When last we met up with the arguably-dynamic duo of Robert and me, it was a beautiful Thursday morning in Taos, New Mexico. A good night’s sleep and an active chicken’s appearance had washed away the weariness associated with the road of unending construction and, showered and dressed, we ventured out of our room to see what a “hot entrée” entailed.
We were not disappointed. Whole wheat blueberry and banana pancakes dusted with powdered sugar, fresh orange juice, hot coffee, and an accompanying breakfast bar of fresh fruit, mild cheese, vanilla yogurt, and granola. Not only were we recovered after this, we were feeling better than when we had left home. Sufficiently sophonsified (sorry, I can’t remember how Margaret Atwood spelled it; see “Cat’s Eye”), it was time for our first workshop, “Spinning with Beads.”
I love workshops. In addition the scheduled curriculum, the classes are filled with at-the-least colorful and at-the-most interesting and informative people, fellow fiber fanatics who approach their craft in unique and, as I found out, far simpler ways than previously taught.
Most of us grasped beaded spinning quickly. It involves 30-pound test fishing line, the beads of course, and smooth roving (carded fiber lengths) to get the job done. String your beads onto the filament, break the roving you have begun making into yarn, and pop the beads on, holding them back whilst the wheel turns and then pushing them forward as the mood strikes. Gilding the lily is allowed and even encouraged.
One individual, however, had a challenging time. Marilyn, a cantankerous dynamo of a shepherdess from The Black Hills of South Dakota, Marilyn whose name tag identifying her name and home kept “Rocky Raccoon” playing in my head all day, could not get the beads to pop onto the bobbin of her wheel. Enter “Bead Boy.” Robert at his best as Marilyn’s assistant relished the attention he was receiving. He stood beside the increasingly grumbling spinner and manually moved the beads from the orifice (I know, it sounds filthy and way too anatomical) to the bobbin. He was her hero. He became everyone’s hero moving from spinner to spinner helping out as needed, stringing beads for the arm-length challenged, making decisions for the ambivalent, and more. As time passed, he graduated to “Bead Dude” and ideas as to his superhero costume were being thrown around. Robert was in his element and I joined in the revelry as his self-esteem blossomed and grew.
By mid-afternoon, we were about to begin another beaded project involving linen squares, crochet hooks, and fine beaded yarn, and I admittedly was beginning to feel the fatigue catch up to me once again. I was toying with calling it a day, heading back to our room, and taking a much-needed nap when a familiar scent wafted over me and a welcome voice whispered in my ear, “Now where is this “Eske’s” place?”
Fatigue, what fatigue? To the brewery!
Which one is more “gorge”ous? I know where my chad hangs.