Updatey-goodness: Brigid’s Samhain photos rock.  And they provide evidence of ruana-finishing fun. 

Last weekend, while many of the Knitters Review folks were retreating to the not-terribly-far-away Graves Mountain, we assorted nuts went to the wilds near Charlottesville to celebrate Samhain; the Celtic New Year and the original holiday upon which Halloween was founded. 

This was probably our last year at this particular site, which is making me a little teary because it’s the locus of so many great memories and it is truly a wonderful place.  But when the owners change their minds about the alcohol policy after you’ve already signed a contract, paid, and set up an encampment; and then start blathering about running a "family campground" as if we’re all baby-eaters because we brought some beer; and then fetch the beleaguered local cops to interrupt us during dinner and demand that we pour out or remove a keg of Guinness because they want something to get into a pissing contest about. . . well.  New Year is a good time to initiate change, right?  John the Farrier has an amazing site waiting for us, and there are already some serious public works projects underway.  The ground is broken, the corner posts have been raised, and I’m thinking about what sort of felt rug a long-hall will need.  And where I’ll find all the red sheep.  And if maybe I can convince the Farrier that he really needs to keep sheep there for me. 

Anyway, we had unseasonably warm weather, and the kidlets were in fine form.  You know, the kids in our "anti-family" group.  Rona’s dad is a photographer, and she is a natural model. 


Too bad I have this baby-eating habit.  She’s too big to be baked up in a pasty now, and I’ve promised her folks I won’t cook and eat her and all, but  . . . but . . .  but look at those cheeks.  Good thing she has a stick.  And that she has that laugh of hers, which erase any evil thoughts in a large radius around her.  Still not eating Rona, Yorkses.  Don’t worry.  Even though The Man thinks I will.  And that I have a tail.  And maybe horns.

Skylar and Mia are also safe from the stove, though they too look delicious.   


Mia is offering me the little bit of hiking stick she still has after letting one dog after another chew on it.  I guess our dogs are anti-family too.  Not at all annoyed, me. 

Once the drama was done and done, we had a lovely weekend.  The Bridies went over like gangbusters.  Jeremy promised to research the hybridization of a Bridie tree, after recovering from his shock at learning that Bridies are a rare commodity and that even tall, lanky, starving teenagers were limited to two.  We also had sauerbraten and apple pies and a delicious pork and pumpkin stew and and and.  Not all at once, mind you. 

And of course there was some singing, some stick-fighting, some spinning–even by kidlets!, some creek-swimming, a bit of guffawing, a mess of atlatl throwing, a bunch of hunker-hausen, and maybe a rather large fire.  Ooh, and three of us ganged up on Olwyn and taught her to knit!  Woot!  And I got around to finishing this:

Hanging a bit strangely draped over the curtain rod there is the ruana I’ve been working on for ages.  It’s not actually uneven, I promise.  It’s just being uppity.  It’s composed almost entirely of leftovers from other projects.  I purchased three balls of yarn in a colorway that seemed to unite most of my scraps and just worked away on it here and there.  I’m still not quite sure whether or not I own it, though it’s very warm and pretty darn soft.   I have some fear that if I give it away it won’t be cared for properly and will turn into a partially-felted nightmare.  But I also don’t think I’d ever wear it.  Which then leads me to question why I’m knitting away on an alpaca lace shawl that I’ll also never wear.  Am I the victim of some strange mind-control experiment foisted upon me by a non-knitter who loves shawls? And if I am, how will I ever break free?

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