Mexico Eye Candy

I don't have a scanner, so I took pictures of a few of my pictures. These go with the post below, but if you're not into long posts, the pictures tell a quicker story.


Hayley's amazing hair, happy couple at happy hour, the four of us on Bird Island.


Yes, I wore the bikini. Colin spotted a ray swimming in a wave. It was body surfing. It would ride the wave right up onto the beach, and then swim back out and catch another one.


The picture on the right is one of my favorites because of Hayley's face and body language. I wanted a photo. She did not.


One of the activities on the Lido deck was ceramic painting. We all made a few items. The guy running the booth took away our painted items and brought them back the next day all touched up and glossed.

Mexico

Part I of this post is called "Why I want to knit a bikini one day." This is Part II. I wrote journals while I was away. This post is composed entirely out of excerpts from my journals. No photos (no digital camera back then). You'll have to use your imagination. Hope you enjoy it, Trish!

February 2004

I am sitting with my daughter many thousands of feet up in the air. She is delighted with everything. And she keeps a vigilant eye on the seatbelt sign. Pays attention to the announcement beeps. Obediently puts on her seatbelt, and just as quickly removes it when allowed. Digging through her bag every five minutes for something different to read, to eat, to colour. When I take her to the washroom, I notice the tender smiles she always brings to older people’s faces. I notice these things. I’m not sure that she does. Kind man at my right, and I am not feeling anxious.

I have hopes for this holiday. I want to be warm. I want to wear my new bikini. I want that weightless feeling of being buoyant in the ocean. I want to watch the colorful and playful fish. I want to watch my colorful and playful children. I want to eat and drink all my favorite things. I hope not to see cockroaches. I want to laugh.

There was this man in the airport in LA. He was wearing an offensive t-shirt. Cheap. White. Hanes beefy-T type t-shirt, stretched tight over his bulging belly. Huge bold black print. And the shirt read:

I Fear no Broads
Bold Cold
Gold Old
Or Sold

I feel sorry for his wife being married to such an asshole.

And he’s crass: he walks up to a woman (me), worn out from the day of traveling with her two children. (Turns out we’re staying at the same resort).

The man: “I saw your husband in the line. Is that from spousal abuse? He wants to know.”

“I don’t understand…” I say looking around, confused.

“Your husband has that thing on his wrist,” Is that from spousal abuse?

We’re here in Mexico, and we’re staying at a time-share resort. In Mazatlan. In February. It’s not exactly a hip happening place. It’s packed full of old people. We’ve seen maybe four other children. No couples our age. Everyone over sixty. A few “young” folks between forty and sixty.

It’s beautiful here and quiet, private, but it feels like being on the love boat. They have friendly, warm-hearted service personnel: Andy, Eduardo, Manuel. They greet us in Spanish, Ola, Buenas Dias, Buenas Tardes, Buenas Noches. Warm smiles and holding the door open, ringing for the elevator. They recognize us and ask us how we are enjoying our stay. And we are. Despite being surrounded by old people. Old people in bathing suits, and I was worried about my bikini! Ha! I am not one of the women on the beach in a bikini. I am THE woman. No one goes to the beach. We have it all to ourselves. This generous expanse of luxurious beach, and we have it all to ourselves.

We’ve never had it so good. Palm trees and beach chairs. Brightly coloured towels. You can have a clean set any time. Excellent service. Friendly Eduardo with his pool menu. Huge drinks – chi chi’s pina coladas, margaritas. Beautiful food. We ordered a picnic for four and it came on a huge round platter, carried high over our waiter’s shoulder. When he set it down, we saw an array of baskets: fish strips and fries, fish tacos, nachos, a fruit plate. Everything delicious, expertly prepared, garnished with colour – with salsa and guacamole, peppers and peppered carrots (Colin tried one by accident), lettuce leaves and tomatoes, sliced avocado. Papaya, chunks of pineapple and melon. At the dinner buffet, you can put a straw down on the table, turn your back and it’s gone. Just like Disneyland. No garbage, no hunger, no unhappiness. The nearly invisible workings of a well-oiled machine. A machine of service. Lovely, unexpected, unaccustomed. But a little unreal.

Everything is clean, manicured, pedicured. Flamingos and toucans, carp, on display in enclosures. Architectured comfort. Entertainment on the Lido deck. Even the bugs seem to be on their best behaviour.

The beach feels more real.

Kids wave jumping and laughing. Surprised at how cool the water is, and at how warm the water is. Searching for shells along the tide line. And I am the only woman in a bikini because everyone else is lying around at the pool. I look good here. Everyone in their leathery skin –“snowbirds” they are called. People who chase the sun around all year, Arizona, palm springs, Hawaii, Mexico. Permanent shiny tans until their skin looks like naugahyde.

And the music…the guy on the synthesizer every morning during the breakfast buffet. Plays all the sentimental favorites. Beatles tunes, Simon and garfunkel, Unchained Melody, Mrs. Robinson, Something…in muzac. Exactly the stuff this crowd enjoys. At night at the party, the Makarena, The achey breaky, Rock around the Clock.

But out at the beach this morning, I go for a walk before most people are up. I walk along the beach and I am aware of the eagerness of creation. Waves straining toward the shore, pushing their loads of shells, pebbles. Those four dogs running in a pack – the doggy daycare in Mexico. The little tan coloured one. The big black one just like shadow. The stunted black lab, and the Heinz 57, amottled mutt, brown and white, shaggy. The little tan one seems to be in charge. They blurred together like puddles and ran along the beach in a friendly pack.

The old man walking on the beach. Does he come here every day? His worn-in hat slouching low over his forehead. Skin deeply tanned by life and heritage. Not by trips to Arizona. A spare, bent man. An old man, but not in a bathing suit and not with parts of his body bulging out for all to see. Not with a large cocktail in a Styrofoam cup in his hand. A white shirt, grey pants, leather sandals.

Two Mexican boys have begun a sand castle building project. They have a few simple plastic tools and strong eager hands. They begin in the soft stuff, building up an edifice, and sloping it down to the sea, then add in waterways, canals, bridges, tunnels. Very focused on their work.

A peddler with a Catamaran asks if I would like to go for a sail. No, I think, I don’t want to sail: I want to walk – that’s why I am here, to walk. I decline him politely, and carry on.

Would I like to sail, would I like to snorkel, would I like to buy a basket. Would I like a drink, would I like some lunch, would I like to buy a time share (vultures at the beach too). No, what I like is the sound of the ocean, the ability to wear lightweight clothes. The buoyant feeling of floating on my back outdoors in natural water. I like all the fruit and the juice, and even the booze. I like the green and blue and brown. I want to see fish.

My daughter getting her hair done – she looks like royalty – like Cleopatra’s daughter. Carries herself on her toes with pride. She gives a little shake to her head and the beaded braids twirl out from her head and settle back in a fall. Hair in neat corn stalk rows. Forty little braids.

We’re on the love boat. Gopher comes around every ten minutes to see if we want drinks, food, an ashtray. To sweep up the five grains of sand we tracked in from the beach, the stray tomato bits that fell off our lunch tray. Isaac the bartender. Julie the cruise director leading bingo on the lido deck. Or Spanish language lessons. A pool party, an outdoor bbq. Only they are not Julie and Isaac and Gopher; they are Eduardo, and Filiberto, and Manuel. Unfailingly polite, smiling in recognition (not just faking it). Eager to serve my every whim. And we tip them again and again because they earn it, and we are the tourists; it is our role to tip. And because we like them. They are good to us, and we want to say thank you and thank you and again.

I wonder about the authenticity of a space where I sit on a lounge chair and get waited on like a pharaoh.

Bird Island – where we spent three hours was real space. It didn’t conform to our every whim. We went there to snorkel. Wanted so badly to have our young children experience the joy of seeing fancy tropical fish in their genuine habitat. We have so many fond memories of doing this in Maui. A disappointment because the place did not cooperate. Too windy; too rocky; too rough; too murky. I saw one fish and nearly got swept against the rocks again and again. You can’t manufacture these experiences. They happen or they don’t. No photo opportunity here; the place was being itself. You can’t tip a place. We did enjoy our ride on the catamaran – out and back. Back was exciting. All that chop and wind that had worked against us in the snorkel department made the return trip so exciting that the kids will probably count it as one of the highlights of the trip. We surfed the swells into the shore and cheered Juan’s skill with the tiller.

We had that pelican rock all to ourselves. The kids ploughed into the sand with buckets and shovels. We ate bread and pineapple, chips and cookies on the beach. We hiked over to a cove and found the skeletal remains of a puffer fish. We enjoyed the peace and quiet – the family solitude. No old people. No elevator music. No games on the Lido deck. Bird Island was a place. The open water was a place. Juan’s catamaran was a place, and Juan was at home in it. He on his craft; his craft on the water. We got to visit Juan’s place. But only Juan knows its secrets. We learned just one: the trade-off for poor snorkeling was an exciting ride home. Which was the better deal?

Hayley wants to play a game of Parcheesi. I have the energy here to swim with my children, to be with them for long lengths of time, to play games, to joke around. I like that. I probably will not cry or feel depressed or sad. I don’t. And I don’t feel anxious. A holiday from strong unhappy emotions. A treat. A gift. I have not felt this released from all my issues and such for almost a year and a half.

Those two boys on the beach were beautiful. That old man was beautiful. That old weathered fence. Juan poised on one knee at the tiller of the cat. His body knows exactly what to do. Grace and soul. His spirit full of life – visible on the surface. Despite the privacy of all that goes on inside his head, inside his life. And we are the outsiders. We come to this place, and maybe it is just as well that we stay – keep ourselves in the unreal space – because otherwise we might fool ourselves into thinking that we can know this place in the brief space of time we spend here. What can be known of a place in such a short amount of time? What can be known? What have I learned about myself in the last 17 months? What have I learned of my place in Port Moody as I have walked it for hundreds of miles? What can I know of Mexico – even this little patch of Mexico in one short week?

I can learn a bit of its beauty: the beauty of beaches, of surf rolling in – the sound, rhythm, music of that. I can notice that locals wear long pants, and only tourists wear shorts. The locals have such a diversity of looks about them. They are a warm, generous, social people. They know how to do food. They have excellent manners and dignity. They appreciate a smile of recognition and remember a name for a long long time. They like children. The stern guard at customs flirting with Hayley.

Those sea urchins that washed up on the beach were real. The Styrofoam coffee cups are not. Anyone can tell the difference. And anyone can tell the difference between these two
worlds too.

The ricky-ticky public city bus. The older and rustier the better. Door hanging on thin hinges. Hung on rust alone. Spit and rust holding the thing together. Falling apart fun, and even my children know the difference. They preferred the rusty bus to the slicker air conditioned one. They knew the old bus was real.

We went shopping today, and we dumped our money into the Mexico economy as we are happy to do. I bought silver and onyx jewelry, a couple of those batiked hip wraps for the beach, a litre of the real vanilla, a straw hat. Doug bought a hat – thrilled to find one that fit his head. Made him look like Ricardo Montalban. He bought a slingshot (wrist rocket) to ward off the raccoons in our back yard, a t shirt. Colin and hayley bought t-shirts, and games made of onyx. Colin pleased and grown up with an Aztec chess set; hayley delighted with her tiny coffin box of miniature dominoes.

The kids held iguanas today. So bright green, they looked fake, but they were real.

The cab driver spoke better English than my Spanish – all five words of it – he was real. He wanted to improve. He asked us the names for things and practiced all the way to the airport.

Those shacks and the smell of shit. Real. The chicken running around at the side of the road.

The woman changing her baby at the side of the road. Runny nosed girl standing at her side. All alone, no dwelling in sight.

Driving from the airport to the beach was real. Most people don’t live on the beach. They don’t live in cultivated splendour. They don’t enjoy fancy cocktails delivered on round trays by uniformed waiters. They live in shacks with garbage on top. They live in the orange cookie-cutter concrete tract houses. They live in small square squat concrete boxes with garbage piled on top, no landscaping, open-air laundry lines. Scrubby. One box entirely smothered in purple blooms – something in season. Does better than paint to colour the house and keep it cool. Better homes and gardens should see this one.

Old bent people, man leading a horse. Woman walking slowly, painfully, on bandy legs. Woman nursing her baby on the dusty ground in front of the supermercado – the convenience store where I buy my water for half price. My bimbo bread. My canned milk. Butter that is a deeper yellow than butter at home. Pineapple soda. Tubes of cookies, and all jams are called marmalade. Tiny boxes of fruit loops for the kids.

Margarita comes in every evening at 6:00 to turn down the beds and leave pillow treats. She alternates: one night tiny snickers bars; the next, local candy. Something chewy and squishy at the same time. We thank her politely and eat the snickers bars.

Photos I see in my head of this trip:

I see the smiles – Manuel at the door – runs to open it for me before I can. “Buenos tardes, Signora, how are you?”

And Filiberto in his white cap, white shirt, socks, tennis shoes, black shorts – red faced and sweating as he hustles around the pool deck passing out menus and carting drinks.

The ray in the wave – riding the surf up the beach, and my son Colin running to tell me about the ray he followed all over the shore.

Fish leaping in the waves. Those pelicans swarming around like a cloud of black flies. Up close, they are huge, a bit frightening as they perch on the rocks. They look capable of carrying off a small child. Swooping low over the water for a leaping fish.

The backs of my children as they jump in the waves.

Hayley’s hair swinging like a curtain, her on her toes and coltish legs, darting about like a sandpiper. Feet whisper on the packed sand, leaving barely a trace.

I wondered where my sadness went
But it’s here
With me
It came along because it is part of me
It goes where I go
Waiting beneath the surface
Waiting politely for me to notice
Not pushing
Not edging its way like the dull saw it is
It knows I am on vacation
It knows how distracted I am by the power of the sea
The beach
The sun
The clothes
The food
The events
It waits for me to acknowledge its presence
By noticing its absence
When I write about my awareness of its absence
It is then
I sense its presence
Riding the green swells of my comfort
Breaking out in white froth in sets of two, three, four waves
Then a quiet set again
Sometimes a red flag day
Sometimes a yellow
This week – green flag all the way

Roll Call

Okay...let's take stock. I've finished a few things lately, and I have the urge to count heads at the orphanage.

Recently finished:

Alpaca Prayer Shawl...hooray!!
Hedgie
Pink Handpainted Yarn Cable Sweater
Blue Sky Alpaca Bulky Baby Hat (okay, that kind of snuck in there)

Recently terminated:

The Ugly Betty Sock. I'm not frogging it. It can be a sample. But I have no intention EVER of knitting the second.
Lace-edged Cardi. That's gone. Needed the yarn for something else. And no, I haven't started that thing yet.
Cat's Meow bit of scarf. Gone. Yarn rolled up and back in stash
Striped sock that was nearly finished. Alas it is getting frogged. I want to make a pair that fits H, and I do not want to keep knitting more and more pairs of the same kind of socks.

Two new projects that showed up at the door and asked to stay:

Mondial Kross Camo Jacket (impulse buying...sigh...)
Mister Joe, that sly devil.


See how they grow...This is Joe now that I have knitted one ball of yarn. He's looking good, and he's made a request.


Beads! That's right. Joe wants beads. The feather and fan shawl really will need a fringe (Joe told me), and the fringe will need beads (Joe happened to mention). That sneaky Joe. It wasn't enough that I spent my money on him, invited him into my home and gave him something to do. Now he wants beads. I've told him fine, but he has to share. He can't hog all the beads to himself.


This Icona item has been getting some of my time lately too. Now two balls long, eight to go. It will either be a wrap or a poncho when it's done. I haven't decided yet. But no beads. I don't need another uppity project right now. Oh and Sam, I want to hear how yours went. You know who you are!

I've also made some progress on the black Katrina v-neck. The back is done, and I'm six inches up the front thanks to a long wait in a pizza place last night.

Stay tuned. This site ain't called "See Jayne Knit" for nothing!

Shawl We Dance?

I am a praying person. Always have been as far back as I can remember. And I can remember a lot.

Children who grow up in traumatizing environments tend to develop either amnesia (forgetting as an anaesthetic) or hypermnesia (heightened memory and hyper alertness). The body has interesting ways of surviving painful events. I grew up surrounded by the angry depressed people in my family: both my parents and my two older sisters. Crisis and chaos abound in such families, and from about the age of nine or ten, I was often the most grown up, if not the only "grown up" person in the family. Someone had to take care of my little sister after all. So I was on. On deck, on patrol, on alert at all times. I was scared shitless my whole life, and I didn't even know it. Fear ran my adult life too, but it disguised itself as drive, efficiency, talent, perfectionism, and what looked like a great deal of success.

I bonded fiercely with God during those trying early years. I sensed his presence in the midst of desperate circumstances. He didn't make the bad things go away, but he stuck around. I held tenaciously to his coat-tails for dear life many times, not realizing that he was holding me more securely than I could have imagined. My prayers were simple. "Oh God, Help!" remains my favorite prayer to this day.

In any case, about four years ago he gave me a terrible gift. He gave me back all my packed-up emotions, all at once, during one indescribable week of my life. Technically it is called Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but I call it the last four years of my life. I got broken down to my bare foundations, and the rebuild has been slow and painful, terrifying and wonderful, eye-opening and amazing. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I am finally becoming my true self, and I have discovered precious freedom from so many things that used to keep me in a straitjacket. I am coming up on my four-year anniversary of that bizarre week, and the shawl I have been knitting since last May will be ready.



I started the shawl when I decided to end the formal part of my theological education. I was studying at Regent College, slowly working on a master's degree in Jesus-stuff and planning eventually to move on to PhD work and teaching at the graduate level. I had started this work two years before the big crack-up and had managed to limp along, even through the rebuilding process. Regent has been a critical part of my life's journey. It is an international graduate school of Christian studies. It is anything but religious, stuffy or narrowminded. We studied culture, both modern and ancient; learned ancient languages and how to read the Bible in its historical context. We discussed poverty, philosophy, history. I took a creative writing course. I learned how to challenge everything, how to question everything, how to doubt. I learned how to look at the world today from a much broader perspective. And I learned that I am anything but "in charge." After a lifetime of being in charge, I am learning to let go.

Last May, I finally realized that I was not the person I was when I began that degree and that the old goal of moving up and up and up into more complexity in life was not going to wash with who I am now. I decided to graduate with a diploma instead of a degree. Now that I have graduated, I can audit courses at a greatly reduced rate. I can still have all of the fun of learning without the stress of papers and exams. That sounds good to me.


But the leaving was difficult. It represented yet another loss and a time of grieving. I decided to make the shawl so that I would have something unfinished, like my unfinished feelings about leaving behind my educational and career goals. I knew it would take time to make the shawl, and that making it would give me a focus for some of my feelings as I worked on it.



The shawl is knitted in super cuddly Berroco Ultra Alpaca. The pattern is "Wavy Lace Wrap" in Vogue Knitting Fall 2005. I used five skeins of Ultra Alpaca (appx. 1100m) and size 5mm needles. The colour came out most accurately in the picture up at the top of this post. It is a deep midnight blue/purple blend. I wanted something dark and rich and comforting. I made a few mistakes in the border lace pattern and left them in on purpose. Imperfection is sometimes a good thing.

Am I Blue?

Well...a little. It's rainy and cold out, which is a relief after so much heat. It gives me a good excuse to be a hermit crab today.


Which shell should I choose?

I am kind of a hermit crab by nature. I like lots of solitude. I like people too, and enjoy being social, but then I have to retreat back to my hermity lifestyle to regroup. Maybe that's why blogging is so much fun. I can be social and connected in a way, but hermity too.

Well, the slurping has subsided, thank you Jesus! This is actually the fourth time we've been through this. Two years ago, Colin got this huge piece of hardware attached to the roof of his mouth. I don't know how he managed to eat with that thing in there. Every day I had to crank it a bit wider. I never got used to doing that to him. It gave me the creeps every time. Then Hayley got a retainer. Then Colin got braces. Then everything came out, and there was much rejoicing. Now Colin has a retainer. Next stop: Hayley's braces, no doubt sometime in the next few years.

It has been a very muzzy day, but I did manage to make progress on Mr Joe and the alpaca shawl. More tomorrow.


Always good to end with a smile: Disneyland last March. The hattiest place on earth!

Meet Mr Joe

I'm having a bad day. I woke up to discover that my lower back was all locked up. It happens. It hurts. I hate it. I also have a sore throat, but I don't think I'm getting sick. That happens too. I'm tired and grouchy, and I had to take the kids to the orthodontist. An hour and a half and two meetings with the ortho to discuss strategy later, we're in the elevator heading back down to the car when "SCHLUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!!!"

My darling son has a new appliance in his mouth. It is making his mouth water something fierce, and every fifteen seconds he makes this loud slurping noise that makes my whole body cringe. My nervous system is touchy at the best of times, and the day hasn't begun well, but this feels like the last straw. I know he can't help it, but tell that to my body chemistry as it reacts bitterly to the jarring noise for the next twenty-five minutes until we drop him off at school. Someone else's problem for a while. But I'm stuck with the shakes for the next hour or so.

I arrived home to discover a gentleman caller on my doorstep. Seems he had been waiting patiently for about two hours for me. I wasn't feeling hospitable, but I invited him in. He introduced himself as Mister Joe, sent from Elann Yarns, as per my order on Monday. Strange name for a yarn, I thought. Stranger still that I had eight balls of "Jazz" and only two of "Grasslands." I though I had ordered five of each. I checked my account and discovered that no, the mistake was mine. Fine. Jazz is pretty, and if he promises to behave himself, Mister Joe can stay. But NO slurping.


The purple/turquoise balls are "Jazz" and the green ones are "Grasslands." CatBookMom from Elann chat posted a free patterns site this morning. If I wasn't feeling so shitty, I'd include the link here. I found a pattern for a cozy feather and fan shawl, and asked Mister Joe if he'd like to try that on for size. Seems good so far.

I finished the back of my black Katrina last night and did the ribbing on the front this morning at the ortho. Also got a few more inches done on my alpaca prayer shawl. The orphans aren't grumbling too much even if I am. Maybe I'll just go to bed and hope for better tomorrow.

Got Stuffing?

Let us be happy for Hedgie...


Hedgie has found a family


Good night, Hedgie!


Look who was all posing for the camera this morning. "I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. de Mille."

I finally got that hedgehog stuffed, sewn up and delivered to its happy new owner. It was on her bed making nice with the other cuddly pals when she got home from school. And then I washed a few sweaters with a Lavalan soak in the washer and spin cycle. Sure beats handwashing! The shocking-pink has been washed and blocked, now drying. The merino came out even softer (happy sigh) after the wash, and the cables relaxed in a pleasing manner. Now if the weather would just hurry up and cool off already.


Been getting some yummy things in the mail lately. I think I mentioned that I have a nervous tic when it comes to merino. My finger tends to stab the "Buy Now" button reflexively. Elann posted this bulky Mondial Kross wonderfulness, and they had an eeny bit of camouflage colourway. Stab. Now I have it, and a book of super fun patterns to go with. Perfect for Instant Knitting Gratification. The back is done already. The sunshine on this photo makes it look a bit lighter than it is.

Been puttering away at the alpaca shawl, especially before bedtime. Nothing makes me snoozy like counting lace at bedtime.

Promised the black Katrina sweater that it would get some hands-time this evening.


Webs had a big end-of-summer sale last month, and I couldn't resist the Rowan Chunky Print (quelle deal!!!). I ordered five balls of "Pit" (deep brown) several weeks ago, and when it came, I had to get some more. The more came this morning, along with "Girly Pink" for the girly, of course. She wants a bulky poncho. Mmmmm....more IKG!

A Bit of Peace

Today is a day of sad remembering. I need a bit of peace. When I need to find perspective and get moving, get centered, I go to the inlet near my home. I walk. I listen and look. I get out of myself for a while. I do this nearly every day. Today I brought my camera so that you can come with me.

The tide is out. When the tide is in, the water laps at the edges of this boardwalk, and all the grass is underwater.


This is the time of year for wild asters


And rose hips



The smell of dried leaves and blackberries past their prime



Soon I will watch the salmon spawning and the Dunlin Sandpipers flashing their wings in the sunshine



This is a place of winding paths and bowers of branches



Rustic paths and well-worn wooden bridges



Bright fall colours are just beginning to show up



I like to spy on the birds



The view from the duckblind always reminds me of freedom within limitations



There are so many beautiful places to sit and just look. A duck couple is usually here.




This is my favorite place to look out and think


Hardly any birds today, must be too hot, except for this lone heron



Summer is hanging on for a bit longer


At the end of the walk is the beach at Old Orchard Park.



My walk is shaped like a "U" We started where the U starts to curve. When you go back the way we came, and go up the other leg of the U, you get to Rocky Point Park, a cultivated park for hanging out and community events. Rocky Point is directly across the water from the beach at Old Orchard. It takes about an hour and a half to do the whole walk.



Fish and chips always taste better outside


No shortage of these guys!


It always makes me feel so very grateful.

Go in peace.

How I got (back) Into Knitting

Yes, Trish, I'll write more on Mexico. Just for you! Just not today...




Yesterday's weather...Cloudy with a chance of Coffee. It was great to have some rain, even for one day.


I don't have anything new to show 'cuz I've been working on my science experiment all weekend. It's looking pretty cool...wouldn't you just love to see it?? Sorry, shouldn't taunt.

Knitters often ask other knitters how long they've been knitting, and how they got into it in the first place, so I thought I'd stab my Addi Turbos into that topic. Am I the only one who thinks of them as lethal weapons? I'm talking about the straight ones, not the circulars. They look like something that would show up sticking out of someone's back in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

Like so many of you, I grew up with a knitter mom. I NEVER wanted to knit. And knitting didn't want me either. When I was in grade-3, everyone in our class was supposed to knit a square to be sewn into an afghan for charity. I didn't knit a square. I made a mess. It never became anything but a bad hair-do. When I was about twelve years old, a colleague of my dad's married a beautiful Trinidadian woman. The colleague was an ass, but the woman was a delight, and I loved her a lot. When she had a baby boy, I longed to knit a sweater for him. I bought pale yellow yarn and gave knitting a second chance. I finished the back and a sleeve, and then knitting left me for another woman. I think my mom finished the sweater.

In grade-10, I desperately wanted to own a striped sweater I had seen in a magazine. My mom encouraged me to knit one, and heaving a sigh of deep mistrust, I ventured forth again. This time I began to enjoy myself. I think I got three pieces done before something screwed up, probably me, and there went the relationship once again. Believe it or not, I did give it one more try when I was around twenty years old. A minty green cardigan in that minty green that had its day sometime in 1985 and then should have quietly disappeared forever, but didn't. It migrated to polyester pants where it lives to this day. If you wear those pants, I'd rather not know about it.

After the minty green disaster, I declared, in the manner of Scarlett O'Hara, that as God was my witness, I'd never knit again!

Until three years ago in June.

I was away on a weekend holiday in Tofino with some friends, one of whom was the Denise from the bikini story. Denise was knitting a sweater and making it look kind of fun. I picked up a ball of whatever she was knitting. It was soft and creamy white. It was Bernat Denim Style. There was a free pattern on the ball band. The pattern was for a sweater that was right up my alley. Knitting batted its eyes at me. Old longings stirred. I was in pretty bad shape back then. I had a condition called "All Fucked Up." That's a medical term, by the way. Anyway, I had about three activities in my repertoire at that time: walking, sleeping, and staring at the wall. I thought that if I could knit that sweater and actually finish it, then maybe, just maybe, I could add knitting to the list, and that might add some...colour to my life.

I drove out to Michael's and bought five balls of Denim Style in my favorite faded green and a book called "I Can't Believe I'm Knitting." The chick on the cover of the book was a bit scary. She looked like she was hopped up on amphetamines. But I snuck past her to relearn how to cast on, how to knit, how to purl, how to decrease, how to bind off. And I made that sweater in less than two weeks. It turned out! I had finished a project! I was hooked.

I found a pattern booklet by Patons called "Endless Summer." Summery patterns done in Patons Fresco. I found an LYS, walked in, and asked the woman, "Do you have any Patons Fresco??" she looked at me a bit oddly, but pointed me toward the Fresco. I bought enough black to do a tank, enough white to do a sweater, and enough variegated blue to do...not sure. I didn't have a size 9 needle. They didn't have aluminum in that size, and I didn't want plastic. So she handed me a pair of Stainless Steel Beauties. I didn't know what they were for two more years. She said they would fly, so I said "fine," and bought my first pair of Addi's. I loved the way they clanked together when I worked on that Fresco. I got a lot of anger out with those needles.

Now when I remember the odd look she gave me over my excitement to find Fresco, I get it. I was in an LYS. My LYS. The one that's only ten minutes from my house. The one that has lots of my money. I was in an LYS filled with wonderful natural fibers, lovely imported yarns, and I was thrilled that they carried Patons Fresco! Last I checked you can get Fresco on line at Yarn by the Bag for about ninety percent off. Oh well...it served me well back then.



My second finished item ever was this white sweater done in Patons Fresco. I finished it about two weeks after the green sweater. It fit like a dream and I still wear it. You've got to hand it to Fresco for its wash and wearability. It can't help that it is synthetic. Not a great photograph, but you get the idea. Oh, and while we're on the topic, those patterns are wonderful. I'm working on a twin for this sweater in the black Katrina. Ebony and Ivory...(insert bad singing here).






My third project ever: black shell (Fresco, natch) with a slip-rib pattern. I love this sweater and wear it every summer. In fact, I wore it to church today, so it was no big deal to nab a photo of it.

After that, I was knitting like a mad fool. I went back to the LYS (gee...Toto...I don't think we're in Michael's anymore...), and this time I began to look around and really see things. I discovered merino. My personal Holy Grail of yarn is the softest merino. I am a sucker for nice merino and for merino blends. Just wait until you see what I'm expecting to get in the mail tomorrow.


This green sweater is a Sirdar pattern. Shhh...don't tell anyone -- it's a kids pattern, but I can get away with the largest size. It's knitted in Davos, a merino blend, and I did it in less than a week. It's a slouchy favorite.

I completed all these projects before my first summer of knitting had ended. I made H a sweater in the multi-blue Fresco (she still wears it), and C got a cool over-sized hoodie in Sirdar Denim Chunky. I bought a few decent knitting books: Sally Melville's "The Knit Stitch," and "The Stitch 'n Bitch" one by Debbie Stoller. And the rest, as they say, is history.

Oh...and my very first sweater? Long gone to charity. It turned out, but it turned out huge. And then it turned out huger when I washed it. And it pilled. And I hate Bernat. So there phbbbbbt!

A Good Day

The weather today (as seen from my front deck)



The box I sent to Salt Spring Island. I've been doing a lot of cleaning up, sorting out, and getting rid of around the house lately. I culled out all the yarn that had become hopelessly abandoned in my stash. Hopelessly abandoned means that there is little chance that it will get chosen to dance in the next five years. This would be yarn, sometimes perfectly good yarn, that I bought before my taste changed, or before I decided never again to knit with acrylic, or because it was a good deal, but it is way at the bottom of the pile. I am getting choosier as time goes along.

In any case there is a lovely woman who lives on Salt Spring Island. She and her gang of yarn girls will knit the yarn up into projects to be distributed among people in the Queen Charlotte Islands. I love that caring people will knit with my yarn, and that people who need warm knitted things will be wearing my yarn later this year. This is a very good thing.

Let us be happy for this big box of yarn. The yarn has found a family. Good night yarn!

PS. I would have loved to photograph the great big pile before it was packed into the box, but I didn't want to spoil the fun of discovery, just in case SSI-lady is lurking.


The tomatoes my mom brought for me out of her garden. My mom is an amazing gardener. She lives in Harrison Hot Springs, and gets about twelve hours of sunshine on her garden every day. Plus she fusses over every plant. Plus we suspect she is located over a nuclear waste dump, or that cosmic rays from outer space beam onto her garden at night. Or something. Maybe ET and his pals have been around. In any case, my mom's tomatoes are a miracle.

But then...so is the fact that today my mom came to my home, gave me a box of tomatoes, and sat at my kitchen table drinking coffee and eating butter tarts with me. We chatted and laughed together. THAT is a miracle. Two years ago, I would have said that it would never happen again.



Colin models the most comfortable hat in the world. It is the "Bulky Baby Hat" pattern from Blue Sky Alpacas, knitted in BSA bulky, on size 17 needles. I know I wasn't supposed to touch this stuff, but I did finish the pink sweater, and then I had about an hour free after mom left. The skein kind of leapt into my hand, got wound, and an hour later I had a hat.




Hayley models the hat. No one wanted to take off the hat when their turn was over. That hat is Mine! mine!mine!mine! Trouble is three of us in this family have the same size of pin-head. When I go to put it on, and it isn't there, I'll know where to look!

Doug and I are heading out to a movie and dinner this evening. THIS is a good day.