New hedgerow socks for my Mom, who is healing from surgery and gearing up for chemo and radiation. The Frija is officially a hit with my Mom, who loves the color and the yarns’ exquisite softness.
The hedgerow madness continues. I finished these socks and needed movie theater knitting, so I grabbed the leftovers from a previous pair of hedgerow socks and cast on a hat. “Inventive” isn’t an appropriate descriptor for my knitting at the moment, and I’m ok with that. The hat kept me busy through the new Harry Potter film (don’t worry–no spoilers here) and is fetching so far.
Both projects are sitting on the flagstone path I’m building on in our back garden. It’s far from complete, and I need more stones, but it already makes me happy.
Our friend Mike saved me from myself a couple of weekends ago, clearing out a big section of our garden that had reacted too well to this spring’s copious rain. The annoying English Ivy and Virginia Creeper was joined by a touch of poison ivy and some really aggressive American blackberry and multiflora rose. My poison ivy allergy has reached a new height, and I don’t want to risk any sort of reaction or infection when my Mom starts chemo, so Mike stepped in. I’ve continued clearing the next portion, which is free of poison ivy. Now I’m contemplating what to plant in this area, Kayo’s favorite spot. There are tons of roots from mature trees, lots of shrubs that need hard pruning, a young volunteer pin oak which I hope will supplant the aging silver maple, and soil in need of some serious help. I have visions of loads of compost and mulch and shipments from the Arbor Day foundation.
I’ve been repeating myself a lot lately. As I’ve mentioned, it’s been quite a spring here for us. I’ve been feeling overtaxed and overwhelmed and not terribly interested in taking on challenging projects–unless dirt and stone were involved. Hence, the wall, mindless reading, and some repetitive knitting.
As I was building, I had a bad stacking day. You can see where my relatively smooth (I say “relatively” fully aware that an actual mason would point and laugh at my efforts) wall turned into a chaotic mess once it curved past the downspout.
Well, out it came. I removed about half of the wall and restacked, just as I would rip back if I found a nasty mistake in a sock. Of course, I couldn’t just drop down to the error, and stones are much heavier than yarn, but you see the analogy, no?
The wall is done. At least for now. When the time comes to replace the (horribly placed, crumbling, evil, ugly, plant frying) sidewalk and reface the (ugly, crumbling, boring, stained) front porch, I know at least part of this will be removed and reworked. I’m ok with that. Frogged stones rebound even better than frogged yarn does.
My knitting projects are revolving around old favorites. Old favorite yarns and patterns, preferably associated with dear friends and destined for loved ones. I made another Fand’s Stole to use up the last of the gorgeous yarn from Spirit Trail. It still needs to be blocked and I have a few stray ends to weave in, and I don’t know whether I get to keep it, but I love it.
And I’m working on another pair of Hedgerow socks for my Mom.
I’m making these out of Frija with some grey that Anj gave me on the heels and toes. There’s more knitting waiting in the wings for my Mom–specifically a chemo cap or two. She was recently diagnosed with breast cancer and had a lumpectomy last Friday. She is healing well from the surgery, is brave and strong and ready for what comes next. Once she heals from the surgery, she’ll undergo chemo and radiation, and then cozy handknits will come in handy. It’s the least I can do. In fact, I plan to do more, and to hit you up for donations and help as I do, gentle reader. Who feels like kicking cancer’s ass with us, hmmm?
The kittens are growing. Strangely enough, the fourth, bravest kitten ran from me when I took this. I’m still looking for homes for all four kittens and their graceful little Mama. I’m worried about gentling the kittens for inside living though. They look to be at least a couple of months old, and I don’t think they’ve ever lived indoors. Sigh.
My lilies are growing, and my Asiatic lilies are looking particularly lovely(check out the bug on the third).
And the wall is growing.
It has now wrapped the curve above and hit the next curve in the wall. I have a straight run to build, and then a corner into the side yard. We’ll see how far the stone goes. The wall stands about 6″ above the lawn, but it goes a couple of inches underground as well.
Kayo and I were greeted by quite a surprise when I opened the sliding door for him this morning. A tiny little Mama cat and her kittens were on the back patio, and none of them were happy to see my sweet old dog. We shuffled back inside and watched as kittens descended from the trees and ran out from under hostas and zipped across the yard. I waited for the dust to settle, and then brought bowl after bowl of catfood out to the little family hiding under the junipers.
That’s a standard dog bowl. I’ve filled it three times today and also given Mama and her kittens three cans of soft food, so I’m pretty sure they’re entirely on their own. There are at least four kittens, all various combinations of gray tabby and tortoise shell. The kittens are very hard to photograph, but I did snag a couple of terrible shots of the bravest one.
They’re old enough to eat solid food. Mama is missing a corner of one ear, but she already comes when I call her so she’s not entirely terrified of people. I’m putting out feelers to find homes for these cats, so cross your fingers for them.
I spent the rest of this weekend at the Potomac Celtic Festival. The music was astounding this year, and we had good weather both days. I took tons of photos and a few videos, so I’ll post those as soon as I can.
Finally, I present you with evidence of knitting.
These are the Harris Tweed socks, knit in Mountain Colors Bearfoot. The colorway is Lost Trail. I love the socks, but they’re a bit too warm for summer wear.
My period of mandatory silence is over. I didn’t intend for it to spill over here onto the blog, but my desperate need to plant whenever it’s not raining, my new obsession with learning to build dry-stack walls, and some news I haven’t yet processed coalesced into me thinking a lot and saying little. I can speak again, but I need to wait a while before I can sing, so Tethera isn’t performing at Potomac Celtic Festival this weekend and Preachain isn’t doing living history there either. I’m sad to miss out on two of my favorite activities, but I am incredibly excited to just be at the festival as a tourist for the first time in more than a decade. Bruce Molsky and Furnace Mountain and Tinsmith are all playing, and I am, quite possibly, twitterpated. I may have to tape my mouth shut to keep myself from singing along, but I’ve done stranger things at PCF, so I doubt anyone will bat an eye.
In the meantime, see what I’ve been seeing. My favorite cranesbill is happy in its new bed.
And its less-elegant but no less beautiful cousin is thriving as well.
I bought the most ridiculous composter in the world, and I love it. Its less-elegant cousin is hiding behind it, working away in the new, sunnier compost spot that we reclaimed from the evil, evil juniper. (Look at that poke weed mocking me. I see you, poke, and I will boil you.)
And the rocks, oh the rocks. This is the flower bed that we had to empty so the plumber could repair the sewer line. While I wait for the new plants to settle in, I’m experimenting with dry-stacking a low wall. I hope soon to yank out that cracked old cement edging and have a larger, happier bed with better drainage (oh, how it rains and rains this year!), a functioning water barrel, and something better than this clay in the new section of the bed.
I’ve dug a footing in one spot and stacked and removed rocks over and over, playing with a level and string and eying my antique chipping hammer, but never using it. Masons work magic, you know. I already respected them. I may be on the way to worshiping them. This stone is alive, and it’s stubborn, and I respect it. And some of it has lichen, which is so smart it invented soil. I think I worship lichen too.
I lost my voice last Saturday, through a combination of allergies, too much talking and singing, and plain old idiocy (i.e., I can’t always make water go down the correct way). I didn’t think much of it at first, because I talk and sing a lot, and my technique is far from perfect. I don’t do the things that ruin a lot of singers’ voices–I don’t smoke, I’m not a heavy drinker, I don’t sing for hours every night like touring performers do– so I wasn’t too worried. Then a few days passed with no appreciable improvement, and I decided I should consult the family expert. Heather was heading out of town, but pulled some strings to get me an appointment with a practice she trusts.
Wonder of wonders, I have a vocal cord hemorrhage and a nodule. The nodule may well have been there for a decade or more. But the hemorrhage is from last weekend, without a doubt. So, I must not talk or whisper at all until the hemorrhage heals, and I probably have some interesting vocal therapy ahead of me. I’m not in any pain, but it’s frustrating as can be. I’ve had a couple of silent freak outs, because singing and talking are truly two of my favorite activities. I won’t be able to perform at Potomac Celtic Festival, which breaks my heart. My hope is that I will have healed enough by the end of June to at least tell stories at the Pennsylvania Celtic Fling, if not sing.
Cross your fingers for me, friends. I can cope with being mute for a while, but I can’t fathom how permanent vocal damage would change my life and my ability to communicate. But if Sinatra can recover from this, so can I. I, after all, don’t hang out with gangsters in Vegas, smoke, or drink like a fish.
I mentioned a while back that I’d been doing some pattern designing. Well, my second original pattern is now available for free on Knitters Review. Part of what has been so fun about designing these first patterns is all of the cooperation and support I’ve received from my friends. Jane and Clara encouraged me to write up the pattern proper after seeing my first pair, and the whole process has been a blast. Jen has come up with astoundingly beautiful yarns for me to work with. Shelia had great suggestions for the design itself. Chip, of course, handled the photography with Anna Marie, Rona, Nessa, and Scott assisting (those are his hands in the men’s pair). Anj, Marfa, Lisa, Beth, Mapgirl, and so so many other friends have been a cheering section for this pattern as I’ve worked on it, and I love them all for it.
I’ve had a really difficult Spring, but this feels like a nice reward at the end of the maze. I’m looking forward to a lot of great time in the garden, curled up with books, at the sewing machine, around the fire with friends, in the kitchen, and on a stage or two. Happy Spring, friends.
Last weekend, I went to the Potomac’s mouth, where it pours into the waving Chesapeake. A group of some of my favorite women goes every year, and it’s so important to us for so many reasons. We talk and work on projects together and swim and paddle. And we cook and eat together, as friends and loved ones should. This year, we finally hunkered down and cooked a bushel of crabs over an open fire on the beach.
Oh, my beautiful swimmers. These jimmies were healthy and fiesty–and not a sook in the bushel. And they were the most delicious, sweetest crabs I’ve ever had. Our amazingly talented friend Julia was able to come out again this year, and this was her first meeting with our local crabs. When we opened the bushel she looked at the crabs, looked up at me, and said “You have blue crab eyes!” I think it’s the best observation about my unusual eye color yet. Loading the crabs into the pot was one of the funniest, most chaotic things I’ve ever experienced. And oh, the eating. If you’re not sure why local food matters, you haven’t eaten great seafood fresh from the water.
Julia and Heather spoiled us with an fantastic Mexican meal, including a vat (VAT I SAY) of wonderful fresh guacamole. The sea of avocado halves was hysterical.
You butter of the forest, you. You alligator pear. I wish I could grow you myself.
