Copperhead

A couple of weeks ago, Kevin and I spontaneously decided to take care of one of the items on his "bucket list".

Since he was a little boy, Kevin has loved fast cars. Though there is a National Hot Rod Association race that takes place within driving distance of us (6 hours south in Brainerd, MN), he had never been.  There were always other priorities, always next year. With the recent purchase of our home, there are definitely other things we could have spent our money on. But, as he so eloquently put it, "I'm not 'always going to remember' the summer we did the eavestroughs."  Amen.

I know it meant a lot to him, but I didn't really know how much until we got home, and he sent me the following essay. Cross something off that list, or help someone you love to do it.  It'll be the best money you've ever spent.

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The Model 

(By special guest blogger Kevin)

This past weekend was the Lucas Oil NHRA Top Fuel drag races in Brainerd, Minnisota where the fastest cars on the planet come to race. It was also the awakening of a 10 year old boy as he was summoned to complete a long lost dream.... 

 Containment would be a good word to describe that ride home from the hobby store with my new plastic model kit. If you can call containment an ear to ear grin attached to a bicycle barely touching the pavement as it launched off curbs and kicked up dust flying down the home stretch of my back lane.  

 "Copperhead" this one was called. My first rear engine dragster! I knew I had matched the colour scheme emblazoned on the box perfectly when I plucked the tiny paint bottles from their display rack. Assembly would be just as the folded instructions dictated plus a few of my own touches. Like thread pilfered from Moms sewing box to run as distributor wires and a small square of sandpaper from the basement workbench to roughen up the slicks to make the replica seem as it really did zoom down the strip. 

 To the naked eye all seems normal as a bar of light squeezes itself under the closed bedroom door covered in racing stickers, but inside a ritual has begun. Everything would be carefully laid out on last nights paper upon my bedroom floor. It was better here than the desk. I could see every aspect of the assembly line. Engine to the left, wheels stacked on the right, freshly painted body in front about to receive decals soaking in a bowl of water. Hours would effortlessly spin off the clock as did the songs from the AM radio beside me. After several days of a "why aren't you in bed yet" weekend, my masterpiece would be completed. 

 As I focused intently at my finished work my imaginary senses would come alive.
I could feel the rumble and crackle of the engine, smell the consumed fuel and easily see the haze of vaporized rubber from the burnout. It was only my mother calling me to supper that would melt the film playing in my mind. A movie that would be spliced and watched to the finish line many years later. The simple dream of a little boy that that came full circle. 

140 Characters

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time on Twitter.

I was reluctant at first, mostly because of the hype, and a bit because of the overwhelmingly rapid-fire social nature of it. But as I've begun using it more, I've noticed something: among the myriad of tweets about what was for lunch, and the weather, and the activities of children, pets, and neighbours, there is something interesting happening: beautiful little, 140-character bits of art.

The constraint of the structure, like sonata form, or haiku, seems to me to encourage more creativity because of the limitations of the form. Say it in 140 characters, or it doesn't get said. And gorgeous little gems are popping up all the time on my feed. They also seem to come from people who cannot seem to limit their efforts to just one form of art or craft (composers who knit, dancers who write, and a quilter on her way to teach a cake-decorating class).

I bought some homemade jam from my friend the quilting cake-decoration teacher today, who took me down the block to her garden. In the 25 minutes we spent together, Jody also told me about the script that she wrote, the next batch of jams she was planning, the book she is writing, the beans she is growing, the class she was teaching this afternoon and what she's planning to do with her stained glass if she moves. We also talked about our blogs (currently neglected) and about Twitter as artistic medium (currently enthusiastically embraced).

And later, as I was kneading bread dough and thinking about all of this, I had a realization.

Those of us who make things often have what we make (knitting, music, baking, painting etc.) called "self-expression". I've always been uncomfortable with that, because it seems to presume that wanting to get up on stage, or make something beautiful is somehow Narcissistic, that it's about the person ("self") rather than the act ("expression"). But I see it as completely the opposite.

Jody's raspberry jam is not about Jody, it's about raspberries. She is in love with her garden and completely smitten with the jam-making process. She therefore wants to celebrate it all: what is best in the fruit, and the method, and the history. Like all of these wonderful creative people on my Twitter feed and in my life, she cannot help but act as conduit: she sees beauty and pleasure in the world, and she is driven to embrace it, to revel in it, and to share it with you in case you missed it. It is wholly a selfless act.

I believe that the best and most beautiful art & craft comes from this attitude and approach. It's not using art to express yourself, it is using your "self" to express art or craft with passion and humility: I think this is wonderful, and I want you to have some too. Selfless. Joyful. Beautiful.

It's what my friend does every day, with every fibre of her being, in glass and beads and fruit and fabric and yarn and royal icing and 140-character paintings. I think it's why her jam's so good.

Manitoba Mixed Berry Jam (link) 

Kickstart

I have considered writing many times over the past month, even sat down to do so on many occasions, my unpublished blog list growing like a pile of laundry. I have a lot on my mind these days, not much of which meets full-bloggable criteria (gift-knitting for a reader, too personal, not personal enough, too common, too important, not my story to tell). These factors, coupled with a nasty perfectionist streak I haven't quite yet shaken yet, means that I haven't written at all. And that doesn't seem quite right.

 And so, with your indulgence, I present the tapas version of a usual blog... little tastes of things I've been thinking about. Bon appetit.

1. On Vuvuzelas

I usually watch the World Cup, and I'm not this year solely because I cannot tolerate the constant drone. I have tried just muting the tv, but then I can't really follow the game while I'm knitting. Do I think an entire nation should change their traditions for my convenience? No. Am I disappointed? You bet. I am personally of the belief that my rights end where yours begin and vice versa, and I wish that a better solution - one that takes into consideration all of the fans, not just those in the stadium - could be found (Isn't it interesting how the rights of the local trump the rights of the majority?) But I don't get to make these decisions, because for some reason the world has not elected me queen yet.

2. On How Things Will Be When I Am Queen 

When I am Benevolent Empress of All I Survey, the following shall be enacted at once:

A. The first day of the calendar year that reaches 25C and is a regularly-scheduled work day for you shall be an automatic, mandatory statutory holiday for all.

B. Needlework (knitting, crocheting, cross-stitching etc.), music-making and story-telling of all kinds shall not be relegated to private residences or concert halls, but rather shall be celebrated and encouraged in public places.

C. Any meeting that requires its organizer(s) to call for agenda items (in other words, any of the "standing" variety) shall be cancelled at once. Any who attempt to proceed with such a meeting shall be immediately banished from my sights until they think better of it.

D. Recess - of the go outside and play soccer, or baseball, or marbles - is hereby reinstated for all the land and for all of the peoples, including, and in fact especially for, people of the adult, suit-wearing variety. Everyone shall go outside and play from 10:00 - 10:20am and 2:15 - 2:35pm daily. Those who have reached the age of majority may substitute afternoon play with afternoon nap/snack combination if desired.

E. In addition to being able to "call in sick", my people shall be permitted to call in well under the following circumstances:

• the earliest days of being in love, when being away from the object of one's affections would result only in pining, sighing, and flower-picking
• complete immersion in a creative process or spate of learning
• an overwhelming and irresistable desire to dig in, plant, weed, maintain or admire one's garden

So let it be written, so let it be done.

3. On What I'm Knitting

A. A project of unspeakable beauty (if I do say so myself) that I will tell you about as soon as I give it to its recipient. It has taught me that I can make really beautiful things, and that it's even more fun to give beautiful things away. 

B. A sock ("Wavy" from Sock Club: Join the Knitting Adventure in my latest Loopy Ewe Sock Club yarn).  It has taught me that, despite "having something mindless to knit in front of the TV" sounding like a really good idea, it's actually not. I don't like mindless knitting, I like mindful knitting. To whit...

C. Another sock ("I Love Gansey", also from Sock Club, in some Socks that Rock I bought last year). It has taught me that fuschia might not be so bad after all.

4. ...And Some Random Things I've Learned

(from the "Too Personal" Category of Unbloggable)

Sometimes, dealing with bureaucrats actually works. 

Sometimes, it's better to act first and discuss later (or not at all), especially if the discussion-about -the-decision part is more troublesome than the outcome of an "incorrect" decision would be. It's amazing how often decisions actually don't warrant discussion. Being able to tell the difference is the tricky bit. It's probably less often than I think.

Sometimes - maybe even most times - the fear of scary things is far worse than the scary things themselves turn out to be.

Good fences do make good neighbors, money isn't everything, and life is short. 

For all of these reasons, it's a good idea to make peace if and when and how you can.

Worth A Thousand Words

For Christmas, I got the best present in the history of sock knitters. (The story is here if you missed it.)

This past weekend, after several weeks of consultation and a good few weeks of close fair isle attention, I finished these for my Kevin, provider of said unparalleled Christmas gift.

From Russia With Love by Sabine Reifler in The Joy of Sox, 

Wollmeise 80/20 in Admiral and a "We're Different" that was probably pretty close to Campari Picolo.

I'm pretty durned proud of them. Hard to go wrong with that much great yarn and that much love and gratitude for their recipient.

It was like knitting with midnight and fire.

And a whole lot of love.

I am the Green Hat Knitter

Despite what is often assumed about people who are performers, I am a terribly introverted person. If I got to pick a super-power, I would pick invisibility over all others, no contest.  It's not that I don't like people - generally speaking, I really do -  it's that I would prefer to be on the sidelines, enjoying the world and the people around me by observing them rather than interacting with them. 

I am also a person inclined towards routine, which means that many people whom I've never met have become recurring characters in my day-to-day life, our lives briefly intersecting as our schedules cross. The ones that work on my floor, or go to the gym at the same time, or grocery shop late at night. I look forward to seeing them, and years ago started naming my favourites in my head. They're friends I've never met, and that seems to suit us both.

Dr. McSqueaky works on my floor, so named because of an unfortunate pair of runners he replaced almost two years ago. I am convinced he speaks several languages fluently, even though I've never heard him talk.

Giant Dave and his Entourage (three young clinicians who favour scrubs in solid primaries) are always leaving the coffee shop just as I'm walking in. They are there so reliably that if I miss them, I have a moment of panic, convinced that I must be late.

In my marathoning days, Red Shorts Man, Granola Jim and The Rain Woman and I would cross paths on my bread-and-butter four-miler, and my Sunday long-run training group and I could always count on seeing Silver Fox, Blond Floozy, Big Bird and The Hello Guy. (Hello Guy was our favourite...he was an older, chubby cyclist in a white helmet who, no matter how many lanes of traffic separated you, would wave and yell "Hello! Good Morning!" until you returned the greeting with equal enthusiasm.)

Since Kevin and I bought this house last November, I've started most work days with a new group: the people who ride my bus.  It's a pretty diverse group, mostly professionals and students on their way downtown, but a few stand out as always.

Early on, there's the Poet Laureate (curly mustache, round glasses, beret) and Scott the Smoker. Scott the Smoker just looks like a Scott to me. He reads sci-fi novels at the rate of about one a week. I haven't decided yet if he's a computer programmer or a junior high science teacher, but it's definitely one of those.

Halfway through the ride we pick up French Formula (40ish, suicide blonde, perfectly sculpted bangs). I think she is completely indifferent to her job, but in a positive way somehow, and I would bet big money she volunteers somewhere on weekends, probably with kids and/or animals. I like her a lot.

The Earth Mother transfers at the same bus stop as me. She wears her hair up in the most fascinating assortment of combs. I've sat behind her trying to figure it out. She looks at the teenagers on the bus like she understands and is slightly amused by every feeling and thought they are having. She commented on a fair-isle mitten I was knitting once, and told me she's more of a spinner than a knitter. We just smile at each other now.

I can't believe it took me this long, but it occurred to me recently that my fellow commuters can see me, too, and might be playing the same game. Their knowledge of my entire existence on this planet is, like mine is of theirs, constricted to 22 minutes, five times a week.  To them, I am that black-haired girl in the green hat. I am always wearing headphones (listening to books, or, if I strangle a giggle, Lime & Violet). Sometimes I have a backpack (gym stuff) or a red briefcase (meetings out of the office), and sometimes I don't. Sometimes I'm at the bus stop in plenty of time, sometimes I run half a block in heels. 

Other than the headphones, only one thing is constant: I'm always knitting.  A sock, or a mitten, or, during the Knitting Olympics, a grey cardigan. I'm sure that's what would stand out - it's what I would notice. An entire life, boiled down to five pointy sticks and half a sock.
 

She is the Knitter in the Green Hat. And for 44 minutes a day, she is everything I am. 

The End of the Blog's Prorogation

Hi Blog, I've really missed you.

It's been quite the month here in the life-of-me, and I have on many, many occasions wanted to write here about it.  Over the past year, this blog has become a nice little vacation spot for me: a place to reflect, to pause, to ramble and to creatively recharge by sharing my little stories with you.

I really needed those things, because about a month ago, the band broke up.  It had been coming for a long time, we all knew it was inevitable, but it was still sad when it finally happened.  Venus Murphy has been a major part of my life and my identity for the last seven years, and, even though it was the right thing, it still... well, it still sucked.

Just as I was getting ready to write about that, something else happened that, well, made the end of a celtic band not such a big deal anymore. I'm not going to talk about it, because it's not my story to tell. But it was one of those "before it happened / after it happened" sort of events: a weekend that made everything else in my life snap into sharp perspective and made me appreciate the difference between Important and Not Important in an absolutely crystal clear way.  Everything is fine now, but it's been pretty all-consuming. I am changed, in the way I actively treasure the things that are truly important.

But I missed you dear blog, and I'm back now. A little tired, a little shell-shocked, but a little better and a little wiser. Nice to see you again.

When the Student is Ready

I've been thinking a lot about learning lately. One of those "thinking about lately" phases that makes you see everything through a certain lens... like wandering around wearing a pair of curoisity-coloured glasses.

It started innocuously enough. I knit a sweater for my Knitting Olympics project. I was feeling very smug with 36 hours to go, being that not only was the whole thing knit, it was neatly seamed and ready for its button-band.  It was a Sure Top-of-the-Podium Finish... until I turned the page and realized that the buttonband was ...crocheted. I don't know how to crochet. At all.

I am not proud to admit that my first (and second, and, um, third) approach was to knit a buttonband instead. I knit (and ripped out) three different buttonbands. They were all craptastic.(Which is probably why the designer - a wiser woman than me - designed it that way in the first place.)

I am even less proud to admit that my next instinct was to give up.  I don't know how to crochet. This buttonband is crocheted. My bad for not reading the pattern. Oh well. I'll frog it and make something else. I'll apologize to the designer for whom I was test-knitting. I'd feel really bad about myself for a bit (I'm not so good with the failure), then lick my wounds with a nice safe sure thing like a trusty sock and try never to think of it again. (Like I said, failure is not-my-best-thing.)

I am semi-proud to admit (semi- because it took this long...) that instead, I dug out my Nana's ancient Complete Encyclopedia of Stitchery, looked up the chapter on crocheting, and, with 19 hours to go, red-faced at how easy it was once I read the instructions, crocheted my first-ever buttonband, and earned my first ever Knitting Olympics gold.

Caitlin's Cardi by Sweatshop of Love

Paton's Classic Wool in Dark Grey

Since then, I've had a few meaningful conversations that have really gotten me thinking about the willingness to learn, and the ability to absorb the lessons when they do appear.  Last week, a brand new co-worker told me that when I "over-explain" things to her, it makes her feel like I think she's stupid. (I don't.) My "over-explaining" was what I genuinely thought I was "being helpful", and, all the while, I was getting offended by her "yep got its" and "ya of courses", assuming that she was trying to shut me up (she wasn't) because she had no respect for me (she does). The conversation was amazing in retrospect. I wouldn't have had the nerve to tell her that she was offending me if she hadn't done it first, and we cleared up what could have been a destructive and on-going problem.

It stung when she pointed this out to me, but it hurt because she's right: I go on and on, especially if I'm passionate about what I'm talking about. It's a fault of mine. I've known it on some level for a long time, I guess, but until my co-worker presented the heat-of-the-moment challenge - we did have to resolve it to be able to move forward - I hadn't bothered to really learn the lesson.

So I'm working on being a good student.  Whether the teacher is a colleague or a cardigan.

P.S. Please remind me of this tomorrow night after - wait for it - my first golf lesson. Take that, New Year's Resolutions!

Faster, Higher, Smooshier

It's Knitting Olympics time!

This is my first year participating, which seems fitting as the games are on home soil.

For the uninitiated, the rules of the Knitting Olympics are as follows (from Stephanie Pearl-McPhee):

1. The project must be a challenge for you to complete in 16 days.
2. There are no rules about what a challenge would be. Like the real Olympics, there are many areas to compete in. If you are a new knitter, then a garter stitch baby sweater might do...If you are experienced, well. I've already considered Torino. Use your own conscience.
3. While this is intended to be somewhat difficult (like the Olympics) it is not intended to ruin your life. Don't set yourself up for failure. (Olympic athletes may cry, but they do not whine pitifully, sob and threaten members of their family with pointed sticks because they haven't slept in five days. ) This is intended to (like the Olympics) require some measure of sacrifice, and be difficult, but it should be possible to attain.
4. No casting on before the flame is lit.
5. Finish before the flame goes out.
6. You may swatch before the games. (I consider this "training.") 

I didn't get off to a great start... the band and I were the closing act at another opening night: that of the Festival du Voyageur.  It's a great Festival now in its 41st year - a celebration of French-Canadian heritage and history, an outdoor (yes, outdoor, in Canada, in February) event with snow sculpting, and dogsled races, and bands, and music, and traditional French-Canadian food, and beer.  It's a great excuse to get out of the house, and a great antidote to the oh-my-god-isn't-winter-over-yet depression that inevitably settles in this time of year. We're a Celtic-Rock band, but I guess we have enough French-Canadian spirit, because this was the third year in a row they've had us back. I'm glad, because it's always a blast, and I look forward to it every time.

All that to say that while knitters the world over were watching the Opening Ceremonies, needles in hand, anxiously waiting for the torch to be lit so they could cast on, I was on stage, accordion in hand, watching this:

 Hundreds of crazy happy dancing people, in a tent, in Winnipeg, in February. Aren't they the awesomest?! I live for it, I really do. (I took this shot from the stage, over the accordion, hence the blurriness...told them all to sccoch together and smile.  As you can see, they obliged.)

So I bought the yarn and needles on Saturday morning, and knit every waking, available moment until now, when I paused for long enough to tell you about it.  My Olympic Knitting project is a test knit for Allyson of The Sweatshop of Love.  And I'm feeling the love, big time.

Paton's Classic Wool in Dark Grey, 5mm needles, Allyson's lovely pattern, small size.

Loving the stitch pattern so far (about 7.75" in so far)... making a lovely, squishy fabric and perfect for Olympic watching as it requires my attention for exactly 12 stitches every 6th row.  One could say I have just a wee bit of a competitive streak (the way one could say Canadians are just a wee bit into hockey) so I'm hoping that the idea of Knitting for Home and Native Land will be inspiration enough to sustain me when I get to the inevitable knitting black hole (where one knits for hours and makes no perceptible progress whatsoever).

Go Canada Go!

(P.S. For anyone in the neighborhood: we're playing Festival du Voyageur again this Friday, this time inside at the Franco-Manitoba Cultural Centre, if you want to come see us.  You can totally bring your Olympic knitting. I'll understand.)

Um, Squee.

If you're here because of the irresistible force that is Lime & Violet, (because really, who can resist their power?  Not I, that's for damn sure) the post that they talked about on today's podcast is here.  (If you're here and you haven't discovered the Lime and Violet podcast yet, go. Go now. Discover them, drink their Kool-Aid.)

I briefly considered trying to be all cool about the fact that my wee blog was on their podcast today, but really, when one is already public about the fact that one plays the accordion...

I was listening to today's podcast on my iPod as I was making dinner.  As soon as I heard my name, I ran into the living room and plugged it into the stereo so Kev and I could listen together, and spent the whole time alternately squeeing and laughing and giggling and pointing at the iPod and pointing at him saying "That's you, honey! See how awesome you are? See?" (Um, I also totally overcooked the potatoes.)

Anyway, welcome to my little corner of blogland, hope you enjoy, and hope you come back. And thanks to L&V for the shout out.  You totally made my week.

Forever Young

When I was a kid, I really liked my January birthday.  My birthday parties were usually tobaggoning, or skating on the duck pond at the park near our house, or, if the weather was prohibitive, bowling.  More importantly, if Santa didn't quite get the message that, no, really, I DID want an Easy Bake Oven above everything else on the list, I always had the birthday ask to fall back on.  Sort of a gift insurance policy.

In my teens and early twenties, I became less keen on it.  People - myself included - are still recovering from the over-indulgences and over-expenditures of the holidays, and are usually not into celebrating one more time.  It's cold out, the resolutions are still in full force, and we're in hibernation mode until spring.  Humbug, birthday-style.

My birthday is less of a big deal nowadays, and I find that it sneaks up on me more than it used to.  I don't think about it too much in terms of a celebration, but the one thing I do like about my birthdate is the new-ness of it: new year, new age for me.  I don't make New Year's resolutions.  But I do tend to spend the 16 days between New Year's Day and today reflecting on what's next for me, and this year is no exception.

Our recent trip to Arizona and the amount of time we spent with people well into their "golden years" there has coloured this reflection for me this year.  While I'm still many years away from my own retirement, spending so much time with people in theirs really got me thinking about it.  People say all the time that they never want to get old, but I don't think it's the getting old chronologically that is the problem.  Though I'm not keen on the idea of getting old physically, I'm not as concerned about that, either. I think for me it's that I never want to stop learning and, perhaps more importantly, I never want to stop wanting to learn.  I think that maybe the secret to the Fountain of Youth is actually not the fountain, but the search for it: not the water, but the thirst.

And so, this year:

I will learn to knit toe-up socks.  I've knit zillions of socks, but they've all been top down.

I will actually take the time to check gauge, measure, count, not fudge sleeve measurements, and do everything else necessary to knit a successful sweater for myself, a project that, in almost 10 years of knitting, I have yet to accomplish.

I will learn to golf. Kevin loves to golf, and has dreams of us golfing together when it's our turn to take advantage of the seniors' discounts.  For the many years until then, I also think the game will be very good for me:  the facts are that I do not like being Not-Good at things, and I will most likely be Not-Good at golf for a good long time.  I think it will help me learn patience, and self-acceptance, and be a good counterbalance to my perfectionist tendencies.  (Please remind me of this the first time I post with much profanity about how much I hate the stupid game and what I did to my stupid clubs on the stupid course because the stupid ball won't do as it's told.)

And more often, I will keep my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut.

I want to grow old without growing up.  I want to stay young in my mind and in my heart, and keep a sense of wonder about the world. I want to stay humble about my knowledge, and always thirsty for more. And I will start as I mean to go on.

Happy New Year.

What I Did on my Christmas Vacation

Christmas passed in even more than the usual whirlwind this year, and not just because of the Wollmeise.

Kevin's 88-year-old dad is what they call a "snowbird": one of those wise sorts that enjoys the very pleasant summers here on the Canadian prairie, then hightails it for southern climes come winter. (Like I said, wise sorts.)

Kevin's dad winters in Apache Junction, Arizona, and likes to have his vehicle while he's there, so, two days after Christmas, Kevin and I packed everything away and packed everything up and drove him down.

Winnipeg to Apache Junction is a three-day trip, which means, of course, plenty of absolutely guilt-free knitting time for yours truly.  It was actually the perfect circumstance for the newly acquired Wollmeise: normally, I think it would have been at extremely high risk of becoming Sacred Stash: yarn far too beautiful, too precious to ever knit up.  However, being that Kevin gave it to me, there was simply no way I could leave it behind without hurting his feelings. (I'll tell myself what I will.  I did it for him.  Really I did.)

I, somewhat anxiously, somewhat reluctantly wound up two skeins, packed up two patterns, my ipod, and all of my tools and settled into the backseat of the van. I cast on in Winnipeg, knit down through North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska, Kansas, wee bits of Oklahoma and Texas, then across New Mexico and Arizona. I knit by a hot tub (OUTSIDE mind you), at a lovely clubhouse while Kev golfed 18 holes, and while I watched the Bowl games.

Behold, my first Wollmeise project.  I blocked it before I even unpacked.

Frost Diamonds by Stefanie Japel, Wollmeise Superwash in Oh Tannenbaum

(extra repeats of final chart to use up as much as possible)

Wanna see more?  Okay!

 

Hiya, 2010, so pleased to meet you.  I think we're going to get along just fine.

Good King Wollmeise

I knew he was up to something when this gift was the first to appear under the tree.

And when this sign appeared on our door on Christmas eve, I knew he was up to something... elaborate.

Christmas morning, this is what I found...

At the door...

 And down the hall...

And in the kitchen...

Kevin (a.k.a. Love of my Life) was "perplexed" by all of this, but shrugged and got down to the business of Christmas morning.  And a lovely Christmas morning it was...

...until almost everything was opened, and then he "heard something" in the basement and went to "investigate".

After dramatic commotion downstairs and an apparently valiant struggle on the part of the "intruder", Kevin came upstairs with this:

I didn't really understand why there were hooks on his back, until the Mexican Hat Dance started to play (loudly) in the living room.

Dudes, it was a SHAUN THE SHEEP PINATA.

He MADE me a PINATA.

There was about 20 minutes of hysterical laughter on my part, and then the destruction of Kevin's carefully crafted paper mache Shaun the Sheep began in earnest (in fairness, I had a hunch at what kind of gifts might have been wrapped into a sheep pinata and the destruction didn't take very long at all.  There's video.  I'm not sharing it here. Suffice to say I was not at my most ladylike.)

I was right about the contents.

And it wasn't just any yarn.

Wollmeise.  Gorgeous, unattainable, precious, oft-compared-to-crack Wollmeise. There is a veritable cult around this stuff. It's made in Germany, and new stock usually sells out of the online shop within 3-4 minutes of being added.  You cannot get it.  And when I first said these things to Kevin sometime last summer... well, let's just say that Kevin loves a challenge.

Not only did he craft an elaborate 2-day build up to the unveiling of a paper-mache sheep that took him a couple of sleepless nights to build.  He joined Ravelry (to all of you who helped a myterious forum-member who called himself "Centrino", thank you thank you thank you).  He emailed Claudia. He stalked the forums and EBay. He stayed up to catch the site update.  He emailed de-stashers.  And over the past 2-3 months, he got his hands on 15 skeins.

I am so loved. (Plus, I have Wollmeise.)

Wee Postcard from the Cardboard Jungle

We're in.  All of our worldly possessions are here, under one roof, with us. All that's left to do now is unpack, set up, clean, plug in, dust, fold, sort, assemble, attach felt feet to, arrange, and make sense of it all.  We are exhausted, and excited, and sore in places we didn't know we had.  But we're in.

I will, I'm sure, have more profound things to say about all of this at some point. But for now, I can only think in lists, the events of the past two weeks having apparently temporarily fused my cerebral wiring this way.

Please understand: I am grateful to be where I am.  I love where I am, and who I am with, and pretty much my entire life right now.  My tongue is planted firmly in cheek.  With that caveat, I give you the lists that are currently top of mind:


Sentences I never want to hear again:

1.  Hey Jenn, which box is the ___________ in?

2.  OW!!!!  (Induced by stubbed toes, falling assorted debris, incorrect-and-therefore-over-heated-lightbulb burn, skinned knuckles and deceptively-light looking boxes that turn out not to be)

3. Where the #$&@! is the damn tape gun?

4. That will be $X. (where X = approximate GDP of small nation + 12%)

5.  "Yes, ma'am, please be there waiting: that delivery and/or installation will be promptly at Y o'clock." (where Y = an apparently "reasonable" window of time ranging anywhere from 4 hours - 3 days)

Sentences I never want to utter again:

1.  Hey Kev, where's the box with the ________ in it?

2.  OW!!!! (Induced by stubbed toes, falling assorted debris, head-cracking on shelves whose existence had not yet been fully appreciated, skinned knuckles, and deceptively-light looking boxes that turn out not to be)

3. Where the *assorted unlady-like descriptors* did I put the *more assorted unladylike adjectives* tape gun? It was RIGHT HERE.

4. $X?  Yes, certainly, let me me get my chequebook.

5.  "Yes hi, we were expecting a delivery/installation at Y o'clock?"

Places I'd rather be:

1. Absolutely nowhere.  

Preparing for Launch

It's Saturday morning.  Not just any Saturday morning, but the Saturday before moving day.  I am sitting amid piles of boxes, files of bills, and lists of lists of Things To Do Before Moving Day.  The love of my life is at Home Depot in an early morning bid to accomplish items 67 through 82 of Supplies That Need to Be Bought For the House list, and I'm here alone, drinking coffee, and thinking about the neighborhood I am preparing to leave.

Osborne Village is a neighborhood with a personality that has changed with the times, yet managed to retain a modicum of its hippy-dippy roots.  I wasn't raised here - the two-block main drag of the Village was exclusively lined with record stores and head shops when I was a kid - but I did grow up here, in ways that have become apparent to me as I prepare to leave it once again.

I used to come here in early high school with "the girls"  - usually when someone's heart had been broken - to eat cheesecake at Baked Expectations and watch the firefighters across the street play volleyball on their parking lot.

In the summer before we went away to university (music for me, political science for her), my best friend and I used to dress up in our subversive best and come here to hang out as conspicuously as possible in the coffee shops, talking for hours aboud politics and philosophy and our grand plans to change the world through art and activism.

It wasn't until after college that I officially moved into the Village for the first time.  At 21, I lived in a tiny apartment that once housed the serving staff in a converted mansion.  I bought a piano with a co-sign from my Dad, I walked to work during the week and to the Village shops on weekends, looking at books and clothing I couldn't afford on my princely $19,000 first salary.

When I got married at 24, we moved deeper into the Village.  We were there when one of the heritage building that had been a cornerstone of the Village shopping district burned down, to be eventually replaced by a bank and a tanning salon.  I watched the community garden across the street be ripped out to make way for high-priced condos that wouldn't be built until years later.  The independent bookstore became a chain coffee shop, the second-last head shop became a high-end boutique, the independent record store became a crappy sandwich joint, and the gentle dope-smokers that once were a fixture on the corner were slowly replaced by increasingly violent drunks. After 8 years in the neighborhood, we bought a house in the French Quarter.

Three years later, my marriage ended.  Thinking back on it now, I never even momentarily considered anywhere else.  Despite the changes, the Village was a safe haven, a retreat, my home.  I came back.

The tiny apartment I am about to leave was a godsend during the two-and-a-half most transformative years of my life.  Here, I recovered from the circumstances around the end of my marriage and grew into a love I never dared to dream existed.  With that essential support, I fought the brutal, but ultimately final, battle against my anorexia.  The band that has become such an important part of my life filled this place with music, and LoML and I spent two wonderful Christmas mornings here, Christmases that were easily the most magical and beautiful ones I have ever had. 

On Friday morning, the movers will arrive, and they will carry my piano and my books and my yarn and my things to our new house, a substantial drive away from this neighborhood that has become the launching pad for new chapters of my life.  This last chapter has been a doozy, but I can't wait to turn the page, because I have a feeling that this next one is going to be the longest and most wonderful one yet.

Back that truck up, boys.  It's time to go.

An Echo Full of Instruments, Pt. I

Last weekend, the band and I went to Thunder Bay, Ontario to headline an event called Celtic Bash 12.  Put on by The Pipes and Drums of Thunder Bay, it's a fundraiser for the pipe band and a celebration of all things Celtic, with highland dancers, three different pipe bands, a more traditional Celtic group, lots of beer, and us.

Thunder Bay is an eight-hour drive east of home, but with the show on a Saturday and people willing to pay for two nights' hotel for us, we had the rare luxury of a whole day just to travel. We packed up the vehicles on Friday morning and hit the road an entirely civilized hour.

We are five people in the band, and we travel in two vehicles: Kevin (a.k.a. LoML) and I and our instruments in my car, Mike, Kyle and Nic and all of their instruments in a borrowed SUV.  Sounds like Kevin and I would have more room, right?  Anyone who has ever packed a drum kit knows the answer.  Getting a drum kit into a car is a challenge at the best of times. Getting Kevin's drum kit into my car is a Jenga-like feat of epic proportions.

For this is my car, a wee 2000 Toyota Echo:

And this is an Echo with one drum kit, one sampler, one accordion, two knitting projects, one suitcase, two pedal cases, and one wireless rig in it (two musicians to come):

Pretty impressive, non?

On Saturday morning, we had breakfast then headed to the venue, to find the stage looking like this:

i.e.: not quite ready for us.  However, the sound tech gave us the happy news that the local music store was having a 50% off EVERYTHING sale.

Now the rest of the band, regularly having to buy strings, rosin, drum heads and the like, gets very excited about this sort of news.  I don't mind music stores, but quite frankly they don't usually cater to musicians of my ilk (i.e. non-male, non-guitar-playing, non-string-buying).  I go along but usually - due mostly to my choice of instrument - don't have the bordering-on-religious experience I've witnessed in my bandmates when they discover a beautiful-sounding thing on sale.  That was about to change.

Two minutes into the outing, I spied this:

Excelsior Accordiana, 120-bass, "women's model" (i.e. smaller and lighter but every bit as beer-swillingly-powerful as her larger polka-king cousin) thing of utter gorgeousness.  I played one chord, and the rest of the band appeared out of the woodwork, like moths to a flame.  (I believe Mike's exact words were "What the $@%# was THAT?") The sound was huge.  HUGE.  Monster.  In that moment, I, for the first time, understood why people turn their amps up to 11, why the guys get that look on their faces when they plug a beautiful instrument into a beautiful system and make a big, beautiful, badass noise.  For the first time, I understood, in a visceral sort of way, why they're called "power chords".

The price tag said $300. That's $150 on sale.  Online, I have seen these babies for $995 and up.  It wasn't even a conversation.

We would make room in the Echo for one more case.

Things I CAN Share...

It's officially full on pre-Christmas knitting season, which rules in that I have a ton of stuff on the needles and a ton of ideas for more things to put on the needles (and a quickly dwindling supply of empty needles), but sucks in that I can't tell you about any of it in any sort of detail.

However, I am getting a bit of relief from all of this surprise keeping, due to the fact that my wonderful brother Michael had the consideration to be born in November, 34 years ago today.  (Happy birthday Mike, I love you tons and I'm glad you're my brother.)

And so, we'll kick off a list of things I can tell you about with:

1. I knit Michael some birthday socks, and he wore them today in a rainforest in Tofino, B.C.

Skyp Socks, in Blue Moon Fiber Arts River Rocked (Rockin' Sock Club September shipment)

STR Mediumweight may be my favourite sock yarn ever.  (Though, in fairness, the Wollmeise is still in its skein...)

2.  We bought a house.  I know I told you that already, but I'm just a tad excited about it.

3. I had a small falling down at the Blue Moon online store.  (I had a discount code that was going to expire.  It would have gone to waste.  That's my story, I'm sticking to it.)  It came today.

4. My friend Miss K and I picked out, queued, and cast on the exact same project on the exact same day.  I cannot stop knitting it.  Seriously.  I'd love to tell you more, but that will have to wait until after Christmas. Suffice to say that I briefly considered calling in sick so I could finish another chart repeat.

5.  My new house (which is not a new house, by any stretch, but is new to me... or I guess I'm new to it...) has 97 year old oak that has never been painted, and it's every-freaking-where.  I get a little jello-in-the-knees just thinking about it.

6.  I have discovered something about my knitting self: I hate working with laceweight.  I like lace, I like laceweight yarn, I do not like making lace out of laceweight yarn.  I am happy about this because it means that I can stop knitting a project I was not enjoying, and because I got my 4.5mm circular back, at least temporarily.  Temporarily being the operative word.

7.  Coloured washers and dryers are about $150 more each than white ones. 

8.  At my Safeway, there is, right now, at the SAME TIME, Halloween candy in the aisle and Egg Nog in the dairy case.  (Don't even get me started on the fact that they've got the freakin' mincemeat and candied cherries and fruitcake out on a special display.)  I have very, very strong feelings about this. They are not good feelings.  Some things do not belong in the same store at the same time.  I have spoken.

9.  We take possession November 16.  Got any boxes?

A Sense of Place

Ask, and ye shall receive.

Not 72 hours after I wondered here what I was going to blog about in the pre-Christmas knitted gift frenzy, we got an unbelievable surprise that makes a relatively non-knitting post not only possible, but very easy.

Having sold LoML's house, we had just started house shopping.  The housing market here has been much more on the "Seller's Market" side in the last year or so, and we had heard numerous stories of people taking six months to a year or more to find a house, so we had been a bit lackadaisical about minor details like getting a pre-approved mortgage were being patient.

We did not take into consideration that the universe has not only a sense of irony, but a sense of humour.

Last Saturday, we went to see just the sixth house that our agent had shown us.  Like the others before it, it wasn't right, but we were near the house where I took piano lessons as a teenager, so we decided to go for a drive through the neighborhood the scenic way so that I could show LoML this little part of my history.

We turned a corner, and there it was.  Huge, built in 1912, solid, straight and for sale. We called our agent on the spot and arranged to see the house Monday night at 7:00.

On Monday night at 7:02, we fell in love. Hard.  I froze to the spot the minute I walked in the door and laid eyes on the untouched, original oak bannister.

LoML told me later he looked around the corner and immediately had a vision of our Christmas tree beside the fireplace in the living room.

At 7:45, after thorough inspection (him), much gasping (me), bouncing (me) and giggling (also me), pacing (him) and the occasional squeak (me), we sat down at the dining room table to write the offer, then went home to spend the next excruciating hour waiting for the phone call.

We got it.  They accepted the offer.  The house was ours.

The next 48 hours was an agonizing flurry of activity, arranging financing and a home inspection between bouts of giggles, anxious phone calls, and sleepless nights.  The financing came through swimmingly, and the home inspector passed it with colours as flying as one can expect for a century-old structure.  (The nice thing about buying a house that has been standing for almost a hundred years is that, generally speaking, they've done all the moving they are going to do (if any), and are quite happy to just sit there the way they've been quite comfortable all this time, thank you very much.  Ours is no exception.)

November 16, we're going home.  Sweet, sweet home.

Pre-Christmas Cast On(s)

I learned how to knit on a tour bus full of dancers somewhere on the TransCanada Highway, when I was working as a pianist for the Royal Winnipeg Ballet.  My friend Kevin, who worked in the wardrobe department, taught me how, and it was a wonderful place and time to learn, because being on the road means that you have long hours of uninterrupted knitting time as you travel from one tiny town to another or relax in hotel rooms after the show.  I did three tours as a knitter, and, being that the tour happened in late November/early December, got into the habit of doing my Christmas knitting on the road.

It's been quite a few years now since I left the RWB, but the habit of starting many, many Christmas presents hasn't gone away.  And while I love knitting gifts, it appears that my knitting schedule instincts haven't quite caught up with the fact that I no longer have 2-3 weeks of dedicated knitting time in which to actually make the damn things. I try to back up the start date, but the last few Christmases have seen me sacrificing sleep and sanity to get things done in time.  Add to this the fact that I have a brother with a November birthday, and you've got a recipe for a holiday season somewhat lacking in Heavenly Peace.

I don't like it when my knitting is panicked. This year I'm better - I've already got one gift done, and several on the go, but I'm getting nervous because that inner knitting schedule is kicking in hardcore. 

I'm currently in the throes of a wicked case of startitis (symptoms of which include a credit card straining under the weight of Blue Moon Fiber Arts and KnitPicks shopping sprees, no available 2.75mm dpns despite the fact that I own 4 sets, a project in every purse and pocket, a Ravelry queue onto its second page and an apartment strewn with sock books).  I would love to tell you about all of the things that I have cast on this past week, but their recipients read this blog and posting pictures of their Christmas morning surprises sort of defeats the  purpose.

So what's a knit blogger to do?

This too will require a bit of creativity.  Maybe directing some creativity into another medium will stop me before I cast on again.

Thankful

Last night was Thanksgiving dinner at my mom's, and we were the smallest group we've ever been.  My three siblings and their partners don't live here anymore, so it was just mom, dad, Love of My Life and me.  Because we were such a small group, mom eschewed the traditional meal for something a little more practical, leftover-wise: cedar planked salmon (done on the barbecue despite sub-zero temperatures, for we are Winnipeggers), squash and green beans, and garlic mashed potatoes.  LoML built a fire.  It was wonderful.

My mom was in good spirits but definitely wistful at times, and I could tell that she was missing the larger gatherings of years gone by.  I am one of four children, so the smallest group she (and me, and dad) cooked for for years was six, and she comes from an enormous French-Canadian family where Sunday dinners were typically extended family gatherings ranged from anywhere from 10 to 40+. (Last time we had a reunion of that side of the family, we rented a hotel ballroom.)

Things have changed.

It was a lovely evening, and somehow having the traditional gathering in a non-traditional way somehow made me appreciate the spirit of the holiday in a way that I don't think I have in a number of years.  So in that renewed spirit, I am thinking about the things I am grateful for this morning. 

1.  The country I live in.  My job, though fascinating and rewarding, has the occupational hazard that I have become a bit of a news junkie, and therefore almost always aware of the circumstances that so many people have to face every day just because of where they happen to have been born.  I have never known war or famine.  I do not have to risk my life to be able to vote.  I can travel freely.  I can say whatever I want about my elected leaders.  I can have a job, ride a bike, play in a band, love who I love and wear what I want despite the fact that I am a woman. 

2. The internet.  Ravelry, Audible and the blogosphere connect me to ideas and people which I've come to treasure as part of my daily life. The podcasts of Brenda Dayne, Lime & Violet, Stuart MacLean and David Reidy keep me company, open my eyes to different parts of the world, and make me laugh (sometimes with stare-provoking consequences) on my daily commute.  I am so grateful to these people for sharing their lives with me.

3.  My friend Kevin, who taught me how to knit on a tour bus full of ballet dancers.  He thought that he was just giving me something to distract me on that one seemingly-endless tour in 2001.  He ended up changing my daily life in a way that - hopefully - will be with me until my dying day.

4. My teacher.  Mr. Melnyk was my piano teacher through 10 of my formative years.  I was during these years geeky, chubby, bookish, awkward and deeply insecure.  Despite that, through the incredible power of music, he instilled in me a sense that I had beauty of the highest order inside of me, and that I had the capability and therefore the responsibility to share that beauty with the world.  He changed me, fundamentally and forever. He had a profound impact on not just the musician I am but the sort of person I turned out to be.

Most importantly, I am grateful for the people in my life today.

My sister Ann, living in Ottawa, who sees the world with a constant air of wonder, and who has the incredible gift of being able to share that vision in words and music and her very presence.

My brother Chris, currently playing music on a ship somewhere in the Meditterannean, who has the oldest soul of anyone I've ever met and a diabolical, twisted sense of humour, meted out at just the right time and in just the right way.  He is a constant source of fascination.

My brother Michael, a lighting designer living in Stratford, whose thoughtful approach to his life and extraordinary openness to the lives of others has made him a safe harbour for me on more than one occasion, and has more than anyone else in my life made me laugh until I feared some sort of permanent physical damage.

My mom and dad, who committed before we were even born that we would be exposed to and allowed to participate in whatever we were passionate about, and stuck to this commitment when the things that we were passionate about turned out to be noisy, expensive and ultimately unprofitable (i.e. read 4 kids and 14 or 15 musical instruments, and in the case of the lighting designer, an impressive collection of high-end flashlights).  When my dad and a colleague were catching up at a conference years ago and my dad told him about all of us working in the performing arts, his friend said "Couldn't even save one of them, eh, John?"  Mom and Dad never saw it this way. Never, when we wanted to go off to music school or theatre school or record an album or *ahem* switch to the accordion, asked us what we were going to fall back on.  They truly believed in us and in our dreams, and we are all better people - and, incidentally, successful artists - for it.

And for the Love of My Life.  We found each other late in life by traditional standards, yet at exactly the right time. As difficult as the road was at times, I wouldn't trade my life for anyone's: it led me to him, and the destination was worth the journey, every single step of it. And now that our paths finally converged, I can't wait to see what's next.

I suppose one more thing to be grateful for is that this list is by no means exhaustive.  I am privileged beyond measure in so many areas of my life that to list them all would mean being here still typing long after tonight's turkey dinner with LoML's family had been relegated to the margarine tubs for tomorrow's leftovers.

I am a lucky woman indeed, and I am deeply grateful.  Happy Thanksgiving.

A Canadian Prairie Brush with Fame

Last weekend was Alexander Keith's birthday, and Venus Murphy (the celtic rock band of which I am one fifth) had two shows in Saskatoon, an 8 hour drive west of home.  We play there fairly regularly, and have a great following, the venue is awesome and everyone is always really nice to us. It's kinda funny, because they treat us like we're famous.  (We're not. But for a weekend, it's fun to play like we are.)

I love going on the road to make music - it has a way of removing us from our real lives in a way that is somehow different and deeper than just a vacation is - it's like a complete immersion in our alter-egos...  for two or three days, we're not just Kyle, Mike, Nic, Kevin and Jenn, we're Venus Murphy.  We're a Band, a unit. There to entertain, to make people dance, or sing along... hopefully to lead them out of their everyday lives a bit, too.  I'm so happy when I'm on stage. Everything else disappears, half the time I'm not even really aware of the crowd in any way more than this wonderful source of energy.  The only people in the world are these four amazing men I get to make music with.  I live for this, and when we're on, there's nothing like it.  There's no stress, no effort, just us and the music.  It's magic.

But before that... well, before that, there is the work.  We get up early Friday morning, we buy the largest coffees we can find and we hit the highway.  Going on the road as a musician sounds like fun - and it is - but there is definitely a whole bunch of unglamourous heavy lifting involved.  Our instruments, mics, wireless systems, amps and various other necessities (drum hardware, rosin, cables, batteries, extra strings, flashlights and electrical tape) fill two cars, weigh a lot (without exaggeration I figure we're about 1000lbs in gear), are valuable and in some cases delicate, and need to be attentively loaded in, loaded out and set up by the five of us.  There's a reason bands have roadies.  'Nuff said.

I love the prairie with every fibre of my being, but the drive from Winnipeg to Saskatoon is... well, basically this:

... and a little of this....

All... the... way... there.  It's beautiful, but not really eight hours worth of beautiful.

Luckily, I'm a knitter.  I think I spent more time planning and packing knitting supplies than I did on my stage wardrobe.

The project for the trip was Ruba'iyat Mittens.  Here they are as we left home...

and at Brandon, 200km down the road (don't judge my slowness, this was way early in the morning)...

They took a time out while I drove the last bit from Regina to Saskatoon and while we loaded in all the gear and did our sound check.

 

I knit a few rows in the hotel room before the first set just to take the edge off the nerves.  As many times as I've gotten up in front of an audience - and I have been priveleged to be able to do so many many times in my life - I still get hyped before a show.  Knitting somehow does wonders to help me settle my stomach and focus my mind on the work ahead, for as much fun as it is, making music, particularly with other people (and, if I may say so, especially when one is playing an 18-pound instrument in 3-inch heels) requires a certain amount of concentration. 

The mitten had to stay in the hotel room while the accordion and I went downstairs to do the show...

Though some of my knitting did get to come on stage:

(Yes, those are the kilt hose, finally finished and in their natural habitat.  I took this shot standing off to the side with Love of My Life played a pretty smokin' drum solo.)

The shows went great, the audience was great, but one very enthusiastic fan stood out.  He was there for both sets, both nights, and beers after the show Saturday.

Yes, fellow Canadians, that's two of my bandmates with Lorne Cardinal, "Davis" from Corner Gas. He made our fiddler (Nic, left) play on his chair. (Nic has a habit of running all over the pub while soloing.  Since he went wireless, we can't keep him on the stage for very long.).  Nic fiddled.  And Davis danced his butt off.

Now that's famous.  I love Saskatoon.