Michelle Edwards's Blog, page 6

A Good and Sweet New Year

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Traveling Bag

Meet the perfect project bag. A circular bottom allows it to sit stably on a flat surface. The toggle lock prevents the contents from accidentally spilling out. And the nifty handle gives a knitter an option I have yet to exercise-- to knit while walking.

"I picked this one for you," the bag's creator, Theresa Gaffey, told me. She knows how much I love coffee and the bag's fabric sports both coffee images and java jive.

My knitting treasure is now on the road with me and my husband as we drive drive East to visit family and friends. Looking at it reminds me of the past week-end which we spent in St. Paul, Minnesota. There I had two readings of A Knitter's Home Companion at the Yarnery.

Hearty thanks are due to the helpful staff of the Yarnery for making my St. Paul event truly delightful. Gratitude galore goes to their event organizer, Sarah Walker, who baked a delicous powdered sugar version of Sis Gessner's Mandel Bread and brewed a wickedly wonderful pot of my favorite beverage to serve with it. Grateful appreciation to our gracious hostesses, Theresa Gaffey and her sister Maureen, who opened up their hearts and homes to us. Thank you one and all!

Notes:

Some of you may recognize Theresa's name from her lovely patterns in A Knitter's Home Companion--The Lacy Scarf, The Updated Ripple Afghan, and the Trio of Lacy Washcloths. To find more Theresa Gaffey's patterns and ones written by other Yarnery folks, including Sarah Walker, by clicking here.

The Year We Were Famous

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"By the time we reached Utah, Ma and I had been walking for over two months and covered over nine hundred and eleven miles. I had already worn out four pairs of shoes. Unfortunately, I had only one pair of feet, and they had to last me until New York City."

Carole Estby Dagg, The Year We Were Famous, Based on the true story of young Clara Estby's walk across America

 

Early excitement about my fall road trips could be what originally interested me in The Year We Were Famous, a travel tale set in 1896. I first heard of the book this summer when the author, Carole Estby Dagg, wrote about her revision process in an intriguing post on Darcy Pattison's Fiction Notes. She described how her book had evolved over a period of fifteen years. I made note of the title. One hot and lucky afternoon a few weeks later, when browsing in the Iowa City library children's room new book section, I found an available copy.  

The Year We Were Famous is a warm-hearted, well-written, and sometimes, very funny story of perseverance. Based on the true accounts of the author's great-aunt and great-grandmother, it tells of their pedestrian journey from Mica Creek, Washington to New York City. Their trek was a bet made with Miss A. J. Waterson. If they successfully completed it in just seven months, Clara and her mother Helga were to earn $10,000. Back then, that was money enough to save their family farm and create a college fund for Clara and her siblings.

Unprepared for the almost all of the challenges of such a journey, sensible Clara and passionate Helga face devastating defeats and nearly lose their spirits. By testing their resolve and courage, the trip helps them to uncover new truths and understandings in their complicated relationship. When you reach the book's tender ending, you will want to stand up and cheer Carole Estby Dagg for sharing their honest story with us.

The Year We Were Famous is highly recommended reading for those about to board their comfortable car and take off for parts known and unknown. It may also be enjoyed in the comfort of one's favorite reading chair.

Visit the author's website.

Watch the book trailer.

Knitting Notes:

Never doubt the importance of a good pair of socks when on a pedestrian journey.  Check out the  Elegance Socks pattern.

Learning Quiet

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Because I was a noisy child, I had to learn about quiet. In the classrooms and in the hallways at School 18, I learned about an enforced, unnatural and inpatient quiet. There, from kindergarten through eighth grade, I learned that even my childish chatter could bring embarrassing consequences from the harsh regime that ruled the school.

It was Camp Hochelaga, where I spent my summers, that taught me about natural, gentle,and comforting quiets. There I learned that quiet can allow you to hear the crackle of the wood in a camp fire surrounded by 150 girls of all ages. Or the splash of your arm as it hits the water and tries to synchronize with your breathing. Camp was a noisy place, too. Lots of singing, and laughing, and loud, loud talking. There were mischievous breaks, and stunts, rowdiness after taps when we were supposed to be asleep, or during rest hours when we were supposedly, well, resting. But the sound of our exuberance and joy never interfered with our other respectful quiets.

This Sunday when I pick up my needles in service and remembrance, I'll try and capture a bit of the Hochelaga spirit and quiet.

 

Lilacs and Hurricanes

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In the door-yard fronting the old farm-house, near the white-wash' palings,

Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-dhaped leaves of rich green,

With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle......and from this bush in the door-yard,

With delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

A sprig, with its flower, I break.

Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman

 

It was when I saw a young boy on his skateboard the other morning, his hair highlighted golden in the late summer's sun, that it occurred to me. Our lilacs, the bushes I had ruthlessly pruned last May, hadn't bloomed this spring. Or maybe I just hadn't noticed them. Was that possible?

Lilacs edged the backyard of the house where I grew up. They were spectacular in their haphazardly fullness. To the best of my knowledge, they were never trimmed. Over the years of my childhood, they expanded and reached out. Graceful leafy branches on the sides formed a little cave. A perfect fort when needed.

Every spring, the lilacs, under our regime of benign neglect, brought forth an abundance of bouquets. In the morning before school, using the sharpest kitchen knife I could find, I'd cut a bunch. Then carefully wet paper napkins were wrapped around the stems and tin foil covered it all. The lilacs for my teacher, and they were presented to her (all my grammar school teachers were women) before the school bell rang and our class began.

Last week Hurricane Irene sweep through my hometown, Troy, New York, and many of the other nearby towns and cities along the Hudson and Mohawk Rivers, causing flooding, mudslides and destruction. My hopes and best wishes for a speedy recovery and rebuilding to all those who have experienced damage and loss.

Several small grass roots efforts have been popping up to meet the unique needs of affected communities.  Check out children's book author, Kate Messner's website to learn how to help Vermont libraries restore their lost collections.

Notes:

A Knitter's Home Companion button Contest is still on.  I'm giving away ten. Send me an email and let me know where you would pin your button. The contest closes on September 4th.

 

 

 

 

Stitches MidWest 2011

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Years ago, when we lived in St. Paul, Minnesota, I took my daughters to Stitches MidWest. Back then, it was held in Minneapolis.

"Now I know how Harry Potter felt when he arrived at Hogwarts," I told them. Everywhere we looked there were knitters--knitting, examining wool, sharing patterns, spinning, and talking about knitting.

Stitches MidWest was my first glimpse of the knitting world.

On Saturday, I'll be back at Stitches MidWest. If you are attending, please stop by The Yarn Barn of Kansas (Booth 501). I will be signing copies of A Knitter's Home Companion at 11:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m.  I have A Knitter's Home Companion buttons ( featured in the photo at the top of the blog post) to give away with each book.

If you can't make it to Stitches Midwest, here's a chance to get your very own A Knitter's Home Companion button. I'm giving away ten. Send me an email and let me know where you would pin your button. The contest closes on September 4th.

Notes:

Our most treasured Stitches discovery was a silk hankie. They are also know as silk caps. They do look like a hankie, but don't be fooled. With a little effort, you can pull and spin yards of lovely silk yarn.

Read the excellent Knitty tutorial on how to spin a silk hankie.

Look for them at yarn stores and fiber festivals.

 

 

 

 

Science Class Stories

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illustration from Pa Lia's First Day

According to Mrs. H., my eighth grade science teacher, the first nylon stockings were too durable. They rarely ran, and so, they were rarely replaced. In order to make a profit, manufacturers had to produce a shoddier product. And they did. Surely that's an important lesson for the young to learn.

Most of the basic science facts that appear on standardized tests did not weave their way into Mrs. H's science classes. Instead she treated us to the facts she felt we needed to know. She explained to us why our nylon stockings never lasted more than a few wearings. She informed us how men, who like her own husband, can leave one afternoon to buy a pack of cigarettes and never return again. She educated us about a time when the health department posted quarantine signs on a family's door, like when she and her family had the flu. Mrs. H was a young girl back then, I'm guessing this was the 1918 flu epidemic, and until she took sick, too, she nursed her mother.

This week as school starts in Iowa and we as a nation struggle with educational standards and reform, I think about all that I learned from Mrs. H. Those long afternoons, in her over- heated classroom with its scuffed hardwood floors, tall paned windows, and long bank of radiators that hissed and moaned, my only job was to sit and listen to her stories. No one tested me for signs of genius. No tough homework was ever assigned. Academic stress was decades away.

Mrs. H. was a terrible science teacher. Later, in high school and college, I did my best to fill the gaps in my knowledge. But after all these years, I still think about her stories.

 

Notes:

What's it like to be the new kid on the first day of school? Read Pa Lia's First Day and find out how she makes her way at Jackson Magnet. The first book in my Jackson Friends series.

 

 

A Tribute to Genie McCliment

 

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Genie's Hat from A Knitter's Home Companion

 

Genie McCliment, July 2, 1935- August 5, 2011

Just about nine years ago when my husband Rody and I moved back to Iowa City with our three less than jubilant children, we were busy. We didn't have much time to neighbor.

But a few houses down the street from us, Genie and Ed McCliment, and their golden lab Sophie, did. While we scurried about, unpacked, and tried to settle our family, they acquainted themselves with our youngest daughter Lelia, a displaced nine year old who loved dogs. And that fall, a mere six weeks after Lelia and her classmates got their band instruments, Genie and Ed showed up at her first concert and introduced themselves.

"We're your neighbors," they told us.

We were amazed that they came to this event, attended mostly by parents. After all, the kids had only been playing a month and half.

"Thank you for coming," we said.

"Lelia invited us," explained Genie.

Genie and Ed went on to sit at many of Lelia's concerts.  As walking became harder for Genie, she became a master at sitting. She sat on her couch and welcomed the invited and uninvited--friends, relatives, and neighbors. She sat in a chair and picked up a pen to write letters to those far away and heavy-hearted. And in the thick darkness of an endless winter night, Genie sat down and dialed.

"Haven't seen you lately, how are you?" she would ask. And she really wanted to know.

Sitting, Genie checked up on us all. Sitting, she shared her family with us. First the stories of the daughters she loved--Cathy, Nancy, and Lisa. Then came the tales of the grandchildren. We knew about Hanna and Hilary. We rejoiced with her when Miranda, Anna, and Liam were born. And when they visited, we felt honored to meet them.

Genie knew how to show up, sit down, and be present. She understood houses, too. She knew how to fill a living room with friends. Serve generously in a dining room. She knew how to stretch a family room with big screen TV on game nights. She knew how to arrange a circle of chairs around a backyard fire pit on a chilly, star-filled night. She knew how to butter the popcorn, chill the beer, and welcome the crew that came to share that starry night.

"People who love people are the luckiest people in the world." When I was kid, and Funny Girl was a Broadway hit, my father would often sing in his off key voice this line from the show's most popular song. And when he finished, he would toss those words out again, hoping we might catch their message. I did.

"People who love people are the luckiest people in the world." Even through the grief, the heartache and the pain she endured the last few years, Genie McCliment, my friend and neighbor, was person who loved people. She one of the luckiest people in the world. And by offering us a chair in her circle, she made us lucky, too.

Good-bye, Genie. We will all miss you.

Notes:

You may have already met Genie and Ed McCliment. I first wrote about them in an essay about Ed's Hat: Form, Function and Ultimate Winter Warmth . Genie's Hat pattern (see above photo) is in A Knitter's Home Companion as well as her recipe--Genie's Killer Devilled Eggs.

Pattern: Ed's Hat

Vacuum Love

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Falling in love with a vacuum took me by surprise. Kitchen appliances and other motorized items have never excited me much. Cars, included. But a few months ago, on a dusty Saturday morning, determined to get rid of the allergens that build up in corners, under sofas, and in places best left unexplored, I hauled out our heavy upright. Just trying to lug that loud, unattractive, inefficient, and poorly designed monster reminded me immediately why I took it out only when it was apparent that I was losing my personal battle with dust. And that is when I had my vacuum epiphany. There had to be a better vacuum.

A few short hours later after some serious research, I became the proud owner of a Dyson DC 24. I shudder remembering my vacuuming life before its arrival.  Quiet and powerful, the bagless clear canister fills so quickly that the existence of dust has finally been unequivocally proven to the unbelievers in my family. Superbly designed, each and every piece of the Dyson clicks into place and stays there until it is called into service. Small, lightweight, and compact, I sometimes refer to it affectionately as my Prius. Attractive in a playful industrial gray, orange, and red palette, I can almost hear a round of applause from the Bauhaus masters.  A job well done.

Vacuum love.

 

Patterns:

 

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Bauhaus Washcloths

I designed these washcloths to go with my essay An Artful Way to Knit .

The Hush of an Owl Sweater

 

 

[image error] The owl sweater was a gift from my oldest daughter Meera. She pieced it together with a subtle combination of greens, tan, pale pink, and woody brown prizes from her collection of thrift shop cashmeres. The "feathers" are attached somehow to a light voile, and so what might have been weighty, instead has a lightness and drape. Its whimsy and craft inspire me. Often I wear my owl sweater in my almost always too cold studio. But when this recent summer's heat hit hard, I sashed it over the back of my computer chair. Handy, if ever I am chilly again. Which I have not been.

The other day, after far too many less than quality hours at the computer and online, I could feel my cells and nerve synapses rearranging into an army waging battle against my future creativity.  Shutting off my computer and making my large desktop screen go dark just wasn't enough of an escape from the buzz and the roar I knew it could muster. Still jittery, I needed something more transforming. So I slid my spectacular owl sweater over the screen and felt a hush.

 

Meet Meera:

See Meera's Fabric at Camelot Cottons

Meera modeling a dressed she designed and made.

 

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