I’m trying to get me, my junk, and also two children (who I am going to maintain are not junk even though they will still fit into a canvas tote bag if I fold them up right) up to Monteagle for the summer, and it’s frankly not going very well.
I have NEVER in all my knitting days had such colossal indecision. Everything looks interesting; nothing looks interesting. I sit and stare into my bin of sock yarn and think, Socks? Could I do this? Are socks what I’m about right now? It’s all so daunting. So impossible, in fact, that I have ended up packing my entire Cristina-built circular needle holder, which means I’m taking probably four dozen circular needles with me to the mountain, including my 60″ size 15. I am SURE I’m going to need that thing. I’m taking the blocking wires. This is ridiculous.
In terms of yarn, I’m sticking with your Belinda Shawl, my log cabin squares blanket, and all the handspun I have collected over the years. I wonder what will happen to it! Definitely some sock yarn in there, just because it’s so decorative. And I reserve the right to stock up whenever I see handspun enabler Lynne Vogel, which will be at least twice if I get it right.
Meanwhile . . .
I really, really hesitate to post these photos, because I think it’s going to permanently put you into the creepies about this shawl I’m making for you. But I had to document what happened, when it happened, because the moment has now passed, and I wanted to have proof of it for myself.
The scene: the indoor skatepark, downtown. Clif is delighted to skate all afternoon. I’m in the parent-storage area, which has a huge, spongelike chair that nobody in her right mind would sit in. Except I am already kind of sleepy, and it is so very upholstered . . . I am on row 4 billion of this shawl, yet working on a 10″ needle, so I have no way of telling whether things are coming out right. All 300 stitches are crammed onto this little stick. I wonder idly what it would look like, all liberated and spread out. I realize I’ve had this thought about a hundred times in the past week.
I’m slumped in the worrisome sponge chair, drifting in and out of consciousness as Bob Dylan’s “Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts” blares at 120 decibels, which pretty much provides a lifetime supply of Bob Dylan in one song. At the same time, I’m trying to listen on my iPod to a course about Russian history, so I’ve got Peter the Great, Bloody Anna, Catherine the Great, and Pugachev’s Rebellion floating around in my head, too.
Amid all this, it occurs to me that I could take the shawl off the needle if I threaded the working yarn through the stitches, doubled up or something.
So I did this:
right there on the skatepark folding table. I sort of wiped it off, but I was completely zonked out by the Dylan and the Russian history and the prospect of seeing this shawl SPREAD OUT. I had to know. I had to see what was what.
The good news is that I have about eight more rows to go. The bad news is that I am going to have to soak the thing in Oxyclean for a week.
And yes, that’s the orange stitch marker right there in the middle. Front and center.
Next stop: Monteagle. See you on the other side.