Here is what we did in Texas:
We ate well:

We polished our nails… Texas style…

We played in the Rio Frio…

We ate cupcakes…

We needle-felted…

We created knitaholics…

We treated knitting injuries…

We made new friends…

We knit with dragonflies!

This is Miss Julia. (Not her real name) (and her face is smudged for privacy reasons.)
She attended a Women’s Retreat in the deep canyons of the Rio Frio in Texas last week, with the guest artists, Tink and Wink. Miss Julia has learned to needle-felt. Inspired by the rugged terrain, the scrub oaks, the mosses, the bird life, and the fleece of local llamas, Miss Julia spent many hours in the studio composing intricate woolen canvases depicting the natural world around her.

Miss Julia is normally well-behaved. She is quiet and serious. But by the third day of the retreat, she noticed that her pleasant interest in her new craft was fast becoming a full-blown compulsion. On the last day of the retreat, as Tink was walking serenely down a canyon path, a quick hand reached out of the bushes, snatched her wrist, and pulled her into the thicket.

“What ho?! Miss Julia! Good heavens! Whatever is the matter?”
Miss Julia, camoflauged in a large straw hat and dark glasses, looked agitated and nervous.
“Oh dear! I have a problem! I’m so ashamed!”, Miss Julia moaned, gripping her needles tightly in one hand, and a pair of scissors in the other.

“Miss Julia, just put down the needles, step away from the scissors, and talk to me.”

“Well, last night, when that beautiful big-haired gospel singer was playing the piano and singing her little heart out, and everyone was clapping and singin’ along, all I could think about was that big old head of thick red hair and how nice it would be to NEEDLE-FELT with it! It was all I could do not to rush up and grab it and yank!”

Oh dearie me. Tink suddenly felt like Dr Frankenstein, with her monstrous creation. (Of course, Wink was nowhere to be seen.) Tink pulled her own hat further down over her shaggy mane. Then, in the blink of an eye, Tink morphed into the Wise Woman of all fiberous stituations, DR TINK, expert in DANGEROUS KNITTING.

Breathlessly, Miss Julia continued.
“And that’s not all! This morning during the closing ceremonies, I couldn’t even hear the speakers, because I was so distracted by the curly silver hair of the woman sitting in front of me! I would have cut it off if I had had my scissors!”

Assualt by a fiber freak run amok.
An expert in irrational episodic fiber pschyosis, Dr Tink immediately diagnosed Miss Julia with Acute Onset Micro Fiberous Perception Disorder, commonly known as a Fiber Fetish, triggered by sudden and intense exposure to natural fibers. Twitching fingers, sweaty palms, darting eyes, and inability to keep hands out of strangers’ hair are all symptoms of this incurable, but manageable, illness.

Here is what Miss Julia must do. First of all, she must spend a few days with only bald people. Bowling alleys and tatoo parlors are good places. Then the patient should stock up on multi-colored roving and fleece. (Call 978-927-2108 to place your order.) The patient must keep a small bag of it with her at all times. When she is feeling the need to scalp someone, she simply must pull out her little bag of fleece and roll the fiber around in her fingers. After a while, the patient will be able to feel more at ease among hairy individuals again.

No-one is really sure who will become afflicted with this chronic condition, but it is thought to strike people who first come into contact with yarns and fibers late in life. Start early, folks, and innoculate your children at the age of 6. Call for an appointment.

Tink and Wink are on the road to teach a needle-felting workshop in the deep canyons and springs of the Texas Hill Country… there will definitely be some floating in the river / jumping off cliffs / dangerous knitting going on!

Shop Girl Sophie will be wo-manning the shop while we’re gone. Drop by and see her and let her inspire you with all of her cute, young, fun, generous, creative spirit… or just bring her ice cream from across the street…

Today, the petals from the apple tree have drifted into the fountain, where they spin in a drunken water ballet.

We have summer buttons! Sea glass! Fish! Stars! Flowers!

We often refer to Dangerous Knitting at Yarns in the Farms. Here is the background story.

There is a wonderful game called fictionary, where one person looks up a word no-one has ever heard of, writes the word and the real definition on a slip of paper, announces the word to the rest of the group, They write down a definition they hope will sway others with its veracity, then the person with the dictionary reads all the definitions and everyone votes on which they think is the correct one. Gabbro. Guipur. Raree.

Sometimes when I am writing an essay or monologue, and I crave some clarity, I turn to the dictionary for guidance. It helps me interpret what doesn’t make sense. It helps to outline the shadows and the dyslexic air. What I am searching for is precision.

So this morning I looked up “insanity”. I hit the jackpot, with all the synonyms.

Insanity: Grave, often prolonged condition that prevents a person from being held legally responsible for his/her actions.
Lunacy: Often denotes derangement relieved intermittently by moments of clear mindedness.
Madness: Often stresses the violent aspects of mental illness.
Mania: refers principally to the excited, or manic, phase of bi-polar disorder.
Pick your poison.

Dangerous Knitting: Fall 2007

So I pull into the small lot in front of the yarn shop and immediately notice the litter of paper among the autumn leaves and weeds encroaching from the vacant lot next door. Sourly, I scold myself for never having built a summer garden in place of the weeds. This disorder will never do. The yarn shop itself is tidy and welcoming with its bright shutters and flower pots and fountain and pom-poms on the umbrella, but these leaves and litter lazing about like varmints sunning themselves on the stoop? I don’t think so.

I flutter about, collecting the trash among the leaves, noticing that the bits of paper scattered around are actually small vellum cards with some typed message on one side, which of course I can’t read because I am blind as a bat without my reading glasses, oh well. I collect them all into a stack, sloppily rake the leaves and unlock the shop, and step inside. I always love this part of the day.

The shop air hangs rich with the scent of yarn- grassy and woodsy, like a newborn animal. There are packets of lavender hidden among the skeins of yarn, and apples on the table, giving the whole space a perfume that is like pheromones to the yarnaholic. I arrange the hat tree outside the French windows. I hang the bright handmade sweaters and bags on the hooks next to the front door. I arrange the displays on the large work table, as Louis and Ella sing to me about tomatoes and tomAHtoes, potatoes and potAHtoes, all about contrasts and compromise. The door jingles, and C., my youngest child, slinks into the shop.

My daughter, 18, still warm and baby-faced from sleep, melts into the couch and sighs. She is in morning deshabille, hair every which-way, mascara smudged on pink cheeks. She kicks off her slippers and shimmies her jeans up under her floral half-slip. She is adorned, as always, with myriad charms, her customized icons and amulets: complicated ear jewelry, lip ring, bracelets, necklaces- she is like an exotic flower opening up to the new day. And I wonder, as I always do, how youth itself is the essence of beauty. If a woman my age had her disheveled appearance, she would look like a crazy person, a scary crazy person, a scary crazy person who hadn’t taken her meds. And that thought scares me on so many levels: for me, for my daughter, for all the scary crazy women out there who don’t even have meds to take. And then, of course, I wonder, DID my daughter, curled up here on the couch, did she indeed take her meds this morning? The meds that keep her feet on the ground, that keep her from soaring like Icarus with his resplendent beeswax and feathered wings, flying higher and higher, then hitting the tipping point too near the sun, and falling and falling hard into a bed of wet cement. Oh dear, who gave that kid those wings? His own dear dad! And I instantly want to spit on my finger and fix the smudged mascara that I was admiring only a moment ago.

C. wanders up to the counter and notices the cards I have imprisoned from their romp in the parking lot earlier. “What’re these?” She picks up the pile and reads. She smiles, she looks at me wonderingly,
“Uh… Mom… wow. Can I have these cards? Can I hang them up on my walls?”

Oh dear, what ho.

Just now Jo comes in to teach the Saturday morning sock class. Jo was born in 1944, and she and C. like to talk 50’s fashion… anyone or anything that came of age in the 50’s has instant panache. Jo is, therefore, cool.
“Hey Jo,” C. deadpans, “I’m taking a class and need to ask you some questions”. With the precision of a clinician, she reads from the cards:
“1. What are your favorite associations with food and sex?
2. What are your thoughts about threesomes?
3. Demonstrate your favorite position.”

Jo, with out batting an eyelash, raises on eyebrow, and with perfect Shirley MacLain insouciance replies:
“1. I consider all eating a sexual experience.
2. Sadly, the word ‘threesome’ is not in my vocabulary.
3. My favorite position is difficult to demonstrate with my trick hip and arthritis.”

I watch in wonder, shocked at the content of those vagrant cards, and by the ease and audacity of C’s interaction with this person of such a different generation. This beautiful funny woman, my child, is the reason that I knit. To quote her, “Mom, I went crazy and you learned to knit.” As uncomfortable as that sounds, it is the truth.

I learned to knit the year my child went crazy. Both of my daughters had been knitting and weaving for years, but it never held much allure to me. I have never had that much patience, I’m sort of a wandering soul, always on the move, twitching for action. I garden frenetically, I move boulders, I build cairns. I don’t sit still easily.

Until the dangerous year, the year of madness. I learned to knit because my carefully crafted world unraveled, unraveled like a intricately knitted sweater with a tiny thread caught in the door of a car, and as I wave and the car pulls away, there is the gentle tug, and the car speeds off faster and faster, my stitches pulling apart as I whirl like a top, spinning and unspinning, raveling and unraveling in the blur of a cartoon character, or I Love Lucy, stripped naked. What would Lucy do at her unraveling? Madness. I learned to knit naked.

My child fell apart. That is what happened in actual time. No speeding cars, no spinning yarns, no old TV characters. Those are just props, mixed metaphors that translate the whole mess into a story that has some recognition, that makes some sense. Back in the actual world, the world that makes no sense at all, my child fell apart. Fell so hard that all action stopped and we literally couldn’t move for months. We all broke down, we all went blind. We found ourselves groping through a glaring maze with no metaphorical nuance: hospital corridors, clinical intakes, treatment programs, therapy sessions, psychiatric appointments, insurance adjusters, all flourescent lights and buzzing machinery. Ravel, unravel, they have the same meaning: to become dis-joined thread by thread. Ravel, unravel, ravel, unravel, it makes no sense. Roll the mess into a ball and knit. What else could I do? Back to metaphors.

I learned to knit that year. My daughter calls it dangerous knitting, for the way I hold and pick the yarn from the very tips of my needles; the way it looks like everything is going to fall apart into a tangled mess. The trick is to wrap the yarn around my left hand, just so, not too tight, not too loose, and keep up a momentum. I always have several projects going at the same time. When one piece gets too tough and confusing, I move on to a softer fiber, an angora or chenille. But it can all fall apart, accidentally or on purpose. Everything put together sooner or later unravels.

The year of dangerous knitting. The year of metaphorical thinking. Knitted brow. Stitching up wounds. Knitting with contrasting fibers, with different gauges, without a pattern, making up the stitches as I go along, often dropping stitches and having to pull out row upon row, the mass of color a tangled heap upon the floor, re-gathered, rewound, re-stitched into a tapestry that, while weak in spots and stronger in others, we can cloak ourselves in.

C. thinks we should write a book together. The Year of Knitting Dangerously. She could write about being on the inside of the hospital, and I could write about being locked outside. She thinks it could be a best seller, with the hot topics of knitting, mother-daughter stuff, and the crazy teenager angle. Hmmm. Let me knit a while and see what happens.

Here is a post-mom’s day story:

Janie is an intrepid new knitter. She is growing in confidence in her new skills. After making several gorgeous scarves, her needles are itching to grow a bigger project. A regular at tuesday knit nights at YITF, she is worked up into a frenzy by a coderie of yarnaholics, who, smelling a “HUGE NEW PROJECT” break into a rousing chorus of the enabling anthem:
Tell me what you want, what you really really want
and I’ll tell you what you need what you really really need…
If you want to be a knitter…
etc…

And Janie winds up with 13 skeins of Green Mountain Mohair in the most sparkling blue and lilac blend. And “Last Minute Knitted Gifts”, to make everyone’s favorite sweater, The Hourglass. Yay. All is well. Janie goes home to knit. And knit. And knit.
Ah, the new skills! Increasing! Decreasing! Hemming! Raglans! Kitchner! Blocking! And finally, the trying on of the sweater. Ahhh, but it is LOVELY. Perfect fit!

Then she makes her fatal mistake. She wears the sweater to mom’s house to show off her bodaciousness. Okay, in all fairness, she ASKS mom if she can correct the small irrregularity in one of the raglan lines. Mom loves Janie. “But of course! Mama knows best! Darling! Let me help!” Janie leaves her masterpiece and Mom sets to work.

A few days later, Janie visits Mom again.

“Hi Mom! It’s chilly out. How’s my sweater?”
“Well, dear, I’ve made a lot of sweaters in my time and this one just takes the cake. I’ve never seen such a strange pattern.”
“Oh. Really. Hmmm.”
“I think I found the problem, though”
“Oh! That’s good! Oh. My.”

Janie brings the sweater to Dr. Tink and the Genius Cluster at YITF. The masters have a summit and pray over the violated sweater. The Genius’s come to consensus.

Prescription: Contrary to the popular adage that “there are no knitting police”, Janie should take out a restraining order on her mother to protect her knitting. However, the $200 sweater will make a BEAUTIFUL felted bag. She’ll just need to invest in some purple leather handles.

Happy Hookers Workshop!
Sunday, June 1, 11 am -1 pm
Fee: $25
Rug Hooking with a new Twist!
Lincoln Farm Design, as featured in the Boston Globe Magazine Design section, offers a portfolio of magical designs for rug, pillow and pocketbook hooking kits and canvases. Learn this traditional art form in a new and contemporary medium with master hooker Amy Barrie. Come in and see the amazing samples at Yarns in the Farms.
Check out Amy’s web site to pick out a canvas prior to the class . Please contact Amy at least a week in advance with your choice. She is available at all times to answer any questions regarding the kits. Contact her either through the web site or call her at (508) 423-9900.
Bring to class all your old stash of various weights of yarns. We will try and incorporate these into your design, and you can add delicious yarns from Yarns in the Farms.

Also, available at the class will be hooks and frames to purchase if you do not already have one.

To register, contact Jill or Carolyn: 978-927-2108 or email info@yarnsinthefarms.com

We went to our annual yarn show out in Western Mass, and boy howdy. We brought home lots of yarns for you! Get it while it lasts!!!

Lookie here.

Schaefer “Anne” sock yarn

Blue Heron Egyptian Cotton and Silk

J Knits superfine Alpaca

Farmhouse Bamboo in new colors

I went to California and lookie here! I found Johnny Depp’s bike! Pirate Bikes! Who knew?

And lookie here! A Bamboo Sisterhood flaming heart bike!

And some sad news. I went on a pilgrimage to Knit Cafe, and alas, it is gone until further notice. See the old lettering?
It is so sad. The rents in the West Hollywood area have sky rocketed, hurting a LYS near and dear to all of us who love their books. They wiil rise again! We support you, Knit Cafe!

She looks like the Saint Paulie’s beer girl… But no. It’s Liz Grammas, mother of 5 boys, Lobsta Land Queen, knitter extraordinaire… and SPINNER. She just whipped out these beauties in her spare time. Hand dyed and hand spun… and Yarns in the Farms has her absolutely glorious skeins. Come, touch, take some home with you.