More Things I Know About Billings, Montana

So there I was in a snow storm:

So there I was in a snow storm:

* A Brief Sidebar Regarding Footwear:  Even someone like me, from the west coast, knows that it is want to snow from time to time in Montana.  So much so that I actually purchased snow boots in anticipation of my visit there.  The thing is, my snow boots, cute and furry though they were, cost $80.  $80, where I come from, could almost buy a month of ice skating lessons for a Smally.  $80 represents the electricity for a month's worth of assaults on Mount Washmore.  $80, as it happens, is the exact amount required for Phillip's latest grad school textbook.  So, it occurred to me that as cute and fuzzy as my new Montana snow boots were, they had the rotten luck to be made of suede, which in Portland, where it rains 300 days a year, is an unrealistic choice for footwear.  I decided that my old clogs could handle whatever Billings had to dish out for a couple of days - after all - it's not like they were going to make me teach classes in the parking lot.  I returned the sassy fuzzy snow boots unworn, congratulating myself on my responsible stewardship of resources. 

Second thing my host said after meeting me at the airport: "Are those the only shoes you brought?" 

And then, she graciously loaned me the real snow boots pictured above.  That's just how they roll in Billings.  *

Let me be clear:  The Knitters of Wild Purls are Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know.  They listened attentively while I told them what I know about making stranded colorwork.  And they gamely played along during an exercise calculated to help them handle two strands of yarn at the same time.  Hardly anyone got poked in the eye, and those who did were made of stout stuff, and didn't complain.

I know this also:  The knitters of Billings know a thing or two about Stash Management.  Lack those fancy-schmancy store fixtures to hold the bounty of your yarn collection?  No problem.  Use what is at hand:  Notably, buckets from the feed store.  Not only are they beautiful, they are functional.  They have even become something of an icon that describes the spirit of Wild Purls.  And yes, I got to touch ALL of That Yarn.

I told the Knitters lot of my secrets, and they told me a lot of theirs.  We made hats, and mittens, and I'm pretty sure that this was only the beginning of our adventures together.

They were such good sports that they even posed for the following picture:

Julia Warmer is the owner of Wild Purls.  She's down front with the apron on and my head in her lap.  And for the record, she is an instigator of Many Silly Things.  I hardly started any trouble at all.  Okay, there may have been one little incident involving a hotel bed sheet.  But mostly, I was the picture of restraint that you, Gentle Readers, all know me to be.  I was so good that I'm almost sure they will invite me back, with appropriate supervision.  One more thing I now know that you should too:

Billings Rocks.

If ya think I'm soxy

I used to live a sheltered life.  I used to think I knew what I like to knit, what I don't, what I'm interested in trying next and what I really can't be bothered with.  My knitting existence was predictable, sane (by my standards; an admittedly dicey frame of reference) and comfortable.

Modern sockmaking accouterments de rigeur: Go Knit pouch (sock people walk while knitting), Signature DPNs (size 2, 6" length) and Socks That Rock Lightweight in Tanzanite (Pattern I made up and am unlikely to remember for the 2nd sock)  All the cool kids have these things, and they really make it fun.

I really should have known better, but there it is.  See, my true confession is this:  I've just never been all that into socks. 

I find them fiddly: all those teensy DPNs are tough for me to manage, and two circulars are even worse. 

I think they are tricksy: Everyone has their favorite way to turn a heel and no two are alike - how can a person trust it will ever work? 

I find them redundant: The big payoff when you finally finish a sock is that you get to start all over again from the beginning, or else never get to wear them. Something about that just breaks my heart.

Or so I thought.

I went to the Sock Summit, conveniently thrown in my home town, to see my knitting friends (sock maniacs, all), take a few meetings, and do a little shopping.  I even got to attend some classes.  

Somewhere in between those activities, the fumes must have gotten to me.  In class,  I learned a whole lot about all things socky.  In the marketplace, I was seduced by beautiful tools and yarn.  My friends waxed poetic about tops toes and everything in between.  But best of all, everyplace I went, and everybody I met felt like home.  The Mother Ship had definitely landed, and it was such a relief to stop my frantic paddling and roll with the tide.  What complete luxury to drop all pretense of normalcy and blend in with the other teeming throngs of string-loving weirdos. 

I bought sock blockers with Scottish Terrier cutouts.  I spent big money on DPNs I've been coveting for a year.  I grabbed a skein of STR lightweight in my all time favorite purple and let the waves of socktitude wash away the last of my feeble reservations.  I put down the (now extremely weighty and totally unportable) Red Faery and cast on 60 wee sock stitches.  No pattern, no plan, no deadline.  Just me and the sticks and the string, singing whatever song would come.  Thank you, my knitting bretheren (and sister-en) for a delightful rest in your embrace.

I feel Stronger.  Faster.  Soxier.
 

Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Three Bags Full

Here is the story of my big weekend at the Black Sheep Gathering, told in pictures:

I saw wheels.  Lots and lots of wheels.  This is the view from behind mine, at the first of three different spinning classes I attended.  You can't see me in this picture, but I look smarter already.

And there were Sheep.

Little Sheep

Big Sheep

Sheep just hanging around looking adorable

And sheep getting cool summer haircuts.  Which led (naturally) to

Fiber artists buying fleeces.  Here my pal Carson demonstrates the gentle art of choosing a fleece:  1. Test for strength and soundness, 2. Check for excess dirt and vegetable matter, and 3. Assess the General Smooshy Goodness.  This is a picture of step 3, which I later went on to execute, myself.  More on that next time.

For now I will leave you with the recipe for a perfect weekend:

Take one BFF, add several new friends, a liberal splash of good wine, and mix well in a four-day sheep-and-wool-a-palooza.  Take as many servings as you can - it's a rare treat.