Lost and Found

And now a tale of Second Sock Syndrome, with epic proportions:

Last summer, deep in the throes of book deadlines and book projects and big pulsating gobs of general book trauma, I took a mini-vacation by knitting a sock. 

It was for my mom's 78th birthday.  I knew there would only be one sock finished in time, but I also knew it wouldn't matter to her one bit.  She's the one who used to regularly give people boxes of cut pattern pieces, or piles of scraps, or skeins of yarn as presents, with the promise of completing the project in future days.  Sometimes she even did complete them, but that wasn't the point.  It was the intention that was her gift; the fact that she had taken the time to conceive of the project, with the recipient in mind.  Her five children grew up believing that a gift-wrapped intention is the better part of any gift.

And so I knitted the sock of rebelion, and gave it to Mom, to great acclaim.  She loved it.  And then I took back so that I could make it a mate at some point after the book was done.

Once the book was finished, I couldn't wait to get back to Mom's sock.  It felt like I'd heard all but the last chord of a song and if I didn't play it soon I'd have to just sit there twitching.

Except the sock was gone.  I couldn't find it anywhere.  High, Low and In Between; all the looking I could do failed to produce the sock.  I began to doubt that I had ever made it in the first place.  My disappointment was profound.  Here at last I was experiencing a sock project where I didn't feel like waiting before tackling the second sock, and I was dead in the water.  I didn't have enough yarn to start over and make three socks.  I had altered the pattern in enough subtle ways (i.e; made mistakes) on sock #1 that just jumping in on #2 would yield a mismatch (should #1 ever resurface).

So I did what any self-respecting procrastinator would: Nothing.  I worked on other things.  I designed, I wrote, I made up classes.  But I secretly could not get that missing sock out of my head. 

I realized at one point this spring that I was still trying to work in a space which had been consumed by projects from the book.  Piles of yarn, ball bands, needles, reference books; all loosely grouped by project, had completely taken over the ground floor of my house.  Hard to believe that nobody in my family ever complained, but there you have it: they are not the most Notice-y bunch.  I finally cleared the decks.  And moved the furniture.  And found the sock.

So a whole year later, I found myself visiting my mom on her birthday, and I made the second sock.  For her 79th birthday. 
 

All's Well That Ends.  And of course, Mom had no memory of the first sock from last year. 

Pattern:        "Clover", by Kate Blackburn CLICK HERE
Yarn:             Simply Socks Yarn Company in "Cornflower" CLICK HERE
Motivation:    Only when a thing becomes impossible, do I really feel like doing it.

I have GOT to learn to knit two-at-a-time socks.

 

A Little Light Housekeeping

"Frog Prince" by Arthur Rackham

Gentle Readers, please pardon the blog going dark for a bit while I take care of some family business.  I expect to be back in about a week.  In the meantime, keep knitting, and try not to let any more amphibians in than are strictly necessary.

Stuck

Every single one of the following problems is my own fault.  I know it.  Which is why I want to be very clear:  I'm Not Complaining.  Complaining is for weenies, and gets you nowhere, and  as everybody knows, There's No Crying in Knitting.  So I'm Not Complaining.  Issues about which I am Not Complaining, in no particular order, are:

1.    I need three more colors of yarn to go any further on my Super-Juicy new Color Theory class project.  I ordered all the right colors to make a yarn color wheel.  And when they arrived, three of them were not at all right.  Not even close.  Wrong-a-Palooza.  So I had to order three replacements (whose rightness I am now also beginning to doubt), and they aren't here yet.  I tried to get started on the project, thinking that 9 out of 12 colors ought to be enough to do something with, but stunningly, when 2 of the missing colors are primaries, the wagon finds the mud pretty fast.  Lucky for me I'm a patient soul who waits happily.  Not.  But, I'm Not Complaining.

2.    I made a sock.  And it's so sexy I'm just dying to show it to you.  In fact, it's so fabulous that I'm absolutely chomping at the bit to start the second one, a phenomenon which has occurred approximately NEVER.  I do not have enough yarn for the second sock.  The dreamy stringmaker who gave it to me will absolutely make more.  I know it.  But I don't know when.  Not today.  The wagon sinks deeper, though I'm still Not Complaining.

3.    The Frog Prince is a black sweater.  The sun is bright, and my eyes are (sorta) sharp, but stockinette on size 2's is something best done in a series of small sprints, rather than a marathon.  My enthusiasm for the re-manufacture of this piece is waning.  The wagon has slowed appreciably.  A weaker knitter might moan and groan that there's nothing else to work on besides boring black stockinette.  But that would be Complaining.  Which I'm Not.

4.    Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.  I HATE hot.  Which is why I live in a temperate rainforest, where it slobbers with rain at around 40 degrees, for about 11 months of every year.  This is the 12th month.  My living room has become the surface of the sun.  All forward wagon momentum has ceased, while we sit around watching each other dehydrate.  No one has slept in days, which has the four members of family Huff somewhat cross.  And by "Somewhat Cross", I mean that I am considering eating my young, and they have hinted that they would welcome the distraction.  Their father has fled to the air-conditioned comfort of a temporary summer job, and the company of adult associates.  Lucky Bastard.  But I'm Not Complaining.

Clearly what's needed here is a different wagon.  Or less mud.  I'm going to take another whack at the color theory project; maybe design the class flyer while the yarn makes its way to me.  And I'm going to write the pattern for the sock while the yarn for its mate is being born, knowing that whenever it arrives will be the perfect time to make the second sock.  As for the frog, I'm going to try working on it somewhere else (frozen foods section of the grocery?) to see if the change in scenery revives my enthusiasm.  Which leaves only the snarling masses of my family to sort out.  Obviously, I'm going to have to eat them.  I'm sure I'll miss them when they're gone, but I promise I won't Complain.