I should be telling you what a wonderful time I had at the river with the girls.  But that will have to wait.

I should be telling you how great it was getting together with the other girls so the lovelies could teach a spinning class at Potomac Celtic Festival and let the students take home their own awesome free spindles.  But that will have to wait.

I should be telling you about all the spinning and knitting I’ve done over the last week, and how happy my feet are.  But that, too, will have to wait.

Instead, I am fighting the urge to drive my duplicitous truck Buttercup to the upper edge of the nearest quarry, say some heartfelt goodbyes, and push the evil money-hogging thing off into the inky, granite-sided deep.  She has been torturing me for months, and of late, has been trying to poison me with carbon monoxide.  But my quasi-bro-in-law has her, and he won’t give her back because he doesn’t want me to go to jail for truck-drowning.

She knew I was trying to save for a loom.  She is demanding a lot of repairs,  and I can’t drive her until she gets them.  And they she’s hinting about wanting a clutch within the year.

So if you see me selling pencils on a streetcorner, um, please buy me a beer.  Or steal my truck and send it off into the ocean.  Or give her a Viking burial.  Just make her stop stealing all of my money.

Around this time every year, some of my girl-friends from Celt-land and I head down to the Western Shore of the Potomac River.  Each year, we have a theme.  This year’s theme is “fish and fiber.”  We’re going to fish, and we’re going to play with fiber.  I am one excited chicky, lemmetellya. We will . . .
be making at least one felted rug
and some felted soap
and some felted pincushions
and knitting
and spinning
and weaving inkles
and sewing and embroidering
And we’ll also have Claudia, Jen, and Mikele, excellent crocheters all, teaching crochet (maybe they can fix my brain block so I can crochet an edge on something without cussing the whole time).

And, somehow, we’ll fit in some swimming or canoeing and some eating and drinking.  Somehow.

So, I have to pack every-freaking-thing necessary, which is a lot of freaking things.

In the meantime, a couple of quick reviews (posted earlier, via my patented “crazy-manipulation-of-the-space-time-continuum, or sumthin) :

Oh, Plat that Thing by Roddy Doyle.  This book is the sequel to A Star Called Henry.  The first novel is about Henry Smart, a kid from Dublin who grows up to be a thug working for some of the seedier characters behind the Irish Revolution.  In this second novel, Henry has fled Ireland for the United States, and gets here just in time to wrap himself up first in the New York underworld and then in the Chicago jazz scene.  I didn’t like this book as much as the first, probably because Doyle doesn’t know the US like he knows Ireland.  Still a fun read, but it’s not his best.

Old Men in New Cars

I netflixed this movie specifically because a knitter suggested it.  But I put it on my list long enough ago that I completely forgot it was Danish.  So I put it into the DVD player, and got very confused that these folks had such a difficult-to-place accent.  I’m not sure what it means that it took several minutes of dialogue for me to notice these blokes were speaking Danish, but let’s take the positive view and assume it means I’m good with languages.  Otherwise, it means I’m suddenly an idiot.  Anyway, I am required by Christine the Mad Dane (and mother of  Peanut, with the felted booties) to like all things Danish, so I do.  I honestly do.

Lo and behold: it’s a sequel.  I haven’t seen the first movie, but that didn’t get in the way.  This movie is similar in tone and plot to L4yer Cake, Snatch, and Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels.  Basically, some gangsters get into a ridiculous situation, and uncomfortable hilarity ensues.

I’m glad I watched it even though the subtitles precluded knitting.  I was pleasantly surprised to see Iben Hjejle in the role of Mille.  I really liked her in High Fidelity but never caught her name, and now I have a huge list of films I could watch her in.

I laughed my ass off reading this. All us booksellers sure do appreciate the money we’ve made off of you Mr. Brown, but oh Lordy, how you deserve it. Almost inconceivably, even.

This has been really hard to write, because there is simply too much to say.  Each day really was several days long.

Every year, I go to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival to help out at the Tuatha booth.  In theory, demonstrating Iron-Age wool-, leather-, and flax-working techniques and discussing Hallstatt, La Tene, and later ancient artistic styles allows me to give my friends a hand at the booth, teach some interesting things to the public, and protect my wallet a bit from the huge ball of temptation that is the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival.

This year was a bit different.  I was fragged from having to work like mad to meet a crazy deadline at my new job on the Thursday before the Sheep and Wool festival, and by the general upswing in work for my own festival, PCF.  By Thursday afternoon, I was downright punchy, what with the ten-hour days and the not enough sleep.  And then Thursday night I got a visit from my muse at about 3:00 a.m., and she wouldn’t rest until I was in my studio, pen in hand, writing, well, something that may have once been part of the lexicon but went astray.  The new myth-poem isn’t done yet, but let’s just say I was either visited by genius, or I’m engaged in true hubris.  And then the beltway was closed on Saturday morning while I was driving to the festival, so, yeah,  I was punchy when I showed up.   I read Mary a snippet of the new piece, and she seemed to like it, so I was all bouncy, the way I get when I think I’ve spewed out some words that are worth keeping, and maybe even saying more than once, in public, possibly into a microphone.  And then:

That’s, whew, that’s what made me twice as bouncy.  The man in the next booth came over to see if I had, in fact, a tail that is a spring.  Never been asked that before, me.  Brooke gave it to my Saturday morning, on behalf of Tinsmith.  Mary polished it.  It’s full of bugs.  It’s huge.  Seriously huge.  The size of my palm.  I’ve been selling Tinsmith CDs at their gigs for a while now.  I do it because I like their music, and because I love Brooke and Mary, and because it just makes sense to me–you help your friends, you know?  It’s what you do.  And they’ve tried to pay me a bunch of times, and I always refuse.  Well, I guess they showed me, huh?  I’m gobsmacked.

Anyway, I didn’t end up doing a whole lot of demos on Saturday.  My brain was all a-sizzle, and I had money burning a hole in my, er, no pockets–here sir, please take this money and give me something for it!  Yes!  Hickory stools!  I need two.  Have you seen this?  It’s full of bugs!  Where are you going?

(I love these stools, and the guy who makes them is a hoot.  And a great fiddler.  I’ve been trying to buy some for years, but I’m always too late.  Now I have two and, er, I have no idea where to put them.  )

And then I got back to the booth with some small furniture and the largest eclair in the world, or maybe it was ice-cream for breakfast, and Mary said a tall blond was looking for me.  And I wondered . . . Is Juno a tall blond?  I mean, she knows I’m dressed like a freak, but I don’t think I know what she looks like.  I should sit still!  Ooh, crap, I’m incapable of sitting still.  . . . And all sorts of friends were dropping by, and there was chatter and snacking and oohing and aahing over their purchases and some sketchy plans to buy everything at the entire festival.

So that’s what I was like for the first several hours.  Etaine also had a hearing of the new bit of verse, and she didn’t call for a good smiting, so I think it has promise.  And Jill giggled a lot when she heard it, and I think she out-bounced me.  So, you know, it may make a debut on a stage next month.  Sheeeww, no smiting.

And then I snuck over to the Knitters Review lunch, which was a hoot.   I met a bunch of people I’d only known from the forums, and I saw some of my local knitter pals, and I was driven to distraction by jealousy for all of their delicious woolen bits and bobs.  I saw Clara and Amy and Anita and Jayme and her sis Jennifer and Carol and e_looped and Vi and Ms. Glickafar and Purlewe and Naomi and all sorts of folks.  Forgive me if I left you out, my brain was sizzling, after all.

And then there was a tall blond woman at the booth, and it was Juno, and she’s as great in person as she is online.  And the amber at the Tuatha booth sucked her in while I had to deal with some emergency Celtic Festival business (I swear, it’s like a child sometimes, that festival). And Juno was with Rachel H.  and Cassianna and the Village Knittiot and Mr. Knittiot.  So I played hookey and we found what was left of the delicious cormo from Ohio, which Etaine’s sis Michelle had scored.  It will be spun up on Juno’s new wheel, which we then went to meet.  It’s gorgeous.  I got to spin on it a bit, and I’m too short for it, I think.  I love it anyway.  A huge crowd formed around Juno and that wheel.  It’s a work of art.  It’s treadle is more elegant than many whole wheels I’ve seen.

And I got some felt-food:

Which has a great destiny, oh yes, and it will meet that destiny on the Potomac Delta.
And a tiny bit of sockyarn:

Because wet-felting on the Metro may land me in jail, and a girl needs a hobby.

And then we all just sat in the shade between the barns, chatting.  It was wonderful.  I was finally still, and I was with folks I had just met, and I could bear stillness with, well, folks I’d just met.  Gorgeous.  Rest.  Interchange and colloquy and conversation .  .  . you see where I’m going.

But I knew I’d left Tuatha ages before, so I eventually went back to see if Brooke or Mary needed a break.  And Mary called on me to blow my (long-horn cattle) horn many many times.  Really, that may have been the activity that most filled the weekend.  That darn horn.  It turns me into a dancing monkey.  I had to call on Jill as a relief-hornblower,  there were so many calls for the horn.  Late Saturday afternoon, we learned that boy scouts will respond in droves if they hear the horn, but rather than offering assistance to the woman blowing the horn, they will ask to
a) have the horn or
b) play the horn  or
c) know where I got the horn, and upon learning it is far away and inaccessible to boy scouts
d) ask over and over and over if they can “please please PLEEEEEEEEZE have the horn.   Or” (whisper whisper) “buy it for  . . .” (mutter, turn in unison towards the chatty scout, look in their pockets, and count) “buy it for $7.21.  Please.  Oh come on,  please, lady.  Drat.”

There may have been a wormhole involved, what with the lead boyscout saying “drat.”  I can’t decide if it was funny or if that lead scout was painfully sarcastic.  Wait, no, it was both funny and painfully sarcastic.  Guard your daughters.

Sunday morning was for shopping.  I had to buy at least three presents at Sheep and Wool:
A birthday present for my Step-dad, who is a wood guy:

Check: spalted ash box from Enchanted Forest.

A mother’s day present for my mother-in-law, who is a quilter:

Check and check: a magnetic pin-holder and a gorgeous seam ripper.  There’s a chance I got one of each for myself, but I’m not admitting anything at this point.  Just, um, draw your own conclusions.

And a mother’s day present for my Mom, which I knew Tuatha would provide:

Che-he-he-heck.  A lovely piece of stained glass, from the hands of Mary O.  The center panel is particularly great, but tough to photograph–it’s etched on one side with some New-grange inspired spirals and on the other with a swirly moon.  Fan-freaking-tastic.  This will be hard to hand over. When you expose your loved ones to your favorite artists and artisans, you dig yourself a deep comfy hole, I tell you.

And then I got down to brass tacks.  Two Golding spindles, the little,

And the big:

Soap, for a fun project with the girls on the Western Shore next weekend:

Some mohair roving and locks, for the best present I may ever make anyone:

Wow, I hope I can pull this off.

A tiny bit of spinning fiber:

A touch of Lincoln, for that big special felt project.

And a cherry nostepinne:

Mad.  Mad, I say.  I’ve never bought so much in so short a period of time.  Except maybe when we bought our house–the house is bigger I guess, but it didn’t involve so many bags.

So then Sunday afternoon I hung out with friends and relaxed and spun.  It was a fantastic weekend.  I don’t think I can wait another whole year to do it again.

P.S.    As I unloaded the car Sunday night, I forgot to close the door to my studio.  I heard a rustling noise, and turned to see my 8 pound pint-lion dragging the entire bag of Lincoln roving down the stairs.  When he got it to the bottom of the steps, he opened it up, climbed inside, and started huffing

He put up a real fight when I took it away.