Sunday, March 4, 2018

To Knit or Not to Knit. Silly Question

A Little Leafy's Project Bag Link

I saw an adorable project bag at Society 6  that said "To knit or not to knit (that is a silly question). It got me thinking about my knitting process. I currently have at least 6 projects on needles, (mostly in hibernation), about 20 projects in my Ravelry queue, and more yarn stash than I care to divulge. I am obviously not a project knitter. I enjoy making something, but I am a little unfocused when it comes to finishing. I am aiming at changing my ways in 2018, and be more knitter and less yarn collector.  Comment below and let me know what kind of fiber enthusiast you are (crocheter, knitter, weaver, collector).

Saturday, February 3, 2018


I have started over with this blog for about the fifth time. The last time was just before tragedy struck my family so this blog has just sat for two and a half years. Here I go again....

I am a fiber artist and like to knit and weave. I hope to share some patterns and finished objects here. My most recent adventures have been dyeing yarn. My first foray was using Kool Aide to overdye some light lavender yarn I purchased on sale and was not crazy about the color. I used two packets of cherry and one packet of grape, and threw in the balls dry.

The result was a bit variegated.

 Here they are dried and re-skeined:

I also tried avocado pits and skins and wound up with a pinky-flesh colored yarn that I couldn't imagine would look like anything but naked skin if knit up into a finished project.

So I over-dyed the twisted skeins with blue food coloring.

I like the resulting color much better, but I think I kind of felted the yarn. It isn't as soft as when I began the process. I imagine it will knit up into a nice warm hat or cowl.

Saturday, October 24, 2015

With Joy

The Joy of Being Poor - Poem by Robert William Service

Let others sing of gold and gear, the joy of being rich;
But oh, the days when I was poor, a vagrant in a ditch!
When every dawn was like a gem, so radiant and rare,
And I had but a single coat, and not a single care;
When I would feast right royally on bacon, bread and beer,
And dig into a stack of hay and doze like any peer;
When I would wash beside a brook my solitary shirt,
And though it dried upon my back I never took a hurt;
When I went romping down the road contemptuous of care,
And slapped Adventure on the back -- by Gad! we were a pair;
When, though my pockets lacked a coin, and though my coat was old,
The largess of the stars was mine, and all the sunset gold;
When time was only made for fools, and free as air was I,
And hard I hit and hard I lived beneath the open sky;
When all the roads were one to me, and each had its allure . . .
Ye Gods! these were the happy days, the days when I was poor.

Or else, again, old pal of mine, do you recall the times
You struggled with your storyettes, I wrestled with my rhymes;
Oh, we were happy, were we not? -- we used to live so "high"
(A little bit of broken roof between us and the sky);
Upon the forge of art we toiled with hammer and with tongs;
You told me all your rippling yarns, I sang to you my songs.
Our hats were frayed, our jackets patched, our boots were down at heel,
But oh, the happy men were we, although we lacked a meal.
And if I sold a bit of rhyme, or if you placed a tale,
What feasts we had of tenderloins and apple-tarts and ale!
And yet how often we would dine as cheerful as you please,
Beside our little friendly fire on coffee, bread and cheese.
We lived upon the ragged edge, and grub was never sure,
But oh, these were the happy days, the days when we were poor.
Alas! old man, we're wealthy now, it's sad beyond a doubt;
We cannot dodge prosperity, success has found us out.
Your eye is very dull and drear, my brow is creased with care,
We realize how hard it is to be a millionaire.
The burden's heavy on our backs -- you're thinking of your rents,
I'm worrying if I'll invest in five or six per cents.
We've limousines, and marble halls, and flunkeys by the score,
We play the part . . . but say, old chap, oh, isn't it a bore?
We work like slaves, we eat too much, we put on evening dress;
We've everything a man can want, I think . . . but happiness.
Come, let us sneak away, old chum; forget that we are rich,
And earn an honest appetite, and scratch an honest itch.
Let's be two jolly garreteers, up seven flights of stairs,
And wear old clothes and just pretend we aren't millionaires;
And wonder how we'll pay the rent, and scribble ream on ream,
And sup on sausages and tea, and laugh and loaf and dream.

And when we're tired of that, my friend, oh, you will come with me;
And we will seek the sunlit roads that lie beside the sea.
We'll know the joy the gipsy knows, the freedom nothing mars,
The golden treasure-gates of dawn, the mintage of the stars.
We'll smoke our pipes and watch the pot, and feed the crackling fire,
And sing like two old jolly boys, and dance to heart's desire;
We'll climb the hill and ford the brook and camp upon the moor . . .
Old chap, let's haste, I'm mad to taste the Joy of Being Poor.