Isn’t it beautiful? I just love it! I did not, in fact, block it with pins or anything, either; I soaked it for a good, long time in a Eucalan bath and then just draped it over the shower rod. It was "telling me" that that’s all it needed, and I believed it. The shawl knows best.
Project: Kershawl, my variation of Caryl’s Kerchief in which one just keeps knitting ’til the yarn runs out
Yarn: Hand-dyed sportweight wool from Red Barn Farm, "Pansy" color
Needles: US7 Addi Natura circular
Started August 24, completed (that is, it was off the needles) September 5, 2005.
There are a few "design features," most notably the little off-center jog of the last repeat because I must have mis-marked the center stitch. I did have to tink back the very, very long cast-off row and rip back an additional row because I ran out of yarn. I pulled off what I thought was sufficient yarn for the cast-off, considering that I wasn’t using beads, but not considering that I’d made it SHAWL size, not kerchief size. I hesitated for five minutes, considered Dad’s invitation to raid the closet for whatever close-match wool sweater I could find that would give me the needed inches — it wasn’t much more than just inches — but I knew I had to rip and re-do, so I slipped the stitches off the needle. No turning back then…
It’s a lovely morning — cooler, brighter and drier than it’s been in a while. We had a whopping thunderstorm roll through last evening, with winds in the 60 mph range. There was a lot of banging on the south side of the house as the wind blew and rain poured and Mdd wondered what it was. "Walnuts," was hubby’s reply. I’ve got some harvesting to do!! We lost two branches on another tree — they didn’t break off completely, so look pretty awful just dangling as they are. They’re high up and it’s going to be tricky getting them down.
I’ll tell you, it’s hard enough, sometimes, for me to remember what I wanted to post about between typing the title and moving the cursor to the actual body, but when there’s wine involved… It occurred to me that I didn’t sign on and post the other night just to tell you that I’d had some wine or to declare my love for Betty White (she’s been on my mind, too, because I recently saw her in some Boston Legal reruns and she’s still got it — that sweet, sweet smile accompanying the verbal daggers). I did kinda-sorta mention the subject I had in mind, but the whole Password tangent kind of overshadowed it.
I’ve gone to two art events with DH this year — these are the first in many, many moons — and I know how to pick ’em, I’ll tell ya, because both were FABULOUS! While not a chatterbox, I can usually hold my own with small talk, but one reason I avoid these gatherings is because I absolutely HATE being the spouse and answering all those spousal questions. I know that this is a situation that all spouses encounter in the occupation-related gatherings of their partner. While at an event with your lawyer husband, doctor husband, accountant husband, insurance salesman husband, welder, electrician, carpenter, etc., husband, is it usually assumed that you also work in that field? It seems to me that in the arts fields, it IS assumed, like artists attract — painters & potters, pianists & cellists. I think I felt some airs, "how could you understand, you’re not part of the club, that’s a stupid question" — not enough to spoil my evening, but a little grating. Perhaps it’s just me — I’ve been a little emotional and knit-picky lately. But that observation, my dears, is what I intended to post on Saturday night.
It’s not just an occupational hazard, it happens with certain colors of hair, too, doesn’t it, Kt/Ai? We’ve talked a few times about how people always feel the need to point out other redheads to them — as if they have a secret language or an automatic attraction, copper tresses & strawberry blonde. Heh.
And then Mdd tells me last night that we are a family with cars that have no butts. She doesn’t like my car or Ai’s (both wagons) because they don’t have butts, neither does her dad’s van, and even Kt’s Saab is a hatchback — no butt. When she gets a car, it’s going to have a butt!
Out of the mouths of babes, even teen-age ones…