O! Many moons have passed since I last picked up my quill and ink.
Right this minute I’m eating a hazelnut biscotti which the ultrakind yarn shop owner Jamie gave us when we visited North Fork Stitches. I’m touched that she thought we weren’t getting enough snackage these days. I’ve already made short work of those North Fork chocolate turtle things and the North Fork potato chips. I trust that you are saving the North Fork honey and the North Fork chardonnay for me, because I decided my plan for getting them through security just wasn’t going to work. “It’s formula.” [uncork bottle, take swig] “See?”
It was great to see you and your wounded foot, if only for a day. Meeting so many great knitters was a ton of fun. (You can go see what we were up to here and here and here.)
I flew home to Nashville next to a poor guy who was just trying to finish his Michael Connelly novel. He shouldn’t have said anything about the sock I was knitting. If he’d kept it to himself . . . but he didn’t. He asked the question–you know: “So what are you making?”
I snapped. “Mister. I’m TIRED of these mutha%*$&#* SOCKS on this [email protected]$+*$(% plane.”
OK not really. But I was so weary and so bored that I started talking. What was he going to do? Switch seats? I talked and talked, about knitting and blogging and meeting people and writing books and having imaginary friends and motherhood. I concluded with a lame “Well, it’s a funny little world.”
He said, “I can’t believe people get so involved with their knitting. It’s like this guy I met who’s really into spelunking. Cave people are really protective of their discoveries.” I told him my theory that everybody has that thing they’re nuts about, and I asked him what his thing is. “Golf,” he said, then launched into what it is about golf that gets him. He likes old golf, historical golf. He told me about his attempts to get on the list for tickets to the Masters golf tournament, which is the hardest ticket in all of sportendom. By the end of his tale, I had stopped knitting, hanging on his story, waiting to hear if he ever hit Lotto and got the tickets.
Everybody has that secret thing, you know?
Home home HOME
It’s been an amazing summer for me, but I’m glad to be home. Sweet, sweet home, where there are bags and bags filled with bags all over the place. What is all this stuff?
I have so much to write that it’s going to take me days to dump it all out. My life is a big old vinyl pocketbook loaded with pressed powder compacts, packets of Kleenex, and Teaberry gum. I’ve got all these blog entries half written on the back of Piggly Wiggly receipts–when my bandwidth was wanting, I figured I ought to keep the blog fires burning somehow. Here’s one scrap of paper I just found: “Socks and sculpture. Pretentious? Get ant poison. Call Kay. ”
Books I Am Most Excited About This Fall
OK, there are two. I met a writer this summer, Claire Messud, whose fourth novel is due out on August 29. The Emperor’s Children. A big, New Yorky novel–my favorite kind. It’s going to be great, y’all. She writes so, so beautifully. I can’t wait to read it.
The other is a memoir that was just published this summer. I’ve just started reading it. How’s this for a barn-burner of a title: Hillbilly Gothic: A Tale of Motherhood and Madness by Adrienne Martini. It’s her memoir of overcoming post-partum depression and her exploration of the women in her family. Adrienne’s a knitter, people. She has a blog here which is a real bento box of tasty snacks. We need to encourage this sort of thing.
I went to Florida, people. I haven’t even written about going to Florida. After seven weeks in Monteagle, we headed south for the now-traditional week with Hubbo’s sister and brother’s famblies. We’re up to eleven humans, with the latest addition celebrating her first birthday during our stay.
While other members of the family parasailed, inadvertently caught shells instead of fish, and grossed me out with the whole issue of bait (“GOOD EATING TOO”?), I made a pair of Koigu socks for my sissy-in-law:
These are not shiny socks. Really. They’re normal old Koigu. Would I knit a shiny sock? Who wants a shiny sock?
I collected sunsets the way my fellas collected shells. Here you go–a week of Captiva sunsets to save you the buggy trouble of collecting them yourself:
At our last writing, I was receiving boatloads of help from everybody regarding the dire state of my rocking chair cushion. In particular, the best way to end the knitted cover I’d cooked up. How do you close up such a thing so that you can take it off to wash after it’s been marinating in the 80% humidity of a Grundy County summer? Thank you, everybody, for suggestions which ranged from zippers to buttons to ribbons to shoelaces to monkeyfist buttons to hot glue and staple guns. I’m going to use them all. This cover is never, ever coming off this cushion.
PS Am I caught up on Project Runway? Yes! Working on my neck tattoo like Jeffrey’s.
PSS Did my plane companion get his Masters tickets? Yes!
PSSS Did he swap his Masters tickets for my socks? I’ll never tell.