My Day OFFF

On the advice of my family, and pretty much everyone else I've seen lately, I took a day off last weekend.  My pal Carson came up from San Francisco to visit, and, along with Lindsay, we attended the Oregon Flock and Fiber Festival (OFFF to its friends).

      There were fleeces for sale.                             We learned about Hansen mini-spinners.

Lindsay loved the angora bunnies.  A Lot.  And the bunnies loved her back.

    We ate delicious baked goods.                            We made friends with sheep.

We learned to spin Gotland fleece in the Swedish style, with our hero Shelia January.

Did I mention there were fleeces for sale?  We didn't buy any, in an unprecedented display of self-control.  We kept reminding each other that we have unspun fleeces still at home from last year, and we can't have more until those are turned into yarn.  For the record, the smugness of having shown such self-discipline never quite manifested.  Instead, we spent the whole next day asking each other "why didn't we buy any fleeces, again?" and "How come you are so mean and wouldn't let me have any new fleeces?" and "When will I start feeling smug and self-disciplined?" 

In spite of that, I managed to come home with a few treasures, like out of print books for $5 each.  Lindsay managed to make $20 stretch from one end of the marketplace to the other, scoring no less than 6 different new types of fiber to try out spinning on.  I am so proud of my small fiber fiend.  Though I'm not entirely sure her wee stash is safe from her mother.  Some if it's Pygora, for pity's sake...

And best of all was seeing many friends there.  I haven't declared an official day off of work on my book since February.  And even people who love their work that much can burn out, so a small rest from thinking about it helped me to reconnect to all the things I love about it.

I'm back below decks today, rowing with the other slaves.  My intention is to have the entire last chapter finished on Friday.  Then there will only be knitting (more knitting), and re-writes to do.  And there are a few projects coming up that have been on hold until the book is done:  More about them all soon.  I promise you'll like them.

Stranded With Mary: Part IV

Last Sunday I spent some time with the knitters of Yorkshire Yarns.  I'm sad to say it was our last official class of the series, but I'm so happy and proud of them all I could pretty much bust.  Beautiful Knitting, made by Beautiful Knitters:
 

Everybody is getting ready to do their finishing:  binding front and neckline edges, inserting sleeves, adding trims and closures.  These are some truly smart and powerful women: They worked on a compressed schedule to stay caught up for each class, supporting each other throughout the process.  And of course, the best part is that most of them had never done any stranded colorwork before when we first met.  Isn't it stunning what knitters can do?  Just by wanting to?  I'm telling you, Gentle Readers: The power of Knitters to pump beauty and joy into the universe from their hearts and their hands is limitless.  I think getting to spend time with them while they do it is one of the greatest gifts of my life.  I'm so thankful to them, for including me in their adventures.

Some Days are Smooth, Some Days are Chunky

The story goes like this:  Once upon a time, my mother and father had to attend a child-free function,  which, when you have Four children, can be something of a challenge.  They called upon my father's mother, who, if unenthusiastic, was brave, and at least close by.  Ruth's own children had numbered only 2, and had been raised the old-fashioned way, with live-in help, and then sent away to boarding school before getting old enough to become too obnoxious.  At least that's the way the her 2 children tell it; as child #5, all of this was substantially before my time.

Anyway, Ruth somehow sustained the evening unharmed, and my parents returned home to find all four offspring tucked safely in their beds.  But Ruth had split.  Made a break for it.  Gone while the gettin' was good.  In fact, there was no trace of her having been there at all, except for one thing:  A note scrawled in an unsteady hand, proclaimed

"You're out of Peanut Butter.  Heaven Help You."

Since then, the level of the peanut butter in the pantry has been the unofficial gauge of health, wealth and fortitude, for everybody in my family.  We say to each other "Yeah, but it could be worse - it's not like you're out of peanut butter...".  Like having a full tank of gas, or a $20 bill, or a clean, ironed shirt in the closet, a full jar of peanut butter makes makes me feel like the minimum standards are being maintained.  Not rich, you understand, but prepared.  Capable.  Self-sufficient enough to handle whatever hand the Universe is planning to deal next.

This morning, Campbell's backpack (which suffered a massive juice-bottle breech yesterday and had to go into the washing machine) was still wet.  And worse than that, it had gone into the washing machine containing not less than 24 unsharpened pencils.  And the cardboard box which held them.  The carnage confronting me inside the washing machine, with less than 7 minutes till the bus came, was indescribable.  I abandoned the whole gory mess and hooked Cam up with a knitting bag to carry his lunch and homework in.  Lunch.  That I still had not made at T-minus-seven minutes till the bus.  I flew to the kitchen at Mach 2 and assembled bread, juice bottles, goldfish crackers and apple slices in a cheetah-like blur.  And that's when it happened.  I heard my grandmother's voice, bell-like and serene: 

"You're out of Peanut Butter.  Heaven Help You."

In my panic, I think I may have packed my children Nutella and mayonnaise sandwiches.  On whole wheat.  Mother. Of. The. Year.

Without peanut butter, the balance of the Universe is compromised.  Without peanut butter, the wheels abruptly fall off the wagon.  Without peanut butter, you start looking around for the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.    I have failed to maintain minimum standards. 

I know it's not actually the end of the world, but I'm thinking this could be one of the seven signs.  There are things you should be able to take for granted, and peanut butter is one of them.  I'm going to try to put this behind me.  Bootstrap myself into this day and carry on without further panic.  And, armed with tweezers and a vacuum cleaner, I'll try to extract the pencil shrapnel from my washing machine. 

Sometimes there are sentences I just can't believe I've just written.