A Tale of Two Sweaters

This is a story about two knitted sweaters, one finished and one in the trash.

Sweater One:  Long ago I bought some Rowan Yorkshire Tweed yarn in a lovely brick red. I bought the yarn because I liked the color with tweed flecks but had no specific pattern in mind. Although the yarn is labeled as dk weight, I knit it at a gauge between dk and worsted weight. In other words, my gauge was not suitable for sweaters knit with dk or worsted weight yarn. Still, I knit five swatches on various sized needles and tried three different sweater patterns.

Last December, I settled on the Garter Yoke Cardigan which is a well written pattern. I cast on the required number of stitches, modified the neckline, and knit beyond the yoke into the body. In order to get the correct gauge for this pattern, I knit with size 6 needles. Every time I knit on the sweater my hands hurt. Although the yarn was manufactured from "new wool," the fabric growing beneath my needles felt like cardboard. Last week, I decided life is too short to knit cardboard which hurts my hands. Quite relieved, I yanked the needle out, cut off the remaining yarn, and plunked the sweater in the trash. Usually, I salvage the yarn from abandoned projects. However, I had knitted these three balls of yarn so many times, I threw them away. I'll donate the remaining yarn to a good home because another knitter might get a different gauge. As for me, next time I'm tempted to buy a sweater's worth of yarn, I'll go in search of a pattern.

Sweater Two: Several years later, I purchased 1500 yards of Ultra Alpaca by Berocco to knit the Cassidy Cardigan. Ultra Alpaca with it's fiber content of 50% wool and 50% alpaca combines the softness of alpaca with the memory of wool. Knitting with Ultra Alpaca on the suggested needle size was like knitting with butter. I began knitting this sweater on August 4, 2010 toward the end of my father's life. The challenge of a cabled sweater and soft yarn was good company as Dad entered into hospice care.

While knitting this sweater, I learned to fix cables twisted the wrong way. After I sewed the sleeves into the body of the sweater, I discovered they were three inches too long for my short arms. I took out the cast on edges and pulled the bottom ribbing stitches out one by one. I used the Russian bind off at the bottom of the sleeves. In February, I did some research on Ravelry and figured out how to replace the hood with a collar of the small cable pattern used in the body of the sweater. I used my grandmother's technique of sewing grosgrain ribbon under the button band to make the front edge more stable. This past week, I finished weaving in the ends and sewed on a set of flat buttons which pulled the buttonhole side of the sweater out of shape. In order to accommodate the thickness of the knitted fabric, I sewed on another set of buttons with shanks. Although they were a slight improvement, the front edge still pulls a bit. However, the soft sweater fits well, and the cables all twist in the right directions. Other imperfections are part of the charm of my handmade projects.

Morning Ritual

Early in the morning,  I carry a cup of tea to my study and sit down at my Great Grandmother Ulmer's mahogany desk. This month, sunrise is about 30 minutes away. Although I couldn't see into the dark on Monday morning, I heard a gentle rain falling on the roof. Tuesday, pink and peach streaks in the eastern sky promised a dry bright day. Thursday, the sunrise reflected off the bare tree limbs and gray blue of the northwest sky before the sky turned a dull gray.  

Some mornings I scribble a line in my journal before picking up a piece of writing. Toward the end of the work week when I'm too tired to knead words into sentences, I prop my feet up on a nearby chair, sip hot tea, and listen to the quiet. On those mornings, I often read from a book of poetry, marking my favorites with small post-it notes. I marvel at the way a poem tells a story on a page or two. Sometimes I lay the book on my desk and imagine the poet choosing her words. Why did she select gnaw instead of chew? Verbs like dance, hone, descend, pierce, swoop, and swoon paint vivid pictures. I use a pencil to mark phrases like "lapping water on the shore" which convey meaning through sound. Carefully selected words, the cadence of lines, and the space between stanzas bring a measure of peace to the beginning of my day.

The last few weeks, I've been reading "Dirt Songs: A Plains Duet" by Twyla M. Hansen and Linda M. Hasselstrom. While Hansen lives on the edge of Lincoln, Ne. and Hasselstrom in western South Dakota, both women are keen observers of life on the Great Plains. They write about things that matter to me; the seasons, family, friends, fellow human beings, animals, insects, plants, and weather.  Some poems made me smile.  In "Swiss Cheese," Hansen pokes fun at unnecessary federal regulations while Hasselstrom unceremoniously tells "The Relatives Who Live in My Head" to "buzz off"as she prepares Thanksgiving dinner.  Other poems, like Hansen's "Bread," in which she finds a sacred moment in home baked bread or Hasselstrom's musings about her father while "Ice Skating on the Dam" touched my heart. All of their poems are honest, gritty reflections which combine ordinary days and extraordinary moments. This book is indeed a duet, nurtured by a deep understanding of the written word and common ground shared by all.

Homage to Women: Unknown and Known

Sometime in the late 1970's, Mom found a Depression era Nosegay Quilt at her church rummage sale. Someone had donated it for the sale. At the time, Mom, my sister, and I had just begun to make quilts.  Even so, Mom knew the quilt was a treasure. After my youngest brother used the piece for a few years, she gave it to me. I hung it on the bannister in my living room because the old fabrics spoke to me of ingenuity and a creative "make do" spirit. I also enjoyed the pastel colors in the quilt.

Faced with hard times, women made scrap quilts to keep their families warm. Often they cut pieces from worn curtains, clothing, and bedding. They salvaged print fabrics from feed and flour sacks. Depression era quilt patterns, like Double Wedding Ring and Grandmother's Flower Garden were pieced from many small patches. Some historians think women used pastels to brighten the dark days of the depression and the dust bowl.

The woman who made this particular Nosegay quilt pieced the diamonds and inserted the small squares with precision. Although the quilt is made of scraps, the quilter chose prints and used one solid colors in each bouquet to create a design. She also alternated soft yellow and gold fabric in the nosegay cones.  Even though I took good care of her quilt, it began to fray so I folded and wrapped it for storage.

In 199? I decided to make a replica. I counted the blocks, studied the pastel prints and solids and began to choose scraps. I cut diamonds from feed sacks, old fabrics purchased at second hand shops, and pieces I had inherited from another anonymous quilter. While sewing blocks by hand, I found two doll dresses my grandmother made for me and a cotton skirt she had sewed for her mother. I thought of my "can do" grandmother as I included her fabric in my quilt. I also incorporated some of my own new reproduction fabrics. Over the next three or four years, I pieced blocks. As best I could I replicated the color arrangement of the old quilt. After sewing the quilt top together, I put it away until I had time to stretch it on my frame for hand quilting. Several years went by but the time for hand quilting never materialized. Last August, I pulled the quilt top from a drawer and took it to a local woman for machine quilting.

This older but modern quilter lives on a farm outside of town. Together, we planned the quilting design. As we talked, I knew she had a good sense of quilts and quilting design. When I picked up the quilt in September, I was very pleased with her work. She showed me how she had arranged the quilt on the white backing fabric so I would have some nice leftover pieces. I didn't have the heart to tell her I was doing much more knitting and not likely to make another large quilt.

After the holidays, I was determined to attach the binding and finish the quilt. I considered a piece of bright blue fabric from my quilting supplies but the color looked too modern. I also considered piecing pastel fabrics to make a pieced binding but that design seemed too busy. When I spread the quilt on the floor to look at it again, I noticed the leftover backing along two sides of the quilt. I decided the leftover white fabric would work well for the binding so I got to work measuring, cutting, and sewing.  

This morning when I began to write, I unwrapped the old quilt for photos and noticed the binding on three sides was cut from the same plain cream colored muslin backing the quilt. Without realizing it, I chose to bind the new quilt with leftover fabric in the same way the original quilter had finished her quilt.  Although the pieces come from different eras and were made in different ways, they share many similarities. Perhaps most important, both quilts pay homage to the ingenuity and skills of women.    

   

 

Tiny Nests

On the 24th, I took a break from Christmas kitchen madness to go for a walk.  The temp was near 50 degrees which was perfect walking weather. Winter is a great opportunity to see the structure of trees and small nests which are not visible in other seasons.  Who lives in these tiny nests and how do they manage in such small spaces, I wondered? Perhaps they were occupied by migrating birds because they now appear to be empty. I'm sure an ornithologist could tell me whether or not they are occupied but I am not an ornithologist so instead I thought about tiny nests, the places we live, and the stuff we think we need to make our nests habitable.

In comparison to most other people in the world, I am wealthy. I have a new weather tight roof over my head. My home is warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I have dishes to serve Christmas brunch and lovely mugs for ginger tea and coffee shop coffee. If a certain grandson comes to visit, I can load his hot chocolate with a handful of marshmallows. When I need medicine, I purchase it from the local drugstore. I have warm, clean, well fitting clothing and three winter coats. I have enough beautiful yarn to keep me in projects well beyond 2012 but that is a story for another post. My list of nest-stuff is almost endless. Most importantly, I have family and friends I dearly love and who love me back. In other words, my nest is a treasure compared to many.

Curious about the origin of the word "nest," I pulled out my American Heritage College Dictionary and discovered "nest" comes from several old languages. Like many word origins, the historical path wanders and branches ( no pun intended).  Nest comes from an Old English suffix "-sed yo" which means to sit. The word has several other connections but the one which made sense to me combines the Germanic word, "nistaz," meaning niche, and the Old English suffix" -sed." Following the path back even further, the German "nistaz" came from the Latin "nidus" nest, which in turn was made up of a combination of the words, "Kuzdho" (treasure) and the Germanic "-zd" (sitting). Thus a nest, literally means "sitting over a treasure."

Strange I know but I enjoy these adventures through the appendices of my dictionary. Now, the sun is shining and I 'm off for another walk to see what else I can discover.

Warm November

My sister knit this scarf and gave it to me as a birthday present.  She knows I love blue and often wear blues, roses, reds with blue undertones, pinks, and did I mention blue. The scarf is knit from Koigu merino wool yarn in the linen stitch. The scarf is beautiful, soft, warm, and just the right weight for chilly autumn days.

As bright October fades into gray November, I pull out hand knits and settle into my school routine. After the first crazy weeks of back to school meetings and learning my caseload, I find a rhythm working with parents and caregivers of preschool children with disabilities. In my job, I often sit on the floor, share books, blocks, and craft projects with enthusiastic preschoolers. While I dress professionally, I choose sturdy clothing which stands up to repeated washing. The day after my husband's knee surgery, I was dead tired but went to work. On my way out the door, I reached for my new scarf. Knowing the hours and love my sister had knit into the piece, I wondered if I should save it for special occasions.  However, I needed a boost that morning so I wore the scarf. Wrapping the colors and wool around my neck was like a hug of encouragement from my sister. Since then I've worn the scarf several times each week.

This past week a good friend of 39 years passed away. Dorothy was a founding member of the Crafters, a group of my friends who have met once a month for over twenty five years. Dorothy was a witty, intelligent woman who lived a rich full life. She loved and was loved by her family and friends. For many years, she made pie once a week and invited her family over after they attended church on Sunday.  If the Crafters were lucky, she made pie for us. In the last of her 87 years, she faced major life changes with grace and courage. I hope I can do the same.  Her death reminds me of a lesson I've learned more than once.  Savor every day, every hug, every walk, every hand knit scarf and every pie crust.

The day before Thanksgiving, family and friends will gather to remember Dorothy. Then I'm coming home and make an apple pie with Dorothy's pie crust recipe. The crust won't be quite as tender as Dorothy's but I'm going to enjoy rolling out my own pastry. Then on Thanksgiving, I'm going add a dollop of whipped cream to my coffee in honor of my mother and savor a piece of pie with my dear husband and his new knee. After dessert,  I'll lace up my tennis shoes, wrap the linen stitch scarf around my neck, and take a walk under a November sky.    

A Taste of Autumn

 

   

Several weeks ago, Lance and I drove out to a local orchard.  When we arrived, a pleasant teenage girl, handed us a map with the location of different apple varieties. The September afternoon was warm and bright as we walked through rows of apple trees. Families, including grandparents with grandchildren, were out enjoying the day. As we searched for Jonathan and Johngold trees, I wished all children had the opportunity to see how apples grow. We picked two bag of apples and drove home past farmers harvesting in the fields.

The next weekend, I made apple butter. As I worked, I thought about my great grandmother and how she preserved fruit in her kitchen. Sometime in the 1890's, she planted fruit trees on the central Nebraska prairie. If she made apple butter, she built a fire in a stove, used a paring knife to prepare the fruit, and spent most of the afternoon feeding the stove while stirring a kettle of apples, sugar, and spices to keep the mixture from scorching.  Instead I pushed fruit onto prongs and turned a crank to peel, core, and slice apples. Then I filled a crockpot with sliced apples, sugar, cinnamon, and cloves and plugged it into an electrical outlet.

Twice during the day, I used a potato masher to break down the fruit. After the apples and spices simmered to the right consistency, I ladled apple butter into jars, screwed on lids, and tucked it into the freezer for another day. My great grandmother didn't have a freezer. She had a cave dug into the ground beside her home. When she made preserves or fruit butter, she either melted paraffin to pour on top of the preserves or put the jars through a water bath.  Either process required more work over her cook stove.

My great grandmother and I do have a few things in common. Neither of us want anything to go to waste. She fed apple peels and cores to the hogs her husband raised in order to feed their large family. When I finished, I carried the peels and cores to my compost pile.  I'm sure my great grandmother also enjoyed the taste of autumn in warm apple butter spread on wheat toast.

         

Knitting is Better than TV

My son has a new friend in his life.  This seven year old boy is eager to learn new things. He approaches everything with enthusiasm and confidence as in "I am good at math or I am good at hockey.

During one of his visits to our home, I was knitting and he sat down beside me to watch. Immediately he wanted to learn to knit and asked if I had knitting books.  He picked up a book of sock patterns but decided he'd rather knit a hat and he would like it to be red.  

The next week I put a ball of red yarn and some size 9 knitting needles in a small canvas bag. When I came home Friday afternoon, I found him sitting quietly on the living room love seat.  He looked at me with big brown eyes and said, "Will you teach me to knit now?"  We sat on the couch and I used the children's knitting rhyme: "In through the front door, around the back, peek through the window, and off jumps Jack," to teach the knit stitch. He allowed me to show him exactly three stitches before he wanted the needles in his own hands.  Hand and over hand, I helped him for five or six stitches and he was off.  As with all knitters, his tension was tight, the knitting twisted on the needle, and he dropped a few stitches.  I assured him that knitting can always be fixed. When I told him this swatch could be a practice piece, he informed me he was making a hat.

All the while we were working, he was chattering about how he wanted to make hats for his Mom, my son, and his stuffed animals.  He informed me he was good at knitting and asked to take his knitting home.  Before I sent the bag with him, I made sure he understood knitting needles are not to be used as swords.  My son and I also told him he couldn't take the knitting to school. As a teacher, I don't want to be responsible for sending nuisance items to second grade.  Even after all our precautions this little guy made a very perceptive comment. He discovered "knitting is way better than TV!" Amen.