Pretending to Farm

I Can; I Can; I Can!!!

Not much has changed around here this week, Zorro continues to stalk and attack me, leading Hunky Husband to rationalize that in fact Zorro is sexually attracted to me and that is the reason for his behavior towards me. Nice try, hunny, must be those lesions that are doing it for him. Magic, who is growing with each shake of his tail feather, still enjoys his morning baths in the kitchen sink, taken while I simultaneously feed the Pint-Sized Farmer, three slobbery beasts, one little brown mutt, and Apollo the cat who won’t leave me alone until he has his morning egg. And no, I don’t cook it for him. Raising too many fowl creatures equals an abundance of eggs which equals very lovely coats for the regular domestics.

Severus the new turkey poult is doing well out in the, shock, out of doors, but his nest-mate as we expected didn’t fare as well and died about 24 hours after hatching, poor thing. Excuse the very trite expression but it was for the best. One of his eyes never opened and he never hopped and peeped like healthy poults do.

Me? I’m trying to focus on what I can do rather than what I cannot. Believe it or not, I garnered this little gem of personal advice from the wheelchair-bound character on the children’s cartoon “Dragon Tales” and thought I should do my best to follow it. No Dr. Phil for me, darned high-fallutin’ getting-real know-it-all. I prefer taking advice aimed at pre-schoolers (All I really need to know I learned in kindergarten, anybody?) What follows is a small smattering of things I can do:

1. I can legally ingest narcotics. Lindsey Lohan, eat your heart out.

2. I can turn my head right.

3. I can knit a simple pattern with a medium-sized needle, such as a 7 (4.5 mm). Don’t ask me about lace or socks; they are not on this list.

4. I can guilt my children into administering much-needed and appreciated neck/feet/hand rubs.

5. I can lie in bed and cuddle with a Pint-Sized Farmer guilt-free no matter the time of day.

6. I can be at peace knowing my house is dirty for a legitimate reason for once and not feel too self-conscious about it.

7. I can accept the fact that I will always be a pretend farmer and be happy with our small spinner’s flock. For once, I don’t need to have ambitions of Shetland breeding greatness.

8. I can ingest gold without any apparent side effects. Amazing grace! It goes well with my new gold necklace with a pearl solitaire pendant courtesy of my awesome in-laws. They know how to cheer me and then some.

9. I can appreciate all my friends who have been calling and writing and telling me that they’d wait patiently for me to post once again.

10. I can type for about 10 minutes before agony sets in. The joy of writing overrules the pain of arthritis.

Thank you all for being here for me. This blog has brought me so much more than I ever realized it would.

The End of the Heebie-Jeebies and a Wee Lacey Lesson

I gather from recent comments that everyone has a case of the heebie-jeebies from too many creature features. Hey, I live it people; you just read about it. Anyway, I will endeavor to steer clear of the more prickly and stinging desert denizens for the time being.

Just two things before I stop: Hunky Husband who yesterday weakly suppressed his amusement at my predicament got the treatment this morning. I think his exact words were, “Those ants suck!” Karma my friends, karma. Also, since we have not been closing the pool cover at night due to the heavy rains we have been getting, the Colorado bullfrogs have been skinny dipping up a storm (get it, storm). This morning we noticed at least ten tadpoles in the pool, the salt water pool that won’t kill them with chemicals. If you remember, these are the toads whose skin is full of hallucinogens and potentially fatal to dogs. Methinks we have some fishing to do.

Okay, end of creature features for a while. I think. If a bobcat or mountain lion shows up on my front porch, it would kill me (hopefully not literally) not to write about it.

Now, let’s talk lace. After posting the photo of The Meem’s Lily of the Valley Shawl from the very awesome book, “Lace Style” from Interweave Press recently, I got many inquiries as to how to do it, where to find it, etc., etc., etc. (Channeling the King of Siam here.) Because of this, I thought I’d share what I have garnered from my very limited lace knitting experience.

First, use many, many stitch markers; they are pretty and functional. Each knitted lace row comes with a certain amount of repeats; this one has four with one of the repeats divided on each side. Mark each repeat with a stitch marker so when you get lost in your pattern, which you will, all you have to do is return to the just passed stitch marker and not to the beginning of the row. Also, mark the border repeats. On this shawl, this only means four stitches on each side but it matters greatly when you find yourself off one stitch. The same goes for the vertical repeats. This pattern has a 28 row vertical repeat. When you finish one, mark it with a slip stitch marker so you know all was well up until then when, again, you get lost in the pattern.

Second, go to KnitPicks and buy yourself a pattern keeper.
They are inexpensive, fold up nicely, and come with strong magnets that mark which row you are knitting. Photocopy the pattern for yourself; cut it up; put it inside the keeper. Just don’t rearrange the magnets for photography’s sake; ask me how I know. Thanks to my ineptitude, I have some heavy duty stitch reading/ place locating to do.

Lastly, and I am sure I’ll come up with more advice in the long run but this is what my feeble brain has figured out thus far, practice your complicated/ never-before-attempted stitch patterns with waste yarn that does not cost $35 a skein (thank you Handmaiden Seasilk; you better be right about those “healing properties”). For me, it was the provisional cast-on and the nupp which I discussed the other day. Here is a close-up of the lily pattern complete with nupps. It will look better once it is blocked; the beauty of lace does not come out until it is properly washed and pinned to size.

The provisional cast-on actually wasn’t too difficult once I got the feel of the crochet hook used in its creation. I am not a crocheter. Basically though, it involves using waste yarn to make a crochet cast on which you will pull out later when you are finished with the interior rectangle and are ready to attach the lace border. I’m sure when I get there, it will open a whole new can of whupass on me but for now, this ends my not-so-sage advice. Happy Knitting!

Lauren Downer

Despite a generous dose of ruminant therapy primarily involving Bill Withers who couldn’t get enough and kept nudging me for more love, I am in mourning. We lost yet another turkey, Jessica the Narragansett hen, this time to coyotes and, with the exception of indoor Zorro, we are down to three turkeys from our original eight. Whether from fear or boredom, the two remaining hens stay parked in their laying boxes and only venture out to eat and drink. Rubius, our only tom, stays in the pen of misfit fowl and, although he is a good boy, he exhibits none of the personality his former mates did. Yup, it’s pretty lonely and boring in turkeydom.

Also, I finished “The Deathly Hallows.” It was the best book of the seven; I loved it. Yet now, I have no more Harry Potter books to anticipate reading, no more Hogwarts, no more magical spells. I miss them already. With the book freshly read, the characters and lingo keep popping in my head. If I could make just one spell work, it would be turgio; it’s a cleaning charm. How wonderful would it be to just point my wand (which I don’t possess) at the floor, walls, dishes, laundry, etc. and cry “turgio!” and all would be sparkling. If only such a thing was possible.

The third contribution to Lauren’s Land of Mourning is the end of the Tour de France. Despite the scandals that plagued this year’s tour, we thoroughly enjoyed it and looked forward to watching it every day. Our three weeks of placing bets on stage winners with one another is no more. Another thing to look forward to is over. Sob.

All these things happened in a 24 hour period, hence my mourning. I am working on pulling myself out of the abyss which I have fallen into but washing and folding neglected loads upon loads of laundry don’t do much for my overall sense of well-being.

On a brighter note, something snapped and I am finally making progress on the Meem’s lily of the valley shawl from Lacestyle. I might not have yet mastered lace but I am queen of the nupp. For those of you who do not know, a nupp is created by making five stitches out of one and then purling those stitches together on the following row. Not quite a bobble yet more than a bump, it enhances the texture of the pattern.

Sorry to be such a downer. I told myself I wouldn’t post if I was in one of my funks. Yesterday’s lack of post was due to this but I am who I am. You all surely know this by now.

Master and Servant (and House Elf)

Staying up late listening to Jim Dale’s excellent narration of The Deathly Hallows, in addition to deepening the already purple circles under my eyes, does great things for my knitting. My stint as Beth’s house elf has ended; I have clothes (non-readers of Harry Potter will not understand this; go get the books and read them stat).

For those of you who don’t remember, Beth’s wee Tom was in the hospital and her sock pal was in need of knitted Hogwart’s socks. Beth was already behind because she had special ordered the yarn from somewhere in upstate New York and then, when crisis ensued, she did what any self-respecting sock pal would do and delegated. Unfortunately, Beth was under the deluded impression that I was a fast knitter; I am not. Anything involving the use of my uncoordinated physicality, even something as athletically non-demanding as knitting, cannot be accomplished quickly by me. Slower than molasses in January, my mother used to call me and, despite some inconsistent effort on my part, that insulting but apt description still applies.

Yet the socks are done. I can return to my own slow progress both on what were David the Teenager’s socks which no longer fit him since he has sprouted like the proverbial weed this summer (they’re mine now, hee hee) and the Meem’s lace shawl on which I spend more time frogging then progressing. I am determined to master lace. Right now, however, I am its servant.

A Monday Addendum

Just to clarify, when I said I was in the doldrums, I meant literally, not figuratively. I am supposed to knit like the wind but it is going so slow that I must be in an area without wind, e.g. the doldrums. Michelle, kind and caring cyber-friend that she is, thought I was in the dumps and in need of sheepy therapy. Thank you for your concern, Michelle. Amazingly, I am a very content mom/gramma/wife/woman right now. Wonders never cease.

And if you were wondering how fowl things really are around here, I just looked over to our possibly permanently paralyzed rooster, Jakers, sitting on our sofa having a snack and I didn't think twice about it. Hmmm.

In Which the Family Helps Out So I Can Actually Do Something

Hunky Husband (yes, Michelle, I have given in to the truth and David the Husband will now be referenced by this new moniker) is away playing middle-aged Easy Rider with our friend Scott from San Diego, only sans Peter Fonda and with BMW Adventure motorcycles instead of Harleys. Scott says nothing screams old, fat, and bald like a Harley but I think it is only because he is prejudiced in favor of his new toy. The two of them were meeting slightly west of midway between here and there and planning on getting dusty and dirty exploring the trails in the mountains of eastern San Diego County. Though not as hot there as it is here, it’s still too toasty to fit in with my idea of outdoor fun but boy will be boys. For not the first time in my life, I am glad the farm and its responsibilities are keeping me here

Before he left, he did a little turkey sitting so I could finish plying the yarn which I am now calling “Sunny Beach Day.” At first, Zorro did not know what to think of this whiskered mass of handsomeness; but, after a peck or two on the cheek in introduction, decided he would do just fine as substitute for his usual caretaker (me) and they settled down to watch another disastrous Dodgers/ Diamondbacks game together.

Earlier in the day, I had tried to finish the yarn with Zorro along but never could quite get comfortable with the rhythm of it. The cats were poised nearby in case I moved suddenly, knocking Zorro off my shoulder, and, in general, the whole fiber therapy motive was stymied.

Zorro, obviously, didn’t seem to notice my discomfort.

He didn’t mind me knitting either. He must be a fiber friendly turkey poult. That’s a good thing, Martha.

Although I still need to wash it and set the twist, here is “Sunny Beach Day.” I am hoping to have enough to make Pint a little zippered sweater jacket but might have to settle for a vest, probably a more usable item of clothing around here anyway. Most winter days it still gets up into the sixties by the afternoon. Wool, wool everywhere, yet not a climate for its use. Grrrr.

Speaking of grrr, contest #2 did not go quite as well as the first one. I guess people are more willing to come up with cleverness for sock yarn than a Home Depot gift card. Lesson learned, though I was just trying to include the non-knitters among you. Teresa, though she was the one and only to enter the contest, came up with a wonderful and a little too close to the truth at times admission and, for that, wins. Email me funny lady with your address and let me know where your interests lie for your wee surprise. You all forgot about the surprise, didn’t you?

Have a wonderful weekend everyone. I want to thank young David for turkey-sitting so I could type two-handed for the first time in days. I had almost decided it was time to give the blog a rest until my turkey rearing days have come to a close but his reprieve saved me and hopefully lightened your day as well.

Remember to keep on praying for wee Tom, though from what Beth tells me, he is lapping up all the attention he is getting at the hospital and beginning to think he is an only and much-indulged child.

The Three "P"s

It’s a busy morning around Rancho Laurena. After realizing the shower pan was leaking in David the Teenager’s bathroom and the water pooled on the floor was not a result of overzealous washing, we have been invaded by tradesmen of various specialties to remedy the situation. This is a good thing, Martha. It is also a chaos-generating thing with a Pint and three bloodhounds wanting to become pesky apprentices and a germophobic teenager refusing to allow any of the “funny-smelling” shower rods, doors, and/or hardware to be piled in his newly moved into and painted room.

As this will be entertaining us all week long, ladies and germs, I will have limited posting time but nonetheless endeavor to keep writing. Anything for my loyal readers.

Presenting:

The Summer of Love Yarn spun slightly thicker than lace weight, wound into a center pull ball, and plied from the inside and outside of the ball. This is all I have as this was the colorway that Carrie chose. I think it will make a nice accent to an otherwise plain sweater, maybe collars and cuffs or decorative edging.

Premiering:

The Backyardiknits. If those of you with small children have not found “The Backyardigans,” stop what you’re doing and check your TV Guide until you find it. Sit down with your own Pint, watch, repeat. Beth, Brandy, and I started this wee blog, not associated with the show but admiring it. Backyardiknits, as you can deduce from its name, is for its fans that knit. A few free patterns are already there plus a handful of posts from each of us. Come on by and pay us a visit.

Play-Acting:

The Pint, swimming in the Olympics. He puts his face in the water and slithers snake-like across the large top step of the pool. About half his body is submerged. After joyfully witnessing this, we devoted much pool time to teaching the boy for real. He is excelling at putting his face in the water and kicking, but only if he has a death grip around his instructor’s neck. He will perform this same death grip from the back and enjoy a quick underwater swim, which we find amazing coming from a boy who last week would not leave the step under any circumstances. Maybe he will end up swimming in the Olympics, after all.

As the young carpenter’s apprentice is getting a little too eager to learn again, I must get back to playing interference. Have a wonderful week everyone.

A Tale of Two Socks

It was the best of socks; it was the worst of socks, the best because they are finished and handsome and fit properly, the worst because the first one waited for its mate almost two years alone in the dresser with a bunch of cheap store-bought socks, some with stains and, aghast, holes (the trash).

I truly meant to get to the second sock but I did have a particularly bad case of SSS (Second Sock Syndrome for you non-knitters out there). This was my first sock and both the possibilities of sock yarns to try and the patterns with which to knit them, never mind the endless sock gifts I would endeavor to bestow threw me off course. The sock languished alone and sad.

Sunday, I finally finished the second sock. The first sock reveled in finding a suitable mate and audible cooing and caressing could be heard emanating from the closet. I think I even heard a chorus of “At Last.”

Yesterday, David the Husband kindly offered to model his wool socks for me in 90° heat (it was overcast and therefore created this “cold snap;” it is supposed to hit 107 on Wednesday).

The socks.

The man.

The ham.

Admittedly, I asked him to ham it up a bit but, in the 22 years I have known him, I have never seen him turn down such an opportunity.

Remember?

A Case for Mr. Monk

I began the morning by sternly eyeing all the children and telling them if they make me cry one more day in a row, I cannot be held responsible for the consequences. Hey, I’ve read Dickens. I can make them eat porridge day in and day out and don grey rags for clothing while they scour the stone floor from dawn to dusk. The lack of corporal punishment manner in which I have been raising my children could be a mistake; I might just pull out the belt AND smack their hands with a wooden ruler. I have one, you now, and have been the recipient of such a smacking, humiliatingly delivered in the front of my second grade classroom by a stern woman with cat’s eye glasses, drab dresses, and a permanent scowl sculpting her why-did-I-become-a-teacher-because-I-hate-children face.

Well, guess what? They behaved. They did their chores as asked and limited their bickering to acceptable levels. Nothing like a well-delivered sincerely meant threat to keep them in their places. And should they fall back to their previous tear-inducing ways, I still have that whole corporal punishment/ Dickensian way of life to fall back on. (Did you notice? I just ended a sentence with a preposition; Grammar Girl said I could as long as I have an object. Dickensian way of life or purely life is my object. So there. Now if I could just rid myself of this nagging guilt like I did something wrong even though I know in my head I didn’t.)

I had wanted Jessica’s visit to go so well. Deep inside I held onto the hope that she would change her mind and stay if only I could keep David the Teenager from instigating their omnipresent arguments, if I could keep my mouth shut about the towels she can’t seem to avoid throwing on the floor and leaving there, and if I didn’t ask for one iota of work out of her. I know now that’s completely unrealistic but I had no idea the visit would go so far from well, at least as far as the sibling battles. When I found her marching angrily down the hallway muttering about remembering why she moved out in the first place on her first full day here, my hope dwindled and I tried harder than ever to make things right. Yet, each time I did, some unknown force pulled them even farther in the opposite direction.

Regretfully, I have accepted this. Jessica has moved out permanently and that’s just the way it is. I will find a way to live with it somehow and enjoy her visits when blessed with them. So be it. Moving on…

Found: This combination of objects on the cutting board in the kitchen when I awoke Thursday morning. Although I can usually deduce what has gone on from the detritus left in the they-were-clean-when-I went-to-bed kitchen and living room, this mixture has me stumped. Now, I realize not all of you are knitters but a good many of you are SO…

The person who most creatively and humorously comments on the story behind the use of these combined ingredients, judged by David the Husband and me, will win these two skeins of Cherry Tree Hill sock yarn, enough to make two pairs of socks or one pair of knee-highs and complete with stray bloodhound hair scattered on their surface. So put your thinking caps on and fill me in on whatever strange ritual my offspring are getting away with while I sleep.

The Other Meaning of Tiananmen Square

I read the following in the NY Times this morning, triggering a flood of memories:

On June 4, 1989, Chinese army troops stormed Tiananmen Square in Beijing to crush the pro-democracy movement; hundreds - possibly thousands - of people died.

For most of you, the demonstration and massacre at Tiananmen Square is an historical event. It is for me as well but in a different way. At the time, my parents were visiting from their home in Hong Kong and I was heavily, as in 65 pounds gained heavily, with the child who would be Jessica. If I remember correctly, June 4th was my due date. I had just visited my OB/GYN and was told that nothing was happening, that I was not having this baby for at least another week, perhaps two. Determined to contradict him, the next day, David, Daddy, Mom, Meagan, and I went hiking the Kilimanjaro Trail at the San Diego Wild Animal Park and I went into labor that night.

So it was that on June 6th, as I was mid-labor, experiencing the worst pain I had ever endured, my father had to up and leave. Because of Tiananmen Square and the general unrest that was spreading throughout China, and because he was running a toy company (Tyco) that had manufacturing interests there, he had to return to Hong Kong for the good of the company. This was not for the good of my spirits and, I have to admit, for years I resented his action until one day my mother told me that the CEO of the company forced his return and Daddy had no choice in the matter. He was always a good soldier.

Although these were pre-cell phone days, I also found out that he had arranged with the doctors and nurses to keep in contact with him via the airlines and his plane’s pilot. And that is the way my father, and 200 some other passengers found out that I had given birth to a healthy 8 lb 4 oz girl minutes after it happened. Daddy always had a way of getting things done.

And there’s your piece of history for the day. Now for a few current goings-on here at Rancho Laurena…

Lost: The final baby turkey to the German Shepherds next door. We are sad; Lauren the Turkey is sadder. As I write, she is stubbornly sitting on more eggs, some of which are chicken-laid, in a persevering do-over.

Found: This snake skin in the feed shed. Oh, my. Methinks I will don my cowboy boots and keep a wary eye before farming in the future. I truly don’t care for creepy crawly things with no arms or legs, especially when they interfere with morning farm therapy. Snakes are not Zen-like in my book.

Discovered: Seaman Recruit Jessica walking into my bedroom at 10:30 last night. Freshly debarked from her Mexican cruise ship, she wanted to visit her family. I was delighted, shocked, and surprised. I couldn’t stop hugging her. It sure is nice to see her car parked in the driveway again, if only for a few days.

Finished: The spinning of Cookie’s first shearing (as you can see, I was experimenting with skein size). The color is called moorit and it is 100% lamb’s wool weighing a total of 1 lb 8.5 oz or 695 grams. That’s almost fourteen 50 gm balls which is very sweater-worthy.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must move on to Leroy’s fleece. For the first time ever, David the Husband has requested a sweater knit from a combination of our sheep and, being a good wife, at least knit-wise, I aim to please (and like to spin and knit, I’m not totally selfless, you know.)