Home Home Home FREEEEEEEEEEE!
August 7, 2007
I’m finally home, after a week in Martha’s Vineyard which I can only recommend TOTALLY. What a lovely, unreal place. So watery–everywhere you look, there’s some pond or ocean or bay or sound. We had to wade across a stream to get to the beach. Crazy. And the ferries–you can’t even get to Chappaquiddick without getting on a boat, and Chappaquiddick is, like, forty yards from Martha’s Vineyard. Why build a bridge when you can have a three-car ferry?
At one point I went totally stupid and sat in a chair staring out at these two Teletubby rabbits who wandered into the yard. It was all so supermagical that I concluded that the rabbits had to be fake–the ocean, the warm scent, all of it. Eet ees ridiculous, that place.
I have so much in my head that it’s going to take a while to dump it all out of my mental tote bag.
I have to confess, my pre-trip knitting planning was shockingly bad. I was so full of knitting–I had eaten so very much knitting at the Country Kitchen Knitting Buffet this summer–that I honestly had a moment when I thought I’d go cold turkey on knitting for a week, just one week.
Shyeah, right. The night before we left, I lurched around the house in a panic, realizing that there was no way I could survive plane trips AND a week in a rental house without a little something to tide me over. So I grabbed the first bag that looked likely, which contained my long-neglected Silk Shrug.
Remember: this was the project that launched the Slogalong last spring, when I was in full-out procrastination mode. (More on the Slogalong in a minute.)
It turned out to be the perfect vacay knitting: I was 3/4 finished with the big part, and after such a spell away from this project, I was all happy again to be working with such lush yarn. Blue Sky Organic Alpaca Silk. Not a summery yarn, but I really did love wallowing about in it. As long as the breeze was blowing.
Once I finished, it was time to add the 6″ k5, p5 ribbed edging. The tube of the shrug was so curly that I really didn’t want to proceed without at least a LITTLE blocking. In a rental house, you never know what you’ll find (dog ashes, dog blue ribbons, general dogginess), so it was six closets before I found an iron.
Remember acetate, acrylics, and sheer acetates? This thing should be in the Smithsonian.
After digging up some beach towels, I commenced to steaming, doubtful that I was going to achieve the boardlike smoothness that I love.
Oh, it was boardlike all right. Smooth as a pancake; the Alpaca Silk loved being steamed by a 1978-vintage iron, lemme tell you.
This project has defied photography all the way, but here’s the finished shrug. It looks like a sweater for the Headless Horseman:
And here I am wearing it. (Glad you can’t see the contortion I achieved in trying to take this picture.)
Love it, loved making it, will love wearing it someday when it’s not 101 degrees around here.
Maybe you’ve forgotten about the Slogalong, but I haven’t–and neither have the stalwart sloggers who have been FINISHING PROJECTS RIGHT AND LEFT! WAY TO GO, SLOGGERS! HIGH FIVE!
The curious thing is that once people finish one slog, they immediately pick up another UFO and start slogging again. Having just finished my Silk Shrug Slog, I now totally get it. It’s addicting, this slogging. I’ll show you my new slog next time; it’s an oldie but a goodie.
I think finishitis and slogitis are related.
PS Before we left for the watery island place, my final act in Monteagle was a calligraphy class. I just love doodling, always have, so when it was announced that a calligrapher was coming to teach people how to write with pen and ink, I threw down my needles. Roundhand, honey! Copperplate! None of that goofy Celtic Italic Olde English stuff; this class was going to teach me how to write like Laura Ingalls Freaking Wilder. In two days, I learned a lot, but I mostly learned that it’ll be a while before I write like Laura Ingalls Wilder. Always with the dipping, that inkpen. Easy to go all wobbly. Teeny pointy nib, a jar of black ink none blacker–so addicting. Confirms (once again) that I was born in the wrong century.