Jolene\’s legs in her stockings

While the title implies a promise for some very racy reading, you may rest easy and read on if you planned on momentarily being offended. If you stop reading now in disappointment, I promise that I, on the other hand, will not be offended.

You may wonder, if you read my last post, if I have been knitting through all this chaos in my house.

Yes, yes I have. In fact, when things are tough, I knit. When stress comes, I knit. When I am hungry, I head straight to the pantry, bypass the healthier foods and devour two pounds of Ruffle\’s potato chips.

But I digress…

I love knitting. In spring and summer I especially love it, even when it\’s hot. There is something about being able to be outside that makes me imagine those kept Victorian (or Regency Era, for you Jane fans, of which I am one) ladies who were well schooled–and skilled–in language, art and fiber arts.

A \”hive hat,\” pattern courtesy of The Knitting Bee in Hillsboro, Oregon

I would love to make myself a Regency Era dress (and I swear I will do it one day) and sit under a tree like Alice in Wonderland (pardon the cross-referencing) on a sunny day. Instead of chasing rabbits, however, I want to knit all day, picnic, knit, have tea, knit more…you get the gist of the fantasy.

I love outdoor knitting so much that my husband created a sitting area for me on the east-facing front porch where I could sit in comfort to my heart\’s (and schedule\’s) content and while away the hours knitting.

Annie showing her brother\’s hat. I guess I should make her one.

This spring so far, I have completed a baby sweater for a friend, a slouchy hat for my son\’s 21st birthday and a pair of 100% baby alpaca thigh high toe-less and heel-less stockings for my dancer daughter. I had leftover alpaca, so I made a hive-style slouchy to match.

What fun it is so far, and I hope to make so much more!! I still have my mind set on some more sock patterns. I am re-reading the Hobbit in anticipation of the first film, coming out in December. Let\’s see what happens next!

A spring Oriental Poppy in our yard. Change can be beautiful

We\’ve been busy. Really busy. When you have a house filled with 6 children (not usually all at once, but I always think of the number alone as impacting. I like to say it: six.) you cannot avoid it, but this year it is especially so for us.

We have a toddler who is about to become a preschooler, a child finishing her first year of middle school, a child finishing his first year of high school, a child graduating high school, a child turning 21 and a child graduating college.

I like to joke that if you want to feel young forever, just keep having babies. It\’s not that simple. You need energy to stay young, too, and alas, there does not seem to be a limitless supply, no matter how much vitamin D and Gingko Biloba you take. When the subject comes up, I also like to joke that when we decided to have a child when I was 39 and my husband was 43, God looked down upon us and said something like, \”You want a child at 40? Here, try this one.\” Even God must have had trouble holding back laughter at this joke. And He must have certainly snickered to Himself as he sent us little Amy Rose. Amy Rose. Who keeps us up night after sleepless night and then runs, giggling, away from us non-stop all day as she tears apart everything in her path. Amy Rose: A tiny, impish, adorable tornado of cute desolation.

Energy or not, time marches on. While that seems to be a favorite theme of my mid-life epiphanies, it simply is true.

Last week, as I checked out two potential preschools for Amy, and was simultaneously planning a trip to Seattle to see my oldest daughter graduate from college on Mother\’s Day, I contemplated this year of change. It is quite a doozy.

I marvel at it all. Amy talks in great, adult sentences at just 3. Alex is leaving home soon; Ben will be a senior in 3 short years. And Jolene, my 23 year old, graduated from Cornish College for the Arts on Mother\’s Day with a BFA in dance, cum laude and on 4 scholarships. (I\’m not proud or anything…ahem!)

The good and the bad of it all; the ugly and the drama that comes with teens, or the precocious mischief that comes with toddlers, all ends (usually…hopefully not the mischief…if I have my way…) in adulthood. And while there are, of course, even more rites of passage through adulthood, this last year feels especially meaningful to me, like there is a crossing of all the paths at once. Sort of like the planets aligning.

It\’s a great time to see. To really see in our house. See the stages of life all at once, it seems. Even my parents come to mind. My dad turn 81 next month and it just increases the wonder. It feels like I have been given a map, unfolded it, and spread it out on a very large table. Between my three year old and older kids, my middle-aged husband, me, and my parents, we have at least one representative from every age group.

I plan to take it all in, enjoy it, hopefully receive insights and hindsights. Inspiration and direction.

As my daughter walked down the aisle after receiving her diploma to the beat of live African drum music, complete with costumed dancers (what do you expect from an arts college? It sure beat Pomp and Circumstance), I beamed.

I wept.

I am overjoyed even in difficulty.

I am glad to be alive.

Left to right: My mom, dad, Annie, me, husband Luigi behind me, Jolene to my left, Alex, then Amy Rose in front. Geoffrey and Ben are not in the picture this time.

Improving Your Skillset – 3KCBWDAY6

How far down the road to learning your craft do you believe yourself to be? Are you comfortable with what you know or are you always striving to learn new skills and add to your knowledge base? Take a look at a few knitting or crochet books and have a look at some of the skills mentioned in the patterns. Can you start your amigurumi pieces with a magic circle, have you ever tried double knitting, how\’s your intarsia? If you are feeling brave, make a list of some of the skills which you have not yet tried but would like to have a go at, and perhaps even set yourself a deadline of when you\’d like to have tried them by.

I started knitting about 3.5 years ago. To be exact. When my grandmother showed me how at age 8, I was so frustrated that I quit. While I wish now that she would have considered using pencils instead of super slick aluminum knitting needles for my lessons, it does not matter. For whatever reason, I did not really start  knitting until I was 39. 

This has been a great source of frustration for me. Looking back, I see how many lost years there are. Especially when I see so many people who can say, \”I have been knitting pretty much my whole life.\” Or, \”I guess I have been knitting about 30 years.\” And they are 35. 

Day One: Conception. An idea is born. You see that magical hand painted yarn in the LYS and you simply must have it.

Day Two: Rapid cellular growth, aka delusions of grandeur. \”Maybe it could be a scarf. No, a hat. No, a sock. Maybe I could buy more and make a stole. Or a sweater! What if it could work for my cocktail dress to wear to the annual company Christmas party? I have months to work! Oh, this is going to be special!\”

Day 3: Procrastination. This falls under the false attitude that says, \”I am thinking about it. This project has to be just perfect. The yarn has not spoken to me yet.\” You circle the yarn daily, maybe hourly, staring at it. You tell yourself that after all, you have to work, cook, do laundry. Meanwhile, you really just can\’t decide.

Day 4: Realization. You are handling the yarn for the 25th time, touching it, falling in love with its smell. You re-read the label from the hand dyer, amazed at her skill. You realize that you cannot buy more as the dye lots will not match. Your mind settles agreeably on a small project. You would like to maybe wear a new pair of socks after the weekend, anyway. You can handle a 3 day project. It\’s been years since you made a sock, but its exactly like riding a bike. Right?

Day 5: Divination. Digging deep into your brain, you remember a sock pattern that you were just dying to make a few years back, you dismiss a sudden thought that it might be out of style. Who cares about that, anyway? When you memory banks fail to tell you which book the pattern is in, you hold out your new skein of yarn, willing it to point you to the pattern on your bookshelf.

Day 6: Osmosis. Once you find it, you read and re-read the pattern, trying to make sense of it and wondering why you loved it before as your frustration in understanding it grows. You take it to bed with you and fall asleep with the book on your face and your glasses still on. When you wake up, you still don\’t remember the attraction and your book has drool on it. The dog has your glasses and Monday has already arrived.

Day 7: Rapid Growth. You decide to just take that awesome hand dyed yarn and knit up a quick stockinette pair of crew socks. The yarn will speak for itself, you say out loud. You look up a video on Youtube for a refresher on socks. You work away for hours, focusing hard on the heel flap and gusset. Once you get down to the foot, you see that the color pattern is pooling and flashing. Suddenly you remember why you wanted that pattern out of the book.

Day 8: Puberty.  You begin having wild mood swings, crying and screaming as you rip out the first sock that was almost done. You don\’t even know why you started this. Everything seems like a shambles. You need a clean slate. You run out and madly buy a few more hanks of plainer yarn. It makes you feel good again ( a little) and you tell yourself that, after all, a back up plan is in order.

Day 9: Maturity. After recovering from shopping therapy, you collect your wits you tell yourself that you will re-approach this project in a calm manner. You make a reviving cup of coffee. On this day, it\’s properties seem powerful, like smelling salts. Alert like never before, you go to Ravelry\’s magical database of patterns like a rational knitter and seek out a solid, appropriately lacey pattern from your favorite designer, made just for hand dyed yarn.

Day 10: Despair or accomplishment. At this crossroads, you must commit to slow, steady progress, admit defeat as it relates to unreasonable expectations. You realize that if you do not, you will be doomed to keep buying only store bought socks.

Day 11-15(or 16, 17, 18, 25….): Success. You proudly wear your new socks to work after all, and you tell yourself that it was all worth it. As your co-workers ooh and ahh over your new, awesome hose, you tell yourself that you will now make another pair from the other new yarn you bought.

Day 16 (or 17, 25, you get the idea): Contemplation. You give yourself a day to rest, then look at your stash. Your phone rings and you BKFF invites you to lunch and the local yarn shop.

Day 1…..

Anne Hathaway. Even she has been carried away in the hipster flood. What about Ella Enchanted?

\”…all the hot girls wear glasses…\” such is one description of a hipster Portland girl through the proverbial eyes of \”Portlandia,\” the satirical and spot on sketch comedy show. It is no secret that I love this show; I have blogged about it, even written my own imaginary script for it and love it so for what I see as it\’s hilariously accurate depiction of my hometown. What does this have to do with knitting, you say?

Everything.

People who live here understand the peculiar juxtaposition of the hipster influence next to almost everything (I would argue that we are affected even if it is subtle or even subliminal). And knitting is no exception.

Hold on! you say, the Ravelry Day 4 post for Blog Week is supposed be about seasons, not attitudes.

We do have seasons here. In fact, I\’d say that here in the Pacific Northwest, we have some of the best summers anywhere in the world. Usually.

Some of own boots, but only because they are in style right now. Now that\’s hip.

Most often, we are defined here by our rainfall. Our seasonal weather can consist of rain, rain and more rain, with little drizzle and mist sprinkled in. We may have a couple of snowflakes here and there in January and when summer arrives (if it does), there is no guarantee of a great one, or at least a long one.

No, we live often in perpetual moisture, in one form or another, and, while we do so cherish our lovely and precious summer days and blue skies, we typically live as though it will rain at any time. The rain has become such a part of who we are that natives of Portland rarely use umbrellas, boots or even hats. (This makes the newcomers stand out like hot red boots in a rain puddle shining in a sun break)

Do we knit for the weather? All the time.

In spite of our habitual lack of galoshes (we just wear crocs all the time) and rain ponchos, we are not totally clueless the our habitat. For example, we know that wool is the best \”wet\” fabric. It holds up to 25% of its weight in moisture before feeling wet, it is warm, it lasts for all time and it the most beautiful, diverse and fabulous knitting fiber. My fave. Once I discovered it, I wanted nothing else. And others are certainly with me.

My own recent thick socks. I love them. And I realize that I need some more  knitting photos soon!

Wool is great for the outdoor lifestyle here, too. Hiking, biking and just sitting-outside attire is often best served by this fabulous fabric. Because of all these things–monochrome weather (grey), lifestyle, lack of super hot stretches of heat–we can also knit any item we like, pretty much any time of the year. No one will look at you askance for knitting thick boot socks in August on a park bench. In fact, they may even say, \”hmmm…maybe I should think about that…you never know when you might need those. She is really planning ahead!\”

This practical aspect of knitting habits aside, we must return to the \”hipster factor.\”

As I said before, it permeates our lives here right now. And because it is \”new-ish,\” it presents some interesting issues.

Knitting has been around a long time. A really long time. There are paintings depicting the Virgin Mary knitting in the round on dpn\’s and it is widely believed that Roman soldiers wore knitting socks–in their sandals no less.

If you visit us here in the Northwest part of the U.S., you definitely will see people in Oregon and Washington wearing thick socks in their Birkenstocks summer, spring, fall and winter, but these folks are usually the \”old school\” knitters, artisans, artists (we have lots of awesome glass blowers here) and/or hippies. These people are typically the more the down-to-earth traditional hip people. Hippies and hipsters must not be confused.

Often, hippies (as I love and think of them) uphold more traditional knitting styles–things that can be expected. Big, long bulky aran sweaters and thick socks are wonderful examples of traditional semi-past knitting culture at least (last 40 years or so).

They are often the real deal in other ways, too. They may have actual sheep that they own and sheer. They may have been spinning and dying long before it was so popular and they have understood what it means to grow one\’s own organic garden long before \”everyone was doing it.\” They started living their lifestyle long ago, because they believed in something, wanted a healthier change, personally or socially. At any rate, they are genuine. They may even embody the \”pioneer spirit\” that is often used to describe the social feeling here in the Northwest.

Enter the hipsters. The newer, distorted look of the pioneer spirit. This does not describe an age group exactly, but an attitude–a small, yet pervasive one.

My kids used to use a word that fits here: \”poser.\” This word means that someone is trying to be something they are not. Like a shallow facsimile of the the real deal.

Instead of deep meaning, hipsters aspire to lofty knowledge without firm foundation. They pride themselves on knowing things before their friends do and spend a lot of time learning things–via the internet or otherwise–and lord it over everyone. They are the ones who simply must be first and best in a conversation, throwing around unsolicited social opinions on anything from the latest band to the latest research blog from The New Yorker.

The key here is the word \”latest.\” They must be first, they must be smartest, they must be best. And in a very short amount of time. It\’s hard to keep up minute to minute with absolutely everything, so I must assume the quality of the information is absolutely doomed to suffer. This differs greatly from truly skilled or knowledgeable people who spend time learning their ideas and crafts.

Traditional Hipster glasses. On the way out? Better get a pair soon. Then you, too, can be ironic.

The shallow hipster approach to being number one even leaks into fashion. Seems silly, but it does. One day you here from a friend that absolutely everyone is wearing leg warmers, the next, the same friend tells you that leg warmers are \”so over!!\” and cites a recent online article from someone allegedly in the know. Did you buy a pair of hipster-style glasses, thinking they were cute and fun? I personlly heard just today that they might be \”over,\” too! This thinking could leak into sweaters, fibers, dying, absolutely everything.

What about knitting?

How do you reconcile a traditional, ancient art such as knitting with a callow, hollow attitude towards everything but the aspiration to be first? Do we worry about trends, alleged though they may be, and rapid fire new ideas here in Portlandia? Do we fret about that yarn we bought 3 years ago and worry if it will be in style now? What about that pattern you purchased years ago, with the intention of becoming skilled enough someday to make it? Can we use it now? What if you just now learned about spinning and dying and wanted to put on it your bucket list? Can you?

Will you miss the window of opportunity? Will it all come crashing down? Will your sweater pattern, purchased in the 90\’s, be mocked today?

First of all, the dream of the 90\’s is alive and well here in the greater Portland Metro Area (see Portlandia opening montage). So go ahead and dream about that sweater pattern.

But more importantly, if one were to care about social acceptance here–and let\’s face it, those of us over 25 (and many of us under 25) no longer care–there is always a hipster \”out.\” Adjunct to the desire to be first, is also the desire to be ironic. It may even supercede the desire to be first. So go ahead, learn to knit, spin, dye. Whenever you want. Make that 80\’s cut boxy sweater (I am certainly about to… I like the cut) and wear it all with pride.

No worries: as quickly as something is \”over,\” it is \”ironic,\” meaning that as soon as wear an \”outdated\” item, you have already started a new trend. And so the cycle continues. Old concept? Sure. Just a new word.

We can rest assured that is is completely safe to cling to the ancient, the tried and true art of knitting. In all its forms, shapes and styles.

After all, at the end of the day, there are absolutely no new ideas under the sun anyway. No matter how many ridiculous words we come up with to express them.

Knit on, folks, knit on.

The drawing is done! The winner of Boutique Knits is…..

Cindy in Wisconsin!

Cindy, please email me at janwin98@comcast.net to claim your book!!

Thank you to everyone who entered and very, very happy knitting!

Thanks for reading,

Janelle

Amy Rose in a Daisy Kingdom dress I made for my older daughter, Annie, 9 years ago. This dress, special in its own right, represents so much more to me today than I ever dreamed it would

I was a weird kid.


I played with boys, picked my nose and, on an otherwise pleasant camping trip to Ft. Stevens when I was 8, tattled to the game warden on a young man at Coffinberry Lake because he was smoking and fishing without a license. I then sprinted to my parents\’ white Country Squire Ford station wagon with its wooden side panels and flattened myself out in the rear cargo space for fear that I would make eye contact with the boy who was now having a little talk with the game warden.


For months I had nightmarish daydreams that I had caused him to be incarcerated and would embellish that he had been working to support his family at 14 years old and that I was the one who took him away from his poor mother. Yes, I was a weird kid. But not to Grandma Miller.


She never cared that I chewed constantly on my lips or that I was mistaken for a boy until the age of 12 due to my frizzy hair that my parents had to keep so boyishly short in order just to tame it. No, even though I spent most of second grade out in the hall–in time out–for talking, she loved me.


She was a marvelous seamstress, knitter, crocheter and all around crafter. She always wore dresses, nylons and very sturdy pumps with heels two inches wide and two inches high. When she wasn\’t wearing a large, ornate brooch, she wore homemade beaded necklaces that she treated like treasures, keeping them in a locked jewelry chest in her bedroom. Her face was framed with the softest short gray hair and I loved to watch her pin it tightly in little clips all over her head at night in order to make it curly in the morning. She was only 5 feet tall, tiny and mighty. She was beautiful. And I was the only granddaughter out of her 4 grandchildren.


Grandma Miller took me under her wing, a tiny woman in the making. She would listen to what I had to say, then gently dish out sagely advice, meted out sparingly and with quiet power. Against my will, she made most of my school clothes and, less to my chagrin, knitted me slippers every Christmas. She spent weeks at a time with me in the summer, teaching me how to live while teaching me how to sew and knit. She had unlimited, stoic patience.


I struggled with my sewing and knitting lessons. I couldn\’t make a seam straight, and I certainly couldn\’t get the old-school acrylic rug yarn to stay on the needles. Each time, in each situation, my grandmother would just quietly guide me along, most times ignoring my little girl frustration. She would keep telling me to try again. She would say in her very deliberate, slow voice with the slightest German accent, \”If a task be great or small, do it well or not at all.\” I grew weary of hearing it.


I secretly even used to wonder why we were doing this. After all, I really was only doing it to please her. I didn\’t really want any more clothes that were \”homemade.\”


That was a shameful word to me then, now bringing new shame–and for different reasons–to my mind as I think of it. As a gradeschooler and preteen, I worried that kids at school would notice my non-designer clothing and make remarks; my red hair and freckles already garnered enough negative attention and I just wanted so badly to fit it in invisibly.


I resented the zig-zag finishing stitches on my clothes that were telltale signs of homemadeness and what to me were unusual fabrics–Grandma Miller called them \”polyester cotton,\” while you may know them better today as \”just polyester.\” Most of them had been donated by the countless people she sewed for at no charge. I didn\’t care where they came from.


I know I complained, but my parents and Grandma Miller were frugal people. I would stand in my grandma\’s small retirement community galley kitchen and beg for a top made from velour instead of the polyester cotton. She, in turn, would hang up another fold-over sandwich bag, freshly boiled and ready to be reused, and tell me she would try. I would deeply knit my freckly, strawberry blonde brow with the nearly invisible eybrow hairs, not knowing if she knew what I meant.  I struggled along with my attitude troubles and frustrations for several years.


But I kept trying to sew, even though it was hard.


It just seemed like something I was supposed to be doing–maybe because it had been engrained in me for so long. First for myself, then my small children. Gradually, I began to enjoy it. I guess I was slowly beginning to see something that was not fully realized just yet: \”Homemade\” means more than just being made at home. The word carries a certain deepness with it that comes from the time, effort and love the creator invests. I looked forward to sharing this with my grandmother as I got older, even if the idea was not completely developed in me. But it was not to be.


In 1993 Grandma Miller began having small strokes, and over the next two years, her health failed her completely. She passed away in 1995 when she was 92 and I was 25. Those last few years were precious and important ones. They sealed my understanding of Grandma Miller\’s ways and attitudes.


I continued sewing and making our family recipe raspberry and grape jellies like she did. And two years ago, my meeting with Mona at our church (see my first ever blog entry) completed the circle with the final addition of knitting to my life. I now can do all the things Grandma Miller did. Well, I don\’t do them as well as she did, yet. But I can sew Daisy Kingdom dresses for my girls and I can knit Grandma Miller\’s Christmas slippers. And I do it with the full knowledge of what it means to be making them myself.


Grandma Miller. Born March 30, 1903, she would have just had her 109th birthday last month, had she been alive today. Susanna Miller–with no middle name, the oldest in a line of 8 children born to German immigrants on a farm in North Dakota–she knew what it meant, too. I miss her so.


I now proudly use the word \”homemade.\” Because things that are made at home are made with loving hands. They are beautiful.

10. Your teenage son comes to you sporting hair on his upper lip and says, \”Mom! Check out my stash!\” And you reply, \”Oh, son! You\’ve started knitting!\”

9. You start taking even you favorite clothes to the Goodwill donation center to make more room in your closet for yarn. And you don\’t miss them.

8. You know the store hours for every LYS in town.

7. You know the store managers\’ names for every LYS in town.

6. You take the LYS managers out to dinner just to pick their brains about their stores\’ freight schedules. And to fish for a discount. (You paid and left a big tip, right?)

5. Your favorite bumper sticker is the one you bought for yourself that says, \”A real friend distracts your husband while you hide your yarn.\” And you don\’t think too hard about the possible implications of that statement.

4. Your family stages an intervention for your yarn buying addiciton.  You knit–while simultaneously shopping for yarn on your Ipad–during the whole meeting, only occasionally mumbling slightly coherent reposnses to their pleas for your health and well-being.

3. You use to have cute little wicker baskets displayed in a cozy corner of your family room to contain your yarn. Now, you have a room full (or several rooms full) of plastic tubs that you shove new purchases into, then jump on the contents of said tubs to compact it and, finally, sit (perhaps with a friend or two) on the lid to snap it shut. And it pops back open the minute you all stand up.

2. You forgo Christmas shopping on Black Friday to instead shop at your favorite LYS\’s. And yarn\’s not on sale.

1. The producers of \”Hoarders\” show up at your house unannounced. And ready to film.

If you follow the blog–or do not yet follow the blog–and have not entered to win Laura Irwin\’s book, Boutique Knits, click on the link to the right of this post (at the top of the column) and check it out!

Please also be sure you have emailed me your name and a valid email address if you have entered to win! I want to be sure to have your name in the proverbial hat! I will destroy all your information after the giveaway ends!

Happy knitting,

Janelle