This one time, at band rehearsal...

Once upon a time there was a girl who played French Horn. She loved her horn. She loved Band. She liked playing solo things, of course, but always felt that there was something very special about the way nearly 50 people can come together and make something amazing.

She played her horn in elementary school, middle school, high school. In university, she wasn't a music major, just your average every-day liberal-arts major, but she chose a school that gave her plenty of opportunities to keep playing. She played in marching band (even though she could have cared less about football), pep band (even though she cared even less about basketball) and concert bands and made friends that she keeps in touch with over 20 years later.

Then she moved to another country. It wasn't far away from home, but a lot of things were different. Subtle things. There wasn't a 'marching band' culture where she moved to, for instance. But she found a community concert band, and they welcomed her and her horn, and she was happy.

Many years went by. Some members of her horn section came and went, went and came. Some of the ones who went she still keeps in touch with, and still plays with from time to time. Other members of her section, and the band in-general, became friends. Even the type of friend you call when you're having a real, honest-to-god nervous breakdown and need someone to help you get help. The band grew, and some things about the band changed, and sometimes people got angry with one another, because people are people and what can you do? She tended to avoid the band when things like that were happening. But one thing always remained: being a part of nearly 50 people coming together to make something amazing.

Sometimes she took the band for granted. Sometimes it was a royal pain in the ass to get to rehearsal. Sometimes she didn't go — not because she was sick, or too busy, but because she just simply couldn't summon up the energy to be arsed to leave the house that night. Sometimes she would be all like, "This is supposed to be fun and a hobby and it's stressing me out! Screw that!" When she did make it, she was usually a little late, because she couldn't seem to get it together to leave earlier. (Her mother has assured her that tendency is genetic.)

Sometimes very nice people helped out and picked her up and gave her rides to rehearsal. Those were some of the only times she was on time. Her section teased her a little about that, because that's what friends do.

It was funny, though — she noticed that every time she got up the energy to go, even on the days she didn't want to, she came home feeling better.

Because nearly 50 people had come together to make something amazing, and she was still a part of that.

After several years, the woman went back to graduate school. Again — not for music. She was still a silly liberal arts geek. She was in graduate school for a long, long time because she works very, very slow. It became harder and harder for her to get to rehearsals. A couple times while she was in school, she had to take breaks from her band because her schedule was so crazy it felt like she was juggling geese. It made her a little sad, and she missed some of her friends and her horn (which she still loved), but mostly at those times she was just grateful that she didn't have to leave the house again for another obligation. (She is very bad at juggling geese.)

She sometimes still took her band and her friends for granted. She always figured that they would still be there when she came back.

And even though they didn't have to be, they always were.

One day, she went to rehearsal after being away for many, many weeks (again). She was a little resentful, because she had so many other things to do, and a huge deadline that was pretty much the be-all, end-all of why she had been in school for 10 more years, and she was running 30 minutes late and annoyed at traffic and life and the fact that she hadn't had time to stop for coffee and she was generally pretty annoyed at the world (because OF COURSE, it's all about her, right?). She arrived at rehearsal, quietly took her seat and apologized to her section mates. They simply said, "You made it! We're so glad!", and she got ready to play.

And the band started to play.

Suddenly, all the tension and all the anger and stress and everything she'd been holding inside her for weeks and months came pouring out. She sat there, holding on to her horn (which she still loved) for dear life, sitting in her seat while the band played around her, and she couldn't stop crying.

Because nearly 50 people had come together to make something amazing, and she was still, despite everything, a part of that.

She played with tears running down her face for that whole piece (a hymn), and she was still crying when the band started the next piece (a mambo). It was awfully hard to play a horn and cry at the same time, so the notes coming out weren't very good. She apologized to her section-mate sitting beside her. It was maybe a little ridiculous. But maybe not. She was so glad to be there, and so grateful that everyone was just happy that she could make it and didn't hold it against her that she hadn't been there for weeks before.

Or at least, if they did, they didn't let her know that.

She really appreciated that.

If anyone noticed that she was playing out-of-tune upbeats during the mambo with full-on tears running down her face, they didn't say anything, even if it was a little bit funny.

She appreciated that, too.

She's not done with school yet. After she is, something else will probably come up to take a lot of her time, like, say, a JOB. She'll probably still sometimes take the band for granted. She'll probably still miss more rehearsals than she should, because energy is still a commodity that she has to ration. Music is still her hobby, not her job, and sometimes life takes priority. She's older now, and had more practice, but she's still not very good at juggling geese.

But she's pretty sure now that she's where she belongs.

And although it took her almost 20 years, now she knows to always bring tissues to band practice.

Better living through technology

At last, Mother Nature, that Tease, has decided to let us have a real taste of spring. I wore sandals outside yesterday for the first time this year. "They" say it's going to be nice for at least the next several days, but I don't trust her, Mother Nature, that Bastion of Bitchiness. She's pulled this stuff before.

In the meantime, knitters work to clothe ourselves and our loved ones for all contingencies. For example:

The finished "Liesl de no Manos" cardigan:


Made with almost exactly three skeins of Malabrigo worsted, in the "Plena" colourway

I suspect I'll be making a couple more of these, as gifts. It was a relatively quick knit, too. But first, another one for myself, this time a concert-appropriate black version for over the sleeveless black concert dress. Here's a preview:


Fingering-weight spun wool-soysilk, to be knit together with a worsted-weight black to make another Liesl cardigan

I'll start a gauge swatch shortly.

Finally, the continuing progress on the "Hey, Lady!" Sweater:


No sleeves yet, but it's almost long enough.

I got far more done on it than I realized while visiting PA a couple weeks ago. Since I have such a short torso, the body is much closer to being done than I expected. I tried it on, and it's looking like a couple more inches of the lace pattern are all that's needed. Then it's the final couple inches of garter stitch, then sleeves.

In other news, I'd like to officially welcome the newest member of our household:

Oh no, I didn't...


Oh yes, I did.

An antique Canadian Production Wheel, bought from a lady in my concert band who is moving and downsizing. Purchased by her father in 1967 from an antique shop in Baie-St.-Paul, Quebec, it was kept in her parents' cottage and home, and following that, her home, as a decorative piece. They took great care of it, so although it hasn't been used as a working wheel in well over 40 years, it only requires a disassembly for a good cleaning and oiling, replacing the dowels that are missing on the wheel supports, and putting on a drive band.

Bandfriend Derryl and I had talked about this wheel last year. She mentioned she was planning to sell a bunch of things, including a wheel that had been in her family for decades. She wondered if I knew people who might be interested. She didn't even know if it worked, and she wanted to have it appraised, so I told her to let me know when she had an amount and I would put out feelers and drop by to see it. I promptly forgot about it until she mentioned a couple weeks ago at rehearsal that the appraiser had suggested CDN $200, if I was still interested, otherwise it would be put up for auction. Some phone calls and 24 hours later, my friend Jean and I (she's a wheel spinner who knows what to look for, so I was hoping she could come with me) went to look at it. Within five minutes, we knew the only real question was, "Will it fit into my car, or does it need to go in Jean's truck?"

It fit in the car. I called DH on the way home to warn him. He was... understandably surprised. Heck, I was surprised.

There's no maker's mark on it. It has been refinished in its past, and the mark was likely a simple stencil that was stripped off. However, thanks to the magic of the innernets and some wonderful research being done on these wheels by an online group, it has been tentatively identified as a Michel Cadorette wheel made in St Hyacinthe, Quebec, some time before 1929 (when Michel died), and likely before 1922, when his son Phillias took over the business. A woman in the online group has an exact twin of this wheel, with identical wood turnings, maker mark intact.

And so here it sits, in my kitchen. I'm pleased, if a little bewildered. Seriously, I wasn't planning to buy a wheel any time soon. I'm very happy with my large collection of drop spindles. I use them regularly and productively. Being of the belief that to really understand how things work, you have to start at the beginning, I've often considered a wheel something of an unnecessary technological luxury in my own "process" spinning. But there was no way I could walk away from this one. From her. She's a proud old lady who has stood the test of time, and she wants to be used, put back into production.

Also, she needs a name. Preferably something French Canadian - suggestions welcome. I'll learn to pronounce it properly, I promise.

The week after I brought her home, I showed pictures of the new girl to Lady S while we were chatting at the beginning of our weekly meeting - I figure it's just as well your supervisor knows exactly why you're distracted from work, no sense hiding it. Later in the meeting, my computer began to act up. I was charting something for Lady S and trying to print it, while Excel (that bastard) was crashing, taking Word (that farging arsebadger) with it, and with that the rest of the system. I cussed firmly and force-rebooted the whole dratted laptop.

"Just in case you ever wonder why I bought a spinning wheel," I said over my shoulder, "or why I have a loom, or a tendency to use two sticks to knot string into fabric a lot, this is why."

Lady S raised an eyebrow in question.

"In 40 years, this thing" - I waved jauntily with my middle finger toward the rebooting laptop - "will be junk. It won't work. I depend on it daily. I rarely leave home without it, and in a few years, it'll be a paperweight. But I'd put hard money down right now that in 40, or even 60 years, that 80-year-old spinning wheel in my kitchen will still be working."

She smiled. And she did not take me up on the bet.

A Magpie in Spring

Attention, Magpies and those who love Magpies:

Elisem is having a sale, right here.

I have been drooling over tektite pendants for weeks now.

And then there are quite a few other amazing pendants.

And some necklaces that I like quite a bit. And perhaps one day I'll have one of these for my very own.

If her jewelry is amazing, her sales kick serious butt. I don't get everything that I buy from her on sale, but I won't deny that I've gotten some of my favourite things at a healthy markdown over the last couple years.

Here are a couple of her pieces, doing what they do best:


Hairstick: "To Serve The Great Engine"; Necklace: "Of the Battle in the Woods and What Happened Thereafter", both by Elise Matthesen

In other news, I'm supposed to be writing the Big D proposal. Which I am. Slowly, and despite other necessary things. For instance, today was rather spent in the company of six of my eight marvelous henchmenTAs, grading the final exam for my Jan - April course, which just finished. That will be done tomorrow, and then I can go back to work.

If anyone sees Lady S, tell her I'm coming. The magnolia tree is in full bloom. That is not a euphemism. Before the flowers on it fall and it goes green with leaves, this draft will be in her hands.

And also, did I mention these shockingly adorable little guys? I'm just sayin'.

Whoever coined the phrase "warp speed" apparently didn't have cats

So. I warped the loom. Again. After the unfortunate incident with the red warp yarn that we dyed, I picked up five balls of lovely, red, strong DK-weight alpaca.*



I warped this up the weekend before last onto a 10 dpi heddle and wove a few inches, only to realize that the loom was assembled wrong. This bugged me something fierce, so I took the warp off, fixed the loom, re-tied it and wove about five inches that Sunday night.

Monday I looked at the resulting fabric with a critical eye. The fabric was coming out a little too airy, and was not going to be as weft-faced as we want it. Since the weft yarn is our group's cochineal hand-dyed handspun from raw fleece, we want it to be prominent.

So, I took the whole warp off last Tuesday, and Wednesday night I re-warped it onto an 8 dpi heddle. I was all set to have DH help me wind it onto the loom that night, but that was not to be:


The union stages a sit-in.


Negotiations commence: Whose need is greater?


Negotiations are concluded for the evening.

In the interest of not interrupting an obviously necessary nap time, we wound it on early the next morning, before he left for work (DH is a very good assistant warp-winder-oner, no matter how much he doth protest), and I tied it up Thursday afternoon. I spent much of last Saturday sitting behind a table collecting entrance fees from people for an SCA event.


A knitted SCA combined Arts & Sciences badge. Made quickly a couple weeks ago at the request of the event head cook, to her specifications, to be used as part of a serving presentation during the feast.

During the afternoon dead time at the event, after everyone who was coming had shown up but before we could officially close down the gate, I got in some good weaving time, and had help from at least three others. In the spirit of a truly group project, I'd like anyone who wants to weave a few rows to get a chance, so I taught a few new weavers as well, and Sunday I did some more at home.


Who's happy? That would be me.

It's coming out beautifully. The natural variegation of our handspun wool shows well, and the little bit of warp that shows adds just enough red to brighten it up.


Qapla'

From the first 79 foot skein of weft yarn, we have well over a foot of fabric, 18.5" wide. We're getting 9.5 rows of weft to the inch. We need a little over six feet of fabric - two 3-foot pieces - and then it goes off to others for embroidery and finishing.

And as I finally finish this post and check the date, I realize that it is officially our 14th wedding anniversary. Happy anniversary, love.


* Which begs the question, from a historical re-enactment standpoint, can alpaca yarn be considered within the SCA period we're aiming for, i.e. loosely pre-1600 (1650-at-the-latest) Europe? The answer is, maybe. Alpacas are a South American animal, domesticated there for thousands of years. The Spanish were slaughtering conquering the Incas in the 1500s, meaning they would certainly have had access to alpaca. But did the European conquerers actually use alpaca? Um, probably not. Rather, the Spanish brought in their own herd animals, and it's possible that nearly 90% of alpacas were wiped out during the Conquest, the rest being saved by the natives who took them up into the inhospitable higher altitudes. All modern alpacas come from these surviving herds. Alpaca wool was not really used in Europe until the 19th century. (Note: please don't use me or these random web pages as a reliable scholarly source!)**

** All of which begs the further question - Do I care?***

*** Which brings us to the answer: Nope. I have warp yarn of the right weight and colour that will not break on me. It is not synthetic, and is in fact from an animal that was domesticated well before 1600 and known by Europeans at that time, even if they were too dense to bother using alpaca for fibre. Blows raspberry in the general direction of any authenticity police.

When is a sock not really a sock?

Answer: When it's still in my stash, waiting to become what it wants to be.

I've knit my share of hats and scarves over the years. I've also knit afghan squares, a few bags, a t-shirt, a shrug and crocheted a sweater. I plan to knit some mittens and gloves soon with my handspun DorsetX. But there's one thing that I can't really find within me the excitement to knit, no matter how practical it may be or how many lovely patterns I admire. Try as I might, I cannot bring myself to be interested in knitting socks.

Part of the problem, I suspect, is that I rarely wear socks myself. In the summer, I live in sandals. At home I have cozy slippers, at night my feet need to breathe. Even in the dead of winter, my stinky feet are quite often bare inside my toasty boots. My grandmother would probably think this makes me an uncouth heathen, but there it is. I like the idea of socks, but in practice, they just aren't me.

I recently found, if you can believe it, a pair of kneesocks that I received as a Christmas gift when I was fifteen. And how do I remember getting these socks as a Christmas gift over 20 years ago, you might wonder? Well, they are very very COOL socks, and were from a favourite Great-aunt who always sent the neatest gifts and I really like them. The kicker? (HA! Get it? Kick? HA!) The socks look like I got them a year or two ago. That is how little I wear socks. They also still fit. See?


On the left, one of the 20+ year-old socks from Aunt Ethel, in all its excellentness. On the right, another sock I've had since high school. Weren't the 80s grand? In the background, a hint of my work world: my well-loved English reference grammar.

So, when I was reorganizing the stash the other day, I was surprised to notice that I seem to have accumulated a surprising amount of sock yarn. Not all of it was a surprise: A couple years ago, a friend (thanks, Jenny!) brought me back some self-striping, washable sock yarn from Finland. I've eyed it for a while, never quite taking the plunge into sock-land, but its arrival nearly two years ago seemed to start a trend of accumulating sock stash.


Finnish sock yarn and Cat Foot: A study

The black Paton's Kroy Sock yarn also wasn't a surprise - it was 1/2 of the mix I used for the Shimmer shrug, and I still have 2 balls of it. However, shortly after I received the Finnish yarn, I seem to have been bitten by a sock bug, and I went out and bought several 40" Addi Turbo circs in sizes from 00 - 4 (since my beloved Denise needles only go down to size 5), as well as a book of sock patterns and some exceptionally soft sock-weight Lana Grosso. It's quite yummy, and I swatched up a tube on several sizes of the needles, but never committed to actually making a sock.



The short-lived sock fever faded last winter in favour of spinning, and I recently ripped out the tube swatch when I went through the WIP bag to reclaim needles.

Then a couple weeks ago, on a Mary Maxim run, I found a shelf of not only self-striping sock yarn, but self-patterning sock yarn. Several different brands, mostly imported from Germany (what's up with that? Since when did Germans corner the market on cool, self-patterning sock yarn?). OK, see, now these are just cool. I've been wanting to play with these for a while, so I thought I'd get one ball and try it out - but I couldn't help myself after I saw the brand called "Ja, Woll!" If you know any German, that will hopefully strike you as mildly amusing (and typical for German humour). So I got two balls.



When I go to pack up my new acquisition of the coolest-ever-sock-yarns-that-might-never-become-socks, and what do I find? Oh yes:



Fleece Artist hand-painted sock yarn and another, equally cool, self-striping yarn. OK, now this was a surprise. I had completely forgotten it - I have a vague memory of being in Lettuce Knit last year and asking about Blue Moon Fibre Arts Socks That Rock (they were sold out at the time), so maybe that's when the madness took hold? I don't think I bought them at the same time, either. Wow.

Add to this the three balls of Zephyr that I bought the Pennsic before last, and we reach the inevitable conclusion that I have way too much sock yarn and no desire to knit socks. What's a girl to do? And why do I want to go and buy more now?

It's a sickness, I tell you. I could knit hats with it, or many other things. But no - I'm saving the sock yarn for socks that I can't bring myself to start. Sigh.

Looking for motivation in all the wrong places

I continue to work on the Tom Baker Dr. Who Scarf for Daniel (started here and continued here). I haven't measured it lately, but I think it's at about 12 feet now. Just a little more to go. By the time the real winter cold kicks in, it should be done. There will be a picture of him modelling it, oh, you betcha. He just doesn't know that yet.

Below is a pic from the most recent band concert, Hooray for Hollywood in which we were to come in costume as movie characters. I couldn't get a proper Professor McGonagall costume together... but! Next year! Oh yes! The wand and a hat are so ordered! Now I need to find the perfect black Edwardian or Victorian dress and fabric to make a nice emerald green teaching robe. I'd love to be able to pull off Maggie Smith's Yule Ball dress from the Goblet of Fire movie (or better yet: the character's book-canon Yule Ball outfit, with Tartan robes and the horrible thistle-encrusted hat!) , but that will have to wait until I'm more comfortable with my sewing skills. This year, I had to settle for a generic costume which also happens to be my "nice" SCA garb.



Over the 13 years that I've been a member of this band, I've had many a moment when I can't remember why I still do it. I don't always feel like dragging my sorry butt to rehearsal, I sometimes feel like we're just retreading the same music over and over again and not doing anything interesting, I usually don't want to deal with the politics (and there are politics, oh yes - just like any community organization or church choir, just maybe with a little more alcohol!). There are people who cheese me off on a regular basis, just by opening their mouths. I've taken more than one leave of absence when it all gets to be too much, but still, I go back. And this is why. My life is better for knowing these people.

In another of life's strange coincidences, I went to Syracuse last weekend to give a talk to a small but enthusiastic group of linguistics students. My prediction held firm: 8 inches of Certified Syracuse Lake Effect Snow had to be brushed off my car Saturday morning, while 20 minutes outside the city limits, the ground was dry. (It also held true last month, since it was raining when we drove through there both on the way to and from Philly for NWAV.) It was also good to visit briefly with Patti and family on the way through Rochester, share in their Very Good Chinese Lunch and make a fleece drop!

This past week has seen a spectacular series of wardrobe malfunctions. I somehow got it into my head a couple nights ago, while on a "quick trip" to Walmart (seriously, I really did only go there to pick up Rubbermaid bins), I became spectacularly sidetracked and began trying on undergarments. Bras, specifically. Please understand, I despise shopping for clothes. So when I suddenly find myself in the mood and with a little time to do it (hopefully at the same time), I run with it.

I was quite pleased with myself when I left with several new bras, a winter coat, jeans, and a couple tops. However, upon trying to wear the bras for the last three days, they seem to have somehow morphed into ill-fitting, painful, underwire-poking and pinching contraptions that are the epitome of evil. I am at a loss, really. I tried each of them on that night, and they fit fine. No painful pinching or poking, no boobs springing out unexpectedly.

Oh yes. THAT kind of malfunction.

Possibly unrelated, or not, the fabulous winter coat I bought apparently doesn't have pockets. You might ask - and you should, because I certainly have - How could I not notice this in the store?!?! Was I that enthralled by the idea that I had found bras? Was I simply in the throes of a shopping frenzy that could not be stopped? Truly. I. do. not. understand. It appears I will soon have to test my sewing skills because by God, this coat will have pockets before I am done with it.

Oh, and, um, we bought a house. It was officially ours, debt and all, today. More on that later. But I am, unsurprisingly, a little distracted. I should be working on any number of things: Big D, an editing job that will probably go with me to the grave, Old Irish homework, even cleaning my horn (not a euphemism, sorry), would be more productive than blogging and reading comics. Er, graphic novels. But frankly, I've spent more time than anyone who isn't a professional driver should spend on the road and in traffic this week. Three evenings involved 2+ hour commutes. If I don't see the inside of my car for the entire weekend, it will be too soon.

No such luck, though. For starting tomorrow, we begin The Move.

Send pasta, please. I need some serious comfort food.

A Time to Spin, Part 6: The martial art of fibre preparation

September has come and gone, and I'm not entirely sure what happened to it. I think I've been busy, if by "busy" I mean I've been doing a lot of things that have nothing to do with The Big D. I also have a conference presentation to give in less than 10 days, and I haven't touched the files since June. Naturally, the best way to deal with that, I figure, is to finish the blog post I started nearly a month ago.

This is my brain on procrastination. And also, caffine and ice cream. Wheee!

So, from the spinning perspective, Pennsic was very good to me. Take, for instance, my new pair of Indigo Hound Viking Combs:


That is some of the fleece I washed up in June loaded on the combs. I bought them from Brush Creek Wool Works, who were apparently the only merchants at Pennsic selling wool combs, and they only brought four pairs with them. I bought the first pair, like, the second day the merchants were open. They sold them all by the second week. They are awesome. And also, deadly sharp. I like to think of them as the weapon of choice for ninja spinners.

My new toys weapons produce a wonderful roving, shown below after combing as it is being taken off the comb. I need would like a diz, and should probably just make one for myself, but in a fit of laziness I ordered one yesterday.



I declined to buy more fleece this year, since I still have most of the first washed Dorset to spin and two more fleece still to wash, on top of stash from LAST Pennsic to finish spinning, like my first brown fleece. Naturally, I had to make up for that somehow, so I went a little plant-fibre happy back at Brush Creek Wool Works, who were, conveniently (?) right beside the merchant who was teaching the three rigid heddle weaving classes that I took. I picked up some hemp, bamboo and flax to play with, and some lovely light green eucalyptus & tin-dyed wool. I don't expect to get to any of it for quite a while, what with one thing and the other, so no pictures at this point.

And because one can't have too many drop spindles (no, really!), I got this marvelous little one with a pink ivory wood whorl from Spanish Peacock:


What else have I been up to for the last 6 weeks? Well, that will take at least another post, I think. But it involves nothing less than a quest to dye wool crimson red and deep green using natural dyes, as well as learning how to calculate how much poundage will need to be dyed in order to spin up the appropriate yardage to weave a particular super-secret finished project on the new loom. Wool math. Sigh. I'm saving pictures of the loom until the project is really under way, and I am released from my vow of secrecy.

So in lieu of that, a few Pennsic pictures, finally. The tent, for the record, was lovely, and kept me wonderfully dry for what ended up being a particularly rainy War Week. I hope it will serve as a great home for many wars to come. Alas, I didn't get very good pictures of it myself, but I've found several online taken by others.*



I ended up in something of a "landmark" spot, right inside the gate of our camp, at the point where a well-traveled road and path intersect. It was nice, every time I started down the hill, to be treated to a perfect, picturesque view of my home:
Shot from the top of Runestone Hill

In a comical twist of fate, the only picture I've found so far of me with the tent is a stunning shot of... my butt:



And finally, a marvelous shot of our camp at night (the tiniest corner of my tent is visible on the lefthand side). I'm probably not one of the people sitting around the fire, as I tended to be either up topside and playing for dancers by this time of night, or asleep.

*The last two pics shown here have been uploaded to my blogger account rather than loading directly from other servers, but they still contain links back to the larger pictures on the photographers' respective sites, so that they can have all the credit. If one of these is yours and you'd like it removed from blogger and linked directly, just let me know and I'll be happy to oblige.

The Doctor is In

In my ongoing efforts to NOT get any work done on the D-I-S-S-E-R-T-A-T-I-O-N (henceforth known as "The Big D," until we come up with a better name - not "Buddy Dude," that is taken), I have taken to finding some new, and many old, projects.

For instance, I finished the Rowan Biggy Print scarf, which took a total of maybe four hours to knit, give or take 26-28 months. The last in-progress picture of it is dated Christmas Day 2004, along with several other in-progress WIPs, so it was started before that - you do the math. I had a perfectly good reason for not finishing it for so long. I had forgotten it existed, and was only reminded by a recent cold snap.

Suddenly, it was the obvious thing to pull out for my current needs, since it only required an hour or so to finish up: total, 4 hours max, 3 balls of Rowan Biggy Print (colour "Joker"), and one pair of 1" diameter needles from Gram's old needle stash. Result: a fun, warm scarf that I can wrap around the neck twice and still have hang down to my waist. Er, make that knees. I'm short.


Do I post the less blurry of the two photos, but which is also less flattering of me and in which one can make out hand prints and dirt on the living room mirror? Blurry photo it is!!

In the meantime, Daniel once again reminded me that I still haden't started his Tom Baker Dr. Who scarf, which I mentioned in several entries from November & December 2004 when I bought the wool. It's been an ongoing thing these last couple years. He says something about needing a touque in the dead freeze of winter, I say I could knit him up a nice watchman's cap thing in a couple days in a safe, guy-friendly dark green or grey rib pattern no less, he says, "But where's my Dr. Who scarf? I'd rather you do that first." And I sigh, and recall that I purchased the wool to make a 12-14 FOOT (depending on stretching) garter stitch scarf at his request. And I say, "That's not a 2 day project. I can't start that until I finish something. I have too many projects on the go right now."

Well, I finished something. And so the time has come. The Doctor, as they say, is In.

I'm doing the early (or unaltered) Season 12 scarf. The pattern has been updated over the last couple years; the guy who made it has most recently seen the original scarf in-person (see his website for the full story). He changed his mind on some of the colour matching as a result, now recommends different yarn than what I bought, and has made some little fixes to the pattern. But it doesn't matter much to Daniel or me whether the purple is a little darker and bluer than the original, or that the green and red are a little off. I have no fewer than 20 balls of Brown Sheep Nature Spun (sport weight) in 7 colours that were special ordered for this beast, and now that I've decided it's time to start, I will not be swayed from my goal.


Tiger warily eyes the Dr. Who Scarf wool, which is encroaching on his space.

As a good omen, I (edit: almost) hit the stitch gauge on the first try (gauge, you say? It's a scarf! I hear you laugh.) But remember this is a reproduction: the original scarf is approximately 12" wide, with 66 stitches (the pattern guy recently counted when he held the original in his hands; me::green with envy). And I, starting with a #6 needle (picked because it is in-between the recommended #5 or #7), am was dead on 12" at 66 stitches.


So there. It was meant to be.

Update: as of the above picture, my gauge has apparently settled in at about 5 stitches per inch. I'm ending up with a 12.5 - 13" wide scarf instead of 12", but I. Don't. Care. - blj

There are a number of other things that I've been busy with for the last couple months. Too busy, in fact, to stop and take pictures, let alone update the blog: sewing garb (with the help of my mother-in-law) for a couple SCA events that happened in December and January, baking several hundred Pfeffernuße cookies (also with the help of my mother-in-law) over Christmas and New Years for one of those same events, coming close to finishing the backstitching on the little Michael Powell piece, pulling out Peacock Tapestry for the first time in a couple years and putting in a few stitches, taking a sudden yet profound interest in calligraphy and illumination. And I got both a soprano and and alto wooden recorder for Christmas (in other words, I said "Hey, I'm getting these for myself, Merry Christmas to me?" and husband said, "Excellent! I'm off the hook then?"). I've been working on learning to play the alto. The cats are disturbed, and much hilarity ensues. At some point, I anticipate that pictures of each of these things will make it into the blog, particularly the garb.

I've also had a couple band concerts, most recently one called "Viva Las Vegas," in which we had an Elvis impersonator (he was good), and played the piece "Godzilla Eats Las Vegas" (and he did). The band was instructed to come in 'Vegas costumes,' so we had the flute section dressed as showgirls, the trumpet section as blackjack dealers in matching vests, a mobster or two, several over-the-top tourists, a fifties lounge-band guy with the poofy ruffled sleeves, an Ace of Spades, a couple priests and a Vegas bride... and the Elvii, of course... I wasn't sure what I was going to do at first, but had a sudden inspiration. Another band-member-not-appearing-in-this-photo-until-I-OK-it-with-her joined me in the nefarious plot, and we went as CSIs.


The costume consisted of a black windbreaker, black shirt, black or blue ballcap and 2" high white stick-on letters purchased at Staples. I also found some old conference name tag holders to use as ID carriers. I laid out the letters for 'forensics' onto clear packing tape first, so that it would be even and stick onto the nylon jacket securely but not permanently. I would have prefered to put 'LVPD' on the hat, but we were concerned that people would take longer to get the reference. Apparently, I have recently found out, there are people who don't know that the original (and best) CSI show is set in Vegas. Whodathunkit.

And somewhere in the last month, I've done a little bit of grading, and even spent a couple weeks working on The Big D. You know, that thing I'm supposed to be working on steadily, coming up with this oddity known as a H-Y-P-O-T-H-E-S-I-S so that I can justify the next year or so of my life? Sigh. But really, the less said about that right now, the better.

Hairy Thoughts

I have one grey hair.

In fact, I have had my one grey hair since age 13.

In general, my hair is thick, wirey, long, and messy. There is a considerable amount of it. I shed profusely, especially after I wash it. When I brush it all out completely, I have to clean the brush (using scissors to cut the hair out) a couple times before I'm done. In the end, the pile on the table could make a small wig, that is how much I shed. It grows fast.

I usually tie it up in a strange loopy ponytail-with-the-ends-tucked-in, which I devised a few years ago, taking it down only every few days to wash it. By day 3, the tied-up pseudo-ponytail-bun-thing is looking pretty ragged, which I like to think of as "having character."

My hair clogs drains. It backs up sewers. No lie, when I was 7, my father had to dig out the sewer in our backyard only to find that it was clogged with MY HAIR.

But my grey hair is different from the rest of my hair. It's easy to spot... right in front, just to the left (from my POV) of the widow's peak. It always seems to stick out a little, its natural wave just a teeny bit different from the surrounding hair. It catches the light nicely.

I've always liked my one grey hair. It's different from all the other hair on my head. It never comes out in the hairbrush or the shower. It seems to be a hardy hair. Stuck in the scalp but good.

Some day, if family genetics continue on track (so, in my 40s), I will have more grey hairs. But this one will always be the first, and the oldest.

I am inordinately proud of my one grey hair.


One Grey Hair, a self portrait