Blinded by the Light

On the way home from Sock Camp, K.T. and Alice and I stopped by the legendary Churchmouse Yarns.   Even though I had completely blown my stash enhancement allowance, I managed to justify this as a birthday present to my inner knitter:

If buying it was wrong, I don't wanna be right.  Would you believe it's made in the USA?  Just in case owning it isn't enough to feel good about, I can tell myself that I'm supporting other American fiber artists, too.

One of the many things I noticed about myself as a knitter while at camp (where introspection is not only encouraged, it's required) is that I own very few whimsical little accessories.  Like, none, actually.  The other campers all kept appearing with gorgeous lace shawls, and beaded chokers, and embroidered i-pod cozies, while I appeared with nary a knitted personal embellishment.  I have a couple of excuses for this:  One is that the lion's share of my knitting is for work, and I haven't been called upon to work on that sort of thing professionally lately.  Another is that I never thought of making anything like that just for fun before.

But Sivia and Maria both provided me with plenty of inspiration by wearing such pretty things, that I realized I could branch out, too.  And then when I got home, I learned that my birthday party is a night out on the town this Saturday, with dressing up and everything.  So there was absolutely no further procrastinating.  I'm making lace:

It's fluffy, it's sparkly, it's in a color that makes me tingle.  I'm almost halfway done, and no; Dirty Laundry, I can not hear you bellyaching that I've been gone a week and have another week away coming up.  You are dead to me, yesterday's jeans and t-shirts.  Today, I only have eyes for this.

Small Things

My first year at Sock Camp has taught me many things, and reminded me of many others.  Things we should be doing every day include:

Make new friends

Cherish old ones

Remember that while some secrets are best kept, some are better shared.

Sing songs

Eat good food

Take walks

The giving of gifts is as much for the joy of the giver as the recipient.

In Stephanie Pearl-McPhee's class I made these socks for the very first grandbaby of Sockateer (Camp Counselor) Cockeyed.  Cockeyed is not only one of the tireless pistons who drive Blue Moon Fiber Arts, she's part of the glue holding together the camp experience for us all.  It brought me such joy to give these to her.

So it's time to pack up and leave my first sleep-away camp experience.  And today is my 40th birthday, to boot.  I'm on to my next adventure, which probably involves getting up to a bit (coughMOREcough) trouble with my pal K.T.  We are driving from Bainbridge Island back to her house outside Seattle before I head home to Phillip and the Smallies.

Can't wait to see what happens next.

Surgery and Recovery

It's just possible that I've been knitting seamless sweaters for so long that I have completely forgotten how to make flat pieces that will actually fit together.  If I ever knew how in the first place, that is (jury still out). 

The ribbing on one of my cardigan fronts was a full five rows longer than the other.  This would be the two-color, fiddly waste yarn cast on with no corresponding bind off which cannot be shortened except from the top, with a good old fashioned frogging.  Except that I was totally unwilling to tear it back, because I had completely finished that front, bobbles and shaping and all.

I had to go fetal mull it over for a day or so before admitting that there were only two choices:

Option 1:        Try to "ease" in the extra length when sewing the side seam on that piece.  I could live with this option, provided that  A.  I could keep my hand firmly held to my side at all times so as not to reveal the error, or B.   Keep moving around constantly so no one would notice. 

2.        Operate on the patient.  With no idea how to graft 2 x 2 rib, and no confidence that it could be done at all, I drank beer thought it over a while longer before arriving at my decision.

I wonder why everything always comes down to cutting sweaters with scissors in my world?  I guess when all you have is a hammer, every problem looks a lot like a nail.  I decided that while option 1. had no hope of a positive outcome (except possibly increased physical fitness), option 2. offered at least a chance of success:

Always the carnage.  I don't know what's scarier: all those live stitches, or the fact that I had to turn the piece over every two stitches make the join.  For some reason, I could recreate a knit stitch with the unraveled working yarn and a tapestry needle, but I could not mimic a purled one.

I'm pleased to announce that Crunch Berries, although clinically dead for an entire afternoon, turned back from the brink of oblivion, and her prognosis is good:

The two of us are convalescing at Sock Camp, in beautiful Port Ludlow, where the sun even came out for an entire day.  She's a fighter, that one..