Into 2008

I am starting to believe in the power of publishing one's New Year's resolutions for all of one's blog readers to see.

My top resolution for 2007 was:

"Do everything within my own personal power to make 2007 not suck."

Toward that end, I managed to at least face, if not conquer, most of the resolutions on last year's list, and indeed, 2007 sucked a great deal less than 2006.

Going back to my 2007 New Year's post, I can report that:

I have lost five pounds, not twenty. But hey: five is five.

Closets have indeed been cleaned. All but the tool closet, anyway. One must be realistic. A good deal of junk, obsolete computer components, paperback novels, ill-fitting clothing and other miscellany have either found new lives as garage sale merchandise, or as charitable donations.

I have not read (or re-read) one classic book each month, but I have managed one per season: Origin of Species early in 2007, Pride and Prejudice in the summer, Walden in the fall, and, this month, the poems of Robert Frost.

Speaking of whom, I was saddened today to read in the news of vandals breaking into and damaging Robert Frost's historic home. The vandals apparently thought that breaking into the home and using the antique wicker furniture for firewood was a good way to celebrate the holiday weekend. Barfing in the parlor also occurred. Police believe it was a group of juveniles.

I hope they catch the brats who trashed Frost's place. Their behavior speaks of a combination of self-indulgence and abject stupidty that makes me want to spank them and spank their parents.

Extra licks for the parents.

I've loved Frost since adolescence, and I have two favorite quotes:

"A civilized society is one that tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity."

and:

"The best way out is through."

The lofty goal of "better understanding finances" was simplified to "better organizing finances," and progress was made toward that end.

The ridiculously lofty goal of "stop trying to be all things to all people" has been abandoned. That one might require therapy. Or more yarn. We shall reconsider.

The humble goal of taking multivitamins and calcium each day: accomplished on most days. Likewise with the drinking more water resolution. Eating healthier leaves something to be desired but we're eating a lot less in the take-out and frozen dinner division than we were in the aftermath of Katrina, so that's progress.

Getting to bed earlier. Not so much. Still working on the insomnia and also on the not trying to be Superwoman thing, so midnight laundry still prevails chez Mambocat.

Career goals: getting my consulting business off the ground has been bumpy, but it's still happening. Happening on a smaller scale than I would like, but happening.

Creative goals: getting patterns ready for sale: that's starting to happen, albeit very late in the year.

Spend more time with friends and family. Yes. Not as much as I'd like, but I've had more of that, especially real-life face time.

Flossing daily? Maybe not so much. But more often? Yes.

Walking outdoors each day? I was really good about this when it was not raining or blistering hot, but not so much once summer kicked in. Either way, at least I walked outdoors more often, especially in the spring and fall. Still, I'm doing one hour on the treadmill at the YMCA twice a week, regardless of weather, and at least one outdoor walk per week.

Stash organizing? Major progress. Not in any kind of spreadsheet-and-labels way that other people can understand, but in terms of household tidiness and being (mostly) out of sight when not in use, great progress has been made.

Buying less yarn? Admittedly, my real goal was not to buy every single skein of yarn that made me go "ooooh." And I have been prettty good in that respect.

In 2007 I accomplished some big things. In New Orleans, Mom's house is repaired. Here at home, I have started selling my handspun at the arts market (on the creative front) and I am also close to launching some patterns along with Lisa Louie (creative front also) and I am trying to get my consulting business going (on the work front). Dave is doing better, I've been in touch with friends and family more often, I've visited my dear friend Leef, and I am taking better care of myself.

And you, dear readers? What's high on your list for 2008? I've found that reachable goals are highly motivating. What are some of yours?

Happy New Year to you all! May 2008 bring wonderful things to each and every one of you.

Okay. I'll Wear The Hat.

But You Will Pay.

"Okay. I will wear this stupid, ratty, Santa Claws hat. I will wear it for exactly fifteen seconds and then I will try to shred it, as many cats before me have attempted, ever since you knitted it in a moment of cabernet-induced inspiration. Even cats know that you should never actually do something if you think it is a good idea when you are drinking...

...and, by the way, you have seven seconds left ... so you better take a picture."







And so it was done, the annual Cat-in-The-Santa-Claws-hat picture, and thank you very much, Annie. It was your turn, after all. Bella was Santa Claws last year.

So it's Christmas Eve.

Our little tree is decorated in the living room, and outside, due to the lack of a hard freeze so far this year, Plantzilla remains robust, so she has been adorned with lights ....





...and the picture above is maybe a great excuse for someone to hint at my husband that all I want for my too-close-to-Xmas birthday is a tripod, so I can do night shots with a long exposure without it looking like I have had maybe too much of the Bailey's.


Knitting is done, except for Dave's vest, which he will have to get on Boxing Day. Years, ago, we adopted the fine tradition of Boxing Day, on the 26th, to begift one another and to begift friends.

Mom's pullover is done and wrapped. Why do garments look so awful on hangers? Sigh. But a hanger will have to do for display purposes, as I have no Mom-like model and this is a surprise. It's done in a superwash wool for easy care and casual wear:




And gifts are wrapped, with a little help from Bella and maybe also from the aforementioned Bailey's. In the photo below, Bella is inspecting some of my handspun.

It's so easy for a knitter who spins to think of something to give to other knitters. Knitters never whine and say, "but you gave me yarn last year!"





And best of all, two years and four months after Katrina, Mom's house is done, inside and out. That is a long time to wait for your house to be fixed, but it's done. There are a few window screens left to paint and to re-screen, and a few other little details remain, but Mom's house is essentially finished, down to the exterior paint job:

The color is called, "Enchanted Sea," and I'm quite fond of it. If you're not from the area, you may not know that many New Orleanians paint wooden houses in bright, cheerful colors -- cerulean blue, hyacinth, carnation pink, mango orange, you name it. It's a local tradition, and so much more interesting than the whites and neutral colors you see in so many other cities. There is also an old New Orleans belief that bright blue keeps evil spirits away (particularly when applied to the front door). You'll find this belief among the Gullah people in the American Southeast as well.

So I'm relaxed and happy this Christmas Eve. We had gumbo for dinner, the cats got treats and catnip, and I got most of my knitting done. I've talked to lots of friends and family on the phone. I am as done as I'm going to get.

Happy Christmas. Thanks for being a reader. I hope you and yours have a wonderful holiday and that Santa leaves you sacks full of yarn.

Beware the

Unaknitter

I didn't do it on purpose. It really wasn't my fault that Mr. C., the nice post office counter man, the man who has competently taken charge of my packages for more years than I can remember, the man to whom I entrust the timely management of my birthday cards and insurance payments ... no, it wasn't really my fault that Mr. C. was looking at me strangely in the post office today.

It was chilly early this morning, so I put on a hoodie when I went out the door for my walk. And in addition to being early it was also bright, which required sunglasses ... then the wind picked up, so I pulled up the hood.

And then when I went to the post office a little while later, I had packages -- several of them, in fact -- which required me standing in the long, long line and scrawling on little pieces of paper while I balanced the pile of boxes in front of me in a little tower on the post office floor, scrawling madly and frowning at my slightly leaky pen and all those little labels and pieces of paper, and then periodically nudging the little tower of boxes along with my foot as the line progressed.

And when I looked over at the counter, Mr. C. was looking me up and down, head to toe, scrutinizing me in exactly the same way as a mother evaluates her teenage daughter before allowing her out the door to go to school.

I had entirely forgotten about my morning walk, and I'm not the sort to admire myself in every reflective surface that I pass, so I had no idea that I looked alarming. And also? I am entirely absent of any notion that maybe I should consider dressing like a woman in her forties instead of like a thirteen-year-old boy.

So it is completely not my fault that Mr. C. stared for awhile, and I stood there wondering if maybe my fly was open or there was an unspeakable substance on my jeans ... and then Mr. C. cracked a grin, and started into a jelly-belly laugh, and then he cut his eyes toward the reflective window nearby, so I looked over my shoulder, and of course I fell out laughing in the middle of eighty-seven Christmas-laden people standing in line at the post office, because I was standing in the post office, in the post office for gawd's sake, and I looked like this:

That will be all.

P.S. -- That scarf you can see a tiny bit of? That is my weirdest knitting accomplishment -- greatest amount of praise for least amount of effort. I made that back in Nineteen Eighty-Something. I found some speckly black-and-white loopy mohair on sale, and didn't knit it, then later I found some weird speckly black-and-wite ribbon yarn on sale, and didn't knit that either ... but the two yarns, purchased years apart, happened to match exactly ... and then I decided I needed a salt-and-pepper scarf to go with a jacket (which I no longer have) and I knitted that scarf in plain old garter stitch and used the ribbon yarn for the fringe. That's all. And it has become my workaday scarf. But it never fails, whenever I wear it, that two or three people stop and ask me where I got it. You'd think the entire staff of Queer Eye stayed up all night picking out yarn, the way people carry on over that stupid black and white garter stich scarf, even when I look like the Unabomber. But do total strangers ever notice eighty gabillion hours of Fair Isle or cablework?

Nooooooooo.....

Knitting Asylum Yarns
at the Baton Rouge Arts Market

I'll be selling yarn and spinning at the Arts Market again today -- Saturday December 18 -- from 8am till noon. Corner Fifth and Main in Downtown Baton Rouge, in conjunction with the Farmer's Market. Read two posts back for details! The previous post about Apple Leef Farm is new, so be sure to read it if you haven't checked in for a few days.

A Way-Too-Short Weekend at

Apple Leef Farm

This post is a wee tad on the picture-heavy side, so I apologize to those of you with dial-up service. Go make a cup of coffee while it downloads, and come back when you're ready. You can click on all the pictures to make them larger.

All done? Good.

Something tells me that y'all would like to see these featherweight, hand-dyed, felted, wool stoles live and in person, but a picture will have to do:

Something else tells me that you'd like to know more about the person who makes them, and more about the shop they live in.

Welcome to the shop at Apple Leef Farm. The farm features fiber-bearing animals, flock guardians ... and a wonderfully welcoming fiber arts shop. Not only does Leef offer fiber arts classes, but she also has two delightful, cozy and spacious bed and breakfast cabins, and if you'd like to camp out in the nearby woods, you can do that too.

The shop offers yarn, weaving and spinning supplies, and both classes and weekend retreats for knitting, weaving, felting and spinning.

Here's the great wheel at the entrance to the shop, Leef's workhorse wheel to the left, and her plying wheel on the right, with a sampling of spinning fibers and finished yarns in the background:

Leef offers a wide variety of spinning fibers: colonial and mutilcolor fleeces and roving from several breeds of sheep and goats ... alpaca ... natural-color organic cottons, recycled cotton from blue jeans, and pima cotton ... combed tops, pima sliver, cotton lints, and seed cottons ... carded silk cocoons, raw silk cocoons, silk hankies, bombyx and tussah silks ... soy silk ... bamboo ... flax ... A-1 bombyx silk bricks ... kid mohair locks and tops ... corriedale-cross rovings in natural colors ... moorit ... wensleydale ... and a variety of blends of most of the above fibers, may favorite of which is a yummy merino, cashmere and angora blend.

Leef offers a variety of ready-to-weave cotton yarns for weavers, organic cones and dyed cones, as well as hand-dyed warps.

She also has felting wools, blanks for shibori dyeing, and a wide variety of dyes, as well as finished, ready-to-use silk blanks for scarves and kimonos.


In case you're wondering? I haven't mis-spelled "leaf." Leef is the name of Leef Bloomenstiel, my dear friend who runs Apple Leef Farm, along with her husband, Les.


Before I tell you more about the farm, I shall tell you about my friend Leef.


There is a certain quality to friendships forged in times of trouble that cuts through all the ordinary facades and meaningless chatter which usually cloud our initial perceptions of another human being when they first appear in our lives.

During less trying periods, we might have coffee and host cookouts and take walks with a new acquaintance countless times, without ever really getting to know them in a real and meaningful way. You may go on for years, chatting about politics and gardening and the weather, without ever opening up to one another or seeing the roots of that other person's soul.


Leef and I met at a herpetological society meeting over twenty years ago, and we quickly realized we had much more in common than our interest in reptiles and wildlife, and the fact that we both like to knit.

Before too long, we realized the we were both dealing with nearly identical life-straining situations, and as we formed a two-woman support group, we found that our creative energies ran in the same direction as well.

We humans gain acquaintances when we realize that we share a few common interests with people whose company we find agreeable -- we may share the same views about politics, work for the same company, enjoy a few pints at the same tavern, live in the same neighborhood, or share the same hobby. And many acquaintances who are baseball fans, Trekkies or joggers soon develop fast friendships. The common interest served merely as an introduction -- an icebreaker handed to us by the Fates: "You're a knitter, too? And a computer enthusiast? A reptile geek, birdwatcher, and hiker as well? Wow, we have a lot in common!"

Common interests are handy, and a person's interests tell you a lot about them. But the best friendships are forged between people whose values and passions are deeply symbiotic -- people who bounce energy off each other in such a way as to bring out the best in each other.


Now about the knitting part. When Leef and I first met, we learned that we both enjoyed knitting, and soon we were getting together regularly to knit, have coffee, and work through our life problems.

We became friends in the green-screen days of computering and in the infancy of the Internet, search engines and AOL. At the time, it was difficult to meet other knitters, so it was delightful to have another knitter with whom to share resources, tips and techniques. Finding the original Knit List was a coup for both of us.

She was a farm girl stranded in the city, so she made sure that her kids grew up hiking, camping, riding horses and visitng their grandparents in a delightful Louisiana hill-country town, not too far away.


Neither of us is the sort of person to have a casual interest in too many subjects. We both are the sort who dive in head-first and earn ourselves a seat-of-the-pants PhD when any interest grabs firm hold of us. Before we knew it, our common interest in knitting led to spinning and dyeing, and Leef took off from there into weaving. I weave a little, now and again. Small things, when the mood strikes me.

But Leef is a certified, bona fide Weaver.


Over the years we went through life changes, Hurricane Andrew, job changes and her mother's death ... and I experienced her kids growing up.


This friendship began twenty years ago. Life has taken us in different directions in recent years, and Leef and her family moved to Texas, partly for job opportunities for her husband, and partly so she could have a small farm, but distance doesn't change the qualitative nature of a solid friendship.


Unfortunately, we hadn't seen each other live and in person in far too long, so I hadn't seen the new farm, or the new store (they recently moved from their mini-farm closer to Dallas).

So the store kind of bowled me over when I walked in. Years ago, we spent so much time talking about having a studio, a yarn shop ... a place to teach knitting, spinning and dyeing. We would spend hours dreaming up what we'd sell and what the shop would be like -- some cozy seating in a corner, the teaching studio over here, natural light from over there, and of course we'd have to have a coffee bar.

And now here it is. I sorely wish we were doing it together, but I am so happy for her that she has it for herself.

Below is the part of the store that serves as a weaving studio and class workshop. Note the floor loom on the left, a triangular loom partly filled with a handpainted warp, bags of fleece, and yet another spinning wheel:





You need to know that when Leef teaches a new weaver or spinner, she doesn't just set you down and show you the basics. If you go to one of her weekend retreats, you will come away from it really knowing how spin or weave. Leef is the sort of person who teaches her students not only what they need to do, but why they need to do it. She wants you to walk away from her studio with a complete understanding of the process.


On the opposite wall from the loom and teaching area, she displays some of her yarns and felting supplies, as well as a selection of felted stoles and gossamer hand-dyed silk scarves.

The dyeing workstation is out-of range to the left in the picture, and includes a stove, sink and work table.


I remember Leef's early dyeing experiments -- hiking the local woods and creek banks searching for flowers, bark and roots to find ingredients for natural dye recipes. Then it was out to the backyard with a propane burner and an old canning pot, standing over dyebaths until she arrived at the perfect shade of green, brown or yellow. I remember picking sack upon sack of railroad daisies.

After Leef moved to Texas, my work schedule became enormous, but when I had any time at all to myself, I took to the same locations in search of wild indigo plants -- the invasive descendants of indigo crops grown in the plantation days of south Louisiana. Indigo requires a lot of plants and a special touch with the dyepot -- and although I enjoy working with natural dyes, I have never gotten past a wan blue with my own efforts.

Leef had started getting serious about felting -- hats, slippers, you name it -- shortly before her family moved to Texas.

Which brings me back to where I started.

Now I know you are curious about those stoles. Leef produces these amazing, drapey garments in Nuno felting, a technique in which she felts and dyes wool onto a silk gauze. The end result is a rich, drapey, exotic-looking fabric which makes me think of something that perhaps an alien ambassador or priestess might wear as ceremonial garb when meeting with Captain Picard, or attending a meeting of the Federation. Each one is an individual work of art.


To the lower left, below the stoles, you will see a display of dyed silk scarves, befitting Stevie Nicks at the height of her gauziness ... and I do mean that in a good way! These scarves are as light as a feather and display equally well either ironed flat or dried in a scrunched-up technique -- not unlike making a broomstick skirt.

There are also some yarns for sale -- some handspun, and a selection of comercial sock yarn. She also carries a sleection of bamboo knitting needles, and every conceivable accessory or tool you might need for spinning, weaving or felting, from dyes and niddy-noddys to spinning wheels, looms and drop spindles.





There's more yarn in the picture below, and dyeing supplies in the background. Do you also see the hand-dyed gauzy silk jacket, graced with a felted lace stole? Leef offers both materials and classes to make all of these things:






Leef's farm is in Van Alstyne, Texas, just a tad off the beaten track -- a scenic drive through the rolling hills north of Dallas. But if you are a fiber enthusiast anywhere in the Dallas-Forth Worth area, Oklahoma City or the general Texoma region, and you're up for a day trip, you'll be glad you went to the trouble to find her.

Leef is happy to arrange weekend retreats for any guild or other group of fiber enthusiasts who'd like to spend a weekend on her farm. In addition to the two bed-and-breakfast cabins, there is ample campground space on her property. You can contact her directly to discuss classes, arrangements and prices, depending on the classes you want to take and the size of your group.


For directions to the shop, hours, and class information, contact Leef at:

http://www.appleleeffarm.com/

I'll leave you with a photo of some of the farm animals: here's a little cluster of sheep, presided over by Doc, a 30-year-old horse whose hobbies include coyote-stomping, and Murphy, a llama who not only provides fiber but also serves as a flock guardian. You can see Murphy just above the second sheep from the left:






Next time, I'll tell you more about the farm animals, the land, and Leef's plans to expand the services she and her husband offer.

At the moment, you can contact Leef through her website and see what's new at the shop. If you have a group of friends who are interested in a weekend retreat so you can learn to spin or weave, you can arrange that as well.

Knitting Asylum Yarns
at the
Baton Rouge Arts Market!

For all of you local knitters and crocheters -- I will be spinning and selling handspun, hand-dyed yarn at the Baton Rouge Arts Market on Saturdays this December.

The Arts Market ordinarily takes place the first Saturday of each month, but during December, the market is open every Saturday for holiday shoppers.

The Arts Market operates concurrently with the Farmer's Market. Artisans set up in the parking lot at Fifth and Main in Downtown Baton Rouge, adjacent to the Farmer's market, which operates along Fifth Street.

There are many artists with photography, paintings, pottery, felted art, hand-dyed scarves, jewelry and many other fantastic things for sale.

Hours and Location:

Every Saturday in December, 8:00am till Noon
Corner of Fifth and Main Streets, Downtown Baton Rouge

Why not bring your holiday shopping list and spread your Christmas, Hannukah and Kwaanza cheer with handmade items from local artisans and baked goods, jam, honey, candies and whole food gifts baskets from the farmer's market? Hope to see you there!

P.S. -- The post immediately below is also new.

The Fate of

the Free World

Is At Stake

Just in case any of y'all are nervous about getting on an airplane anytime soon, I want you to know that before my little jaunt began last weekend, I made a ruthless assessment of those items known to present the greatest threat to public safety, namely:

Toilet articles greater than three ounces in size.

And not only did I assess these items based on the Official Bond-McGyver Danger Chart of Scariness, but I also secured them into acceptably small portions and encased them in the only terrorist-proof substance known to the FBI, the TSA and MIT that can protect us from chemical weapons, explosives, and mayhem of all kinds:


The quart-sized zip-lock clear plastic bag.








I bet you feel safer already.



And while toothpaste, mouthwash and shampoo in quantities greater than three ounces must be secured in checked luggage, the TSA finds it quite acceptable for plastic-encased, breast-shaped amounts of liquid greater than three ounces to be enclosed in gel-filled bras worn upon one's person.



This actually means that if you forget to put your highly hazardous saline eye drops in a quart-sized zip-lock bag, you may find yourself in serious trouble, but you could waltz right through the security checkpoint wearing a 42DD bra filled with plastic explosives, and the TSA people wouldn't ...





...well, I am sure they'd bat an eye. But you'd get on the plane just fine. And so could a couple of Fem-Bots.



And, while I cannot bring a cup of decent coffee or a bottle of water through security, either in my hands or in my carry-on bag, I am permitted a wide variety of items in my checked luggage, including, but not limited to, crowbars, yogurt, cattle prods, ice picks, peanut butter, cricket bats, Jell-O and throwing stars.



Go figure.



Fortunately, the items that can be packed into my checked luggage include these fibery things:














Fear not, the cropped-out cat snatching at the silk fiber (Seven) was not included in my checked luggage.




Clockwise from left: emerald-green coned silk; dyed silk waste fiber ready to be carded, Ashford mini-noddy, and two skeins of hand-dyed alpaca.



I probably could have brought the yarns through security just fine, but explaining the niddy-noddy and the silk fiber might have been a stretch, so it all went into checked luggage.




I will leave this as a teaser for today because I have a rather long and picture-heavy post coming up about my weekend at Apple Leef Farm.

Knit On, Gail

It's the end of Thanksgiving week, and, in the blogging community, it has become customary, among those of us who post our thoughts for the world to read, to make a public account of the things we're glad for.

I am glad to have known Gail McHugh. And I am so deeply sorry that I never got to meet her in person. It's amazing and wonderful that through this astounding thing called the Internet, people can make friends in far-flung places, friendships as solid as the face-to-face ones we value at home. Gail was one of those friendships.

Gail McHugh was the internet moderator for KnitU, a service of Knitter's Magazine to provide an online community for knitters everywhere. It was her job each day to preview massive amounts of e-mail, perform magic with HTML, and manage a huge and highly interactive list of enthusiastic cross-commenters on KnitU. Each day, she turned a friendly swarm of e-mails into a list which thousands of KnitU subscribers all over the world read along with their morning coffee or tea. The daily posts on every conceivable knitting topic -- from the latest technique debate to the most pressing charitable need -- were interspersed with Gail's wise and witty editorial commentary.

This was a job she performed with diligence and good humor year after year, and she did it exceptionally well.

Gail was a master knitter, but she did not knit socks, particularly yellow ones. When she was a very small child, an adult handed her double-pointed needles and fine yellow yarn, and tried to teach her to knit and make socks in the same go. For reasons that will never be understood by anyone except Gail herself, the knitting part firmly took hold, but fumbling with sock needles at an early age scarred her for life, so she forever avoided making -- even wearing -- socks. In fact, she avoided socks at all costs.

She did not avoid the Red Sox, however, and was a loyal and enthusiastic fan.

I'm so glad she got to see Boston win the World Series this year.

When I stopped hearing from Gail off-list around that time, I figured she was caught up with managing KnitU and keeping up with the World Series. I had no idea her health was crashing. She was burdened with chronic ailments, and her doctors had been juggling her medications, but there was no indication of terminal illness, so her death took everyone quite by surprise.

I also suspected that she was busy with her current charitable cause -- rounding up donations of knitted items for Covenant House in New Orleans, a well-established community service providing shelter, care and couseling for homeless teens and kids in New Orleans. Gail was one of the first people to step up to the plate after Katrina to realize that, even though no one was freezing to death in the immediate aftermath of the storm, that there would be a need for warm garments during the damp, chilly and windy winter months yet to come.

Between Gail, Ray Whiting of Knitivity, Joan Hamer of JoanKnits, and a few other knitters, a hat drive began in 2005 to "bundle up New Orleans." Gail's prescience was right on the mark -- New Orleans and Gulf Coast aid services were overwhelmed with donations of clothing for warm weather, but as winter approached, there were shortages of warm things. Not only were homeless people in need, but so were thousands of citizens camping out in damaged homes or living in drafty FEMA trailers. Gail's was an enthusiastic voice reminding people that even though New Orleans is in the South, it's not Hawaii, and while 36 degrees and rain might be welcome in Michigan ... to someone in New Orleans, that's cold, baby, and we don't wear shorts in that kind of weather, we bundle up in warm things. Pass the woolies, please!

Gail continued to remind people of the ongoing need in 2006 and into 2007. Even in her last few weeks on this little blue planet, her thoughts were focused on that ongoing need, and she raised a challenge to the KnitU community once again to round up hats and scarves for New Orleans.

Elizabeth Zimmermann used to say, "Knit on, through all crises." So that's what I'm going to do. I'll miss Gail terribly, but I know she's somewhere out there, sitting next to Elizabeth, casting on.

If you'd like to make a hat or other garment to warm a homeless teen in Gail's memory, there's still time to get it there before the holidays. Send a hat, scarf or other warm garment made of superwash wool, a machine washable wool blend, or acrylic yarn to:

Covenant House -- 611 North Rampart Street -- New Orleans, LA -- 70112 -- USA

Remember that teens come in all shapes and sizes, in both sexes. And also don't forget that, stunningly, some of these teens are homeless with a baby or toddler in tow. Please include a note to Covenant House that the donation is in memory of Gail McHugh. And if you make a comment here stating what you sent, I'll add your donation to the totals. We're hoping to round up one thousand items by the holidays.

So long, Gail. I am proud to have known you, and I'll miss you.

And speaking of New Orleans, get yourself over to Knitivity and spend some money.

Look: pretty wool. Ray dyes this himself:

The above, and the other yarn photos in this post, are Ray's yarn. There's lots more. Go and see.

I started to be all coy about writing this part. I was going to post pictures of my works-in-progress using Knitivity yarn, and I was going to coo and purr about how lovely and soft it is, and how you should go check it out, but my Capricorn nature won out, so I'll cut straight to the point:

Not only is Ray Whiting the key person in starting up the drive for hats for New Orleans, he is a fantastic yarn-dyeing entrepreneur as well, and at the moment he can use some business at his website. Ray puts out some amazing dyework, and he is trying to make a success of his business on a shoestring. After riding out Hurricane Katrina in his New Orleans home, he relocated to Houston and is trying to sustain his yarn-dyeing business on his own. Like any small business, the first couple of years are hard.

And, like all retailers, Ray counts on the holidays to make ends meet, and holiday-season sales truly are a make-it-or-break-it deal for a one-person operation.

Ray provides stunning dyework on excellent base yarns that wash and wear beautifully, he offers generous yardage for the price, he provides outstanding customer service, and he's a really nice guy who is community-oriented and who deserves your yarn money.

Also? You can order your yarn in hanks or pre-wound. You can even order custom dye jobs.. Ray has an impressive selection of colors and he is also selling handknit Christmas stockings and his shop model hats at the moment.

Bonus: if you buy yarn from Knitivity to make your hat for Covenant House, you'll double your Karma points: warming up a kid in need and helping a deserving artist succeed in his business.

Enough reasons to go have a look at his site? Good. This is "Glacier Lake," my personal favorite Knitivity colorway:

I'm also thankful that I got to see my family and my husband's over the holiday. I'm proud for the bravery with which no fewer than three of my own relatives are facing cancer treatment right now, and I'm happy for the way the rest of my family has pulled together to support them.

I'm glad for the good cheer provided by my husband's family. Let's say that it's after dinner on Thanksgiving, and you have about fourteen people crammed into the kitchen drinking wine and coffee and helping put away the dishes and the leftovers, and they all get into a good-natured debate about which is the best kind of knife and how to sharpen it, and then, to underscore his point, your nephew-in-law goes out to his car to fetch his knife roll (he's a chef), and he unfurls it on the kitchen table, and there are enough knives in there to make a Stephen Segal movie ... and no one thinks this is the least bit odd? Chances are, you are among my kin.

We cook.

I'm glad for the readers I have, and for the yarn friends I have made on the Internet. I know this sounds all mushy and smarmy, but I still think it's magical that I have a box with a screen that lights up and connects me to people all over the world -- good, solid, real people with whom I can connect at the touch of a button.

Thanks to all of you for reading my offerings, and thank you for your comments. Wherever you were this past week -- sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner in the U.S., knitting in Australia, or spinning yarn in Ireland, I hope Thanksgiving week was good to you and yours.

Whupped




I am whupped.




I've just done two things I absolutely hate doing:



1. Going to the mall


2. Buying bras




So, in a little while I need to spin this...

...to take the edge off.

But in the meantime I will tell you about my Saturday morning.



I really hate the mall, but buying a good bra presents a dilemma. It's one thing to pop yourself into a racer-back spandex sports bra from Target before you throw on a tank top or a T-shirt, but when you need a proper bra, so you look pulled-together with a nice sweater or the kind of clothes you wear to a meeting, then you need to go to a well-established department store where there is a Professional Bra Lady available.

And the only place locally where there is a venerable department store is the mall.

(Did I say I hate the mall?)

I also hate buying bras in self-serve places. It's embarrassing, standing around in public holding your future underwear in front of teenage boys and Gawd knows who. And while self-serve underwear stores do have sales clerks, they tend not to have the kind of sales clerks who have decades of experience with the vagaries of the adult female body. Self-serve stores have nice, polite, pretty young sale clerks whose main job is to run the cash register, but who will also show you the bras they think are cute, when what you really want is a bra constructed in such a manner that maybe levee engineers should seriously study the design.

And these nice, polite, pretty young sales clerks have yet to realize that there are three distinct types of bras: sports bras in which to run errands and go to the gym, bras intended to display the body when your clothes are off, and bras intended to make you look good when your clothes are on.

It's not their fault, really. They grew up in the post-Madonna, Britney Spears era, in a world where a bra is also a shirt and where a necktie can be a skirt, and maybe a shoe is a hat.

They are confused.

And that is exactly why I needed to drag myself to the Real Department Store. Because I am forty-six, and my clothes are on almost all the time.



It's not that I mind being middle aged. In fact, I rather like it. Except for a few things, like 20 pounds I don't really need and screwed-up knees, I genuinely love the fact that I can be exactly who I am and not try to be anything but my 100% genuine self, and not berate myself when I fail to be glamorous, hip, ridiculously successful, or otherwise perfect in some utterly unattainable, societally imposed way. And if I do lose 20 pounds and exercise more vigorously, it will be because I want me to feel better and have stronger knees, not because I think life will be magical or I will be Truly Happy or reach some zenith of perfection if only I was in a size 8 again instead of a size 12.

It's blasphemous in America -- it may even be a felony -- to say that you like being middle aged, but I do. I can say exactly and precisely what I think without worrying about what people will think about what I think. This does not mean that I am rude or crass -- okay, maybe on the rarest occasion, if it is richly deserved -- but after all, I am Southern, and the second most important social skill a Southern woman can have is to skin somebody alive with a sweet-tea smile on your face.

Of course, the first most important social skill you can have is to be nice and mean it.
This business of saying exactly what I think is helpful in situations in which, for example, you need to buy a new bra, because maybe you weigh a little more than you did the last time you bought a good-quality, non-sports bra from someplace besides Target.

If you are twenty-four, and you need a bra upgrade because you've had a sit-down job for six years and you have 15 pounds that won't go away and all your bras are screaming for mercy and about to go "sproing..."

Well, if you are twenty-four and that is what's happening, most likely you will walk into the bra department and lurk around for awhile looking at all the little wispy centerfold bras and then when the sales clerk comes up and says, "May I help you...?" The first thing you do is apologize for gaining weight, and the next thing you do is let yourself get talked into a bra you don't want, but the skinny 19-year-old clerk thinks it would be cute on you, and you are too polite to say that you think you would have a bad case of boobular fallout in that particular little piece of gift wrap, or that maybe it would hurt, so you smile and buy it anyway, and you bring it home and hate it.

But if you are forty-six and you need a bra upgrade because you've packed on some winter insulation, you can actually walk up to the 19-year old girl in the bra department and say, "Hon, can you please find me a grown-up lady with a tape measure, and some little glasses on her nose, someone who is preferably named Gloria or Kate or Cynthia, who knows to fit a bra properly and who can direct me to something supportive that will look flattering when my clothes are on, which is most of the time?" And you can say this in such a way that this sweet, skinny little college girl named Heathyr doesn't get offended at all, and actually goes off and produces a certified grownup named Coretta, with +1.5 readers on her nose and a tape measure around her neck. Yes.

And then when Coretta asks you what you need, you can tell her you've packed on a dress size since you last bought a really good bra, and all your bras are so ill-fitting and worn out that you're ashamed to let either your mother or your husband see you change your clothes, and you need a bigger bra please, and maybe a couple because they are on sale, but you need to know exactly how much bigger, because you don't know if you gained weight in the chestal area, the breastal area, or both.

So, Coretta makes you turn around, and scrutinizes you in the exact same way that an insurance assessor looks at a dented car, and she whips her tape measure around you in three or four different directions, then she kindly informs you that you have gained weight only in the breastal area, and to make you feel bettter she adds that maybe you gained some unwanted weight, but you also got something that other women paid a lot of money for, and all you had to do was eat spaghetti and fried chicken.

And you can say, "On the other hand, women who pay a lot of money to go up a bra size probably don't ask the plastic surgeon to ramp them up a pants size or two while they're at it."

You can say that, and it's just a statement of fact, and you don't have to apologize for being a little chubby.

Now don't get me wrong. I love my college-aged readers, and y'all are very smart, or else you wouldn't be knitting, and you are good at lots of other things as well, and you are better than I am at a great deal of things, like doing HTML, and making the line spacing on Blogger behave, and programming your your cell phone to walk the dog and start the dishwasher.

But knowing how to properly fit a bra -- and I do mean a good, proper, correct and supportive fit, a fit beyond breast-measurement-minus-chest-measurement -- that is a skill that comes with age and experience. Lots and lots of experience. And it's simply not the kind of experience you rack up at your part-time job putting undies on hangers at the mall to get you through college so you can get a real job.

Which is why I needed to talk to Coretta.

So now I have a couple of new bras and I even got away from it all through the side entrance of the store and without having to venture into the actual bowels of the mall.

Nice bras that fit. Good bras that maybe are even good enough to show off a new sweater in.

We shall see.

Off to spin.

Non-Sequitur Sunday:

A Funeral, Trains and Yarn

This has been a tiresome and disappointing week. Dave and I lost a dear old friend, Louis Jennings, father of one of our dearest friends, Simon, who is no longer with us, either. We went to the funeral on Friday. Louie was 86 years old and had been married to his high school sweetheart since right after World War Two, in which he served as a signal officer (Morse Code) before moving on to a lifelong career with the Streets Department in New Orleans. He and his wife had to move several times after Katrina and I believe the added stress took the last bit of steam out of my old friend. He will be sorely missed.

Simon was that rare sort of friend who wanted his own friends to know and love his family. That's not a very common thing. Except for a few very close friends, I am only noddingly acquainted with the parents and extended families of most people I know. I'm glad to have had the privilege to know Louis and his wife Nola, and Simon's brothers as well.

Being out of sorts from Louie's death, I'm dispirited and a bit short on blog fodder, so here's some random reportage on events from this week.

On Saturday Dave and I went to the monthly event for the Louisiana Steam Train Association, of which we are members. They had a bluegrass band playing train songs, and the organization spent the afternoon running the old SP 745 up and down the tracks in the historic railroad yard. The event was open to the public and was a fine way to spend a relaxing afternoon. Of course the train staff wears historic costume and loves to show off the steam engine. They have an open flatbed car for the "fun rides," or you can ride in the caboose if you prefer. It was a fine, cool day to sit on the open car and knit.




I have no idea who those people in the foreground are, but I wanted a shot of the green car on the adjacent track, in which the train association houses their railroad museum on wheels.

When we got home, I dabbled with a bit of KoolAid dyeing. I had an old silk tank top which had faded to a dull shade of blue-gray but was otherwise in good shape, and a sample of natural brown sheep-colored homespun I wanted to overdye with Black Cherry to see what effect I would get.

Before:








And after. The yarn came out a rich shade of mahogany and the shirt, not being quite as dye-thirsty, came out a nice shade of plum. I'm pleased with the results.

Also? It sorta makes me wonder how my hair would take to Black Cherry...







I also did a couple of bobbins full of merino, spun from dyed roving from Alpaca Direct -- 426 yards of smooth, worsted-spun, two-ply sock weight:






And, under the careful supervision of Tessie the Elder, I spun up some of Ray's hand-dyed grey Jacob's fleece, which came out to a lovely dark tweed with olives and blues. Click on the picture to enlarge it for more detail:

Because it is intend for a scarf, I spun the Jacob's fleece woolen-spun at two-ply DK weight. It's spongy, warm and soft. I made no effort to arrange the colors or match up color repeats during plying, I just let them fall randomly and then plied them randomly as well, for a somewhat tweedy effect.

Ray, I really like this colorway and I think it would be a welcome relief for the spinner/knitter who must knit for a man, Goth teen, or anyone else who only wants super-dark colors. There's enough color variety to give the knitter some interesting color changes, a rich texture and a little sense of "hey, what's coming next?" so the knitter doesn't die of Drab Solid Boredom when knitting for a color phobic family member.

So I started a scarf with it. After all, Christmas is coming. If you look closely at this picture of the scarf embryo, you can see the subtle color gradients. Again, click the picture to enlarge. I like it.

And now I'm out of things to say. I have a stack of work deadlines looming at me and I need to get out in the cool air and take some long walks to shake off the doldrums I am feeling with all the bad news coming down the pipeline the last few weeks.

Best to you and yours.

Spinning on All Hallows

There are some forces on this earth far older than written language, far older than any religion.  They are older than mankind's ability to reckon by the stars and tell tales by the fire, older even than the first creatures to mate and migrate according to these ancient rhythmns.

The ebb and flow of the seasons is something acknowledged at the primordial level within each of us, regardless of our conscious beliefs. Long before human beings were able to measure the year by the length of days and the progress of the sun, the dying back of green things and the onset of cold weather must have been an ominous thing indeed. A time of death and ending -- certainly it marked the end of the year.







Imagine youself in a place far away, deep in the past, wrapped in animal skins and sleeping close to the fire at night in a cave or some other makeshift shelter. You are so far back in the past that there are no humans yet in places like Australia and the Americas. Your people are newcomers in the northern lands. You must live by your wits, following the herds you hunt for sustenance, and supplementing your diet with the seasonal bounty you find along the way -- fresh greens in springtime, fruit in the summer, nuts in autumn and roots in the bitter depths of winter. Imagine how miraculous the appearance of each of these things must seem to you, an early hunter and gatherer. Imagine how sacred a fern-clad spring must seem -- life-giving water bursting forth from the ground, water that doesn't make you sick from the intestinal parasites passed along by the mammoth and reindeer who graze along the banks of rivers. Surely some mystical force produces that magical water.

The mammoth and mountain sheep leave other things behind -- tufts of their coats snag on twigs and branches when they rub against the bushes in the spring. You collect these fibers, make padding out of them, and save them for warmth in the winter.


The females of your people bleed in harmony with the changes in the moon, yet magically do not become weak or die, and babies erupt from the place where this mystical bleeding occurs. The women feed their babies with nutrients that spring forth from their own breasts. You do not understand how these things happen, but they happen only to women, and you suspect that being female is a very powerful thing.


The males of your tribe avoid you when the mysterious bleeding is going on, but when you give birth, you are given special status for awhile, and your tribe celebrates, perhaps inviting the other tribal group from the valley where you live. Your tribe's women are attracted to the males of other tribes, and this brings fresh genetic material into the bloodline of your small group. Perhaps the males of the other tribe offer a hide, a flint blade, or some meat in appreciation of this mating opportunity.  It is a time of celebration and trade. Likewise, the males of your tribe will find women among the other tribe, refreshing their genetic line as well.  Months from now, this celebration of birth will again bring new life to both groups.


Lineage is traced through the female, simply because everyone knows who their own mother is.

You do not know that the tilt of the earth is responsible for the change of the seasons. You know only that there is a rhythmn that brings forth bounty at some times and dearth at others. When autumn comes, the leaves fall, and the last fruit disappears.  You have no way of knowing for certain that spring will come again. You know only that as the days get shorter and the nights get colder, death creeps in from all sides. The onset of cold weather, from your point of view, is a very bad thing, fraught with ill omens and evil spirits.



By daylight, death is real and tangible, and sometimes visits in the form of wolves or cave bears. By night, the wolves who watch from the shadows seem far more mysterious than they do in daylight, and their eyes glow when they dare to come within reach of the firelight. Your own eyes do not do this. Perhaps the wolves have a special power that you lack. Perhaps the spirits of the dead can shape-shift into wolflike form. It is easy to imagine these things in the dancing shadows cast by the fire.
Huddled around the fire at night, your people begin to tell tales of death and the underworld as the leaves fall around you and the cold fingers of frost tease at the mouth of your cave. Your shaman dons skins and a fearsome animal skull, and dances to frighten Death away.

Now imagine yourself in another life, thousands of years in the future. Your people no longer hunt and gather for sustenance. Instead, they have learned to plant crops along the banks of rivers, in time with the seasons, to take advantage of the fertile soil deposited by the spring floods. Goats and sheep graze in verdant pastures along the riverbank, and your people eat their meat, drink their milk and make cheese from it.

Somewhere along the way, your people have learned that the hair from the backs of sheep and goats can be twisted and wrought into thread, and this in turn can be woven into cloth. The same is true of some of the reeds that grow near the river as, also in time with the seasons, they grow, fall, and rot, to reveal the fibrous material hidden within their stalks.
We do not know who first twisted a lock of wool into a thread, but I like to think it was a young girl, bored silly as she tended the sheep, who found a tuft of wool clinging to a twig and who began to twist that twig and to pull on the resulting strand of yarn, using the same idle gesture with which she twirled her long hair to relieve the dullness of sheep-tending. I like to imagine her running home through the fields, to show her mother what she has made. She has no idea that she has just changed the history of the entire human race.
By now, the language of your people has become far more complex, and the changes of the seasons have names. The forces that cause these changes are still not understood, but now these forces carry the names of gods and goddesses who rule over them and who protect fertility, the harvest, the wind and the rain. And these gods and goddesses seem responsive to the rituals that have grown up around the changes of the seasons, the harvesting of crops and the birth of children.

A goddess has come to rule over that ancient, sacred spring in the valley, and she must be appeased with offerings of flowers and wine when fresh water is taken, lest the source dry up.


Women have learned new powers. By twirling a stick and flicking our fingers, we turn a handful of fluff into fine thread, and this we turn into cloth. These actions of creating clothing to cover and warm ourselves has become so terribly important that trade with other tribes revolves largely around these things, and a whole host of goddesses and spirits must be appeased at each stage in the spinning of fiber and the creation of cloth.

Skilled dyers grind dried insects and roots to create color in the depth of winter when no flower blooms. The making of color, the transformation of wool into thread and then into cloth -- these things are no less than magic, and the tools of the spinner, weaver and dyer become infused with the power of those who wield them.


Your tribe has made the association with the whirling of a spindle, the turning of the stars above, and the cycle of the seasons. Your potters and artisans begin to draw circles and spirals, and to make these important marks upon vessels, perhaps even upon your own skin. This is done in acknowledgement of the importance of cycles -- the cycles of the moon, the pivoting sky, the waxing and waning moon, and the change of the seasons.



People sit around the fire in a circle in which everyone has equal status, and some tribes build their huts in the shape of a circle as well. Your people begin to place stones in a circle, to mark the spot where the sun rises during the course of the year. Inside these circles, creation stories are told, and in many of these tales, this world and the cosmos were spun into existence by a spinning goddess.


But there is change in the wind. This new, agrarian society requires that your tribe stay in one place most of the time, and your homeland must be defended against invaders from less verdant valleys, invaders who would raid it for the bounty of its rivers, fields and flocks and for the fertility and skills of its women. For the first time, specific weapons are forged, not for hunting boar, but for killing men.


Inevitably, someone has discovered that brute force and weapons also hold another power -- the power to keep women in check, the power to supress those who, for so long, have been surrounded by a mixture of awe and tabu. Control over when and with whom they will mate is taken away from the females, to assure the continuation of the leading warriors' and landholders' names. Matriarchal lineage is supressed, and male lineage is imposed in its place.


Patriarchal lineage requires absolute control over every aspect of the behavior of women, lest someone else's blood creep into the ruler's line. Women become the property of their husbands, fathers and brothers. Women are compelled to cover their hair and disguise their figures, constraints are put upon their daily activities, and they are largely removed from political power. Even a queen has little real power except for her ability to being forth sons, to raise them to be royalty, and perhaps to manipulate men in politics favorably to ensure the prosperity of her own offspring.


The need for weapons and organized defense of the valley also requires new deities to rule over this developing business of war and power, and these deities are given male form. In the worship of the male-warrior deities, it becomes important to view the natural powers of women, not as life-giving and beneficial, but as something to be deeply feared.


One day, a leader of warriors notices that, after a night of bedding down with women -- perhaps after a seasonal celebration in honor of the fertility goddess -- his men are too fatigued to perform well in battle with a marauding tribe. He decides that women somehow steal power from men through the act of sex, and declares that frequent mating must be avoided if the marauders are to be kept at bay.

Generations later, when written language emerges, these and other behavioral prohibitions are written into law and inscribed into the texts of holy books. By then a story of its own has grown up around the origin of these behavioral controls, and they have become, not the code of men, but the word of God.Sexual sin has been invented, and women have been placed in charge of it.

Now imagine yourself much closer to the present, in a dark and unforgiving time. It has been a few thousand years since your womanhood was revered and respected; instead, you are feared and despised. The men who enforce their own interpretation of the rules of a male god are now in charge of the land, and a high council of this church's leaders has given you a soul by the margin of a single vote.

These men have made it a crime to honor the old ways, but still, they cannot avoid them. Instead, they impose upon the old celebrations the rites of the new male deity, but these rites are still tied to the seasons -- the new rites are simply superimposed upon the old days of the calendar.


The saints of this new religion are conveniently assigned patronage over spinning, weaving, farming, sheep-herding, and other aspects of daily life previously guided by local gods and goddesses. There is constant and dramatic struggle for control over land and people, a struggle ostensibly for the salvation of souls but actually for the centralization of power.


The greatest crime is to display any power that may, even in the smallest way, rival the power of the male deity, his priests, and, by extension, the king or emperor. As a woman, you are feared for the simple magic of home and hearth, for the magic of dye, spinning, weaving and herbal healing. 

If you are young and pretty, you are feared for your ability to attract men. Other women become jealous, and accuse you of using evil spells and consorting with spiritual enemies of the male deity. Men with no self-control blame you for the lewd images which fill their imaginations, and they sling their own baseless accusations. 

If you are old or unappealing, you are feared. If you have a gentle way with animals or a special touch at brewing ale, you are feared for this magic, too, and are accused of unspeakable acts.


The same accusations fly if you are a man perceived as being "different." I you step outside the boundaries of your assigned social and sexual roles, you can be disposed of as well. Femininity has been declared to be evil, so for a man to be effeminate is unthinkable. He, too, must be destroyed. 

The stake awaits all who displease the patriarchs and their male deity.

A whole host of superstitions now surrounds women who are skilled at the business of making yarn or fabric, and, in fact, except for spinning and providing woven fabric for one's own family, the fiber arts now are largely forbidden to us, with these valuable activities having been usurped by men, and the powerful guilds they forge to retain control over the lucrative businesses of dyeing, weaving fine cloth, felting, fulling ... and a new, profitable way of making fabric called "knitting."


If you are a woman, and you upset anyone, you are easily disposed of. All anyone has to do is to cry out, "witch!"


By now, the new religions have trodden down and taken firm hold over the old ways, but certain undercurrents are too powerful to remain supressed. In the rural places, the peasants still light fires and drink ale to mark the changes of the seasons, and young couples still tryst in the old places of fertility. Tales are still told 'round the fire, but now the fire is in a stone hearth, and the spinner of yarn tells the tales passed on to her from many generations of grandmothers. As she speaks, the turning of the ancient drop spindle holds magic of its own. 

Many people also have come to believe that the turning of the newly invented spinning wheel enchants the spinner, placing her into a trance through which she can see visions of things to come.  This is considered dangerous by the men in charge of the village, who whisper of witchcraft.


And now bring yourself back to the present. Maybe you are Catholic, Methodist, Jewish or agnostic, but your life still hangs on the turning of the seasons, whether you dwell in the city or on the land. Several times during the course of the coming year, you will prepare special foods, touch a flame to candles, and make lighthearted purchases of holiday lights and decorations, because your insistent subconscious mind is reminding you that it is Time. Time to acknowledge the change in the season and the slant of the light.


Halloween, the Eve of All Saints, or, under its old name, Samhain ... this is one of the oldest holidays in human history. Like the ancient belief that this is the night when the dead walk the earth on their way to the other side, the Christianization of this holiday -- All Soul's Day -- also honors all who have died during the year (saints are honored the following day, November 1st).


But the old traditions still remain, and rightly so -- it's important to remember our roots, regardless of what you believe or practice in your workaday life.

Our current celebration is not so different from the practices of days gone by. People in days of old carved a crude lantern from a turnip or gourd and left it at the doorstep to light the dead on their way to the other side on this night. Offerings of ale and sweets were left on the stoop to keep the dead from entering the home in search of refreshment. Noisemaking and merriment were believed to keep the terrifying spirits of the dead at bay.


I always spin on Halloween, to honor the countless generations of women who spun by the fireside, women who passed down the old stories from one generation to the next -- it's where we get the term to "tell a yarn." By the time the tale is told, a spindle has become filled with new yarn. 

Celebrating Halloween is an important way to honor my Irish ancestry -- Ireland was, and still is, one of the few holdouts of the old ways, and the Celts were the last among Western peoples to succumb to the patriarchal and expansionist suppression of their ancient cultural roots, a culture in which the affairs of women were of prime importance.

I also spin to remember the women who burned at the stake, not because they were evil, but because others were jealous of their arts and skills, or simply because they were different, or unpopular. They need to be remembered.

Finally, I always spin a bit on this ancient day to connect myself to the countless generations of women who have held a fluff of wool in one hand while a whirling stick dangled from the other. It isn't so hard to imagine an endless thread tying generation to generation, a thread disappearing far into the shadows of time, passing from the hands of one woman to another, all the way back to the first woman -- the woman who spun the sky.


Happy Halloween.