted one of my names.  And for the record, I think "Pinky Swear" is a way better moniker for the multi than the one I came up with. 

So that's the story of the Distelfink socks.  Oh, and the part when Tina Newton said my sock toes were sexy?  I totally geeked out.  After I read that in her dyer's notes, I vowed never to wash my eyes again.