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!

The Unbearable Softness of Cormo

I would like to state categorically, for the record, that nobody at my house who is supposed to be writing a book did any spinning over the weekend.  Because, if they did, that might display a lack of self-discipline.

And while I am making sweeping proclamations, I would also like to state that the person(s) at my house who did NOT make yarn this weekend, because doing so would be setting a bad example for the children, also did NOT ply and finish 473 delectable yards of same.

Which is good, because if said person(s) were to spin and ply 473 yards of delicious three-ply Cormo over the weekend, then that yarn would be as soft as dandelion fluff, that is wrapped around a baby bunny butt and then put on the "Fluff" cycle.  The yarn that might result from such wanton dereliction of duty could possibly be the softest and fluffiest substance yet known to man, causing unrest and discord amongst the population of the world, as all fought to come over to my house and touch it.

And if there were really 473 yards of such luscious, buttery, sproingy handspun available to our kind, we might just leave off all productive activity in pursuit of getting our greedy hands on some more of it.  Enough, say, for that fluffy Aran sweater we've been dreaming of. 

If the first three hypothetical bobbins produced 473 alleged yards of dream-yarn, then a person who allowed herself to think about such things might just calculate that she only needed about 9 or so more bobbins worth of spinning, and she'd have enough.  To knit a sweater that she's not at liberty to make, due to book deadlines. 

So it's a good thing that none of that happened around here last weekend.  Just saying.