Suddenly, September

Oh look, it's not summer any more.

I'm not going to lie, I couldn't be happier. Have I mentioned I'm not all that fond of summer? Probably. It bears repeating, though. I turn into a lump of uselessness during the summer. Heat, humidity, too much sunlight, headaches, constant sweatiness. Anywhere you go there are too many people. People trying to cram in all their fun before September, before they have to go "back". I want to hibernate, close my door, lay under a fan and sleep until the cooler evenings come.

Blah. Give me a cool September breeze and the crisp autumn smell of leaves any day. This is the time I love. This is the time of year I come back to life.

How to sum up the last three months?

I was in Boston in mid-June. It was lovely, as much fun as one can have by oneself when they are at a conference.


Entrance to to a T station in Boston, Summer 2011


A perfect day for a carousel, Boston Common Frog Pond, Summer 2011

I visited my parents for a couple days right after the conference, which was great. We drove around and hung out. We needed that.


Dad's Swamp, Pennsylvania, Summer 2011


Childhood memory, Conneaut Lake Park, Pennsylvania, Summer 2011

I taught in July and August. It was not fun, but it was a job, and not as painful as I was expecting for a course I had never taught before. I didn't get to go to Pennsic due to the time constraints, not even for a few days, and that made me exceedingly cranky. Overall, I tried not to die of heat exhaustion. There were a few days when the heat and humidity weren't so oppressive and I was able to get out, walk around, take some pictures, and remember what an amazing city I live in.


Nathan Philips Square, Toronto, Summer 2011


Cathedral Church of St. James, Toronto, Summer 2011

I've needed to pour myself into work a bit these last couple months, while at the same time hide away and restore my soul. We have been officially cat-less since July 6. I haven't really been able to talk about it much yet, let alone write about it. Ford had a great last few months with us. He went out on his own terms, and I was with him. We miss him. That's really all I can muster, even now, over two months later. So, pictures.


Ford in the park, Summer 2011


OHAI, IZ YOU THERE? (Ford meets the IPad camera) Summer 2011


One of the amazing emails I received from my guys while I was in Boston, Summer 2011

The luck just outside our door

My mother has this strange, magical and occasionally infuriating ability to find four-leaf clovers. I suspect it's her superpower. She can be walking through a parking lot or down a city street, glance at a patch of grass and Bam! Four-leaf clover. She's been doing it all my life.

Over the years, she has taken to picking and pressing them, keeping them as reminders of places she's been. Sometimes she finds so many that she gets distracted, and sometimes it drives Dad a little crazy,* even though he generally finds it endearing, her looking for napkins to press them in, writing on it when and where she found it and bringing them home. There are napkins with pressed four-leaf clovers around the house, in books, in drawers and around her office desk.

Mom was visiting a few weeks ago and went out back in the morning to sit at the picnic table with her coffee and read, as she likes to do. Our backyard is now filled with flowering clover, which we have neglected to mow, partly out of laziness and partly because we like it, and its bee-friendliness. Some days it's positively buzzing.



Mom sat down and started to read. Within seconds, she was distracted. One. Two four-leaf clovers.

"I have to stop this," she said, "it's insane. Oh, for heaven's sake, there's another one!" She hadn't even gone into the clover patch yet - she was still standing next to it.

I went and got her a paper towel to press them.

"Can you see them?" she asked. I looked carefully, and no. Not for the life of me. It's definitely her superpower, not mine.

"It's like the pattern just jumps out at me. See? Here's another one. That's four. Dammit. I'm going to have to go inside, or I'll never stop."

It's a little comforting that I seem to come by my OCD-ish tendencies honestly.

As for me... I've been busy. Very busy. Working. Writing. Teaching. Playing. Going a little crazy with the Busy, trying not to drop any balls that are too fragile to hit the ground, catching others after the first bounce.

But you know what? I have house full of love and a backyard full of luck. It'll all bee fine.



* This might also be partly because he can't find them; this is a man who can spot a deer in a far-away field while driving on the interstate at 70mph.

Things I Can't Get at Home

I am in PA. One would think I would be at Pennsic, since it is well underway, I have a medallion, and my Very Medieval Tent is set up in our campsite over there, looking very medieval indeed.

One would be wrong.

I'm at my parents house, the house I grew up in, sitting at the kitchen table. The kitchen has been redone recently, but the table looks exactly the same. For some reason, when Mom, Dad and I sit at it to play cards, we sit around it in exactly the way we always did: Me with my back to the door and fridge, Mom to my right, Dad to my left (or directly across the table).

It's very strange, these long-term habits.

What is even stranger is that I'm sitting at this table, in this chair, and I have internet access. There is an unexplained, open wi-fi connection that my laptop picked up automatically without asking - suddenly it was downloading email. There's really only one neighbouring house physically close enough to account for it, so my suspicion lies there. I try not to make a habit of borrowing wi-fi connections, except under dire circumstances, so I'm trying not to use it too much or even think about it, lest it disappear suddenly. But I'm also a little delighted that I won't have to pay for internet access over at Pennsic while I'm here just to do an email check every couple days, or run the 5 miles into Butler to a cafe for free access.

The connection is much stronger if I park myself between the grand piano and the Hammond B3 in the sunroom, which I like to think is due to the overwhelming power of such an awesome confluence of keyboards.

I'm also avoiding the work that I'm supposed to be getting done, which is why I'm at the house and not in the tent. So, here is a montage of a few things I can't get at home. From L to R: Frosted Chocolate Vanilla Creme Pop-Tarts, a Butterfinger bar, (American) Mountain Dew, Strawberry Quick powder, Pepperidge Farms Mint Milano Cookies, and handwritten notes from my Mom, with hearts and smiley faces.


Sugar overload

Don't worry, I won't eat it all in one sitting. The cookies are to share with Mom, and the Strawberry Quick is entirely for Daniel. To be fair, I could probably find Butterfinger at home if I knew where to look, but lately, even the places that sell Nestle chocolate bars haven't had them. This flavour of pop-tarts, my only pop-tart weakness, are sometimes even hard to find here. I haven't seen them the last few times I've been down, and the last time a friend offered to bring some back with her for me, I got S'Mores (nope, not even close). The Mountain Dew is just one of those goofy things. I always loved Mountain Dew. Canadian Dew did not, until quite recently, contain caffeine, and the version with caffeine at home has a special name and still doesn't taste the same. I don't drink it, ever. This is probably related to the general cross-border Coke/Pepsi thing. American Coke is made with high-fructose corn syrup. I've never liked it - I grew up drinking Pepsi. Canadian Coke is made with real cane sugar and is wonderful and amazing, but Canadian Pepsi is icky.

And because I'm more than a little homesick, and I miss my Daniel and my fuzzy boys, here are a couple shots I took while playing with the silly features on my old digital camera a couple weeks ago. They were still on the camera when I emptied it just now.




Everything looks better with the polarizing filter!

Okay, enough dawdling. Back to work. I want to be at Pennsic tomorrow!

The Power of Dad

Things have been surprisingly busy around here. Mom and Dad visited last weekend. It's always great to see them of course, but even more so when they come here, because Dad comes bearing power tools, years of building fixit experience, and a burning desire to Not Sit Still. In this case, he also brought us the second half of our housewarming gift: a 16-17 ft. telescoping stepladder (the cordless drill was Part One).

A ladder is absolutely essential around here with our high ceilings. Even with a stepstool, DH can barely change a lightbulb without risking serious injury. For me there's no chance. Heaven help us if the smoke alarm had gone off in the last six months. I was considering a nerf crossbow.

Come to think of it, that's probably still not a bad idea. scribbles a note

Dad is the type of guy who has to be kept busy. He loves puttering around drilling and fixing things and generally being extremely helpful. It's his idea of a vacation, if you can believe it. So, to encourage him to visit (we do also enjoy his company, after all) and lest he end up knocking down and putting up walls (it's been known to happen - not here, though... yet), I keep a small list of short-term projects he can play with when he visits.

Within two hours of their arrival, before DH got home from work, Dad had the bathroom fan out of the ceiling, cleaned and back in, purring nicely, a far cry from its previous wake-the-dead-rattle. When DH got home, we unloaded and moved a piano.

The next morning, Dad assembled six drawers for our Ikea wardrobes. We saved those for him (Ikea = DadLego: last time he spent a morning happily assembling our cheap Ikea shelving in the basement). After that, he and DH tackled the air-conditioner, which wasn't running since over the winter something chewed through the wires outside that connected it to the thermostat. It was a 2-person job to run the new wire, so it went onto the DadFunList. I now have air-conditioning again (they both received many hugs and kisses for that, in addition to a fresh round of iced tea).

Then Dad found the loppers and cultivator, and he and DH (bearing the weed-whacker and push-mower) went to town on the jungle growing in our backyard and started plotting the demise of some excess foilage. As the day wound down, he was devising ways of helping me keep up the heat on my indigo vat.

It's OK, he left us a few things to do - the smoke alarms need to be replaced (and now can be, thanks to The Ladder), and we need to get up into the crawlspace and put down some insulation before the fall. Of course, once DH showed him Google Sketch-up, they started excitedly brainstorming ways to tear apart and redo our kitchen. The two of them together are... scary.

I am the luckiest girl ever. I know this. I supply building materials, food, and a constant flow of iced tea, and things happen around me. It's like magic. It's the Power of Dad.

And did I mention I now have my piano?


1978 Baldwin Acrosonic spinet, French provincial style

This is the piano I learned on, ca. 1978. My sister has the piano she learned on (from my grandmother's house). Not to be outdone or without keys, Mom has her "pet rock": a Petrov grand (early on, Dad heard and parsed "Petrov" as "pet rock" and the name stuck). They were so pleased at the notion of recovering some floor space that they loaded the spinet into the trailer and delivered it personally. They've been waiting for me to have a place for it for nearly 15 years. It went into the house much easier than expected, and without serious injury to any person or property.

Now if only I could find all my sheet music. I am missing Chopin, and yet I have two copies of the Bach. It's inexplicable.

In spinning news, I recently scored some lovely new spindles from Butterfly Girl Designs. They are, from L-R, a pair of interchangable carnelian stone whorls on straight shafts, a murano foil whorl on a dark wood shaft, and a black lip mother-of-pearl whorl on an asymetrically carved shaft.



I made a special request for these spindles: shafts without hooks. I've discovered that I prefer using a half-hitch to secure my yarn to the spindle rather than a hook, and BFG was more than happy to help me out. At some point, I would love to get one of her openwork Italian resin spindles, and another multi-whorl set in a nice stone.


The carnelian whorls being used together. Wool is DorsetX, as thin as I can spin it.

I love these paired sets - the whorls are interchangable. Each one can be used separately or together, anywhere on the shaft (high, mid, low), and they would make great supported spindles. No sooner had I bought the carnelian pair than she listed a stunning blue goldstone pair. In the past, she's also had paired sets of rose quartz and hematite. But more spindles will have to wait for a while, I think.

Finally, the first full skein, 135-ish yards, of plied worsted-to-bulky "Berry Berry Nice" yarn: my earliest spinning (the pink tin-mordanted/brazilwood-dyed wool) plied with DorsetX. There's still an equal amount of pink singles left, and I'm spinning more DorsetX to probably make another skein of this.



Whew, that was a lot. I say naps all around are in order:


VAMPIRE CAT SLEEPS DURING DAY

Hanging on by a thread

At long last, the weaving pictures. I've been wanting to post about this new excitement since I started it last August, but couldn't easily get all the pictures until I was ready to take things off the loom, and that wasn't going to happen until I finished the warp that was on there, or took it off because something else took precedence. I finally finished the warp last week.

The highlight of last Pennsic for me was the rigid heddle weaving classes taught by The Dread Viscountess Seelie. Three samplers from three classes, and I am hooked. Needless to say, I came home with a 20" Beka rigid heddle loom. I'm big on portability.


My loom, and the three samplers

The thing I most appreciated about these classes was that we started the first day by taking the new looms out of their boxes and assembling them - no pre-warped looms here. We learned to measure a warp and warp the looms, which is, frankly, one of the most daunting and crucial things to learn from an experienced weaver. It also sometimes takes as long or longer than the actual weaving, if you're only weaving a little sampler.

With more people than looms, we teamed up on warping looms to make it go faster. This provided several perfect hours of chatting and making friends with people while working across a loom from them, pulling and catching up warp threads, the strains of morning musical warm-ups providing a soundtrack. We all felt very much like we were doing something that women have been doing for centuries: "This morning we'll warp your loom, tomorrow we'll do mine..." I find that kind of connection deeply comforting.

The warps were long enough for a couple people to make samplers. This meant many people didn't finish their samplers before the (half to full-day) classes were over, so the instructor had a work table set up at her shop for people to continue working that day or later in the week.

In the first class, we made a simple even-weave colour sampler.



Second class was another even-weave sampler, this time learning to manipulate the warp with various types of open-work and inlay techniques. It was not unlike doing hardanger, which I have some experience with. I confirmed that I am not exactly a natural at wrapped thread work - I fight with it, screw it up several times, cuss profusely and in several languages... but it is so very pretty in the end.



Finally, the third class, which was the one I was really looking forward to, though the first two were absolutely necessary before tackling this. We learned to warp up a loom with three heddles and a fourth set of warp threads that float. It's possible, using combinations of raising or lowering heddles together, to weave four-harness patterns on the rigid heddle loom. So we did a couple twills (3/1, 2/2), tabby weave with moorman inlay, and various double weaves (tube, open on one side, open both sides).

This is seriously cool. I've become particularly enamoured with the double weaves. Weave two pieces of fabric at the same time, or a double-width piece? I am all over that. The double weave samples are the blue section at the top. You'll just have to trust me that the top is two separate pieces, the next couple inches down are open on one side, and the bottom couple inches are an enclosed tube.



While I "finished" the third sampler at Pennsic, I didn't finish tying it off with... whatever that stitch it called, I can never remember. So I technically only finished the third sampler last week. And since it's a shame to waste perfectly good warp, I used the last foot or so to do some more tube double-weave. The idea was that this would become a draw-string bag or something, but I don't think it's tall enough, and I ran out of warp. Whatever. It was good practice. Maybe some day I'll enter it into one of those "seemed like a good idea at the time: failed A&S projects" displays, those are fun.


The lovely rosewood comb sticking out is a multi-use weaving accessory. The husband of the weaving teacher makes and sells them in their merchant tent, 'Stitch, Weave and Burn (and Some Crap My Husband Made).' Everyone agrees, he makes good crap.

My plan this year is to take whatever classes she offers - she mentioned that she was hoping to do a class on recreating a some archeological textile patterns. I would be all over that, if she does it. In the coming months, I will have a not-so-secret project on the loom, but we're still working out all the details. As in, the wool still needs to be dyed, carded and spun, and we've been waiting for spring, which is finally beginning to show itself, to do the dyeing outside.

----------------------------
I was down at my parents' last weekend, so I made the short detour down Currie Road, ten minutes from home and on the way to and from the highway. I had wanted to drive up to the top of Mt. Eislinn, across the road from the campground (which is closed until May), and take some quick pictures while there were still no leaves on the trees to block the view. I decided against that - we had several preceding days of rain and I'm not yet comfortable enough in my new-to-me car to know how it would handle on the muddy dirt road up the hill. There were also three people on horseback coming down the hill, so I decided not to bother them or the horses by ungracefully trumbling by them in the car. Perhaps next time, if the weather is nicer, Dad will take me up on the motorcycle.

In the meantime, I did snap this picture of the (Shadowclans?) cathedral facade from the road (this is approximately outside the north gate, if you're familiar with the area). I knew it was was stored on-site, but I didn't realize it would still be up. I guess it's usually been hidden behind foilage when I've been by in the past. Right now it looks like a beautiful old ruin standing in a lonely field in the modern world.



There's a new Pilot truck stop at the intersection of I-79 and 422. It wasn't there when I was last down in the fall. It has a McDonald's and a Subway, among the other truck stop normalities (showers, supplies, gas). Civilization continues to encroach upon my childhood. I'll take fries with that.

No regrets

This past weekend was rough. I had to make a short trip to PA for the funeral of a woman I loved dearly, though I can count the number of times I saw her in the last 20 years on one hand. I couldn't possibly explain the reason for that here - family "situations" are never as simple face-to-face as they seem from a distance, and I have been at a distance for a while - but though neither she or I were the reason, we bore its results, and a year became two, then five, then ten and more before I held her beautiful old hands and laughed with her again.

There was regret at one time, yes, on both our parts, but we came to terms with that together, the last time I saw her. There was never blame, and there was always forgiveness and love. She knew and understood completely, and that's all that matters to me.

Dorothy Moon was strong, wise, creative, gracious and loving. A word from her could make me smile and laugh without fail. She took bullshit from no one, standing her ground with firm kindness. She was a mother to all. She was a teacher, every day. She was one of the dwindling links to the really good parts of my childhood, before things became complicated. She was part of who I am, and I learned more from her by everyday example than I will probably ever realize.

I love you, Grandma. Be at peace.

Reaching your Toronto City Limits

We are now, officially, residents of the city of Toronto. Actually, we have been for over a month - our closing date on the house was Nov. 23. So much for "Buy Nothing Day", eh? We had to move out of the apartment by December 4. We owe Uncle Peter, with his van of awesomeness, a lot.

We're finally getting nice and comfy in our new (to us) house. We've had a few people over, and my parents came up for a couple days, Dad wielding power tools (some of which he bought for us, we love you!! Our families rock!!) and the knowledge of how to use them. The cats have stopped running for cover every time the door opens. We have a sectional couch, kitchen chairs, tables, phone, and internet. We have a bed, and several shiny, working major appliances. We have a bathtub (mmm, a bath!), and a backyard, with an honest-to-God tree in it. We also have an espresso machine, because my mother-in-law is made of awesome.

And we have mortgage payments, utility bills and property taxes.

We haven't watched television since we moved in, and we're starting to notice that we haven't missed it. We're still undecided about whether or not it's worth getting cable - certainly not for the duration of the writers' strike, anyhow. We hadn't really been watching TV for the last 6 months, frankly. We also don't have a car, since I had a minor fender-bender a couple weeks ago and the insurance company decided to write off my 9 year old Saturn (of beloved memory). Sigh. So I guess we're car shopping in January.

We've been a little slower than we wanted with unpacking. I did a dumb thing* 3 1/2 weeks ago that resulted in a torn right calf muscle. I've only been walking normally for the last week, and I managed to go down stairs for the first time a few days ago. It's still sore, stiff and swells in the evening. It's also mighty ugly, though the bruises are finally starting to fade. My clothes are still in plastic bags. But the bookshelves are up, and nearly full. We have our priorities. Also, I located my knitting.

Within two weeks of living here, I had already called city hall and had the kind folks at the by-law office looking things up. It was surprisingly easy to get a real person on the phone. Everyone was extremely helpful. They just didn't know the answer to my question.

Our house, you see, is on a major through-road. An official "snow route", in fact. The by-law says that when the city declares an official "snow emergency" (when a significant amount of snow falls in a short time), you can not park or stop on an official snow route for the next 72 hours. Normally, this road is available for 3-hour parking after 6pm, as are most of the quiet side streets around us. This is great when we want to have people over, but a headache when we want to have them over during or within 72 hours of a major snowfall. And the narrow, residential side streets, well... I think there's a couple cars that won't be dug out of there until spring.

All I needed to know was whether the city had officially declared a snow emergency, thus bringing the Snow Route by-law into effect. I was trying to determine whether the group of people we had invited over that evening should bother coming, or if they would have no parking, or (worst possible outcome) park in front of my house and be ticketed and towed. You would think something like this would be the first thing they would tell you on, say, the phone line dedicated to updating residents about snow conditions and plowing progress? Or perhaps on the website where they post announcements? Or from any of the major news outlets?

But no one could officially confirm for me that a Snow Emergency had been announced, and the several people from the city who I talked to were rather stymied by it. "Well, it's kind of vague," said one (very nice) lady. The vaguest, yet best reply came from someone at parking enforcement (i.e the people who would be doing the actual ticketing and towing) who said, "If the roads are clear, you should be fine." I strongly suspect this means: If the plows are still running and your car is in someone's way, they can ticket and tow you even if there is no 'official' Snow Emergency. Needless to say, we postponed the gathering until the New Year. Hopefully the weather will cooperate better, or at least the side streets will be clearer.

Beauracracy: 1, Us: 0.

Next battle, what goes into garbage, recycling and green bin? I fear I'll have to print out the list and tape it to the fridge.

At some point, there will be pictures. Many, many pictures. Er, after we put a little bit more crap away.

* In my defense, I was absolutely certain I could wrangle the largest, heaviest box in the entire house down to the basement by myself, and I still don't recall Daniel specifically telling me not to. I do recall him saying, "Just roll it to the back, there, in the kitchen, and we'll take it downstairs tonight." Which can be taken several ways, right?

An August Interlude

I've been home from Pennsic for a week now, and I still haven't totally unpacked the car. It's sad, really. In summary: It was hot. And then it rained. Wash, rinse, repeat. There are many new spinning toys and fibre-related things, and overall, it was a great time, although I came home a little sick (sometimes there just isn't enough hand sanitzer in the world) and then I passed it on to Daniel. Ooops.

I learned a song guaranteed to induce rain, I ate watermelon and drank lemonade every day, and I got to see my parents a little, but not so much that we got sick of each other. I played the recorder for dancers several evenings (still not very well, but I'm getting better) and walked a lot and worked a couple troll shifts and a first-aid shift in the dead of night and briefly drove a golf cart. My feet swelled to the size of stuffed sausages and have only begun to look their normal size the last couple days. I finished Harry Potter. My tent was magnificent and kept me high and dry.

Oh yes, and I bought a loom.

No, not THAT kind of loom. A conveniently portable 20" Rigid Heddle (Beka) with 3 heddles so that I can do multi-heddle work.

Daniel booked this past week off at the last minute to spend some time with me, which was exceedingly sweet and awesome, and now we both need to screw our heads on again and get back to work this week, because we are now poor.

I have a handful of pictures. Longer post later, after I find the camera and associated cables. And, you know, some energy.

In the meantime, enjoy the fruits of someone else's labours (thank you, person who shot this!) and enjoy listening to Wolgemut. I think I heard them in some form nearly every day, my favourite moments being during weaving classes, when they were warming up and practising around the corner from our A&S tent. It was like having a special soundtrack while several of us worked together, warping looms. Clicking on the video will take you to a YouTube page with several others.

This is not the song guaranteed to induce rain. That one, as you can imagine, must be used sparingly.

The Pains of Pennsic Preparation

At long last: Pennsic is almost here. I've heard that when people check in at troll, they're sometimes asked, "Have you been to Pennsic before?" When they say yes, the reply is often, "Welcome home."

For most people, that is a metaphor.

But I grew up less than ten miles from Coopers' Lake Campground. My family still lives in the area, as do any number of friends and acquaintences. Every year for as far back as I can remember, in August, the campground would be taken over by those strange people who wore costumes and armour and beat each other up with sticks. We could see the rows and rows of pavilions and the battlefield from the highway and the road. Locals didn't usually go - it's not an "open" event, like a Ren Faire. Everyone is a participant. Getting in means paying a full site and campground fee, and wearing the funny clothes.

Every year a few locals would venture over, ask around, maybe find a way to get in if they knew someone on the staff, and the word of mouth would spread. In my teens I often met people in t-tunics, cotehardies and crowns in the grocery store, the ice-cream place, local restaurants. They were very nice (even the Vikings), always answered questions politely, and were good-natured about the stares. Every year, the event got bigger. "Good for them," some said, "everyone needs a hobby." "Wierdos," said others, "What are they, hippies?" Or, "I hear it's just one big party." Or, "Great for the local economy." "I hear Coopers' makes a bundle of money from that." "Pity about the traffic, though." Actually, the locals still say those things, especially the last one (it's normally a quiet, out-of-the-way area where most locals are people who want some acreage and privacy), but for the most part, people are used to it by this point and have resigned themselves to accepting the benefits of playing host to such a large gathering of eclectic people with money to spend. Also, a lot more locals go now, especially since there are now SCA groups in the immediate area (which there weren't when I was kid, at least not big, active ones).

I moved away over 15 years ago and went to college. I got married. I moved out of the country. Yet every so often, all over North America, I would meet someone who spent their two week summer vacation at a little campground in western PA, down the road from the family homestead, where my father and brother sometimes went hunting. While I've been away, the event grew. Two thousand people. Three. Five. Ten. Twelve. Bigger than some of the neighbouring small towns, and only in existence for two weeks ever year.

A few years ago, my niece began to go. Last year, I finally went with her for a few days. It was enough to convince me that I should seek out my local SCA groups in the Toronto area, because so many of my hobbies and interests intersect. And so this year, much to my siblings' amusement, I am once again pitching a tent in, for all intents and purposes, our parents' backyard. I'm taking a full two week vacation from everything, the first one I've had in over 7 years. Daniel can't come, which is a bummer, but I'll work on him for next year. But I am going. I am going to spend at least one full day carding and spinning wool from that washed fleece, among other mindless persuits.

And... *drumroll*.... The Tent has arrived. A 10' x 15.5' by 8' medieval double-bell wedge made by Tentsmiths, who were great to deal with (just make sure and give them lots of time and be patient! They make a great product.) Dad agreed to cut my tent poles, and I couldn't ask him to deal with it without me there. And I figured I really should set up the thing at least once before taking it over to the site to live in it for two weeks. So down I went last weekend. And there is now a tent. And it is good:




It's not properly staked down here, this was just a test run for setting up and checking the poles. I left it up overnight and went out as the sun came up the next morning. It was very dry and roomy inside. I think we're going to get along fine, me and my portable home. It also needs a name. Suggestions are welcome.

Pennsic starts officially this weekend. My garb is not yet sewn. The Next Written Thing is not yet Written, about which I have no small amount of guilt that I'll have to work through before my Wednesday afternoon meeting with Lady S (less than 12 hours from now). It's the last time we'll meet until September, what with vacations and all - I'll just be impressed if I get out of there without bursting into tears (built-up stress, PMS, exhaustion... blah). I had to drive down to PA this weekend, back home on Monday, maybe finish writing in two days what I haven't been able to write in 8 months (verdict: nope!), finish preparations, pack, spend time with my husband, turn around and drive back down on Friday. I hate that drive. Most. Boring. Five Hours. Ever. And the stretch of I-90 from Erie to Buffalo? My personal hell. I love my family, and I (usually) enjoy going for a visit, but let's just say that when they invent transporters? First in line, baby. And I will never have to make a pit stop in Angola, NY again.

We drove up the road next to the campground over the weekend and Mom snapped a few shots for me: they're getting ready. It's quiet over there the Sunday before. The fences are up, the massive parking lots are staked off, and the roman numerals XXXVI (for Pennsic War 36) are mowed into long grass on the hillside overlooking the battlefield.


The Porta-Potties, er, Castles, are being moved into place, and large food court tents are being set up. The campgound is closed until Friday afternoon while they prepare for the onslaught. They have to close down for a couple weeks on either side of the event to get the campground ready.


This time next week the place will be teeming with people and pavilions, filling nearly to capacity as the momentum builds leading up to the second week, when all the big battles take place. And I will be there. But really, my brain has already been there for months now, which is very much why the Next Written Thing is not yet written. I have needed a vacation for a long, long time.

It's time to go home.

A Time to Spin, Part 1: The Pennsic haul

I spent several idyllic days in August visiting my family, although most of that time was spent at Pennsic. (That's the official link. Another linky here). Any SCAdians reading this will know exactly what this is, for the rest, this is a large (really, really large) event hosted by the Society for Creative Anachronism (another link here). This event has been taking place for a couple decades now at the same campground in Western PA, and growing every year. Conveniently, the campground is about 5 miles from my ancestral home, where my parents and a number of friends and relatives still live. There aren't a lot of perks to be had from that (my knowledge of the local back roads and places to go in the area means little at an event where people don't have much reason or desire to leave the site), but it does make the laundry thing far less troublesome, and I have a place to crash if it all gets to be too much and Oh-my-God-I-just-need-a-real-shower-and-a-bed-now.

One of my nieces has been going for several years, and I finally managed to go and spend some time with her. I've been wanting to go to Pennsic (and possibly get more involved in the SCA) for some time, but there was the university thing, followed by the getting married thing, followed by the moving to Canada thing, then the "Oh my God, I have to work for a living" thing. Then came the "I want to play in a concert band" thing and finally the "This would be a great time to go back to grad school" thing. Before you know it, 15 years have gone by, and I've STILL never made it to Pennsic or looked up my local SCA groups. Which is pathetic, really.

So this year I went. I had two goals: 1) See if I would be comfortable at an SCA event and if this is something I would like to do more often, 2) Learn to spin on a drop spindle. The jury is still out on the first goal, although I've since been in contact with my local groups. I'm going to their meetings for a bit to observe quietly and see if any of them would be a good fit for my interests.

The second goal, however, was quite sucessfully met. In the interests of full disclosure, I bring you Bridget's Pennsic Stash Haul:

First, drop spindles, and a book to teach me what to do with them. The top whorl spindle is your basic Ashford Student (inexpensive) spindle. I like it well enough. I bought it with the book, along with some roving. The second is a hand-made clay low-whorl spindle, bought from this shop. It's heavier than the Ashford, spins forever, and I adore it. In this picture, it's holding my first spinning attempt.



The brooch was bought from the same merchant. I needed it for the scarf, which I feel I should explicitely state was bought from a completely different merchant.

Ahem, the scarf. I should explain a bit. I had no garb of my own. Rather, I was wearing garb borrowed (mostly) from my father. His shirt was huge, oversized, and fit like a sack (not a bad thing, honestly). There was also a large piece of cloth that he wore like a tartan, over one shoulder and belted around the waist. I decided to wear that as a head covering instead of a hat (which is problematic with my hair up in a bun), lest I roast in the August sun, SPF 50 be damned. I discovered very quickly the first day that his pseudo-tartan was far heavier material than I wanted. I was sweating like a freaking pig. Hence, the scarf. A very lovely scarf, much cooler, with the ends beautifully yet heavily overdyed using who-the-hell-knows-what-but-damn-its-BLUE. It was also definitely NOT colourfast dye. To be fair, the merchant I bought it from warned me. She suggested I buy this scarf since most of it was undyed (most of her others were completely dyed), and thus I wouldn't end up with a smurf-coloured head and face as soon as I stared sweating on it. She also recommended that I NOT allow it to be rained on, and if I intended to wear it as a head covering with any regularilty, that I wash it and try to fix the dye once I got home, perhaps with vinegar. Under normal circumstances, I probably would have moved along to the next merchant and bought something confirmed to be colourfast, but the scarf was pretty, and I was desperate.

This lovely scarf got me through the rest of my trip without incident (and, in fact, netted me a couple compliments from complete strangers - Pennsic is like that). I managed to keep the ends from touching my sweaty self the whole time. I tried to set it with some really good dye fixative when I got home (Raycafix, recommended for "unknown" dyes), but alas, let's just say that the scarf ends are no longer that brillant shade of blue. In fact, it bled so much that if it were red instead of blue, it could have made for an awkward conversation with the neighbours in the laundry room. It's now a lovely, pale aquamarine, at best. Not a big deal, it wasn't expensive. I'm going to play with it a bit and see if I can re-dye it. If so, perhaps the scarf will make another blog appearance.

Anyhow. Back to the rest of the stash.

Next is the pink roving, bought at the same place as the Ashford spindle and the book. Apparently it was dyed with Brazilwood using tin as a mordent.



This roving is the first thing I tried spinning, on the clay low-whorl spindle. My first spun yarn is here, with a better picture of the spindle. Considering how densely packed the roving was (it needed a lot of pre-drafting) and the fact that I'd never used a spindle before, it's not too bad, actually. There's too much twist, of course, which isn't surprising for a learner, especially given how heavy and fast this spindle is.



When I was buying the clay spindle, I also grabbed another bag of fleece. This one is merino lamb's fleece, superwash treated. It's so light and fluffly that I can spin it without brushing or combing. The staple length is a little shorter, though. I'm just starting to play with it now, so more on that in the next post.



By this time, the fleece-buying frenzy had completely taken hold. A few merchants were selling raw fleece as well, and I wandered into one such tent. The woman was a dear - or perhaps a deer is more accurate, since she had antlers strapped to her head. (They looked great, btw... did I mention I was at Pennsic? *grin*) She took one look at my red, sweaty face (this was the day before I bought the new scarf), and she promptly sat me down and plopped a handful of ice into my hands. We sat on the bench in the shade and rubbed our faces and arms with ice for a while, talking. A third woman joined us. After a bit, I realized I'd come into her shop to look at the fleece! The one I really liked wasn't washed, and even I - an enthusiastic newbie in the throes of fleece-buying euphoria with a healthy credit card, realized that I didn't have a convenient way to wash and dry a large fleece promptly upon returning home. Seriously, I live in a basement apartment, and I have no yard. The shopkeeper obliged by finding me a smaller, washed fleece. Meet my new friend, a Romney Cross:



Here's a close-up picture showing some of the lovely crimpy locks. I'm not sure how visible it is, but there's a grey touch to some of it. I think it's in the undercoat. I've been playing with it. I carded a handful, combed some, and spun a bit straight out of the fleece with just a little pre-drafting of the more matted parts. I was happiest with the combed locks, so I'm probably going to get some good wool combs and learn how to use them. This is mostly for spinning practise anyhow, I'm not really worried about how much yarn I get from it in the end.



Best of all, it smells sheepy, a bit like a barn but not too strong. I find it a most comforting smell. I wasn't raised on a farm, but I was surrounded by them growing up. Most of the farms around us stuck to cows, but the sheep were my favourite. As soon as I catch a whif, I am instantly transported back about 20-25 years. Friends raised sheep and angora rabbits that they would show at the Butler Fair (we lived close enough to bike there, if not walk) or the Farm Show. Their mother spun and knitted with the wool. When the kids were showing animals, they slept in a stall in the barn next to them, sleeping with the sounds of quietly bleating sheep.

It's funny. Twenty years later, living in a large city many hours away, and I finally figured out how to bring home to me.

Finally, I needed a bag to put it all in, and for good measure, I picked up some silk/wool yarn that will probably make the loveliest socks ever:



So, that's the Pennsic Haul, as we're calling here. My husband received fair warning of my purchases when I was still 5 hours away, and did not have me committed upon my arrival home. After I played around with everything for a little bit, I decided I should probably get someone to show me how to spin in-person. I wanted to take one of the classes at Pennsic, but I missed them the first week and didn't stay long enough into the second week to catch the next one.

Next post, my local handspinning class goodies, and my first skein.

This blog will return soon. Really. With pictures, even.

So, since the last entry, I sucessfully defended the paper (it was very anti-climactic and all, but it's done THANK GOD), and then I ran away for a bit to visit my family and attend Pennsic with my niece and specifically NOT think about school and papers and dissertation topics (or rather, lack of dissertation topics) for at least a week. After I came back, I continued to not think about any of those things for the remainder of August and at least a week of September, although I did come out of hiding just long enough to fulfill my duties as the departmental "space cadet" (Assigned task: fit 43 graduate students into 28 desks and convince them to be happy about it). Aside from that and a little bit of volunteer editing work, I've been avoiding work for a solid month.

I bought wool instead.

And drop spindles. Three, to be exact.

These were accompanied by two types of roving, several hand-dyed combed tops, and best of all, one skirted and washed (but otherwise unprepared) fleece. It still has some bits of veggy matter in it. And it smells sheepy, which is a smell from my childhood that I'd forgotten.

It's also a smell which I find remarkably comforting. More on that later.

I'm feeling somewhat better now, and beginning to work on the dissertation topic this week. Next week I start TA-ing again, but I'm remarkably calm about that. It's the same class I did last fall.

My second of two drop spindle classes is this Friday. We'll be plying. I have pictures, and a much longer post coming. Maybe even two. Before and after plying. Hmmm.

The Obligatory Paper and Cat Update

Blogs are funny things. In my case, for instance, it has the ability to remind me how much I've done in the last year, while simultaneously and in technicolour detail demonstrating exactly how little I've done in the past month. Neat.

The paper is not yet written. In fact, the draft is only marginally longer than it was a month ago at this time. My EPAWS (Eternally Patient and Wonderful Supervisor) is still exactly that, and I'm not certain how she continues to respond to my weekly assurances of "it's going well" and "soon, I'll have a big section to you soon" with nothing but serene calm and "just keep working at it, as long as you're working, I'm not worried." And I am indeed working - except I write three sentences, reread them, highlight two of them and turn them into footnotes. This is the first time I've written a paper in Word, and I seem to be enamored with and have a newfound respect for Word's ability to handle footnotes with ease. The paper is probably 1/3 - 1/2 footnotes right now, which would be funny if it weren't completely exasperating. But I'm working. See, working, can't you tell?

There was a horrific paper SNAFU last weekend, though, which involved me putting the Word file in the trash and emptying it (accidentally! long story! everybody's nightmare!), some hyperventilating and tears, and the purchase of a file recovery software in record time. In the end, nothing major was lost save for a little time. All is now back to staus quo, and EPAWS and my husband are gently but persistently reminding me to back up more frequently. We've also discovered that when I'm panicking, I apparently develop an overwhelming need to compulsively check my email and delete evil spam messages:

Me (with increasing hysteria): "But can't I just check my email? Just once? I probably have, like, 30 spam messages sitting in there in the last 10 minutes, with more accumulating! Please?"

Husband (very patiently): "Dear, you know that any use of your computer right now decreases the chances of your Very Important Document being recovered intact. Here. Use my computer."

Me: *sniffle*

If only I could channel that obsessive-compulsive streak into a need to do dishes or vaccuum or scrub the bathroom spotless. But I digress.

I visited my family in PA the weekend before last. All I can say is, it's not really a visit home until the PA State Police have knocked on someone's door. Just the average family chaos, you know. That story has been filed away for telling at a later date.

Ford, my knitting model of the previous entry and normally fuzzy, snuggly grey ball of hugs and occasional Holy Terror, spent a reluctant day with the vet today, returning victorious (i.e. he repaid their 6x drawing of his blood with his drawing some of theirs). He is currently recovering from battle by napping on the coffee table between the two laptop computers so that the fans blow warm air simultaneously on his belly and bum.

Ford was diagnosed diabetic in late March. For two months now we've been valiantly struggling to get his insulin dose regulated with occasional morning blood tests, to no avail. Despite the fact that the vet originally felt he was "not a good candidate for a blood-glucose curve", I insisted. Doing a BGC involves a full day at the vet, where they administer his insulin and test his blood every two hours to see how his system is metabolizing it. But an accurate result involves the cat being calm, relaxed and eating normally throughout the day, which are only three of the long list of things that Ford will not, under any circumstances, do while at the vet.

I ended up going over at mid-day at their request to see if I could get him to eat. He did, but only once he was out of the cage and allowed to roam free in a room, and after I pulled out his favourite china plate (yes, really) and a can of moist food. I also had to help them get him in and out of the cage while I was there, because he was, in their words, "Not very happy with us right now". That is vet-code speak for much hissing and growling and swiping with claws.

The vet is glad we did it, though, because we learned:
1) that the insulin is working fine (insulin resistance was a concern)
2) his urine always reads high for glucose even when his blood sugar is in the normal range or even a little low (this can sometimes happen, and means that urine tests aren't a very good indicator of how well he's regulated)
3) we might be able to decrease his dose (YAY!) if we can control his diet better (*sigh*), and
4) that his claws are, indeed, still very sharp (he got the poor vet pretty good on the arm, hazard of the job, I guess).

Now that he's home, he's reverted to his normally angelic, snuggly, hungry self. He gave me no problems for his evening insulin shot, he chased and was chased by Tiger for a bit, and he later feigned perfect innocence when he kicked a mug of water off the coffee table while "stretching". The mug was followed by a nearby magazine, which landed in the water, followed by a half-dozen CDs, which didn't. Although I'm pretty sure he was aiming for the water. Dat's my boy.

It has not escaped our attention that his name - unsurprisingly inspired by Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy - can also be used as an acronym for Force Of Random Destruction.

Actually, it's been a bad couple of months for us at the vet. Or, good, if you're the vet, because I think we're contributing considerably to their new equipment upgrades. Tiger (age nearly 13) started limping sometime in late April. When it hadn't gotten any better by last week, I loaded him up and took him over. He was treated to much prodding and some x-rays, with the conclusion being that he has a touch of arthritis in his left rear ankle. Some anti-inflammatory meds later, and he's doing much better, though he'll probably have to continue to use it sparingly for his remaining years. They LOVE him at the vet. They can poke and prod him to their heart's content and he never complains or makes a sound. They didn't even have to sedate him to get him to hold still enough for x-rays. What a trooper. I will have to get some pictures of him up here soon.

So, this has turned into a cat post. And just like that, it's June. See? Blogs are funny things.

Musings on the cable clutch

Although I haven't posted much about it, I have been knitting recently. I didn't get much time to work on anything last semester (Sept - Dec) except here and there. Over Christmas, one of my husband's cousins was raving about these lovely little hand-knit clutches that are apparently quite the rage in some fashion circles. Well, raving might be too strong a word... cousin is in her late teens and generally doesn't "rave" about anything at family gatherings lest she appear less-than-dignified. But she really likes them, nonetheless. After admiring the website for a bit, I decided to have a go at a knock-off an approximation.

I also went back through the archives of a couple knitting and craft boards to see what others had come up with. I think mine is turning out better than some of the other knock-offs, but we'll see. I noticed occasional indignation from some knitters: "US $150 for THAT? But it's just a simple cable pattern, sew up the sides and add a bow!" When cousin's mother asked me if I thought the designer clutches on the website were worth the price they were asking for them, I did some quick math and said, "Yes, if they're really hand-made and you account for the inflation of selling in New York City." I spent CND $25 on two balls of mid-range-price superwash wool and about 5 hours of knitting. At $20 an hour for my time (which is reasonable for quality handmade work) that's minimum CDN $125 right there. And I haven't bought lining fabric, ribbon, a magnetic fastener, the handles or sewn up the sides and finished it yet. I'm sure the designer can have them made faster and gets wholesale pricing on materials, but still. I don't begrudge them one bit for making money on what appears to have become a lovely niche product for the fashionable.

Our cousin, of course, is not going to spend US $150 on a designer clutch, so I will make one for her and probably one for myself. Beyond that, though, I won't be taking orders. If you've been knitting for any length of time and done even simple cables, you can figure out the pattern for yourself. Here endeth the math lesson, and why I don't attempt to put a price on my handknitting.

I repeat my mantra: pictures eventually. Really.

...in which there are pictures, and tales of yummy German cookies

Wahoo! I was finally able to get a couple days off in the last week, and I've managed to update some pictures, adding a not-so-recent stitching finish (the DragonKnot Bookmark. I'm particularly pleased with two of the hats.


The red one is Coronet, with some polka-dots (pulka-dots?) added in at the last minute to alleviate boredom. The white one is a hat of my own creation, using bits of the other three hats I finished: the rolled-up brim of one, the pointy-top of another. There's a little bobble pattern in the contrast band that you can't see very well in the picture, but it's there. Both were knit bottom-up using Magic Loop. I have an aversion to dpns that has been solved by a 52" Denise cable.

So now I'm spending the times when I'm not coding my various project data or nursing my neverending cold and a sore right hand (can't even begin to imagine what I did to that) working on Shimmer, of which I have two sleeves and the bottom of a back:


I don't even want to think about how many times I've ripped out a row of that lace pattern. Blah. And I'm not even at the decreases yet!

I'm still watching the second season of Land of the Lost on DVD, which has been positively addictive. And I'm trying to do some background variation theory reading for the paper I'm currently (supposed to be) rewriting. And spending some time with the husband, who miraculously got 5 days in a row off without meaning to (boss said no one, including she, needed to come in on Friday. Monday & Tuesday both stat holidays).

The most exciting thing on Christmas Day was the trip to Starbucks (I go there every day, really, but it's one of the few things open on Dec. 25, so that makes it special then). And so it goes. Boxing Day involved turkey and all the traditional sides, a really tasty chunk of Schinkenspeck, a box of Lebkuchen Herzen cookies of my very own (why yes, we did make a trip to our favourite German deli recently, why do you ask? She says with her mouth full...), and games of both Pirate's Cove and Goa with DH and some cousins at the in-laws. There are worse ways to spend a holiday Sunday afternoon.