It's the end of my spring break, which of course, is the saddest thing. We took a long (too long!) road trip up to VA, to visit my mom. 350 miles is too far to drive in one day on rather boring highways, with 2 antsy dogs. Thank the goddess for Starbucks and the Avett Brothers! Which isn't feel-good music at all, resulting in our 9pm arrival at my mom's all kinda glum, not because of a bad drive, or lack of joy in seeing her, but because of the twists and turns of "I and Love and You". Ah, well, it was nice to get out into the country, again, anyway. We went to church the next morning for a dedication service. My family was donating some projection equipment in memory of dada. Nice to be back in the old home area, running into high school friends, distant relatives and folk whose names I couldn't tell you, but whose faces are indelibly engraved upon my childhood memory.
So, weirdness, in VA... We grew up kind of out in the boonies, and wildlife abounds around the house. Deer, fox, possums, skunks, snakes, raccoons, the occasional bobcat, you name it. Anyway, it being spring, it was the mating season for skunks, otherwise known, in the Virginia vernacular, as "polecats." They are nocturnal, and every night, about 10pm, they'd come out, and do whatever it is they do, the main thing being distributing their scent all around the house, our cars, and the general surrounds. I do not remember this phenomenon, growing up; the story is, that our across-the-road neighbors, who operate a cat rescue of sorts, have managed to attract the polecats with all the catfood laying around. Nice... but not so much. Especially with 2 prey-driven dogs who needed to be walked. Somehow, we managed to avoid being sprayed, and each morning, the smell would be either very faint, or gone. My mom says this goes on through the early spring.
Otherwise, the time was spent hanging out, knitting, reading the thoroughly absorbing "Angels and Demons," watching the Oscars and playing frisbee with the dogs, and just catching up with my ma and her adventures. Somehow, in one of the endless frisbee games, Crick managed to slice open his foot on some unidentified sharp object. It was across the pad of a hind paw, in a place that was impossible for stitches, so he's on antibiotics and instructions to keep it clean and dry. Once back in GA, we were greeted with the usual 3-day downpour, thus necessitating the purchase of these: Little nylon and leather booties called "Muttluks" are just darling, and kind of a pain to put on. It took him a few minutes to learn to walk in them, he kept raising his feet really high in a hilarious prancing motion. The cut is healing, and once our weather dries out again, he can go barefoot once more outside. Apparently, paw pad wounds take a while to heal up. He seems unfazed by it, and it was only by the distressing tracks of blood all over the house that we even found out he'd been hurt.
I joined Chelsea in a slacker's knitalong of the Noro stripey scarf, a la Jared Flood. Here's my own effort.
I am using 2 colorways of Silk Garden: #84 and #47. Not sure how I feel about the way they are meshing, but that's hardly the point, with Noro, is it? Chelsea is farther along that I am, because she was a Noro virgin, and so entranced by the everchanging dazzlement. Jaded Noro whore that I am, I am slogging along at my usual crawl.It was called a slacker's knitalong, due to the lack of rules and deadlines, much akin to our Icarus knitalong. I like this approach, as I am invariably the last horse across the finish line. Still, the Noro moves one right along. This may use up all the Silk Garden in my stash! Not counting the yarn I'll gain from frogging my Klaralund, which I've fallen out of love with, while not falling out of love with the pretty green colorway.
Hawkheart is pushing through the final throes of wrapping up her American Life, to begin the Costa Rican Life, and sent me her spinning wheel; a rehoming of sorts. She used to be a spinner, long before we became friends, but had gotten away from it in recent years. We became friends, teaching together at my first school job, back in the early 90's, sharing passions for dogs, reptiles, birds, tarot, sushi, bicycling, aquariums...but incredibly, not the fiber arts. I knew the wheel was coming, eventually, but didn't expect it quite so soon, but I welcomed it with open arms, nevertheless...
A Louet S10, made in 1987, and still working like a charm. Quiet, with the exception of a tiny, endearing squeak, which I will try and track down, and smooth to spin. I might add here that I have spun on a wheel exactly two times before this. Once, my freshman year in college, for about 5 minutes, and once at Opal's, where she very patiently taught me not to be afraid of the wheel, and not to cry when all I could spin was tight little coils of the Novelty Yarn from Hell. Opal has been the spinning enabler in my life, first getting me hooked on the gateway drug of spindling, and then moving me on to harder stuff. And now the pretty Louet, nameless, thus far, occupies the clamcave, and is happily munching up my modest little fiber stash.
Things I've learned... colonial top is easier to spin than the corriedale I have. I am getting a callus on my fingers from drafting. I don't know if this is to be expected, or if I'm exercising some kind of death grip that isn't really necessary for the process. I am not spinning big scary coils anymore, and am actually starting to have some fun with the whole thing. Here's a progress shot:
Next up, tomorrow or later this week...some kitchen adventures and another WIP!