My new camera is so sweeeeet.  It’s tiny and comfortable in my hand, has some built in memory, room for memory sticks, a decent lens, and good battery life.   I will hug him and kiss him and love him and squeeze him and make him a felted case and name him George.  The Mavica has been cast aside.  Maybe the dog wants it.  Or the cat.  The cat is very artsy.  The dog is more with the fartsy.

So, a retrospective visual review of my Sheep and Wool hunting and gathering experience, in order of acquisition:

The beautiful teabowl Virginia gave me:  I heart it.

Mary gave me a fantastically gorgeous blue and black raven necklace that she and Crazy Tony (no relation*) made, but I couldn’t photograph it well because I wouldn’t take it off, and "Self-portrait of Crazy Woman with necklace" needs work.  In fact, I’m afraid that if I post a photo of said necklace, someone will chase me down and try to take it. 

The Peace Fleece rovings, in blues, greens, and purples:

The Scary scary Viking Combs**, with rather raw Rambouillet in their teeth:

The yarn I accidentally bought from our neighbors in the next booth, who run a youth program that teaches kids to dye and knit and weave and tend livestock:

The kids in the program dyed this yarn, and the colors are wonderful and the skeins are generous.  The solid blue skeins were $10 per 200 yards, the blue-green were $11.50 per 200 yards, and the big blue-green hand-painted skein was $23 for 400 yards.   So you see why I was forced to buy this yarn–I couldn’t afford not to, especially since the program is a charity and all.  It would have been wrong of me to walk away.

You can’t tell from here, but Ranga, one my toddler friends, made the second blue-green skein into a "magic skein" with the addition of some ice-cream.  So guess what I will be swatching and washing this week.  Tell me, don’t you think the solid blue and the blue-green would be lovely together?  I’m having a tough time getting my mind around knitting up all that wool in 80 degree weather, but I need to wind off and swatch with the magic skein toooot sweeeeet, so it doesn’t draw magic moths.  Whatever shall I make.  I may be legally required to make a ribby-cardi at this point.  But I think I would prefer buttons–antler buttons.  Time to get searching for the two-toned sweater of my dreams.

* Crazy Tony (no relation) is an Australian guy who lives in Canada and carves beautiful things out of antler and stone.  I met him through Mary years ago at the Potomac Celtic Festival. 
**With which I will defend myself if anyone comes after the necklace.  Seriously–don’t make me post a picture of the combs with "JaneDoe-wool" in them.  I’m crazy you know.  It says so right at the top. 

Olwyn has a spirally felt hat.  I wasn’t sure who it was for until I saw her at Sheep and Wool.  It fits well.  Good thing she has a thick wool felt hat in time for summer.

I will find evidence of her inclusion in this shadowy organization soon.

This weekend, I lived in a land of fiber, livestock, deep-fried food, good tunes, funny clothes, fabulous pottery and art and jewelry and fiber arts, and dust.  Despite the fact that I had a brand-new digital camera in my bag, I didn’t take a single picture.  Why, you ask?  Well, I guess I am, at heart, a dummmmasssssss sometimes.  But really, when I’m all decked out in handmade iron-age reproduction clothing, it’s nigh impossible for me to yank a digital camera out of a bag and use it, even a camera that was an anniversary present.  It’s too hard on my brain, see.  It’s just too hard. 

Ok.  We had beautiful weather.  We had beautiful people.  We had beautiful camelids and goats and sheep and dogs.  We even had beautiful corn-dogs. 

I got scary Viking Combs.  And a  scary new needle-felting tool. And I accidentally got some yarn and roving.  And I had to get some raw wool to card, since I was sitting there doing demos with Etaine and she had decided not to bring her scary viking combs.  I got to teach several people some fascinating things about fiber arts 2,000 years ago, and I think they were actually interested.  And I got to meet a whole bunch of folks from Knitters Review, with whom I have had some unknown number of conversations online.  But now they have faces attached to their writing.  And that’s cool.  And I got to argue with Dark Mary about which of us got to keep the crazy-pieced Brigid’s Cross I made, and how to price it, and how much we would hate whoever bought it unless it was one of our dearest pals. 

And I got to give the spirally red hat to Olwyn.   She, the second initiate of the Hat Mafia.  It is most fitting: she is from Jersey.  And she was gobsmacked.  And it fits her perfectly.  Yay.

I danced with the Rock-Candy Cloggers while Robbie Caruthers and Brooke Parkhurst and a whole bunch of other folks played some fantastic old-time.  I recited something newish I wrote to Bran, who had never heard it, and it was powerful enough to make us both simultaneously nauseous and anxious to listen to Led Zeppelin.  That’s good.  Trust me.  I poked Annie Modesitt to see if she wants to publish my essay in Cheaper than Therapy, and it still looks like a yes.   And I got a good start on some new shoes. 

And I haven’t even told you the half of the weekend we had.

Scott and I celebrated our third anniversary yesterday, or more like our tenth anniversary with a month-plus delay so we could get around to throwing the big party.  I could show you a picture of Scott and me at the wedding, but I think this is actually better brag-fodder:


I married a guy who is wise enough to hold tight to this gaggle of close friends since he was a kid–I think Scott met Dobbs and Joyner in elementary school, and the group grew from there.  This isn’t actually all of them, either–a few couldn’t make the trip.  Every one of these guys is a hoot, and they were one of the best sources of mayhem in high school and college.  And now they’ve all managed to become responsible but are still an insta-party set.  Collectively, they hold the most fascinating mix of skills and jobs: need a writer/set designer/photographer/airplane mechanic/lawyer/programmer/nuclear sub tech/artist/musician/historian?  We can help!  I trust them implicitly.  Well, as long as none of them are hiding paint-guns or water balloons behind their backs and calling "Heeeyyyy Meangrrl, come here for a minute, will ya?"  I’m telling you, you can judge a person by their friends, and once you’ve judged, marry the best one.  Several of my girlfriends ascribe to the same method, and have married assorted members of this wonder-tribe.  In addition to being one of these fellahs, Scott is also really nice to his Mom, great with dogs, brilliant, and blisteringly witty.  I’m trying to try not to gloat, but I’m not trying very hard. 

Maryland Sheep and Wool is almost here, and I have a boat-load of work to do.  Gotta go.  Hope you like my new digs. 

Change is bad: we fear change.  But, say it with me now, Blogger is a pain.  I got what I paid for, and I paid bupkus.  And then I got a raise.  And now I will pay for an actual service.  Maybe.  See, spring is all about change and I am fickle. 

Mi na Bealtaine, the month of the bright fire, is here.  We have danced a Maypole, and, for whatever reason, Lonan’s quick-growing son, not quite 13, is suddenly taller than I am.  And he tossed the May-wreathe over the May pole at the break of twilight in the last day of April.   All of the official adults failed in the task, and ultimately, a boy stepping through the doorway of manhood, did what we couldn’t.  Ulrich is officially a badass.  And our friend’s 12-year old daughter Aislin is now suddenly beautiful in a womanly way, instead of a girlish way.  So change is coming whether we want it or not.

The first of the hat-mafia hats has been delivered. 
Anubh has a leeetle brownie hat, and it fits her well.  I think she likes it.  She wore a wool felt hat for most of the weekend, including the really hot parts.  We hope to felt her egg symbol onto it at the Potomac Celtic Festival next month.   The red spiraled hat didn’t find its head yet, but it is still looking.

Last weekend, the crow-heads met up at John the Farrier’s farm in Scottsville, VA.  He had us camp out in a beautiful meadow at the base of a rounded hill.  We had a lot of rain, but we also had a big fire and lots of warm wool and dry elkskins.  We had a lot of horse manure in the pasture, but we also had shovels.  We sang, and we laughed, and we casually surveyed for future structures.  John, fine fellah that he is, is letting Cellagh build a round-house in the field we camped in.  Do you hear that?  We finally have a place to raise a round-house. I hope we can do as good a job as the folks at Craggaunowen:   

He obliquely offered me a spot to set up a studio, once Cellagh is all settled in.  He took the kids for pony rides and he and his girlfriend Jeanne introduced us to their small flock of sheep.  I don’t know how Macha found such a cool farrier, but I’m sure glad she did.

We’re gonna see the Harlot! We’re gonna see the Harlot. She’s gonna sign our bookbookbooks cuz we’re gonna see the Harlot!

Thank you for your patience. Have a nice day, and perhaps I’ll see some of you in Alexandria for the bookbookbooktourtourtour. I will be wearing lots of orange and grinning like a crazy . . .well. . . Lanea. My companion has not informed me of her wardrobe choices.

I have hats on my mind. I felted the Figheadh spirally hat, and while I was at it, I felted a little prototype bag that I had planned to needle felt a lovely design on. So the red hat felted first, and I started some preliminary blocking. And heads are well shaped for blocking hats, so I plopped the wet felt onto my noggin and went along with my day.

And soon the green bag was felted, and I started blocking it, and it all seemed wrong. The bag’s handles had felted unevenly, and no amount of stretching could right the wrong. And the bag had messed with its geometry a bit, and I was not pleased. So, a blank CD to round out the base, a pile of scraps to smooth the sides, but still the opening was wrong.

So I put it on my head. Because heads are round, and I wanted a round opening on this bag. And that is when I realized it isn’t a bag at all.

The Hat Mafia has claimed this felt for Roderick. And obliquely for Hieronymus Bosch.

Lookie lookie!

The fine folks at Figheadh Yarnworks let me test one of their patterns. ‘Cuz’ I’m like a mad Scientist, except with felt. I love this hat. I am about to torture the heck out of it, because trials and tribulations make wool strong and firm. The chart was so fun to work. I used NatureSpun, my abiding favorite felt food, in scarlet and pepper.

Mushmouth was secretly into Irish artwork . . .

Wow do I need to clean the bathroom mirror.

Next, a teal envelope bag for my Mom in Tahiti Teal Lamb’s Pride. She actually asked for a present. My Mom seems to be becoming as obsessed with felt as I am. I have created a monster! See, told ya I was a mad scientist, but with felt.

This guy needs a protective felt headcovering.

One man in Kansas has a new protective felt headcovering:

Luckily, dear Hoghead doesn’t look like a creepy creepy mannequin Steeleye and Lolo fished out of the Potomac.  This hat will make perfect sense to anyone who has studied their Heironymous Bosch.  Please, please let me not be the only Bosch fan about.  Suffice it to say that folks wearing things other than hats on their heads should be watched, and closely.  Quite conveniently, the hat is also a feedbag and a shoulder bag.  And the straps could arguably be used to drag Roderick away from, well, whatever he should be dragged away from.  We shall call it Capello al Cilindro di feltro verde.

Wade Davis’s The Serpent and the Rainbow is, of course, nothing like the movie. Thank god. Davis, an ethnobotanist, travels to Haiti to learn the medical truths about zombification and becomes enamored of voodoo society and its practitioners. No one attacks him, no one kills his pals, and he isn’t, as far as we know, in a sexual relationship with the young Rachel, his young Haitian escort. I’m not a biologist, so I won’t critique Davis’s explanation of the chemicals that make up the zombie powders. I would, however, love to know how accurate his descriptions of the pharmacology of zombification are. I particularly appreciated his exploration of Haitian history, one of the most complex and fascinating stories of the Americas. Moreover, his refusal to demonize Duvalier and the Ton Ton Macoute is refreshing. We all know Duvalier was a baddie, and I think it’s important to explore how he came to power through embracing voodoo and its symbols.