Contagion

It started Friday night.  The patient came home from school determined to learn how to spin on the wheel.  Right Now.  It should be noted that her exposure to wool fumes was not outside normal levels.  Yet.

Lindsay sat herself down at my wheel and informed me that she was going to spin, and needed my help.  Though unprompted, her action didn't surprise me too much.  Immersion breeds interest, eventually.

I threw some Corriedale roving to her from the floof stash.  She'd been working with her drop spindle off and on for over a year, with mild interest, so the basic concepts were already in place.  Turns out the only thing wrong with spindles, if you are 12, and my kid, is that they aren't fast enough.  Go figure.  She spun.  On the wheel.  Just like that. 

I tried not to die of pride.

Coincidentally (or, perhaps not?) the next day Lindsay and I went to the Abernathy Grange Spring Fiber Sale.  Just the perfect example of a little home town, homeade cookies, support-your-local-sheep kinda event.  The Mother Ship called us both home.

We each had a tiny little allowance to spend any way we wanted.  We made the rounds through all the vendor booths twice, before making any decisions.  The buttons tempted me, loudly.  Is it ever thus.

Lindsay latched onto a Sporfarm Shetland batt with surgical precision.  No waffling required; not even on the color ("Shadows").  She's like that:  Wants it how she wants it, and onto what's next.

I struggled a bit over buttons, but ultimately picked a new challenge:

Never spun Angora bunny-floof before.  I think I might just like it. 

Then we went home, where Lindsay didn't even take off her coat before she was back at the wheel, spinning the rest of her corriedale.  She decided to practice a bit more with it before moving on to the new Shetland. 

Lindsay refused to get frustrated, or to take a break, until she had banged out two complete bobbins.  Her only annoyance was a reaction to the news that her singles would need to rest overnight before we could ply them.

And rest, they did, followed by enthusiastic plying, skeining, washing and finishing.  Lindsay was really into it, too.

And this is the photo that every spinner who also makes children dreams of taking:

I know I'm supposed to be careful not to drown my children in the things I love.  Each is his/her own person, entitled to their own passions and pursuits.  But when your offspring turns out to dig the thing you do, well that's just the living end.

And if she tires of it later, and moves on to yoga, or rodeo, or rock and roll, I will cheer loudly for those, too.  Because, while none of them will be as dear to me as spinning, I'll try them out along with her, if she wants. 

After all, enthusiasm is contagious.

Dress Parade

We make quite a spectacle, the Pooches, the Smallies and me, when we go to the bus stop each morning.  After the Smallies get on the bus, the remaining three of us take a walk.  This was the view from under my hat this morning:
 

The rain is still cold, here in my neck of the woods.  Cold and relentless.  March is positively suicidal at this latitude:  No sunlight for weeks and weeks.  Nothing but rain and more rain.  All those artificial sun lamps for the treatment of SAD start flicking on in March.

But we're making our own sunshine.  Scotties sporting tartan and argyle.  If that doesn't make you laugh, then you are made of stone.

Yes, I know I need to make them some properly hand knit sweaters.  Please feel free to post your design and color suggestions.

And since it is said that everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day, the Celts at our house wish you much green beer, and very little Blarney, and a downhill road all the way to your door.  Sla'inte!

When OCD Dreams

So there I was, deeply asleep.  Or so I thought.  Turns out that OCD is just another name for nothing left to relax about.

I dreamed that Phillip had accidentally thrown away all the living room furniture.

Now this is ridiculous on so many levels that I hesitate to even mention them, but because I can't stop myself, here are just a few:

1.  Phillip's natural habitat is prone, on the sofa.  He would really notice if it wasn't there.

2.  There is no way in the world that anything bigger than a gum wrapper could be thrown out by his hand unless he were under duress (i.e., I made him do it).

3.  Our living room is so small that even one less knitting needle would render it a barren wasteland.

4.  Did I mention that Phillip would be really sad, nay, deeply distraught, if there were any less furniture available than usual?

All of those obvious notions notwithstanding, its germane to note that I am the sort of person for whom sleep is more of an interruption in activity than anything else.  So when I go there (sometimes for minutes on end), it's driven by my physical self needing to go unconscious more than my intellectual self requiring rest.  Sometimes the body checks out while the mind remains in overdrive.  No one who has met me is surprised by this.

But in my dream (the sort where when you wake up, actual reality is the jolting state that requires you to suspend disbelief), the reality that Phillip had accidentally thrown out the entire living room suite was really plausible. 

How could that happen, your conscious and cognisant minds may ask?  Easy:  He DID throw away my fleece once.  Something so pivotal to my daily life and so much a part of my yardstick for personal development that I could not cope with its loss on any plane.  It really happened, and however much I have forgiven him, and however often I let him sleep indoors since it happened, It seems that my subconscious is still not done with it.

The (remaining) fleece is spun.  The sweater from it is knitted.  There is even a whole second sweater, that you can see if you go to an event where Black Water Abbey Yarns is represented.  And the pattern made from that project has been received with kudos, and even sold out upon its debut.

My sleeping self is still pissed off.

Poor Phillip suggested that (yet another) blog post would help me work through my grief.  And maybe get him closer to being forgiven by my inner knitter.  Forgiveness that his wife and roommate has already allegedly granted him.

At 3AM I actually woke him up and demanded to know how he could get rid of something we needed so much.  He groggily asked me what he had done this time.  "The living room furniture!" I answered, unable to believe that he had not been right there with me, in my dream.  "No honey," he replied, "I'm sure it's right there where you left it", and went back to sleep.

Easy for him to say.  All he has to do is sit down to feel fulfilled. 

I know that it's really time to let this one go, and my laboring brain is running home to unresolved issues so that I won't have to focus on pertinent ones (Book Deadline, anyone?).  Your suggestions, Gentle readers, are welcome and appreciated.  By Phillip.