I knew I would come home from Celtic Summer Camp with new stuff.  I just wasn’t aware how much I would come home with.  I didn’t get by without spending any money this year, but Crazy Lanea’s (the basket of clothes for friends for which the blog is named, not the blog) covered my shopping bills.  I bought a fair amount of good linen, of course, because I am going to need to make a lot of clothes for a particular friend.  You’ll see why. 

This gem of a birchbark box came from Viking Scott, of course.  Birch is very important to me, so I’m a sucker whenever I see it.  I always go to Viking u Like prepared to spend.  How could I not?  But this year, Viking Scott came at me with a present.  We were talking about research and craft, and I mentioned that  a couple of people were really encouraging me to study Finnish culture.  So he gave me this:

It’s a repro of a women’s necklace from Finland.  It’s a horse/sea serpent/goose/dragon/something.  It’s bronze.  I love it.  I am going to have to make things to wear with it.  And maybe I have to weave something for Viking Scott . . . see how this goes?

I ordered something special a while back from Shrew, and it was waiting for me.

The lower piece is my new drinking horn.  Etaine drew the image for me a while back.  I haven’t managed to get the tattoo (because I’m a scaredy cat, and because I had a minor medical thing to deal with first), but I have the horn now.  I’m actually a bit paranoid even posting a photo, I so hate the idea of someone swiping the image . . . guh.  So don’t steal it, dammit.  The upper horn is for blowing, and it sounds amazing.  That’s a stag on it.  It’s so purty. 

So, then wishing started to get me into real trouble.  When my friend Brogan from Tuatha de Bhriain showed up at camp, he mentioned that he brought me more stuff to bribe me into making him clothes.  The madness started last year, when he walked off with about a dozen garments and left me with a wad of cash, which I almost immediately gave to friends of ours who sell pretty shiny bits.  Some time after camp last year, Brogan read here on the blog that I really really like bone needles.  And then he showed up at Beltaine with a leather case full of bone needles, and a bunch of other vintage needles.  I promised to make him a bunch of clothes, and we discussed having a tailor take his measurements, and I tried to get some color preferences out of him ("not ugly" seems to be his favorite color).  So when he showed up at camp with this strange look in his eye, and I started hearing from Cellagh that I was going to really like what Brogan  brought, I knew I was in trouble.  Yeah.  I’m in trouble. 

That’s the full stock of cases and a cardboard case with additional needles.  The top two were the first delivery, back in the spring.  I should point out that Brogan hates that first leather case and would probably like me to return it to him so he can burn it.  I explained that if I did that, the knitters I know would be really really angry and the destruction of something so lovely and useful.  He still wants to destroy it.  The two new cases are, of course, perfected.  The seams are stick straight.  The end caps, again, are cherry.  Careful, lovely workmanship.   That pile of cases has brought me the following:

These are handmade wooden needles of indeterminate age, vintage Paton’s needles, and vintage sock needles.  Next: the real trouble:

It’s insane, I say!  Look at all of those bone needles.  If they weren’t so, you know, needley I would roll in them.  There are sets of DPNs in various sizes, many of which are nice and long, which is ideal for hats and sweaters.  And there are sock-sized DPNs.  When these came out, the lovely Ruadhan (who taught me to knit) was sitting with us.  I was gob-smacked, and mentioned that there were actually too many needles for any one knitter, and the lovely, generous, anti-greedy Ruadhan said: "You should give me some of those needles, please."

Frankly, I can’t refuse her.  How could I?  Look at all the freaking bone needles.  And she taught me to knit.  It’s all her fault, really.  I have since made up a package of delight for her.

But the needles weren’t the end of the insanity.  Brogan also brought me this:

It’s a briefcase Charka. 

Crap.  I am going to be sewing until the end of the world for him.  I just know it.  So Crazy Lanea’s has a new policy: if your name isn’t Brogan or Scott or Lanea, get to the end of the line and wait patiently for your opportunity to ask for clothes, but prepare for refusal. 

And then we got home, and I had a discussion with Juno about wool.  And I admitted I didn’t have any unprocessed wool in the house except felting materials.  And, of course, she sent me this beautiful CVM.

She’s so pretttttttyyyyy!  Yarrow wants to marry her.  I might let him gently wallow in the box, supervised of course, for just a little while before I start scouring.  True love cannot be denied. 

Our friend Scott Hull (aka Gallen from Dalhraidia) has needed a liver transplant for a long time.  He has primary sclerosing cholangitis (PSC)–the quick and dirty explanation is that his bile ducts are all screwed up for no good reason, so the excess bile they produce corroded his liver and made him really sick.  Scott is a good father and husband and friend, and his loved ones have been hoping and praying and undergoing tissue samples and donor testing, hoping they could help.

Scott’s cousin Marcus is an excellent match, so he gave part of his liver to Scott today.  What a present!  If you’re the sort of person who prays or meditates, please think healing thoughts for Scott and Marcus.  And if you’re not an organ donor, please check that box on your driver’s license forms and make sure you have a living will so that your family will be prepared to sacrifice part of the physical you should tragedy strike.  Many very sick people need the kind of help we can all offer as organ donors.

And if you’d like to keep up on Scott and Marcus’s healing Scott’s wife Martha (a.k.a Rheannon) made a blog to keep everyone informed about the transplant and subsequent healing.  So far, the guys are out of surgery and both doing well.

Ernesto is soaking us.  It’s been chilly and rainy for the last couple of days.  I happen to love it, of course, and I’m eyeing that cabled sweater I was working on in the winter. 

Have I mentioned lately that we’ve started a Print o’ the Wave knit along?  We have.  And it doesn’t require a blog.  Please join us. 

I’m having a hard time getting started, though.  I keep ripping out my swatches.  I am pro-swatch, of course, but I think I’ve crossed the line into manic perfectionism.  I didn’t like the texture of some, I tried the lovely brown Juno gave me, but feel like the pattern demands a water color. 

And then last night?  Last night was all my fault.  I finally settled on some JaggerSpun merino lace-weight in a color called Mallard.  And then I betrayed the yarn.  I decided it made sense to actually start the shawl proper while watching Gumboots.  The problem?  I have to actually watch Gumboots when it’s on.  It’s entrancing.  Of course, I have a percussive dance obsession that not many people have.  So, I loved the show, and I ripped out all of the lace once it was over.  I’ll start again today.

If you haven’t seen Gumboots, get thee to Netflix.  It’s a performance by young men from Soweto, dancing a style of percussive dance that developed inside the oppressive gold mines of South Africa.  The music is wonderful.  The dancing is electric, and strong, and sad in parts, but ultimately triumphant.  I watch it every year or two.  I may have to go watch it again.

Bloglines sux.  I’ve added some more vacation posts, but bloglines won’t tell you that for some mysterious reason.  Please scroll back for your voyeuristic pleasure.

In other news, I’m definitely going to Rhinebeck (and hoping to drag Ruadhan and Etaine with me), and I may also be going to the Knitter’s Review retreat.  Woot!

I’ve been using a lucet far too much, so my knuckles hurt.

And we’re working towards opening the KR ring up to new members quite soon.  A little ring checking, a few emails, and the gates will fly open.

But most importantly, will someone please explain to my evil kitten Yarrow that he is a cat, and thus unable to open doors?  Please?  His ongoing wool relocation project is progressing more quickly now that I can’t keep him out of my studio.  Send help, before he coats all of the wool in kitten spit and dog hair.

I’m posting the summer camp photos and musings on the dates stuff actually happened whenever possible.  It just makes more sense to my brain, since I manage to record all of this information by taking notes and photos as I go.  So if you want to see what we got up to, go back to the 5th with your bad self. 

A few weeks ago, we left home to go home to our tribe.    We’re back, safe and sound.  And a little sad that we couldn’t stretch the experience out for a while longer.  We had a wonderful time.  I built a village with friends, I cooked for friends, I ate with friends, I laughed with friends, I made music with friends, I traded with friends, I played games with friends, and I taught and learned with friends, and together we strengthened a community that has been sustaining us for years.

Western Pennsylvania is incredibly important to me.  I spent every summer and holiday break there as a child, surrounded by my Mom’s family.  My grandparents and great-grandparents and great aunts and uncles are buried there.  Much of my extended family still lives there.   As a teen, I began visiting the area with friends for this crazy summer camp experience we have shared for so long–this was my 17th year sleeping in those woods.  I met my husband there that first year.  I’ve met many of my closest friends there.  It holds so much love for me.   Many of my fondest memories are set in those forests and lakes.

Last year, the whole covered in bees problem and some tangentially connected stuff (including the fact that no one could hear me call for help while covered in said bees) really threw me for a loop, and Scott and I started discussing skipping the big camping trip.  I’m so glad we didn’t.  This was the best one we’ve had in years.  Our new spot, perched in the trees and surrounded by the ideal mix of friends, was heavenly.

This year, the man who essentially sparked Celtic living history in the DC area came back for the first time in over a decade, and he brought his son, who is now a man.  It was wonderful to see Crinan in the flesh, standing with his son Ciaran, who I’ve known since he was a little kid.  Our founder came home.  His son remembered us all, and I like to think we had some small role in making his childhood good.  We’re well into the second generation of our strange creation, and it feels wonderful.

I’d tell you about it now, but I have to do a lot of laundry, and download many many photos.  And sort through a lot of email.  And sleep.  And then sleep some more.  But here is a snippet to tide you over.  It’s cropped so tightly because it’s a self-portrait, and my arms are only so long. 

I don’t know how other people remember my face, but this is what I look like in my own head.  More freckled than during the rest of the year, sort of tired, sort of sweaty, some woad painted on by a friend, and downright content.  See the white in the background?  The white is important.  I’ll explain later, after I sleep, and after I explain everything leading up to it.   Suffice it to say, minutes later I was singing a song I love with and for people I love, and our actions recreated a scene over 2000 years old.

I know very few people think “Wow, that Lanea takes the kind of vacation I wish I could take!”  But I really don’t understand why anyone wants to lie on a blistering hot beach surrounded by strangers when you can do what we do instead.  And come back in better shape, having spent barely any money, richer in friends and memories, and with a good Krupnik recipe to boot.  Hot damn, we’re smart.

I don’t know who decided to give Hootie McBard (wearing CrazyLanea’s brand fashions) a Tiki God, but I’m pretty sure this might make the world explode, if repeated.

Fionn and Alerin, post smashy smash.

Maeve and Sedech’s son Gunner, 15.  This was his first year at camp, and I think he had a great time.  We were certainly very glad he came.  I am regularly astounded by what nice kids my friends are raising.  In addition to being funny and helpful, Gunner won all sorts of contests, including a youth fighting something or other and a knife-throwing contest.  The details might be fuzzy, but the pride we all felt for him was mammoth.

Keegan,

And Richard, two of CrazyLanea brand’s top models.

I don’t think I can explain much more, really.  I can show you what I brought home, now that the skies have cleared and I can take decent photos.  Gimme a minute, here, and I’ll see what I can throw together.

We’ve been doing this for years.  It’s a recreation of an event from the Iron Age that was recorded in a Roman history (no, I don’t know which one–Aes, do you remember?)  The non-combatant women of a tribe dressed in white with copper belts.  They danced around their warriors, chanting something that the witnesses couldn’t understand.  The warriors grew frenzied.  Battle ensued.

So Maddog wakes everyone up by drumming softly at their doors.

Folks get woaded.

Etaine painting Suibhne.

(I wove her belt)

Many of our friends walk down from Canada, like a sleepy Edain, ready to fight:

And Morgan and Shay, who I think had coffee before they walked down the hill:

Both pretty darn bright-eyed, for the crack of dawn.

And our friends from Tir Thalor:

Who make quite a show

This year, Lily suddenly turned into a warrior:

And even worked up a ferocious face for her new sport.

Woading going on all the while:

Have I mentioned that our circle has a pretty high percentage of women who fight?  It’s still a pretty rare thing, I guess.  It just makes sense to us.

Once everyone is ready to go, we process up the big darn hill, singing and drumming, and, you know, awesome-ing (and not in a “that hot dog was awesome” sense, a la Eddie Izzard).  Then we group the fighters together in a group, and we women in white dance around them, chanting something we chant.

I’d show you more, but I can’t both participate and photograph this happening.  Other people certainly do, though.  I know our friend Ursus has taken some great shots, because he’s taken great shots of everything.  Darter chronicled it last year.  Gwyneth got it the year previous.  It’s also been recorded by a particular photographer who regularly attempts to profit off of us and our friends but refuses to give us free or discounted prints and has never once recognized the need to obtain a model’s release.  Boo to her.  We are not museum exhibits–we are people who deserve kindness and fair treatment.

As you can see, I did a lot of hand-sewing while we were in the woods.

I also finished the mother of all inkles for Drac.  He loved it.

Despite its flaws.

Oh, that edge is killing me.  If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t weave silk and wool of alternating thicknesses during such a humid spell in DC.  It was an interesting challenge.  I think my loom needs some serious attention.

But I’m glad it’s done and I’m happy to have pleased a friend.  And, because he’s a true friend, he’s promised to inform everyone who asks where he got it that his dear friend Lanea made it, and then tragically lost all of her fingers in a tuba-related accident.  Oh, the humanity!

I am actually really excited to do some more weaving, just not to repeat that particular project too soon.

Anubh taught a class on flax preparation:

(Ignore that hideous tent in the background–we are apparently still not permitted to force the neighbors to get canvas tents.  Sigh.)

We also had classes on Bodhran (a type of frame drum used in Celtic music), the role of Bards in Celtic Society (guess who taught that one), Nalbinding (taught by our favorite new professional Viking Gullveig), and foods at ancient Celtic celebrations.

We also have a friendly little competition, wherein folks bring in things that they’ve made, explain the techniques used in creating them and the research behind the objects, and then we gather together some smarty-pantses and have them pick winners in experience-based categories.
Theses tables are full of the entries:

Here are some wonderful nalbinded (I want that word to be nalbound, but the -ed is correct) socks and a hat that Keva made, some handmade shoes and a satchel, a small felted carped, and a handmade stola, which is an overgarment a Roman woman would wear.

Each year, we see some amazing things in the competition.  This year, it seems like most of the early period re-enactors were really obsessed with Scandinavia.  Raginheld the Moneyer (she makes great coins) made these beauties:

Which are cast silver repros of some great Viking pieces.  She wore the one on the right for us, and I immediately begged her to make me a set.  So cool.

And here are some great Viking-style lampwork bead and wire-knitting necklaces, and amazing set of turtle brooches with the attendant necklaces and accouterments (winners, both).  I wish I had had a chance to take more detailed photos, but I was running out of memory and had to run off to teach.  Sigh.

At the far end are some display items, including a sprang sweater Gullveig made.  A few people just display some things they have that are likely to assist other folks in their research:

Like the wonderful natural dye display that Etaine’s sister Michelle made for her.  Each of those hanks (I believe they’re hand-spun) is dyed using natural dyes available relatively early in history.  Michelle raised most of the plants herself.  Michelle is a master weaver, and she is currently in Kyrgyzstan teaching the Kyrgyz their own lost weaving techniques.  Repressive government destroys folk culture.  Awesome artist returns it, because she’s just that kind of person.

Let’s just think about that for a second.  The thinking may involve either jumping up and down with excitement or abject jealousy.  For me, it involves both.

I need to go lie down before I can write anymore.  I learn so much on this trip every year that it takes my brain weeks to process it all.  And I also wake up in our Cape Cod thinking I’m still sleeping in my tent.  The brain-space all of this stuff takes up is immense.

So, we host a thing called the Bog Olympics every now and again.  I think maybe it was originally Tara’s idea?  Here’s how it works: we gather people from all over together before the madness really starts there at summer camp; have them play a bunch of historic games; give out prizes; rinse and repeat.  It’s a hoot.  It’s a great way to meet people from other camps.  It’s like field day, but with wrestling.  And the races generally involve beer.  This year, Morgan lit the fire under our butts and we brought back the fun.  Folks came from all over the place.  We had kids’ events, we had new events.  We had a lot of fun. 

We had torc tossing, which is strangely similar to horseshoes:

The torcs were made on site, of course, because we have smiths. 

We had a wacky kind of wrestling, which Ot from Michigan brought us.  The two competitors must keep at least one foot on the shield.  Here are Moragh (facing the camera) and Anubh squaring off:

And then trying to lift each other’s feet:

And then with the pushing. 

As is generally the case, Morgan won the women’s wrestling.  She is an amazing wrestler.  I think she and her sister used to mix it up a lot as kids.

We had a fire-starting contest, which was a first.  Each competitor gets a pile of kindling.  They have to use a flint, tinder, and a striker to start the fire.  It’s a very tricky skill to learn.  Our four competitors lined up on either side of a piece of twine tied between two iron uprights.  The first person to light a fire big enough to burn through the string wins.  I think this is the coolest game we’ve ever ever had.  Ever.  Here’s Moragh, throwing sparks.  Note the yellow squished chicken?

Here is a little film of the end of the contest.  The horrible sound in the background is that damn rubber chicken.  I’m so glad the chicken went to Dalraidia.  Clicky to watch:  fire-starting contest

And, of course, we played hunkerhausen.  It’s a very old game, wherein the competitors stand on logs or stones, holding a slack rope between them.  On go, they feed the rope back and forth, trying to either take the rope from the other player or to encourage them to lose balance.  It’s a game of balance and strategy.  It’s hilarious each and every time. 

Here are Richard (a ringer–he taught us the game) and Cellagh playing, if you want to see it in motion: hunkerhausen

Gunner gave Richard a run for his money (I made the clothes Richard is wearing)

And, of course, we had a beer race.  Each participant fills their mug from the keg, runs to the back of Tuatha de Bhriain (great neighbors of ours) spilling as little as possible, drinks the beer, refills at the TdB keg, runs back to our bar, and drains the mug again.   


(The blond guy with the woad is Ot–we were very glad to meet him this year.  We’ve never had someone from outside our immediate circle bring in a game before.  He even brought a prize and reffed his wrestling matches).  Moragh was freaking amazing.  Man, that girl can ruuuuun.  She was there and back in lightening speed.  But one of the boys was apparently more thirsty that she was.  I don’t care.  I think she won anyway.