Yeah, well…

I can learn new things, I know this for a fact. Why, just recently I learned a little more html, I learned a new recipe, and I learned to play a new song on the piano. Heck, I learn things every day. I stuff new things into my mind all the time, working toward experiencing new things and growing as a person.
Why then does there appear to be some things that I just can’t learn? I mean, I learn them, I even learn them the hard way, in ways that involve pain, frustration and curse words, but then a little while later the memory of having learned that seeps away and I am as an empty vessel….ready to make the same stupid, stupid mistake again.
I started knitting the cardie (from the pattern that took hours to work out) and something started bothering me. A little voice in the back of my head kept saying “Didn’t we learn something about this?” Nah, I think. What could there be? I keep knitting but the satisfaction level doesn’t pick up. I decide that it must be the stitch I’m using, rip back, alter the pattern and try again. I repeat this several times (over several hours) and finally, I learn something, a flash of knowledge sweeps over me and in that moment of inspiration I realize what the problem is…It’s not me, it’s not the stitch, it’s not the pattern.
It’s the yarn. I dislike cotton and I hate cotton for Arans. It doesn’t give, it makes lame looking stitches it’s heavy and it hurts my hands. I have officially abandoned ship.
I have learned this before. There has been other baby stuff, several tanks, and one nightmarish descent into hades where I knit Lene a cabled berber cotton sweater that I hope she treasures. There was even The Bird Jacket, which was such a powerful teaching tool that I still feel a little queasy when I think of it. Matter of fact, just after I knit that I lost most of the vision in my right eye. I don’t think that it damaged my vision, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that the optic nerve in that eye had committed suicide trying to get away from the horror. I’m going to the yarn shop today and I will get myself some lovely soft wool and knit some little hats out of this yarn (or burn it to complete ash under a full moon while dancing a dance to release me from the cycle of perpetual cotton punishment). If y’all see me picking up yarn like this again, for the love of sheep….stop me.
The antidote?
Yum. It’s the alpaca from Aubergine, and it’s perfect and beautiful and not cotton. It’s going to be a scarfy-wrappy sort of elegant thing. I’m going to knit two ends like this, then some sort of centre lace part, then graft them together. It should be fairly straightforward to work out, assuming that there is nothing the planet would like to teach me about alpaca.
This is my front yard tree, anybody want to teach me something about sour cherries? Like, what you do with 10 million of them?

I knit, therefore I am

Some designs happen because the creative spirit cannot be denied, because art must be released and the artist is driven to create. Or, somebody decides to invent a dumb little baby sweater because they have thrown hours of their life into an abyss searching for the perfect size 2, aran buttoned cardigan, with a small collar, 4 stitch rope cables, no seed stitch, no ribbing, interesting panels of moving stitches (that are not cables) down the front, and yet exudes only manliness and certainly doesn’t have girly bobbles or cables that even vaguely make “heart shapes”, all to discover that it doesn’t exist.
I have finally decided that if I want this exact sweater that I’m going to have to accept that nobody has thought of this combination before, or if they did, they wimped out and didn’t write the thing down. This is always the reason I design something. Frustration.
While I can understand that not everybody thinks they can design, and not everybody wants to, and that some people are never moved to drastic measures by the demented pursuit of the perfect sweater, or sleeves that are less “swooshy”, what I can’t understand is the hugely frustrated knitter who is afraid to try. The way I think about it, you have nothing to lose. The sweater I tried to knit is dumbass, that’s it. I’m at rock bottom. I have no sweater, only a dumbass attempt. What’s the worst thing that can happen? I’ll have no sweater and a dumbass attempt? That’s where I’m at now! Afraid? I’m never afraid to try something with my knitting. I’m afraid of skydiving, and downhill skiing gives me the willies and I’m deeply concerned about war and injustice, but yarn? What could happen? Worst case scenario is you learn a little something about dumbass sweaters. That’ s helpful, that’s one more mistake I can wipe off the list of stupid knitting mistakes I’m destined to make. (I wonder how long that list is…)
Since I know exactly what I want, the idea is finished, done and ready in my head, and the process of creating the pattern is just working out details like gauge, how many stitches to make the panel that I want, and how exactly to create a stitch that matches the one that I’ve imagined. That makes it sound easy, and I think that for the most part it is. The only part about doing design that bites hard is that the math is crazy making. (Joe would tell you that it’s only simple math skills, but I’ve never felt there was anything that even remotely resembles “simple math”.) My imaginary sweater has a size and a shape, and trying to make the numbers reflect that leaves me feeling like I’m mentally “a few elves short of an effective workshop”, if ya catch my meaning.
So, do you design? Do you alter? Why or Why not? What’s the reason you design or the reason that you would never?
Finally, Two questions.
1. Hypothetically speaking, if I had a sew up party in September for Ann and Kay’s afghanalong would anybody come?
2. I heard from some of you that the referrer thingie was screwing up the site. I have moved said thingie to the bottom instead of the side. It looks fine on my screen (and always has, so I can’t be trusted) so if the problem still exists after this feeble attempt to fix it, would you let me know?

55 days…

until the first day of school. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired, and I’m a woman who regularly stays up for 24-48 hours straight without even thinking about it. Why if it wasn’t for these
I’d be delirious. I can’t tell you how much I love these socks. (Two notes about the photo: I need a new porch, and yes, I’ve been working out, thanks for noticing) These hand-dyed, hand-spun and hand knit beauties are bringing much joy into my beleaguered existence where days are marked out only by the ongoing parade of children’s activities, impending work deadlines and impossible amounts of food and laundry. The children have had so much fun in the last few days that I feel like I’m clinging to life with my happy socks clutched in my hands as a talisman for better days. I’m so tired that twice during phone calls in the last 24 hours (and with two different people) they’ve stopped talking, and asked me if I was still there. Both times I said “Oh yes…” but I was lying. (Sorry Kelly) I just sit there glazed over, staring into space, I can hear the other person talking but I can’t seem to remember what I’m supposed to be doing. All am sure I am supposed to be doing is whatever I’m not doing at that moment. For example, I am working at the computer, but sure I should be doing something with the children, so I go do something with the children but feel worried while I’m doing that because I’m not working. To get around this, since I’m a sensible woman who doesn’t like feeling bad, I’ve decided to spend my days caring for the home and family (except for client visits and phone calls), then get up several hours before them in the morning and work then. I think this relieves the conflict, which is good, but it may kill me. I’ve not decided if that’s good or bad. Somehow in the blur of work/kids/summer/laundry I still found the time to nurture my relationship with The Dublin Bay socks, here seen enjoying the view from a paddle boat atop Ken’s shoulder.
They enjoyed the paddle boats as much as Ken. (Can we have a little vote here? Are these “Paddle Boats” or “Pedal Boats”?)
In addition, I’ve made up my mind about something. This is the back of a little Aran Cardie I’m starting. (It’s the “baby bobble jacket” from this book, if ya’ care, and you should, it’s a good book)
I’m going to frog it. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, she can be taught. This jacket is for a baby boy, and I’m not going to wait until I’m half done to have somebody explain yet another neurotic and weird rule of male dressing to me. I thought I had it licked with the colour, not girlie, and what could be more masculine than cables? If you are attentive, you can catch a whiff of testosterone off them.
Yet, despite all this it is doomed. Why?
Bobbles are girlie. Betcha.


Dear Dublin Bay Socks.
I am very sorry for what happened last night. I never meant for you to find out this way. I thought that if I took you to The Dream in The Park,
we could have a beautiful evening together, and forget that we haven’t had much time for each other. I realized when I saw your low key colours and unassuming lace pattern that I still love you. You are so good to me and the children love you so,
and I don’t think that we would have had such a good time without you there. When I saw you under the stars in High Park, with the trees swaying above us and the stage lights glittering off of your needles, I remembered all the things that I love about you. I know you suspected all along that there was someone else, and I shouldn’t have pretended that there wasn’t a problem.
I beg your forgiveness then, for accidentally jamming you into the same pocket as Lauries roving socks, I know it was a horrible way for you to have to learn about my vicious deception. I swear that I didn’t know they were coming, I wouldn’t have shoved them in your face like that, I didn’t ever imagine that they would be in the front pocket of my backpack… I’ll talk with them. I’ll tell them to please stop following me around, It’s just a fling, the flashy colours, I swear it. Please….after all we’ve done together, The water park? The movies? Riverdale Farm? Was all that nothing to you?
It’s not you, it’s me.

Have Mercy

Yesterday, after setting fire to my yarn (which was not, I repeat, NOT the super-cool sock yarn, sorry if I upset anyone anymore than was necessary) I comforted myself by finishing the first of the Laurie-socks. As expected, this bucked me up a fair bit, and hope and happiness were restored.
My happiness was short lived as mere moments later, while attempting to put the sock on to perform a very encouraging “dancing with one sock on victory thing” I discovered that I had cast off too tightly and the sock wouldn’t go on.
Since I am (apparently) a knitter of fortitude and resiliance, I did not proceed to sob, set fire to the sock, get some scotch or mutter foul language (good eh?) instead I sat down and invented a very, very stretchy cool sewn cast off.
This made me feel a lot better. I love being brilliant, and brilliant and innovative is even better. I put on the sock and did my victory dance, snapping photos for posterity.
Not even the fact that my ankle seems inexplicabley chunky in this picture can spoil the mood. I decided to write out my instructions for doing the incredibly clever sewn cast off, when it all started to sound a little familiar. I did a quick look about, and lo and behold, I am ripping off Elizabeth Zimmermann. I have invented nothing, merely somehow sucked page 23 into my brain and briefly believed that I was clever. I am not. Hopefully acknowledging this publicly will stave off any punishment that the universe may exact upon me for thinking however briefly that I had come up with something original and coming perilously close to plagiarism. I assure whoever is watching me that I was only a little proud of the cast off, and that I guessed immediately that I was not clever and I didn’t tell anyone that I was smart or that the sock cast off was my genius.
Please spare the sock.
Thanks to everyone who was glad that it was the yarn and not my hair in the fire, (I tell you, I’m still recovering from the moment that I thought it was both) but let’s get our priorities straight. As Amie said in the comments yesterday “Hair grows back, Spinning is forever”.
A special aside to the individual who stole Amanda’s bike yesterday….
Seriously dude, from in front of a school? I hope your yarn is on fire.


\Pride”ful\, Full of pride; haughty, showing arrogant superiority

I find it incredible that huge crimes against humanity can go unpunished. That people can do terrible things to one another and go without any sort of karmic revenge. No lightning bolt coming down from the sky, no earthquake swallowing them whole, no keening of small children or vicious dogbites, no cloud of blackflies pursuing them down the street.
I find this especially hard to believe considering that the planet, or whatever higher power you think is in charge of this sort of thing, seems very alert to my infractions, no matter how minor. Take today for example.
Your local harlot has (in the last 24 hours or so) perfected the navajo ply. This is a big deal, since I am deeply involved with Laurie’s roving and it needs to be navajo plied. I did a nice piece as a sample to show off on the blog, but it was just short of perfect. Do I accept that I am human? Do I reveal my human frailty? Do I demonstrate my low place on the learning curve and allow all others to feel good about thier own undeveloped skills? Do I?
I decide that what I will do is steam the yarn, pulling the little spinning errors out as I go an allow all of you to believe that my spinning is perfect.
Say it with me….Prideful.
I turn on the kettle and loosely skein the yarn, and when the kettle boils I begin to draw the yarn across the jet of steam, focussing intently on the subtle deception I am working. Let’s take a moment here to stress that I accept what happened next. I deserve what happened next, and I understand the universe is deeply committed to improving me as a person. I understand that even though murderers run free and racists and bigots run around uncorrected by even one measly little episode of spontaneous combustion, that I am not allowed to pretend that I spin better than I really do. I understand that I am to be brought to personal improvement by drastic and shocking measures at regular freaking intervals. Ok? I get it. I was prideful, I was wrong and I regret trying.
I am sorry because as I was drawing the yarn across the kettle, gently easing the ply into deceitful perfection, I noticed a funny smell, a burny smell. I live with a man who creates electrical fires on a regular basis (small and controlled fires) so the smell of something burning up doesn’t instantly register as an issue. Then I notice that it sort of smells like burning hair. Now this registers. My hair is big and wild and in its ongoing attempt to make me look stupid in public it could be on fire. I wouldn’t put it past it. I leap back from the kettle to check my hair and that’s when I notice that the skein in my hands is on fire.
I fling it onto the stove top, and it goes out immediately (’cause you know, torching the whole kitchen would be overkill).
I, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, do solemnly swear that I will not attempt to put a fast one over on the blog again. I understand that doing so can only end in my punishment, as I am being watched. My apologies to you all.

How to knit a hat

I didn’t make as much progress as I’d hoped on the sock last night (I want them done now, now, now)
For everybody who asked for details on how I handled the colours, I feel a little guilty, since it’s really Laurie who is the smart one. The roving weighed in at about 2oz each, and the colour changes evenly along the length. All I did was pre-draft the roving, leaving the colours in the order that Laurie dyed them. I had been clever enough (yeah…I know, a rare flash of brilliance really) to save a piece of the yarn that Laurie spun, so I knew what I was aiming for. I undid one end of the sample to see what the single was like, then matched it. When the singles were done, I put the bobbin on my lazy kate and did a poor imitation of navajo plying. (Note to self, consider reading the links you provide on the blog…could be helpful) This keeps the colours intact. Simple, yes? The cleverness is all in the dye job.
I also lost knitting time as I was very busy revelling in an incredible knitting birthday present from Chelsea
It’s coloured metal needles (oh, how I love thee), very cool little stitch markers, a very beautiful card, some relaxing bath stuff (Why Chelsea, do I seem a little high strung?) a gorgeous beaded bookmark and a letter with a very funny story about why chocolate isn’t a summer gift. Made my day yesterday. Thanks Chelsea!
As evening approached and the primo knitting time neared, Meg presented me with a knitting emergency. I responded and now bring you…
How To Make A Hat If You Are 12 And Not Very Careful About Stuff.
Step 1. Do a gauge swatch, then measure your head and do the math. Then have a fight with your mother who has knit like, 10 million hats, about who would know better about how many to cast on. Never…ever admit that your mother may know what is going on, but eventually cast on the number she suggests, but in secret. Do not speak civilly to your mother for some time.
Step 2. Begin knitting circularly, but pause to have a fight with your mother, this time insisting that you are knitting garter stitch, because you are knitting every row (and previously mentioned mother told you that garter stitch was when you are knitting every row), refuse to entertain the suggestion that circular knitting may be different from flat knitting, and again insinuate that your mother knows nothing about knitting. Maintain the fight until the mother looks sort of twitchy.
Step 3. Tell your mother (who is pretty freakin’ annoyed at this point, partly because of the repeated inane hat fights, but also because she has not been alone, not even to go to the bathroom, in days and days) that the hat seems “sort of twisty”.
Step 4. Even though you have not listened to one word the mother has said to you in days, and even though you have never, ever just accepted something that the mother has said without challenging it and asking for an explanation, even though there is not one molecule in your body that believes that your mother could be right about anything….when the mother tells you that stuff on circulars is like that sometimes until you get a couple of centimetres…
Walk away.
Step 5. Return to the mother the next day. Come to her when she is tired, has a limp from spinning and thinks that you have gone to bed. Come to her when she is weak and her resistance is low. Come hostile, and loud. Show her the hat.
When the mother bursts out laughing, trying to say something about “join, being careful not to twist”, darken your expression and scream “This is all your fault” and make all sort of statements that begin with “You Said….”
6. When the mother tells you that there is no way out of this, that it has to be frogged, threaten a meltdown that makes Hiroshima look like a minor problem.
7. Insist that your mother fix it or you will “NEVER KNIT AGAIN”.
8. Watch your innovative and clever mother thread the hat onto waste yarn, sew up and down a row of stitches, and cut between the lines.
(Refuse to learn the concept of “steek” if at all possible, even though it is right in your face) IMPORTANT NOTE: even if you think it is a good idea, resist the urge to say so. Try instead to insist that it will never work, even while it is working.
9. Refuse to participate as your mother threads the hat back onto needles.
Briefly smile for the camera, looking for all the world like a happy and content child, but hold the bitterness you feel for the mother deep in your heart.
10. Despite the fact that your mother has rescued you from your knitting disaster, immediately following the picture, begin another fight with her, this time about how you can no longer knit the hat circularly. Mock her during her counter-argument about how you were at the decreases and were going to have to switch to dpns anyway and maintain that as per usual, the mother has sucked the joy out of your life. Stomp away angry. Continue being a normal 12 year old, being sure to leave your mother emotionally tattered.

The first step…

…is admitting you have a problem. The events recounted here are as accurate as I am willing to admit to publicly. There may have been a few moment where I sunk lower than this…but it is difficult to live in denial when you’ve posted it all to the blog.
Friday 11:20 I take pictures of the fibre Laurie sent me, I post those pictures to the blog and I try to forget. I am trying to grow as a person, and this means that I do not dump my current project because something pretty walked by. I am a knitter of conviction.
11:25. The fibre is out of the box. I still have no intention of spinning it though. I’ve got stuff to do, the Eeyore blanket still needs a border but I’m supposed to fork it over to the recipient in about 24 hours. Clearly there is no time for spinning. Besides, I’m sticking with my plan to finish the tank before I start anything else, I cannot be tempted, besides…I’ll enjoy it more if I have to wait for it.
11:30. I’m just going to put the box with the fibre by the wheel. It’s important to keep things tidy. Once I’ve tidied up, then I’ll have time for spinning knitting the tank top and finishing Eeyore.
12:30 I have been eating for the last hour, since I cannot eat and spin at the same time. This is similar to when Ken quit smoking and the tip sheet said “try to spend time doing activities that you don’t associate with smoking”. Ken dejectedly said “Great. I have to live in the shower”.
12:35 I am in the shower.
12:40 I have begun a complex period of rationalization. I have decided to pre-draft the fibre, but not spin it. This will leave me enough time to finish the border on the Eeyore blanket, but still give me a taste of the good stuff. It is a good plan, and one I have complete control over.
1:00. I am spinning. This is ok though, because I have figured out how to make it work, I am just going to spin for a little while, just because if I don’t start it right away Laurie will think that I don’t like it. I don’t want her to think that because Laurie’s happiness means a great deal to me. I would never be unkind to a friend. Never. I will work on the Eeyore blanket this evening, and it will still be done for tomorrow.
Later, before dinner: I have lost track of time. I am no longer sure of anything except that this fibre is beautiful and perfect and I am not worthy. I am still sure that I can finish the Eeyore blanket, I just need to stay focussed on the spinning so that I don’t run out of time. The children say they are hungry, but I remind them that it is “Find your own Food Friday“.
6:00 I am forced to stop spinning by the pain in my right leg. A lesser woman would think that the pain was a signal to stop. A lesser woman would be worried about the limp. I am not a lesser woman. I take a tylenol and switch legs. No Problem.
9:00. Victory is mine.
9:02 (pm) As I pull the Eeyore blanket from the bag of denial it’s been sitting in, I realize that the universe seeks balance. There are a number of expressions to describe the situation I’m in. “Time to pay the piper” rings true, “Just desserts” is another. “I am so screwed…” is also accurate. The Eeyore border is so big that I need three circulars to go around it. I make coffee and remind myself that I get everything I deserve. It is in these moments that I can see the problems with my overall approach. Luckily, I’m not bright enough to learn from experience.
Saturday, 2:43 am. I fall asleep on the couch, and wake with a start when I impale my inner elbow with a circular point. Eeyore is not finished. I go to bed and set my alarm for 7:30. It will only take two hours to finish Eeyore, but I want to get some spinning in before I start.
7:30: Exhausted, I stagger from bed, wondering briefly if this is all making sense. I mean, I have the fibre and the rest of my life. I could delay gratification, I could grow up a little, I could get some kind of a grip on myself and go back to bed and spin after I finish Eeyore. I could…
7:32: Spinning.
12:00 Eeyore is done.
12:01 Spinnng.
4:30. I briefly contemplate skipping a party that I have promised the children we will go to. Before I manage to yank my will free of the vaccuum of the rainbow roving I am even briefly convinced that I don’t like the people at the party. (Note to self: the pull of the roving is harder to resist when weakened by lack of sleep, further note: this is likely the rovings plan)
5:30 I take the whiny Dublin bay socks to the street party. They have a good time. I pretend to love them, but think only of the roving.
12:30 Back home I try to spin but accidentally fall asleep. Luckily the intense cramping in my leg has spread into the right side of my arse, waking me before I fall into the wheel.
10:00 I decide to spend the day with my children, (right after I get a little spinning in).
10:10 The expression “wool widow” is used in the house. I begin to think that Joe and the children may have noticed the wheel attached to my leg. I get up and go out with them. A whole day is wasted on “loving my family” and “spending time with the children”.
Sunday morning. 8:30 I attempt to get up before the rest of the family to spin. Joe stops me as I leave our bed, worried that maybe I am getting up to spin. He wonders if maybe the fact that my right leg (or treadle leg, as I have come to think of it) is dragging uselessly behind me means that I may be a little obsessed about the spinning thing. I laugh and gently reassure him that I have no intention of spinning. (With that leg) I’m just going to work for a while. I’m not obsessed.
8:32 I am at the wheel, but when I hear the family coming downstairs and scurry (well, as fast as I can with that gimpy leg) to the computer and feign interest in my job. When Joe asks me if I was spinning I laugh and kiss him to draw his attention away from the still moving wheel. I mumble something about the cat playing with the wheel. I try to look innocent. I don’t know if he bought it.
I take another tylenol and wait for these people to clear out. They don’t understand anything.
12:30 Victory is mine.
My only regret is that I must wash it to set the twist before I can start the socks.
9:00 Monday morning. The wool is not dry. After a brief period of consideration, I’ve retrieved the hair dryer, (What? Don’t look at me like that. Wool is hair) because nothing can tear me from this project, when the letter carrier comes.
Aubergine and I did a really cool wool trade, and his package for me arrives this morning and has a birthday bonus in it.
Alpaca. I love Alpaca. Maybe a scarf? Oh….gloves, knit sideways? A hat? A wimple? What the heck do I have this hair dryer for?
You know, I should start this right away or Aubergine will think I don’t like it.

You were saying?

Yesterday proved a smashing success. As far as I can tell, Ryan’s Dublin Bay Socks (DBS) had a pretty good time, though they are hard to please. (Lace is like that. All you gotta do is buy a stockinette stitch sock a beer and they’re pretty happy, plain garter stitch is thrilled if you stick ’em in the bottom of your purse when you go to the grocery store, but lace…bit of an attitude)
We took them to Ontario Place, and they had a good time on the play structure,
and Ken and Megan took them on the log ride.
They whimpered about getting wet though, but the way I see it, they should be grateful that they are getting to go on rides at all. All the other knitting I know doesn’t get to go on a log ride. I threatened them with a ziplock prison and they shut it up pretty quick.
We finished up the evening with fireworks,
and the DBS and I had a little chat. They would like to know why it is that I persist in thinking that I can knit lace in the dark. They took a nasty hit at the movies the other day, and last night may have been the last straw. We are in negotiations.
Meanwhile, I was preparing for another ordinary day, doing ordinary things, like laundry, or trying to cover my breasts with a mango tank top, when I opened the door and found a package from my talented and generous friend Laurie. (You remember Laurie, she made the yarn for these socks. She’s a genius.) She sent me an incredible box of birthday treats.
Doesn’t it just give you a little hitch in your throat? It’s all so beautiful. The white is a romney fleece that Laurie bought and combed into roving. It couldn’t be more even and perfect. (Can you tell? When I grow up I want to be Laurie)
This is a little birthday laceweight. I love laceweight, and Laurie knows the way to my heart is through skinny little yarns. This is from “A touch of twist” in New York. It’s actually a little darker (and bluer) than the picture suggests. The colour is called “Evening Magic”. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful. I might swatch the butterfly shawl and make a scarf with it. I might design a whole other scarf. I might just get it a little velvet bag so that I can carry it around with me everywhere I go, you know, like a little fibre pet.
In the box, there was also two of these.
I am not worthy. I can scarcely breathe. If you aren’t impressed then you haven’t figured out what this is. Never mind…all will become clear in the fullness of time.
Hey…did you hear that noise? That screeching noise? It’s the sound of every other project in the queue coming to a halt (along with any personal growth I was making about sticking to one or two projects at a time)
What was I working on? Can’t remember.

Happy Canada Day.

The Yarn Harlot, being very Canadian, is celebrating today, and the blog will be neglected while she shows the DB socks a good time (Note the presence of the fine Canadian Beer, of which I have a very Canadian two-four.)
Things for a knitter to do on Canada Day instead of read Yarn Harlot.
1. Knit Koigu. Koigu is Canadian, and is in fact part of our plan to take over the world. (Jim Carey is also part of this plan, which does not involve back bacon)
2. Knit Fleece Artist, Briggs and Little or Mission Falls. Canadian all the way, and really a good deal if you happen to be using American Dollars.
3. Go see the new Knitty, which while it embraces knitters around the world is put together right here in Toronto by Amy Singer. A Canadian.
4. Admire the work of Canadians Sally Melville, Lucy Neatby or Debbie New.
5. Drink 5% beer and eat poutine.
6.Knit Patons “Canadiana
7. Order something from Fiddlesticks Knitting, which wins the official Harlot prize for best charts in a lace pattern. (Again with the exchange rate. Check out the deal you’re getting)
8. Listen to a Canadian book on tape while you knit.
9. Rent a movie with a Canadian Actor or Actress. Listen to some Canadian tunes.
10. Take a whirl around the Canadian Fibre Arts ring. (The link is on the right)
Celebrate Canada!