Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. 

This is a historical novel about Grace Marks, a 16 year old serving woman convicted of murdering her employer and his housekeeper in 1843.  Marks was originally from Northern Ireland, which alone could have forced me to read the book.  But she also lived in Canada, and I have a crush on Canada (even though Canada never, ever calls or writes–so aloof, darn Canada).

Marks became a bit of a celebrity over the case, and many theories arose about her possible insanity, demonic possession, or plain cold-hearted murderous tendencies.  She was eventually set free.

Atwood’s novel doesn’t set out to answer any of the remaining questions about the case, thankfully.  Historical novels that re-write history rarely rank high in my estimation.  Instead, Atwood plays with Marks’s motives, her memories, and her role in the midst of the controversy in her case.  We come away from the novel not knowing how honest or sane Marks was.  And that’s just fine with me.  It’s a great read. 

Sea Glass by Anita Shreve.

I didn’t expect terribly much from this book, but I felt the need to read it because, well, someone gave me a copy and it’s party about the labor movement during the Depression in a textile mill town.  So I had no choice.

I wish it were a better book.  It’s nice summer reading, if you’re not part of the "I only read happy books" crowd.  It’s not a happy book.  But it never reaches tragedy, because, well, Shreve just can’t get it there.  She relies too much on archetypes to develop true characters for us to react to.  Sigh.  I really wanted it to be a better book.  Though it is certainly a nice read. 

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.

I’ve let the book reviews slide for far too long, and I’m all out of excuses.  The festival has happened, and I am no longer president (yayyyy); I’ve gone on vacation and come back, and no longer feel responsible for providing all of the Celts with clothing; and, er, the sky isn’t falling.

The Shipping News by E Annie Proulx and The Shipping News directed by Lasse Hallstrom

I have absolutely no idea why it took me so long to read this book.  I generally try to keep up with Pulitzer winners.  And there is knitting content.  And most of it is set in Newfoundland.  I have a crush on Canada in general and Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, and Cape Breton in particular. 

The fact that the copy I have is a soft-cover might have been part of the delay.  For a while I was burning through my hardbacks because they’re easier to prop open and read while I knit.  But reading on the subway is an entirely different beast, and  soft-covers are easier on my hands.  I can’t be the only one who chooses books this way.

As usual, the book is infinitely better than the movie.  Proulx’s prose is exquisitely dense, and purposely journalistic.  It crackles.  Proulx leaves us to imagine the agonies and joys that Quoyle and the other characters experience, because she knows we don’t need extra help.  I love a writer who knows when to leave things out–when to just let a reader fill in the blanks. 

And the knots.  And the history.  And the dialog.  Delicious.

The whole novel is a poem.  And an object lesson on love–filial love, romantic love, self-love.  And Proulx examines the wild idea that even homely people deserve love.

Which is why the film pisses me off.  I love Kevin Spacey, and I love Julianne Moore.  But dammit, they’re both beautiful people.  We know that beautiful people get to find romantic love.  How about folks that are warty or awkward or plump?  Huh?  Where is their love in this film?

The saving grace of the film is Pete Postlethwaite’s portrayal of Tert Card.  Because he didn’t play Tert Card so much as he played this jerk I used to work with, the Albatross.  Thanks Pete.  You even got the bow-tie correct.  You are a master. I hope it wasn’t too terrible. 

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.

Originally posted by Rachel

While I continue to have the craziest, busiest, most poetry-less life ever, let me attempt to use a classic distraction technique. This is my favorite new blog, over at Powell’s. It’s like the Daily Show for book news. It’s the most fun you’ll ever have while larnin’ stuff.

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.