Pretending to Farm

What Have I Been Smokin'?

The hellish Arizona sun rises earlier and earlier these days. By mid-summer, it will begin blazing into our bedroom at 4:30, a time very non-conducive to sleeping in or holding off the heat of the day.

This morning, it startled me awake in the midst of one of those watchabeensmokin’ dreams. We lived in a large house in the country, one of those big antebellum homes with white paint and green-black shutters that I have always wanted to move into and resurrect, and we had an enormous lawn framing the largest trampoline, as in half a football field large, I have ever seen. On this gianormous trampoline were Tom Brokaw and his wife, ballroom dancing and occasionally executing a flip or two.

Apparently, we were having a party. People milled about in every room, nook, and cranny of the house, some welcome and some not. Some yahoos, looking every bit like the characters on the Appalachian Emergency Room skits on Saturday Night Live, pulled their rusty old pickup truck into the yard and were sitting on the back making cat calls and drinking moonshine out of ceramic jugs. You see, Britney Spears was there, glued to my side and being all chummy. Everyone in town was trying to get a look at her. I, being 44 and having weathered years of gravity, sun damage, and child rearing was feeling insecure in her presence so suddenly excused myself to have a bikini wax and find the most flattering bathing suit I owned along with a matching sarong.

Rushing back to the party, I found that, instead of wanting to be my buddy, Britney had been using me to get close to David the Husband and he was twitterpated. She’d brush her body against him ever so slightly when she sauntered by him and he began responding with not-so-subtle cheap feels in the boob area. Next thing I knew, they were no where in sight and when I went to look for them, found them making out in the bathroom.

And this is why I woke up grumpy, that along with a broken spinning wheel, out of control and non-chore-finishing teenaged twin boys, and the Arizona sun/heat which I endured during unusually taxing farm chores.

By the way, when I told him about my dream, David the Husband said Britney has been too screwed up lately and he wouldn’t touch her with a ten foot pole. When I asked what would happen if she got her sh*t together, he paused and said, “Maybe.” Oh, joy.

I guess it’s a good thing the sun will wake me up earlier, if only to stop me from remembering my watchabeensmokin’ dreams.

INEBG- Part II, The Wolf-man Cometh, and Lazy Lar

I love being a farmer, albeit a pretend one; I truly do. Some mornings, however, I just want to lie in bed surfing the internet and drinking coffee and this is one of them. It is 6:30am. Although I have been awake for approximately an hour, I am still in bed, only arising for ablutions, med swallowing, and doggy doorman role play. I’ll get up for real soon; I promise. They yell at me and conspire against me if I don’t.

As planned, I over-dyed the Kermit yarn which, by the way, looked much lighter and brighter in real life than it did in the photo. Its colors ranged from chartreuse to Kelly, no Northwest landscape as suggested by dear Michelle. Nancy and Melanie liked it as well. Believe me girls, if you had seen it in person, it would have made you throw up in your mouths a little bit.

So I repeated all the preparation processes mentioned ad nauseam in yesterday’s blog. This time, however, I only added a center section of straight blue and a mixture of one part black and one part water around the edges. Obviously, it’s still green, but now looks like it was portrayed in yesterday's photo (I still can't get the color to match what it looks like in person), ranging from Kelly to Deep Forest. I like it and will use it though, despite appearances, four ounces of roving will only spin up enough for socks or perhaps a tam; it’s a good color for a tam. In honor of Michelle who praised its perceived beauty, I am naming it “Amity,” which is the lovely place she lives at the base of Mt Hood and which also means friendship, something she has given me in droves. Thank you, Michelle.

Carrie, I will get to your bright and sunny roving; I promise. Someday.

On Monday, I, in addition to standing over a stewing pot of wool in 100° heat, sweat dripping down my face, and feeling very Dickenesque, had a visit from the Wolf-man, laden with grocery bags of the brushed undercoats of his TEN rescued wolves. I don’t know about you guys but I’d have a hard time sleeping at night with ten wolves in my house. (He can’t let them stay outdoors at night. Their howling instinct takes over and all the children, and some adults, either have nightmares or start marching toward his home with sharpened pitchforks and flaming torches.)

The fiber is lovely, reminds me of Angora rabbit, but it is very short and I am not sure if it will work or not, but as I am obviously unafraid of failure due to experiencing it on a daily basis, I will give it a go.

After he arrived back home to his den, he and the pack sent some photos.

Now, I truly have to get out of bed and be a good farmer. I heard them drilling a while ago and one of them calling himself Major Major.

It’s Not Easy Being Green

As yesterday afternoon was my first both Pint-free and feeling decent time in a while, I decided to take the plunge and dye Carrie’s roving. Those of you who have been reading my twattle for any period of time might remember I held a when-are-Charlotte’s-lamb(s)-going-to-be-born contest. Carrie won, Easter Sunday, boy/girl twins. When I emailed her with her choices of prize, she chose dyed roving and I agreed.

The only problem (at the time) with that all my white fiber was at two different mills, Wooly Knob and Pufpaff’s Fiber Processing. (As a quick aside, for the wooly among you who are interested in having your fiber washed and carded into roving, here is a quick review of these two mills: Wooly Knob does a better, more thorough, and cleaner job but takes forever, as in mid-November to mid-May forever; Suzanne Pufpaff does a quick and clean job, as in a one month turnaround including shipping time, but she left much of the vegetal matter behind for me to pick out as I spin.) I received both batches within days of each other and was ready to dye.

As each day passed, either my body or my responsibilities to a Pint-sized farmer prevented me from doing so but, as I have already said, yesterday the magic opportunity arrived. Now, being all crunchy Earth mother-like and preferring the wool’s natural colorations, I had only dyed fiber twice, first during a very misguided let’s-dye-fiber-in-the-washing-machine attempt (I used to do this with Rit dye and fabric and it worked just fine) which resulted in a felted flamingo pink yarn which still sits in my stash unused (I was going for deep red) and second while in Taos, NM at their Fiber Festival in a space dyeing workshop. This turned out well. I had a teacher; we painted the dye on cold vinegar water-soaked yarn and steamed it to set the dye. Hey, I can do this!

Yesterday, instead of using the method that I had completed successfully, I had to make things difficult as I am wont to do. Because it was the author’s favorite method of dyeing and promised watercolor-like results, I decided to try the hot pour method featured in the Twisted Sisters Sock Workbook. Basically, it involves pre-soaking the roving in room temperature water until it is saturated, adding vinegar water to an enamel pan (no aluminum), adding the roving, and bringing it slowly up to a simmer at 190°. Add the dyes of choice, one at a time from lighter to darker until they exhaust or in other words the water runs clear and then add another. It seemed simple enough.

I weighed the required 4 ounces of Carmela’s roving necessary for knitting a pair of sport-weight socks, soaked it and simultaneously boiled water to reconstitute the powdered dyes. Atypical for me, I used chemical dyes; I don’t have time to research the necessary ingredients, must less gather them to create natural dyes.
Here you see the Lanaset/Sabraset dyes in reused jars (I had to get a little crunch in) plus the first color ready to go into the dye bath. Although it looks orange, it is one part yellow dye and two parts water. I was going for a pale yellow to fit in with my concept of a sunny day at the beach. Carrie wanted something along these lines and I aim to please.

This is when I began to stress out a bit and stopped taking photos due to my massive tendencies toward uncoordination. I like my camera and do not want to drop it into a simmering pot of wool. When the used-to-be-a-candy thermometer hit 190, I added a stripe of pale yellow down the center left. In a very short time, the water looked clear to me; I then mixed and added a slightly less pale blue (1 part water, 1 part blue). This was my first mistake; I’ll tell you later. Things started to look a bit green which I wanted at the transition points but not all around. Maybe that yellow dye hadn’t exhausted after all. Also, I noticed the temperature had fallen to 150°; this is bad; this spreads the color everywhere. I saw less and less yellow. I found a handy dandy clear spoon, which I should have used before adding the blue to check the water to make sure it was clear and not pale yellow, therefore guaranteeing that the dye was completely absorbed by the fiber. Although it is a weak excuse, it’s hard to gauge the color of water in a black pan.

After at least an hour of obsessively checking the dye pot for proper temperature levels and water color, I finally added the third dye, a straight blue mixed with no additional water. I also added more vinegar due to the length of time it was taking for the dye to exhaust. By now, I knew this was not going to be the bright and sunny roving requested by Carrie but I thought it might be a nice blue/green variegation that I could spin lace weight and knit a stole/wrap out of it. After another couple hours and the addition of even more vinegar, I decided enough was enough and turned off the stove, covered the pot, and, per instructions, let it come to room temperature overnight.

This morning, “dying” to know what I had created, I rinsed and washed and rinsed the roving even before downing my first cup of coffee.

Behold the masterpiece; I think a little over-dyeing is in order, don’t you?

Please learn from my mistakes:

1. Use pH strips to avoid haphazardly adding splashes of vinegar to the water, which needs a pH of 4 for ideal dye absorption. I do not own pH strips; I need to buy some.
2. Use a clear spoon to check that the dye bath is clear before adding the next dye. Do not insert knuckles into dye bath. Ask me how I know.
3. Do not start poking the wool with a skewer. Yellow and blue make green; we all learned this is grade school.
4. Do not try to talk yourself into keeping bright green roving that way to make a St Patrick’s Days shawl.

I could give up, chalk it up to inexperience, and have green mulch in the garden, but today I plan on stubbornly repeating the process. I think I’ll add some blue, navy blue (1 part black, 4 parts blue), and possibly grey and try for a smoky blue green. I will not stir; I will not pass Go; I will not collect $200.

Feelin' the Love

The Land of Blogs is a vast one, full of dragons and ogres (not the Shrek kind, the Anne Coulter kind) but also full of sprites and fairy godmothers and, especially on my little spit of Blog Land, delightful, funk-preventing/curing friends. On that puddle of a Friday that Seaman Recruit Jessica moved away from her/our family, in addition to the offer of wolf wool, I received an unexpected package in the mail. My dear cyber-friend, Michelle, thought enough of me to send this amazing proof of her talent my way.

She explained that in the 80’s she had the idea of creating dog breed portraits on scratch board to sell but then realized that people wanted portraits of their own dogs, not just the breed in general. As a fellow artist, I know these attempts to keep afloat. Shame that it is, the general public does not appreciate the time, talent, and effort that goes into creating a work of art, no matter the medium, and those that actually buy and sell art are very politically driven. Therefore, if your work is not “in,” you scrape by to make a living, frequently taking much less for your work than it is actually worth but hey, it’s at least a little money to pay the rent and buy some groceries.

Michelle knew I had been down and, knowing that I have bloodhounds, three enormous wrinkled slobbering lummoxes, she sent this amazing work of art my way as an attempt to cheer me up and it worked. As she said in her accompanying letter, “Just a little something to hopefully lift your spirits; when you see it, just remember you have lots of friends who love you!”

The print’s arrival on that bittersweet day, the day that Michelle did not realize was arriving so soon, was serendipitous, a blessing from Michelle and the powers that be.

Thank you, Michelle. I will always think of you as I admire your lovely work. (And I will do my best to frame it ASAP before the beasts that it represents sling some slobber in its direction.)

I love my little spit of Blog Land; there’s lots of love here.

Aaaahwhooooo!

After spending most of yesterday in a growing puddle of my own tears, a la Alice in Wonderland, I received an intriguing email from my Giant Schnauzer Rescue friend, Julie, asking via a fellow rescue buddy if I would be interested in some free wolf fiber. My ears were perked. This is something new that I have not tried before; it is also more than a little unique, and, therefore, draws me like a magnet.

I wrote Julie back, inquiring about staple length. (For the non-fibrous among you, staple length is basically the length of a lock of fur or hair. If it is too short, it is difficult if not impossible to spin.) I received the following reply from John at Tundra Shepherd Rescue:

It’s not “hair” it is wolf wool. It is washed, carded and spun into yarn just like sheep wool. The yarn is very warm and knitted into sweaters, hats and other things.

Wolf wool is the undercoat of double coated “northern dogs” and keeps them warm on cold nights. The outer “guard hair” keeps them dry as it is water repellent and has oil on it for shedding dirt. The under hair (wool) is a very good insulator as the hair shafts are hollow!

Well. Why the Hell not? If it’s new and different, and not familiar to the general public, I’m all for it.

As David the Husband says, “If it sucks, you can put it in the garden. I bet that will scare the bejesus out of those bunnies.”

And I had my first laugh since my little girl drove away.

The Denial is Over

I am feeling verklempt and need a moment. (Waving tears away, practicing breathing exercises.)

Talk amongst yourselves.

Oh My.

Today, Seaman Recruit Jessica, my pumpkin lumpkin Michelin baby who strongly resembled Winston Churchill on her first birthday, whose hand I tightly held as she fearlessly entered school on her first day of kindergarten, who I have been privileged to watch bloom and grow, beautiful flower that she is, whose secrets and intimate questions I have been proud to keep and answer, and who still gives me a kiss on each cheek when she arrives home, graduates from high school. Wasting no time, tomorrow she leaves, first for a 7-day cruise with my mother to Mexico, and then to live with a friend in San Diego for the summer until she has to report to boot camp in Michigan on September 4th.

I’ve been trying not to think about this. I know it’s happening, that I cannot stop time or change her ultra-stubborn mind about her summer plans. Believe me, I have tried; I have asked nicely, brandished the guilt weapon, bribed her with promises of fun travel, and attempted just about everything else with the exception of getting down on my knees and begging. (I did think about it but I do have some pride.)

David the Husband has been tearing up at regular intervals, something I have never seen him do in the 22 years I have known him. He doesn’t want to let go of Daddy’s girl and who can blame him? I, in contrast, have remained unusually stoic about the matter, no tears, no breakdowns, nothing. In short, I am in complete denial. Knowing myself as well as I think I do, the flood gates should open Friday as she drives away. I will morph into a puddle of memories and loss and, shaking with emotion, hug my husband, squeeze my boys until they can barely breathe to hold them here at home with me, and head straight to the ruminant pen for sheep therapy to head off another funk before it takes hold of me.

I will miss my little girl. Although it will never be the same, at least she’ll come back to visit, hopefully still planting a kiss on each of her mother’s cheeks each time she returns.

Congratulations Pumpkin Lumpkin. Your presence has blessed my life.

Tagged

Yesterday, I was tagged by Sara. Get your minds out of the gutter, people. First of all, I don’t swing that way (not that there is anything wrong with that) and second of all, I don’t use that terminology to describe what you’re thinking. That is reserved for those bad player boys.

This tagging game has been circulating amongst the blog community. The rules - Each person tagged gives 5 random facts about themselves. Those tagged need to write in their blogs 5 facts, as well as the rules of the game. You need to tag 5 others and list their names on your blog. You have to leave those you plan on tagging a note in their comments so they know that they have been tagged and to read your blog.

Now, I typically don’t do these things as they rather resemble chain letters but first, it comes from a very nice lady who is a loyal PTF reader and who makes dog biscuits and donated a lot of money to charity, including cancer research, from her proceeds. So, in honor of Sara, here goes:

1. I was on Romper Room when I was a little girl.

2. I was in the newspaper with my mother and the mailman when I was young as well because my grandmother was head of the Baltimore chapter of the March of Dimes and it was a promo shot to kick off the pledge drive.

3. I have a brown pigment on my left shoulder that showed up at age seven after I was inoculated for German Measles. The doctor’s could never figure out what it was and called it a “delayed birthmark” but I still think it has to do with that vaccine.

4. I used to commission original stained glass for a living; I also restored a full set of church windows. I still have all the supplies, have no time to use them, but can’t bear to part with them.

5. For many years, I worked in the restaurant business and, as I usually worked in more upscale places, I met many celebrities but was never wowed. As I tell David the Husband, they all pee and poop like the rest of us. However, here is a smattering of whom I have met: Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver (he was very nice but much shorter than I thought he would be; she was a bitch), Kim Basinger (very quiet), Lou Rawls (who told me I was beautiful; I was very sad when he died), Jerry Lewis (who is a complete ass and only wants male waiters) and John Denver (who hugged me and told me I was doing a great job.) There are more but this is about me, right? Okay I’ll cave, sports stars: Mark McGuire, Moises Alou, Brett Favre (my friend from Wisconsin stole his fork when he left), and a lot I didn’t know but everyone else seemed to (it was when the Super Bowl came to San Diego). Politicians: several mayors of San Diego, that skinny governor before Arnold who was recalled, John McCain, every local San Diego council member, and a bunch of Republicans (this was when the Republican Convention was held in SD). Enough. Oh, David Brinkley, I can’t forget him. He told me he was glad someone remembered him as he impressed me and I had to say so.

Boy, I’m not very exciting, am I? Well, so be it; take me or leave me.

Now, I must tag others:

Michelle

Ali

Carrie

Melanie

Kate

I hope you all don't mind being tagged; it's all in fun, right? And the blog police won't come and get you if you don;t want to participate.

Oh, were you all wondering how well the dog hair in the garden was keeping out those wascally wabbits? Behold the green bean forest.

Ahdeeduhduhdeeduhduh, that’s all folks!

Baaaack

When one is in a funk and all else fails, it is time to let go and “cop a squat” among the ruminants, those lovely, endorphin-boosting, full of fiber mood lighteners.

The lambs are losing their hello-world-I’m-new-here looks and are becoming more mature, almost adolescent in their appearance (like I need more teenagers around here). Fiona and Darby, Charlotte’s twins, are constant companions, as they have been from conception, with Fiona taking the command position, protecting her shy twin from scrotum-grabbing humans, looking ready to rumble.

She whispers assurance to him, “I know she’s done some weird things to you but I really think she’s okay. Just stand your ground and protect your boys.”

She leaves him and he warily stands there, obeying his confident sister but, despite her advice, unsure of me still.

Finally, he finds his inner more-lion-than-lamb courage and stands there, showing off his quickly growing horns and his lovely moorit fleece.

Some day he will come to me willingly. Both Fiona and Madeline have although the fact that I had flakes of alfalfa in my arms might have had something to do with it.

In conclusion, when in a funk, it is not enough to just play with fiber; one has to visit the source. I don’t think I could love them any more if they were my own children, which, in a way, they are. I’m baaaack.

Boxing the Funk

I’m trying hard to get out of my latest funk but I’m afraid I am still there and, summarily, not “stoked” about posting to the blog. Sounding all “woe is me” is not what I am going for here (I think once upon a time I was funny). I promise I’ll be better soon. It just takes a little bob and weave action.

Blow by Blow:

After Friday’s meltdown, awesome David the Husband threw down the gavel and pronounced that, despites its cost, I was to try the Enbrel for three months to see if it even worked. My wonderful mother pronounced this a good idea and upped the battle for a good-mood-for-Lauren by offering to foot the bill for those months. I’m feeling a little better but can’t help thinking in the back of my head, “What happens after those three months are up?”

Saturday morning David the Husband, Seaman Recruit Jessica, and my still-a-good-cuddler-despite-his-adolescent-state Robert left for a partial family camping trip, due to Jessica’s upcoming graduation and move (I haven’t come to terms with this yet; I am blocking it out and that’s a good thing, Martha). This triggered more-than-Pint-sized tests of boundaries and his grandmother’s patience. Couple that with his graciously sharing with me his bad cold, and combine with my other current physical ills: worse.

I receive encouragement and love from my blog readers. I love my cyber-friends. Better.

David the Teenager helped me, voluntarily hung out with me, and, during a precious naptime break, joined me for a movie and friendly conversation. Better still.

Early Sunday morning, I blearily opened the back door for the dogs without checking the big yard for errant fowl. Approximately one hour later during farm chores, I found one of the two surviving turkey poults dead but still warm with bite marks and a broken neck. Lauren the Turkey searched frantically for him all morning as did his brethren. Much worse; it was entirely my fault.

David the Teenager squealed as he picked the last of the potatoes and cauliflower and only the
beginning of the summer squashes with Jakers the cockerel at his side in the garden. Watching the joy a garden can bring: much better. This lifting of spirits led to sock knitting pool-side while Pint and the happy gardener played on the back patio and in the pool. Better still.

The camping trio arrived home with my sensitive Robert covered with literally hundreds of mosquito bites. Damned insects always loved me, too. One good thing about living in the desert rather than on my precious East Coast: very few mosquitoes. I give him Benadryl; I have him soak in an oatmeal bath; I rub hydrocortisone cream on every bite that he was not too embarrassed for me to see. Despite my efforts, he is miserable in his own skin and I feel his pain. He is my child that I love. It is one thing to deal with my own pain but witnessing my child’s is a knife to the gut. Couple that with very real fears of West Nile virus: worse.

My spinning accomplishments over the weekend of many moods: very good, I think (I still need to wash them and set the twist). I spun and plied three skeins of Cookie, and plied one of Bill Withers and one from blending experiment with merino, angora, and silk. Better.

The final and hardest hitting blow of all: the mother of one of my very best friends, who had been painfully suffering with metastastic breast cancer for years, passed away. I know how it is to lose a parent to cancer; I feel her pain. I cry. I think about what she and her family and her Dad, now a widower, are going through. I think about my Daddy who I still miss every day and stay up late unable to sleep remembering the very nice woman who crocheted me scarves, complimented all that I did, and encouraged every one of my kooky creative endeavors almost as if I was her own daughter. And I cry some more. I’ll miss you, Jan. Say “Hi” to Daddy for me.