Here Is Some Pretty For You

Last weekend I taught a day of lace (History, Methods and Styles of Lace followed by Lace Edgings: Before, During, and After) to a gung-ho group of students. One of them brought a surprise: a box of nineteenth-century knitted lace stockings.

I thought you might like to see them, and though I'm still learning to love the camera that lives in my new telephone I was able to take some tolerable photographs during our intermezzo.



They are family pieces. The knitter (who prefers to remain anonymous) says they were made by her great-grandmother (who was married in 1819) for her grandmother–a sweet and all-too-rare example of a knitter's handiwork being lovingly preserved and properly documented.

All are white cotton. There are knee-highs and thigh-highs. The knee-highs have ribbed tops.



The thigh-highs were obviously extra-special: turned-over picot hems, lacy tops, and then a row of eyelets just below for threading a ribbon tie.





The leg patterns were beautifully varied and the workmanship was impeccable.





And how to do you make a gorgeous gift like this even more special? You knit the recipient's initials and the date into it.



Notice that the initials are upside-down, just under the fancy leaf-lace top. I wonder if this was intentional (so that the wearer would see them when she pulled them on) or whether the knitter was halfway through when she realized what she'd done; and then decided she was absolutely not going to start over again. Hey, it happens.

Nineteenth-century knitters...knitters just like you and me.

Less Impressive Socks

The new Knitty is out, and as ever my column is in it. This time, by coincidence I wrote about a Victorian sock. A kid's sock. A flat kid's sock. A flat kid's sock knit from an 1870 pattern I just absolutely hated.

Blow Me, Thou Winter Wind

And the crabbiness continues over at the Lion Brand Yarn blog, where I wrote about spring, or the lack thereof; and drew a spring chicken.

Is this any way for a grown man to make a living?

Stars in My Eyes

I went to Iceland to teach knitting on a tour for knitters–and forgot to bring something to knit.

I left with knitting in my bag, sure. I didn't have a hat or neck warmer to wear on the trip, so I whipped them out en route. But that left me with nothing to knit once I landed.

Of course, in Iceland you are never more than two feet from a yarn display and I picked up two balls of Lopi Einband. Einband is Lopi's laceweight. Fuzzy, warm, decidedly on the crunchy side. Takes dye like a mofo, blocks like a dream.

Total cost: six United States dollars.

I started playing with the yarn during the tour, and now it looks like this. I'm calling it Iceland Sky–fathoms of blue studded with stars and draped in the aurora borealis.










Pattern forthcoming. This week, as soon as the Anna Shawl comes back from the splendid new tech editor, Iceland Sky heads out for him to review.

Wee Wee Wee

I have always had an affinity for the small–possibly because I happen to fit neatly in that box myself, with plenty of room to spare.

Years of unfulfilled longing meant that when I saw this at a local thrift shop



I decided it was coming home with me.

It's a home-built townhouse, front-opening. Age and provenance unknown. The style is decidedly of the first quarter of the twentieth century; but the windows that still retain their glazing are fitted with sheets of clear plastic. This could be a later replacement for celluloid/acetate, or it could mean a house constructed in the 1950s or later using an old set of blueprints.

However old it is, I love it. The exterior is agreeably battered and faded, with most of the pretty details intact.

I love the way the builder used just two colors and simple materials (wooden beads, bits of stock moulding) to achieve a richness of effect.



Inside, six rooms and an elevator. The elevator is operated via a crank in the base. It took some cleaning and oiling, but the car now travels up and down smoothly on the string while I hum "The Girl from Ipanema."



I've enjoyed imagining why the exterior was finished with so much care, but the interior was left completely unfinished. It might have been that a deadline (Christmas? birthday?) forced the doting amateur carpenter to deliver it half-made with a promise that interior decoration would follow. It might have been that the little owner was expected to do her own decorating, but never got around to it. It might have been that the miniature occupants got into such a dreadful fight over wallpapers for the front hall that they divorced and abandoned the property.

There's also a scenario involving alien abduction, but let's move along.

Whatever the reason, I'm happy the rooms are a perfect blank. In their current state, they have a melancholy I admire.



Also, were there even a scrap of 1930s linoleum, I'd feel honor-bound to preserve it. Since nothing period survives, I shall fill it up to my heart's content following my own fancy.

Of course that means needlework. A very small heap of very, very small needlework.

The scale of the house is not the 1:12 (inch-equals-a-foot) standard for modern "collector" houses meant for adults. It's 1:16, the old "play" standard for miniatures meant for children. Period furniture in 1:16 isn't impossible to find–the two metal chairs in the photographs are from Tootsietoy, a now-defunct maker once based here in Chicago–but it's uncommon, expensive, and often startlingly ugly. As much as possible, I want to make my own stuff.

I've already been knitting small, partly out of guilt. Remember Ethel? Ethel was supposed to be the doll who ended up in this, but proved unequal to the burden of all those layers. She was replaced by another model from the same agency. It happens all the time–even sample-sized gals aren't all built the same.

Ethel didn't complain, but I began to feel bad that she has ended up lying naked in a drawer for a year. She at least needs some frilly underclothes, lace-edged. I could buy doll's clothes. I could buy lace. But it's more fun to make them.

Enter the 00000.

This 00000 (also called five-aught, or 1mm) knitting needle was part of a bundle of antique double-pointed needles given to me as a gorgeous gift by a marvelously generous knitter I met while teaching at Sealed With a Kiss in Guthrie, Oklahoma. To give you some idea of the scale:



As I'm fortunate enough to have this blog read in many countries abroad, I put in as many small coins as I could find in the change box. I'm sorry that the selection was limited to places I've been. (Asia, Australia, South and Central America–I'm ready when you are.)

Now, standard needles go down to a completely hilarious 00000000 (that's eight-aught)–so I don't pretend I'm breaking any kind of record in working with a pair of five-aughts. Nutjobs like Betsy Hershberg (have you seen her new book, by the way? disgustingly good) would think nothing of this.

This is the finest work I've done yet, though. And it's fun. Like picking at a scab is fun.

Here's the edging for the bottom of Ethel's chemise, on the blocking board. The thread is DMC 80 Crochet Cotton, which is not much thicker than sewing thread.



If you're curious about the itttybittyknitty experience, some quick beginner's notes:

• Yes, it takes a while to find a comfortable grip. In fact, banish the word "grip" from your mind. Any attempt to "grip" one of these needles will result in a crumpled piece of wire. On the other hand, it seems to be normal and desirable that as you knit, the needles will take on gentle curves that fit your hands just so. I find this endearing. They're not just needles, they're obedient pets.
• I have seen (but do not own) knitting holders from the 19th century that protected fine needles inside stiff metal (sometimes silver) tubes. Having now tried to transport a pair of five-aughts in a standard knitting bag on the subway, I understand why.
• A magnifying glass is a great help if you are over sixteen. (I am.) Good lighting is vital, unless you enjoy gnashing your teeth until they shatter like cheap wineglasses. I have never been so grateful for my Ott Lite, which has both a huge magnifier and a clamp that holds my chart where I can see it.
• My antique five-aughts have blunt ends. I'm looking to play with some modern five-aughts and see if they have pointed ends. Pointy ends are a boon when you're trying to work a double-decrease. Fooling about with blunt-ended fine needles has kicked up my appreciation of 19th-century knitters another couple notches. I've seen photos of those women operating these things with gloved hands, which I think helps to explain the widespread Victorian notion of female hysteria.

Finally, if you take your five-aughts out in public, exercise caution. I brought this to the coffee shop the other day.



It's a lace insertion for Ethel's chemise, yet another variation of the double-leaf motif that's been kicking around since the early 19th century.

I do a lot of knitting at this coffee shop. All the baristas know me. I've even taught a few of them the rudiments of knit and purl.

I was limping along, determined to make headway even without my magnifying glass and in dim light. I barely noticed the manager inching closer, pretending to wipe down empty tables but keeping one worried eye on me. When she was about two feet away she stopped and sighed with evident relief.

"Something wrong?" I asked, looking up.

"That is wicked small yarn," she said.

"You ain't kidding."

"Well," she said, "from over at the counter you can't see it. Or the needles."

"Really?"

"Uh huh. So you were sitting there...and moving your hands...and looking at them...and sometimes you were stopping to count...but it looked like you weren't holding anything."

"Oh, dear."

"I was sort of worried that maybe you were, I don't know–having some kind of knitting-related seizure?"

I reassured her that I wasn't.

But we all know it's only a matter of time.

Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy

Yesterday, in an antiques shop near the harbor in Reykjavik, I found these* under a stack of old sheet music.



Last night, inside the blue one, I found this.



That's the most exquisite hand-drawn lace chart I've ever seen. I think it's time for a mystery knit.

*Kunst-stricken is "art knitting"–in other words, knitted lace.

Whew.

Hi. I'm sitting at Logan Airport, in Boston, waiting for my flight to London for KnitNation. I saw on Facebook that Clara Parkes is getting ready to leave Dulles for the same, and I know other teachers are on the move as well. Most of us will hit Crumpetsville tomorrow.

I like the idea of mass migrations of knitters. More colorful than migrating wildebeest. Less liable to poop on your head than migrating birds. Far more pleasant than the roving swarms of locusts or beetles or whatever it is that has been eating the damn leaves in my flower bed. (Oy. Don't even ask, seriously.)

My schedule for the next three weeks may be summarized thus:

1. Fly to London.
2. Teach in London.
3. Play in London.
4. Leave London for Southampton.
5. Leave Southampton for New York.
6. Leave New York for Portland.
7. Teach in Portland.
8. Leave Portland for Chicago.

Packing took nine hours and six different lists, and I still left the apartment without my #@$%!* phone.

This will be a family event. Tom joins me for numbers 3 through 5; Dolores and Harry will be in attendance for the whole shebang.

(Shebang is, don't you think, an almost too-apt description of an undertaking in which Dolores becomes involved?)

Getting ready for all this has turned me into a terrible blogger, and I beg your indulgence. Will you think more kindly of me if I show you some actual knitting? No kidding, actual knitting. A whole shawl, in fact. I was going to wait until after this trip to post about it, but I can't stand it any more. It's been finished for yonks.

Tell you what, I'll show you some of the test photos; the pattern will be for sale via download come August. If you want to see it in person, I have it with me.

It's another in the series named for women in my family. This one's for my mother, so it'll be called Anna. Anna is Giovannina's daughter, Pauline's daughter-in-law and Sahar's mother.



The yarn is Cascade Heritage Silk, about which I do not believe there is yet enough happy screaming. I fell in love with it halfway through Swatch #1; and having completed one project in it I'm already in the mood for another.



This piece taught me something interesting, which is that you cannot sum up your mother in a couple of stitch motifs. Or at least I can't sum up my mother in a couple of stitch motifs. So there's less overt symbolism here than in, say, Pauline; and fewer outside references than in Giovannina.

While I was designing the lace patterns, I tried knitting Things That Spoke of Mother; and every time the results fell short. How could they not? A woman goes through very scary labor in order to bring you into the world, then spends decades dealing with your quirky child self and your weird teenage self and your annoying adult self. She never once complains, she never stops loving you. And then you turn around and say, "Hey, I put everything you are and have done into in this bunch of yarnovers that kind of looks like a flock of doves if you squint." Right.

In the end I set the whole idea of symbolism aside. I just played with the yarn until what was on the needles seemed to bear some kinship to my mother's spirit.



So almost every time I look at this shawl, I see different things. Once it was honeybees–very suitable for a mother who has uncomplainingly spent her life in near-constant motion, making things for other people. Another time, during the knitting, I realized that the little pair of yarn overs that pop up periodically reminded me of her eyes. Especially since they were all over the place. If there is anything that makes me think of my mother, it's all-seeing eyes. She was and is a modern Argus, only she's a hep chick from Detroit and she can dance better.



Mom, I hope you like it. In the end, I admit that I can't sum you up in one shawl. But what the heck. You know the truth. They're all dedicated to you, even when they don't have your name on them.

A Stole Full of Peas

If Chicago's rainy streak doesn't break soon, I'm afraid I'll break out in moss. Everyone passing the café window is bent forward, shoulders hunched under the weight of the persistently beastly weather.

This has been a dreary spring even for a city in which dreary weather is a specialty. The only thing grayer than the sky is the grass. Optimistic trees that put out buds during a freak warm spell weeks ago are now shivering with regret. We got a few daffodils and tulips, here and there. Most died quick and humiliating deaths, beheaded or stabbed in the back by the north wind.

To garden near the lake in Chicago is to be a masochist. Nature intended this land to be swamp, wind-swept and mostly populated by grass and skunk cabbage.* You are reminded of this every time you watch a perennial trumpeted as "bulletproof" pop its clogs due to the sort of bizarre weather you thought went out of fashion after they put the finishing touches on the Book of Exodus.

Mind you, the city's official motto is Urbs in horto–city in a garden. Hah. A fib in Latin is still a fib.

But this is the first place I've actually got dirt to play with, after a frustrated lifetime of poring over gardening books and poking dejectedly at window boxes. It's not my dirt, but it's dirt. Though I don't own it–it's a series of neglected beds attached to a condominium in my neighborhood–as long as I've got it, I'm going to make it bloom, dammit.

Unlike many of my strong impulses, which will not be itemized here as my mother is probably reading this, I know where this urge to garden comes from.

One of my very earliest memories, clear as a bell, is of sitting on the turf by my grandmother's vegetable garden, watching her dig and plant. I can't have been older than a year-and-a-half. I may have only just learned to sit up. But I recall the scent, and the feeling of the clammy earth, and the print of her cotton shirt and the soft sound of the spade. It was a moment of pure joy, and before I die I plan to recapture it as nearly and as often as possible.

The garden is long gone, but I know for certain that my fascination with planting and growing–which for years has been stifled–comes from that moment.

A New Pattern

When Véronik Avery asked me to do something with Boréale, the fingering weight yarn from her St-Denis Yarns line, the color and texture sparked the memory of my grandmother's garden. I'm sure it was because of the richness of the brown–deep, not dull–very much like well-worked soil.

I turned into a stole, Pauline, named after this lady, to whom I owe more than I can ever hope to repay. It's in Issue 3 of the St-Denis Magazine, now winging its way to local shops and online shops pretty much everywhere.



The pattern is designed to be extremely adaptable. Without any complicated math whatsoever you can change the width and length to suit your purposes. It'll scale down to a scarf or up to a bedspread with ease.



And the framework will accommodate your own choice of small lace motifs if you so fancy. I've put in things I remember my grandmother growing: peas-in-the-pod, strawberry blossoms, and (because even a vegetable garden should be pretty) hydrangeas.



The overall look is rustic. I wanted to see if I could make lace look pretty, but tough...just like my Grandma.

Royal Wedding Report

In case you haven't been following the unfolding events via Twitter at @yarnpoetharry and @doloresvanh, Harry made it to London. So did Dolores. She wasn't supposed to go, of course, but was (this is what I've been told) a victim of her own selflessness.

So worried was she about Harry's ability to negotiate the perils of O'Hare Airport on his own that she jumped through hoops to secure a "gate pass" from the airline and accompanied him to the aircraft. After helping him settle his snickerdoodles in the overhead compartment, she tried to exit, but tripped and got stuck under an empty seat in First Class.

Fancy that. It's a good thing she had a toothbrush, a copy of Liberated Ewe Quarterly and a week's worth of clothing with her.

I asked why the airlines didn't send her right back upon arrival at Heathrow. All I got was somewhat incoherent babble about one of the pilots busting in on her in the loo, and now having something in his private life he'd rather not have her tell the tabloids. If you want to know more, you can ask her. I'm keeping out of it.

Harry's Twitter feed suggests that he is having a marvelous time, making friends with Australian yarns who are also staying at the International Yarn Hostel in Wapping, visiting Kew Gardens, and going to see friends at I Knit London. Dolores can barely type at all, so I infer that she is also having a marvelous time in her own way.

I have been promised a full report after the solemn occasion, so look for it here this weekend or keep an eye on Harry's tweets. I hope he remembers to iron his formal morning ball band before setting off for the Abbey.

*Shikaakwa or chee-ca-gou in the tongue of the native peoples, from which comes our name.

Mrs. Weber's Lace

Last night, I am pleased to report, we had a rip-snorting good time at The Fiber Gallery. The official topic was photography; but before the class one of the students, Sabrina, pulled out something she'd brought to show me.

This is Sabrina's Romanian grandmother, Regina Weber.



When Mrs. Weber passed away earlier this year at age 87, she left behind a legacy.

Lace.



Some of the pieces were knitted.



Others were crocheted.



Still others appeared to be–to our eyes anyhow–a mix of crochet and...tatting? Are those rings tatting, perhaps? Sabrina's not sure.



Do any of you out there recognize this sort of work? Can you tell us about it?



One thing is certain: Mrs. Weber was an accomplished needlewoman. I feel lucky to have seen her work. Thank you, Sabrina!

The Five Stages of Niebling

1. Denial. "I really don't care if I never knit a pattern by Herbert Niebling. Hundreds of millions of people are born, live and die without ever knitting a Niebling; and yet they lead happy, fulfilling lives. What do I need with a doily, anyway? I don't even like doilies. No, I am absolutely not going to buy this book of lace patterns by Herbert Niebling."

2. Anger. "You know what, you stupid m-----f----ing doily? There's no law that says I am required to finish you. I can't be arrested for refusing to undo the same four rounds again. I could go shoe shopping or watch 'The Bachelorette' like a normal person. But first, I could cut you up into little pieces and use you stuff a cat toy. I've got the scissors right here. How would you like that, stupid doily? You want to end up inside a cat toy? How does that sound, m----f---er? Answer me! Shut up!"

3. Bargaining. "Listen, if we can just get to the end of this round of blossoms without running into any errata, I'll make a handsome donation to the American Society for the Preservation of Antimacassars and we'll go get some ice cream."

4. Depression. "A doily. A floral doily. In twenty-first century urban America. Stacks and boxes of thousands of unused, neglected doilies going for a nickel each at garage sales all over the place–and I'm knitting another one. Why? Why bother to bring another doily into a world that doesn't want it?"

5. Acceptance. "It wasn't so bad, really.



Of course, I'm not going to knit another one.



One is plenty.



I really don't care if I never knit another pattern by...[repeat from Stage One]."

A Conversation with Herbert Niebling (1905-1966)

Transcription of a séance conducted this afternoon chez Panopticon.

Present in body:

• Dolores Van Hoofen
• Franklin Habit
• Harry Bollasockyarn (secretary)

We gathered at 3:30 pm around Franklin’s brand-new Knitters’ Special Edition Ouija board.



DVH: Yo, ghosties! Speak to me!

FMH: Dolores, the instruction book says spirits won’t show up if you don’t take it seriously.

DVH: Right. I don’t understand why you can’t just post these questions in the “I’d Fuck Herbert Niebling to Get Free Patterns” group on Ravelry.

FMH: Because whenever possible, I prefer to get my answers direct from the source. Even if he’s dead.

DVH: Harry, let the record show that Franklin has been huffing the Eucalan again.

FMH: If you have something better to do today, I can call Mrs. Teitelbaum.

DVH: Or you could wait for Fred and Velma to drive up in the Mystery Machine.

FMH: Are we doing this or not?

DVH: We are. We are. Fine. Just let me top up my tea. More tea, Harry.

HB: One olive or two?

DVH: Olives? Am I having breakfast?

FMH: Put your damn hoof on the damn pointer.

DVH: Done.

FMH: And no pushing it.

DVH: Oh, please. I want this thing to work so I can ask Elizabeth Zimmermann a few choice questions.

FMH: I am the one asking the questions. You are sitting quietly and not pushing.

DVH: Whatever you say, Professor Dumbledore.

FMH: Alrighty. [cough] Ahem. Um...Testing. One, two, three.

DVH: Is this a séance or are you addressing a knitting guild?

FMH: Hoof on pointer. Mouth shut.

DVH: Oopsie.

FMH: Now. Are there any spirits with us in the room?

[Pointer moves to YES.]

DVH: Holy crap.

FMH: Are you pushing it?

DVH: Sir, your accusation wounds me.

FMH: Spirit, tell us, what is your name?

[Pointer spells out ABRAHAM LINCOLN.]

FMH: Whoa.

DVH: Hot. I like tall guys with facial hair.

AL: THANK YOU KINDLY

DVH: Is your crazy wife in the room, too, or may I speak frankly?

FMH: Dolores!

AL: SHE ALWAYS GETS HER HAIR DONE ON THURSDAY AFTERNOONS WONT BE BACK FOR TWO HOURS

DVH: Ooh. So…what are you wearing?

AL: YOURE A SAUCY THING, PRETTY MISS

DVH: Oh, go on, you big lug. [giggles]

AL: DID YOU EVER HEAR THE ONE ABOUT THE NAUGHTY EWE AND THE PREACHERS SON

FMH: I hate to interrupt, Mr. Lincoln, but we’re wondering if there’s a guy named Herbert Niebling floating around there by any chance?

DVH: Killjoy.

AL: IS HE A WEIRD GERMAN WHO KNITS DOILIES ALL THE TIME

FMH: That would be him.

AL: HANG ON A SEC

[Brief silence. Pointer moves to SHUT UP, I’M COUNTING.]

DVH: Typical.

FMH: Quiet, it’s moving again.

HN: THIS IS NIEBLING WHO THE HELL ARE YOU

FMH: Mr. Niebling, sir, oh my gosh...My name’s Franklin and I’m a knitter, and I really love your work. I just started knitting one of your patterns for the first time. It’s so much fun–and so beautiful. Gosh, I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you!

HN: FOR THIS YOU INTERRUPT MY SOAP OPERA

FMH: Oh. I’m sorry.

HN: IS OK WE HAVE TIVO

FMH: Whew. So can I ask you some questions about the doily?

HN: WHICH ONE IS IT

FMH: The piece with the gloxinia blossoms from Gestrickte Spitzendecken.

HN: WTF IS A GLOXINIA

FMH: Well, I think they’re gloxinia blossoms. Maybe they’re daffodils?

DVH: I thought they were petunias.

HN: MAYBE INSTEAD OF ME YOU PEOPLE SHOULD BOTHER A DEAD HORTICULTURIST

FMH: Honestly, the type of flower doesn’t matter. I just wanted to ask you about the funky maneuver on round 60.

HN: FUNKY UNUSUAL OR FUNKY LIKE JAMES BROWN

FMH: I mean “unusual.”

HN: NOBODY EVER COMPARES ME TO JAMES BROWN

FMH: I’m sorry. So, about the triple yarn over–

HN: I COULD HAVE BEEN VERY FUNKY YOU KNOW

FMH: I’m sure you could have, but–

HN: I WANTED TO JOIN HANS BREUER AND HIS HANOVERIAN SWEETHEARTS OF POLKA JAZZ BUT MAMA HAD A CONNIPTION WHEN I TOLD HER AND SHE LOCKED ME IN THE CELLAR WITH ONLY A CRUST OF BREAD AND A PIECE OF COLD SAUERBRATEN

FMH: That’s…sad. But–

HN: PEOPLE THINK GERMANS HAVE NO SOUL BUT LET ME TELL YOU WHEN I HAD A COUPLE OF STEINS UNDER MY BELT I COULD MAKE THAT ACCORDION SWING LIKE A CHEAP HOOKER ON A WINDY PLAYGROUND

DVH: Now we’re getting somewhere interesting.

FMH: Please, Mr. Niebling, do you think we could talk about lace?

HN: ALL I EVER GET TO TALK ABOUT IS LACE DONT YOU WANT TO HEAR ME PLAY THE ACCORDION

HB: I do! I love the accordion! Do you know “Lady of Spain?”

HN: THATS ONE OF MY PARTY PIECES

HB: Oh boy!

HN: THIS IS NICE FOR A CHANGE ALL ANYBODY EVER WANTS ME TO TALK ABOUT IS THOSE FRIGGING DOILIES

DVH: Personally I wouldn’t mind hearing more about the hooker in the wind.

FMH: Honestly, Mr. Niebling, it’s just a quick question about the triple yarn over in Round 60.

HN: GOTT IN HIMMEL IS HE ALWAYS LIKE THIS

DVH: Pretty much.

HN: IM SO SORRY

FMH: I think we’re finished, here.

DVH: Wait a sec. Hey, Herbie–is Elizabeth Zimmermann there by any chance?

HN: WE JAM TOGETHER TONIGHT AT 7 SHE REALLY WAILS ON THAT BASS GUITAR MAYBE YOU WOULD CARE TO SIT IN

DVH: I could clear my schedule. You need a singer?

FMH: I feel that I have become superfluous to this conversation.

HN: YOUR LITTLE BALD FRIEND THERE IS A BUZZKILL

DVH: You don’t know the half of it.

HN: HEY HOW ABOUT AS A JOKE I GET THIS POLTERGEIST BUDDY OF MINE TO BUST IN ON HIM WHEN HES TAKING A SHOWER

DVH: That would be a scream. You should totally do that.

FMH: Hello! Hello! Still in the room!

HN: ROFLMAO

[And then Franklin threw the board at the wall, so I don’t think we will be having another séance real soon.]

Respectfully submitted,

Please to Make the Acquaintance of My New Stole

Those nice people over at Lorna's Laces have a new yarn coming out in fall. I can't tell you what it's called, because it doesn't have a name yet. You can tell them what it's called, though, because they're putting the names suggested by the knitting public up to a vote.

It's a DK-weight silk/alpaca blend, and it's ever so nice on the fingers.

They gave me a bunch to fool about with, and this sheaf of quickie snapshots shows the result of the fooling. The colorway is under wraps until the debut at TNNA in June, so you're looking at it in black-and-white. (This is what blogging would have been like in the silent movie era.)

I'll photograph it properly when I can get it onto a model and into good light–Chicago is back to the usual February-in-May gloom that often passes for spring in these parts.

I call it Sahar.

The pattern will be available after the usual round of tech editing and test knitting.

Three Things That Keep Going Round and Round and Round Until My Vision Blurs and I Start to Feel Rather Sick

1. The Tea Cups at Disneyland.



2. Ann Coulter's "logic."



3. The edging on this new design for a shawl.

B.Y.O.D.

This afternoon I've been knitting at the neighborhood coffee shop where I do so much work we've begun to call it my Field Office.

The largest of the pieces-in-progress is a lace shawl design. As usual, the swatches for it have run to about a dozen, and I had them scattered across the tabletop along with the usual litter of tea cup, cookie plate, and laptop.

A lady in head-to-toe official Cubs regalia (we're near Wrigley Field and it's a game day) came in and settled herself with a latte at the next table. After a few sips, she looked over at me, and then at the pile of lace swatches. I could feel an interview coming on, and braced myself for the usual battery of questions. They're so predictable I've toyed with having the answers printed on a card so I could just hand it over and save everybody some time.

"Hi," she said.

"Hello," I said.

"Sorry to stare."

"It's okay. Happens all the time."

"I'm sure it does. You're pretty unusual."

"Heh...I suppose you could say that."

"Definitely. A lot of people sneak their own snacks into coffee places, but you're the first guy I've ever seen who brings his own doilies."

Speaking of Lace...

I'm teaching it at Loopy Yarns on Saturday. To be specific, I'm teaching "Lace Edgings: Before, During and After," which is a new class focused on sewing on edgings, knitting on edgings, and working edgings simultaneously with the shawl center. I premiered it at Renaissance Yarns out in Kent, Washington last month and we had a jolly good time. Do join us if you can.

And that's not all that's happening at Loopy. Veronik Avery's coming to town, and she's signing her new book on Friday and teaching a class on Sunday–visit Loopy's site for details.