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.
 

In Which My Wife Communes With Sheep

My lovely bride is at the Black Sheep Gathering in Eugene, Oregon for the weekend, leaving all things domestic behind for four days of spinning and natural fiber exuberance. God speed Mrs., and PLEASE do not bring home an actual sheep. If you think I’m kidding, you must not be a regular reader. The over and under is about 50/50.  As I sip my coffee in her absence (thank you summer vacation!) I reflect that Eugene is the perfect place for such an event.  For those of you who don’t reside in our fair, extremely BLUE state…Eugene, right or wrong, is still perceived as hippie central. When I tell my friends that Mary is at a spinning festival in Eugene, many of them honestly think it’s a gathering of Grateful Dead/Phish concert goers (some folks simply twirl to the music, it is quite a sight).

Years ago, I took my girlfriend (now the author of this blog) to her first Grateful Dead concert. We drove the 100 miles to Eugene in her 1969 Volkswagen Beetle, which seemed appropriate.  Upon arrival, we were pulled over by one of Eugene’s finest, whose first question was “What are you in town for?”  There we were in an old bug, decked out in tie-dye (at least I was). I know that if I said Dead Show, they’re searching every inch of the car for contraband that we don't have. It’s late, and I’m tired, and I don’t want to go through the hassle.  In spite of all the revenue the Dead concerts brought to Eugene, many of the locals were HIGHLY annoyed by their followers, the DeadHeads.  I clear my throat, and tell the officer we’re staying with my brother, a college student at the Universtiy of Oregon (which was true). My conservative brother placed himself in the "highly annoyed" category when it came to the Dead and their followers.  The officer looked us over, told us our tail light was out and let us go. I know if it had been just me he would’ve taken the car apart looking for weed.  So, thank you, future wife, for lending me your credibility that time.  We had a great two days (apart from some unsold hats, but Mary can tell that story another time) and left Eugene late Sunday evening. 

About 45 miles from home, the old Beetle finally gave out and died. Like elephants knowing where to go to die, the old beast had succumbed to the hippie car graveyard after taking in one final Dead show.  It wasn't too long after that Jerry Garcia passed away, changing things for the hippies of Eugene and their highly annoyed brethren forever.

Here’s hoping for happy experiences on her current trip. We hope she has a great time, and anxiously wait her return to domestic bliss…without a sheep. Please.
 

*Contributor’s update.

The following phrase was uttered during the whirlwind which was my wife packing for her trip:  “I’ll call you on Friday from the festival to give you the instructions on how to post to the blog.”  She said this while staring intently at her spinning wheel, trying to calculate how that would fit into our little Honda, along with all of her other belongings. (No, I didn't’t help with the packing. I have serious spatial issues (the “It-will-all-fit-despite-the-basic-laws-of-physics” syndrome), so I was asked to stay out of this one. Fair enough.)  I knew this wasn't going to happen.  Once she became enthralled with all things ovine, she wasn’t calling with any instructions.  She did call, late (9pm +) to say good night to the smallies and tell me about her wondrous time in Eugene, but she forgot to tell me how to post my entry to the blog.  By that time I wasn’t thinking about the blog instructions either, hence the appearance of Friday's post, here on Monday.

P.S.

To my admitted surprise, she did not bring home a sheep.

And The Winner Is...

Congratulations to reader Janina, for her prize-winning entry in our "Name the 6-Bobbin Plying Kate" Contest!  I hereby proclaim that the device formerly known as "Mommy's Yarn-making Thingy", "The Katinator", and "What Was That Spooly-thing Again?" will henceforth and forevermore be called...

The Crazy Kate!

Thank you Janina, for your delightful play on words, and for contributing the final piece to the 6-bobbin plying Kate puzzle.  It's important that things all have their proper names, yes?

Janina will be receiving a skein of handspun yarn, made from handpainted fleece from Wales, as her prize.  I also offer a congratulatory round of applause for all of the other delightful entries I received. Thank you for joining in and playing along.

Tomorrow I depart for the Black Sheep Gathering, where all things fleecy can be learned, bought, sold and coveted.  If I don't come home with an actual sheep, it won't be my fault.  Just a BIT excited.  I will report back with all the details on Monday.  In my absence, the extremely talented and notably forthright Phillip will offer you a guest post.  I have no idea as to its subject, but I can promise that Mr. Huff's unique perspective will both entertain and enlighten.  He has the best of all possible worlds, after all:  Gets to live with a Knitter, AND Gets to appreciate her yarn collection. 

Lucky Sod.