Pretending to Farm

I Heard an Angel Sing

This post comes courtesy of HH.

The Arizona heat was overwhelming. Summer hit like a million hair dryers on high wilting the desert foliage as well as the soul.

A road trip to Colorado! That’s what she needed.  The Wool & Beer Festivals were going to be in Estes Park on the same weekend.  The perfect get away.  

The only problem was that it was Father’s Day weekend.

Her father was a “God” among men and the most important figure in her life.  I did not grow up with the man, but the more time I spent with him believed it to be true.  Since his passing, Father’s Day has never been the same.  His passing also left me with very difficult shoes to fill. I have tried hard but fallen short on many occasions.

As the day approached, I thought why not fly up, meet her for the weekend, and drive back together?  The plan was in motion and booked within minutes.

On Friday I was in Denver by noon, and Estes Park shortly thereafter.  A few beers with lunch went down nicely.  We decided to check out the Stanley Hotel of Stephen King’s “The Shinning” fame.  We hit the hotel bar for several cold ones and conversations with strangers.  The drinks and laughter flowed freely for quite some time.

By late afternoon we were feeling no pain as we left the bar.  We passed by a building off the main hotel entrance and somehow decided to look through the glass door.  What luck, it was unlocked.  It turned out to be the concert hall and we had the whole building to ourselves.

The feel of the supposedly haunted hotel came to life and it sent chills up my spine.  Suddenly the woman was on stage speaking to her father and letting him know how much she missed and loved him.

I stood mesmerized and barely had time to pull out my camera when she broke into song.  It was a Hymn she had sung with her father at church when she was a little girl.  The volume rose higher and higher as her confidence grew.  She lost all abandon and sang it from her soul. It was truly beautiful.

I witnessed something very special that afternoon and can’t shake the feeling that her father and I shared Father’s day together for the first time in many, many years.

Estes Park Wool Market

The Estes Park Wool Market is a whole different ball of yarn than the Taos Wool Festival, the main disparity being that in Estes, the animals are the star attraction and in Taos, the fiber products and tools fill that role.  Also, in Taos, the festival is set up in a park and the vendors/displays are lined up in easy-up two-sided tents and, in Estes, the market is at the fairgrounds and almost everything is under canvas or roof with the exception of the arena that holds agility trials and animal shows.

Although the highlighted animal was the Bluefaced Lecestershire sheep, their numbers were few in comparison to the plethora of llamas, alpaca, and goats.

If we ever make that pipe dream move to Colorado, I want Spartacus to wear one of these.  He can carry our equipment while we hike the Rockies together to our hearts content.

This guy is the flashiest llama I've ever seen.  I wanted him to come home with me.

These guys are welcome, too.  Colored angora goats, natural rosy to golden tan mohair.  Yum.  And no, we didn't bring so much as a rabbit with us.  We're a little overwhelmed at present.

David, who joined us during the final weekend of our trip, made lots of friends.

Should I be jealous?

Robert wanted to bring home this little Pygora kid and was going to love it and take care of it and we weren't going to have to do anything, please, please, please, please, please!  (Just like Albert Einstein, the Angora rabbit who now lives in our bathroom, necessitating the hurdle of a baby gate in order to take care of business.)  We didn't bring him home either, though he was very cute.

Cashmere, anyone?  You gotta wrestle this guy to get it, every day, with a wire brush on his belly.

Now, here's an alpaca of a different color.  He made me crave Oreo cookies and cream yummy ice cream.

With handsome guys like this to guide us through the market, a good time was had by all.  And I didn't spend a cent (this was mostly due to my husband by my side as we walked through the product tent).

Other than the photos from Stephen King's "The Shining"-inspiration, "The Stanley Hotel," which out-of-town David has on his computer, that is about it for Colorado.

For now, I'll keep hoping the high-altitude lung power used to blow on every one of these I could find did some good.

A Colorado Sampler

Just northeast of Estes Park, Colorado

lies the entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park.  A word does not exist in the English language to adequately describe its beauty, its enormity, or its inspiration.  In fact, with little exception, every Colorado landscape and town we encountered on our recent trip, if not sensational, was at worst pretty. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hiking at over 12,000 feet elevation and looking down over the Rockies that had towered over us for the majority of our trip inspired awe not often experienced in life. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bonus of shortly thereafter discovering a herd of bighorn sheep and more waterfalls than ever seen before still has me spellbound and longing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every place has its highs and lows.  The desert, with its oppressive summertime heat, is at a low right now and I imagine that Colorado is not as appealing in February, at least for the average person who still has to go to work and is not spending his time skiing, something this uncoordinated soul has never managed to do.  Yet, I long to go back just to see.  (Sorry, honey.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A sampling of

Colorado

:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(This was June 8 in Frisco, CO, elevation 9100 feet, 21 degrees and snowing.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This guy was hanging out (upon seeing this picture, Pint said, "He's nakey!") in the same town on the next day, sunny and in the high sixties.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And now a few from Boulder:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is the ceiling of "The Boulderado," favorite haunt of Teddy Roosevelt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tomorrow, I hope to have the photos from the Estes Park Wool Market edited and ready for post.  I apologize for my absence.  I've been writing my book for hours a day and moping ridiculously for the remainder of my time.

I am a Packing Failure

The state of Colorado doesn't seem to know it is June.  Just call me one extreme to another girl. 

Yesterday, we were here.

This morning, in a delightful village called Frisco, where it was sunny and 70 degrees yesterday, where we played Frisbee golf in our shirt sleeves, it is 21 and snowing. 

I have the wool; I have the tools.  I better get to knitting those hats, scarves, and gloves I neglected to pack BECAUSE IT IS JUNE!

Au Revoir

Tomorrow by this time, Robear the teenager and I plan to be just over the border of the great state of Colorado.  Durango is our first fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants destination but our plans are not carved in marble.  One of the great things about leisurely journeys is thus far Bush has not appointed a road trip czar.  A gentleman (I’d say or gentlewoman but we’ve seen those women in green uniforms and they scare us) might ask me if I am carrying fruit as the addictive powers of fructose are well-documented.  He might glance around my by-then filthy truck and inquire as to the presence of illegal aliens under the Wendy’s bags and empty Mountain Dew bottles.  He might even pull me into secondary to inspect the bed of the pickup and, who knows, he might want a lesson in spinning yarn and that’s okay.  Despite and because of these prospective delays, we can stop when and if we take a liking to our surroundings.

Beginning with a route familiar to us, we’ll travel the I-17 to Flagstaff but then deviate from the norm by heading into the Navajo Nation and on to Monument Valley.  We’ll pass Tuba City where I am secretly hoping to see puffed cheeks on shiny brass.  Next, we’ll cruise through Kayenta, the only incorporated municipality in the Navajo Nation.  We won’t stop there; we’re avoiding rules as much as possible.  Once in the land of rocks and spires, the teenager and I will reminisce/learn about John Ford and John Wayne and “Stagecoach.”  We might discuss “The Eiger Sanction” and lament that since it’s filming, no one has been allowed to climb the Totem Pole.   We might even listen to “Atlas Shrugged” on the iPod when the conversation slows and just drink in the scenery and listen to the cadence of Ayn Rand’s masterpiece.   

We might be feeling fatigued by the time we reach the one and only “Four Corners.” I understand they charge you $5 to see it and nothing but a small plaque marks its location.  We’ll play its visit by ear.  I’ve never been one for 90 degree angles anyway. 

Finally, and thankfully, we’ll cross the Colorado border.  The weather calls for storms.  Some might be disappointed by this but, coming from the land of nauseating sunshine, I relish dark clouds and unsettled weather, loud thunder and blinding lightning.  I might reminisce about summers in Nags Head, NC when the other kids hid inside when the squalls blew up but my mother and I stayed on the porch overlooking the ocean, feeling the electricity in the air, and lusting for the salty storm winds blowing through our needy souls.

This is but the first leg of our journey and I look forward to each and every limb.  I will keep you posted when possible but have the rustic accoutrements of pen and paper when devoid of power and internet access. 

 Here’s writing to you, kid.

How to Dye Wool

      

1. 1.Get some wool.  You can dye it straight off the sheep, washed and carded into roving, or after it is spun into yarn.  I prefer the roving myself, tidy but not too predictable.  Montreal steak seasoning and pepper mill are optional.
2. 2.Totally overestimate your “free” time and energy level. 
3. 3.Stare at the wool.  Yes, you know this wool is brown and doesn’t technically need dyeing but don’t let that stop you.  Of your 12 sheep, one is white, two are black, three are grey, and the rest are brown.  The alpaca and llama are also brown.  Your hair is brown. You like brown; it’s a good thing.  Sometimes, however, you can have too much of a good thing.  Plus, someone once told you about “overdyeing” and how one of the loveliest colored yarns she had ever seen came from overdyeing black wool with red dye.
4. Have a Taos Wool Festival flashback.  Smile as you recall that time in the coffee shop waiting your turn with your fellow workshop participants.  Remember the look of horror on clueless male patron’s face when we all clucked over our excitement to be taking a dyeing class.  Remember man running out the door and driving away at breakneck speed.
5. Listen to the wool.  Wait for it to tell you what it wants to be.  Become frustrated with wool’s indecisiveness and overrule wool (hey that rhymes).
6. Find your enameled wool dyeing pan in the very back of the very back cabinet in the laundry room.  Move two boxes of fabric, three dirty blankets, and two sets of unwashed sheets to get to it.  Say fuck it and leave cabinet door open because you cannot shut it without reverse engineering everything you just did to get it.  Throw soiled comforter over cabinet door as camouflage.
7. Wonder if this is all worth the trouble but remember you are going to a wool festival and you are bringing your spinning wheel and won’t hand-dyed roving draw accolades from the uninitiated.  And you know you need constant reassurance.
8. Put wool in pot.  Add water to cover without letting the water actually run onto the wool because that makes felt.  There is a time and place for felt but this is not it.
9. Glug white vinegar in pot.  Don’t measure anything.  You are not wired that way. 
10. 10.Sprinkle different shades of acid dye onto the wool.  Cock your head and add some more.  Decide pot o’ wool reminds you of the La Brea Tar Pits, only more colorful. 
11. 11.Turn stove to low.  Cover pot.  Simmer for thirty minutes 
12. 12.Question whether getting a pedicure before your trip is worth it because your hiking shoes will probably wear off the polish anyway.  Don’t come to a decision..
13. 13.Let wool cool (hey that rhymes, too! It’s the little things that bring you joy).  Rinse scalding hot wool (because you were too impatient to let it cool so burned your hands instead) until the water runs clear.  Get tired of waiting for the water to run clear and say fuck it again.  You really are getting a mouth on you.
14. Wrap wool in old towel.  Set outside to dry.  Walk outside in 101 degree heat every 7 ½ minutes and rearrange the drying wool.  Remark that it’s pretty.  Make husband walk outside to look at the pretty wool.
15. Repeat steps 1 -14 until all wool has been dyed.  Feel exhausted.  Bitch about feeling exhausted.
16. Drink beer.  Get pissed off because the keg runs out and all you are left with is crappy Coors Light. 
17. 17.On the following day, spend four to six hours braiding wool roving.  Listen to the wool again because it is pretty and you are a sucker for a pretty fiber.  It wants to be a tunic-length cardigan with a sash belt and no buttons.  It needs to think a while on what else it would like to be.  Gaze at it one last time.  Get “Mountain of Love” in your head; substitute “wool” for “love.”
18. 18.Begin to sew new wrap skirt.  Realize you are completely insane and secretly blame the appliances and Dick Cheney.
19. 19.Smile because the husband just called and said, “The eagle has landed,” his secret code for the capture of a fresh keg of Kiltlifter.
20. 20.Drink beer.

Ode to a Knitted Sock

Shakespeare it's not.

 

I think that I shall never see

A sock more beautiful than thee

With traveling lace and demure grace

Knitting is a fiber ballet, you see.

 

With circular needles and Rowan wool

Tiny stitches danced a spirited reel

From the rib to the toe, they put on a show

Creating pulchritude surpassing a jewel

 

Though sublime, the sock is all but alone

“I am single,” she cries with a sob and a moan

Sadly she must wait while her creator knits a mate

Warding off second sock syndrome and its fate.