I've had my "grow light" and have used it long enough now that Charlie knows the drill. I had set my station up and went to pour a cup of coffee - look what I found in my place when I came back.
I was finishing up the last of the triple-ply blue wool/
mohair this morning and don't like to stop in the middle. I'm guaranteed kinks and knots if I do. However, Charlie has appointed himself the gate keeper of his dog and always lets us know by mewling when she's at the back door, wanting to come in. I was determined to fill my bobbin and ignored Charlie but he's an insistent 8-pound ginger cat. At the point he reached yowling, I could no longer enjoy spinning and let Sammie in. She was most grateful and I had an irresolvable kinky wad in my yarn.
I've finished that yarn. It's fulled and drying upstairs. This is what was leftover, and for starting with a pound of fiber, I think I did some pretty good guessing on bobbin fill. I've started spinning my Shetland again, getting ready for hat kits. Our jars should arrive tomorrow!
I've finished the denim place mats and have started on the hit and miss. These are strips that I had already sewn for my last rug and didn't end up needing. I can see that 60" wide fabric doesn't make of a hit and miss, more like a hit. I'm looking forward to seeing what these look like off loom.
I'm especially intrigued by how the stripped fabric (near the top) looks in the mats. The repeats were lost in the rug, but I think they're really interesting here. I've also got some reds and turquoise fabrics I bought because I thought they'd look great in a rug, just not in my house. Now I'm thinking I'd like to try them for mats in a clasped weft pattern. Notice how the threading error as disappeared. It had something to do with the lumpy denim.
Hiliary said that placemats are "wicked fun" but I wasn't feeling that with the denim. These hit and miss are completely taking over my brain. I can hardly stay away and when I'm working, I'm thinking about what I'm going to try next! NOW I know what she meant. They are wicked fun!
I took this photo on Saturday. I could have taken it yesterday or today, and there is a possibility of snow tonight. The sun is supposed to make a showing tomorrow and then Wednesday night, the next storm moves in. I wasn't planning to move to Portland. Did it move to us?!
As part of my indoor rehabilitation and therapy, I have read *and* recommend the following books:
South of Broad, by Pat Conroy: It has all the elements of a traditional Conroy, including the brilliant writing, but this one is a bit of a romp/thriller. It's the one I was reading on the deck when the sun came out one Sunday last month - I remember the day - and I sunburned my face because I lost track of time flipping pages.
A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore: This is bildungsroman at it's best, the young lady being a college student in Troy, New York, from a small town and trying to bring her nativity into a world she had not been prepared for. I remember being that lost clueless college student, bumbling through the situations as they arose, like ducks in a shooting gallery. Not many will get the ducks she did and that's what makes this story so great and so unforgettable. I'm still thinking about it.
Georgia Bottoms by Mark Childress: I faltered after the first couple of chapters because I just wasn't making friends with the protagonist. I find it hard to read a book about someone I don't like. I loved Crazy in Alabama so gave Childress a couple more chapters and then I was hooked. This is dark comedy and great stuff for dark days. I needed the laughs.
Blood, Bones & Butter by Gabrielle Hamilton: I had read the first chapter of this book as an essay in the New Yorker earlier this year and put myself on hold at the library. Apparently everyone else read that same essay, because I had a very long wait for this book. It was worth it. The author is nothing short of a remarkable woman and a survivor on the scale of 1-10, a 10. Along the way in her journeys she picked up an MFA in fiction writing - no wonder the book reads with the pace of a novel.
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