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?

Not Easy Being Green

I know it's nowhere near St. Patrick's Day yet, but I'm feeling green.

This is Marie Wallin's "Brea", from Rowan, executed in the far less noble (and far less pricey) Berroco Comfort,  just to see if it could be done.  It can.  But no one here will be surprised to learn that I wish I had made it in wool.  While the yarn I chose is fine, and even interesting, in terms of its cabled construction, and drapey hand, it's just not going to last.  When a sweater threatens not to survive even its own making before starting to pick and pill, you do not have a winner on your hands.  I still love the pattern, though, which is good, because I'm thinking I'll have to make another version in really good yarn before the itch is scratched.

I like the way this weird peasant silhouette looks with jeans, but there was not a single item in my wardrobe other than that with which I could wear it.  Bother.  Had to dash out to the fabric store in search of something for a simple skirt to go with it.  Score!  The very first thing I saw was exactly the same (strange) color combination I had chosen for the yarn.  I actually thought it might match too closely, if there is such a thing.  Then there was this pretty piece of cotton voile from England, which politely requested to come home with me and become a scarf.  Who could resist?  Add hunter-green tights and shake well. (P.S. Hunted for Hunter-green tights lately?  1992 called - they said they were all fresh out).

All of which brings me to my question for you, Gentle Readers:  What do YOU do when, after the first flush of smug satisfaction at having finished a project, you realize there is nothing in your wardrobe to wear it with?  I realize that most clever knitters such as yourselves would ask themselves about what there is to wear with the thing you are considering knitting, sometime near the BEGINNING of the project.  But, just for my sake, let's pretend you hadn't been that proactive.  Suppose you fell so deeply in love with a project that you dove right into knitting it without so much as a By-Your-Leave from the rest of your closet?  And then there was nothing to go with it at the end? 

Would you go shopping at the mall/fabric/thrift store?
Wear it anyway with whatever else you happened to have on?
Freak out and give it away?

Just wondering what goes on with the rest of you when you realize you have knitted an item that was separated at birth from all your other clothing...