Life's a Stitch

Before I start on the topic of easily knitted buttonholes, I wanted to let my fellow Typepad bloggers know that I’m not ignoring you. For some reason Typepad won’t let me leave comments on your blogs. They’re trying to fix it, but I’m wondering if anyone else is experiencing this? If you can’t leave a comment, please e-mail me at Boesencrew at shaw dot ca.

I used to avoid all knitting patterns using the B word, that is unless Cousin Lena was planning a trip from Denmark, because I knew I could depend upon her to bail me out of buttonhole jail. Additionally, I avoided the F word (Fair Isle), the C word (cables) and I still go nowhere near the Z word (Zippers). With the support of all you knitters I’ve come a long way. I’m just wondering how I stayed out of the loop and missed this little gem.

Take a look. The one on the right is the standard easy button hole technique I always used, requiring you to knit to where you want the buttonhole, binding off stitches in one row and and picking up an equivalent number at the same spot in the next row. You can pretty up the gaping mess by overstitching afterwords.While knitting my mom’s vest I was amazed at how sloppy they looked with the loose gauge required for the project. So I tore out the band and searched for a better buttonhole.

Maggie Righetti to the rescue. My favourite knitting resource – Knitting in Plain English, had the chapter I needed, entitled Buttonholes are Bastards. No kidding, that sweet little grey haired lady on the back of the book felt the same way about buttonholes that I did. She had six pages of options. I skipped the one that required two people and opted for Virginia Newell’s Three-Row Buttonhole. It’s the one on the left in my picture. Here are her instructions:

Row  1 – Work to the desired location. Y/O twice, then through the back loops, knit the next two stitches together.

Row 2 – Work across to the Y/O’s of the previous row. P the first Y/O and drop the next one right off the needle. Continue across row. Molly says "It looks terrible,but hang in there and have faith."

Row 3 – Work across row to buttonhole. K one stitch through the buttonhole and allow the old stitch to fall off the needle. It’s neat and tidy and required no final finishing work!

Alas, my mother’s finished vest and the buttons I chose for it:

The hard drive, which is my brain, feels full. I need to delete stuff and defrag it, or perhaps find a way to increase my virtual memory. I am losing stuff. For example, I forgot the three year anniversary of this blog. Three weeks ago I entered my fourth year in the world of knit blogging, a relatively important part of my daily life, and I forgot to take notice.

I do remember, however, how to knit and I’ve been knitting up a storm:

1. Just have the arm holes and the front bands to do on my mom’s vest.

2. Finished the back and more of the cable trim on the Seville jacket. Tahki New Tweed is my new best yarn. Oh so soft, strong, and knits to worsted weight, there is more of this in my future especially since the Canadian dollar is at PAR! How about that? Never thought it would happen in my lifetime.

3. Even poor neglected Marina got pulled out of the knitting bag last night.

The great "they." You know them, the ones with all those sayings. You know what they say…fill in the blank.

Last week I was eating my lunch on the parking lot roof of the mall in which my office is located. I look at the sky. Take note, Sandy (she’s knitting blogland’s most famous sky observer). The sky, the one in British Columbia, the province in which I live, is totally blue. Not a cloud to be seen. Anywhere. This is most unusual, if not miraculous. I call my darling husband of almost 25 years. I instruct him to look up.

"What do you see?’

"Nothing," he replies."

"That’s right, it’s totally blue. How often do you see a totally blue sky in BC?"

"You called me for that?"

All together now, THEY SAY… something like "the things that annoy you in your mature relationship are the things that attracted the two of you to begin with." Trust me. I do have a Master’s in counselling and this theory holds true. He used to love my spontaneity. We laughed about this at dinner that night, lovingly listing as many mature relationship paradoxes as we could come up with, and then some,

Another example, not quite the same, but a memory from my early career, working in a methadone clinic.  Two of the guys who were in a long term committed relationship, awaiting their Tang cocktails, one says to the other, "Girl, look at you bustin’ out of those jeans." The other replied, "You used to like my jeans tight."  Different circumstances, same thing. 

Oh, this is a knitting blog. That methadone clinic is where I knit my first sweater. I guess that doesn’t count. Although I have no business starting a new project, here is the beginning of my Seville Jacket, in Tahki New Tweed. I discovered this yarn while shopping with Sandy, and it is a pleasure to work with. The pattern requires you to knit a long cabled piece, eventually sewn onto the body of the jacket.

Get it? That’s romantic antics. I have been complicit in a romantic plot. My comrade in crime? Blogless Marsha’s husband. You see, Dave and Marsha celebrated 30 years of marriage and to make a long story short, he needed a bit of help in finding an appropriate gift. With supreme pleasure I offered my services as a jewelry shopper par excellence (OK, no comment from those of you who know my shameful story involving gypsies and cubic zirconia). Two months in the works, this was more fun for me than any person ought to have. Here are the goods and the deed:

 

 

Notice, in the absence of ribbon, the improvisational use of Tahki New Tweed. And how about Marsha’s Landscape Shawl in Koigu? Knitting and jewelry in the same post – double the pleasure.

Update on the vines from the previous post. It’s a weed, pretty but stinky. It’s even earned the status of being noxious and invasive, a dubious honour, indeed, It’s called Groundnut Vine, as identified by an expert at the University of New Hampshire. Thanks to all for your efforts in trying make a positive identification.

Back to the subject of going home, over the years I’ve had recurring dreams of the house in which I grew up. I understand in the world of dream interpreters, it’s not about the house at all. It’s really about your youthful body. In one of the dreams my house underwent a total renovation. Yes!

Here’s a question. Outside the home in which my niece and nephew are being raised, the home they will dream about in middle age as various body parts head south, grows this vine. Their mom, my sister, would appreciate an ID. A local master gardener is stymied. The vine is located in New Hampshire:

 

Contrary to infrequent reporting on this blog, I am participating in knitterly activities. Ravelry has eaten up a fair amount of discretionary time this past week. And this: my mother had good intentions of knitting herself a vest. Finding herself less able to knit, she gifted me with her yarn. I convinced her to give me her pattern as well and I’m almost done with the vest. All the knitting she has done for my family over the years, it’s the least I can do. Here is her vest, the pattern is the Jam Trim Fleece Vest from Knit One Crochet Too, using only one yarn – Artful Yarns’ Broadway.

I’ve covered the knitting part of my vacation, the sentimental journey, now for the grub. One of my favourite parts of travelling. I’ve already mentioned Hart’s Turkey Farm, and Sandy did that description more justice than I could. So, in no particular order, I present to you some other highlights, starting Larry the lobster. Warning: may be offensive to vegetarians and young ones.

1. This wasn’t a case of reclaiming childhood memories.  My sister was called the gourmet baby when she would share occasional lobster tails with my parents on fish eating Fridays, while I insisted on fish sticks. I didn’t learn to like lobster until I was 20. It’s amazing the different things you’ll try for a boyfriend.

Where do you go in the US to buy a 7.75 lb lobster? WalMart, of course. Initially dubbed Larry, elevated to Lorenzo due to his size, he graced the dinner table sans the resident children, who were disgusted we could actually cook something we had named. Chuck grew up on a farm and is less sentimental about these things and the rest of us adults succumbed to practicality.

   

There is a myth that exists that says the larger the lobster, the tougher. Wrong. All lobster has the same tenderness potential, what kills it is overcooking. This one was steamed for 70 minutes, carved up and served on a platter like a turkey. There is more meat in an eight pound lobster than in eight one pound critters, and, at WalMart at least, it’s a less expensive way to go.

2. The mother of all comfort food can be had at Ben’s Kosher delis. Raised Catholic, I consider myself honourarily Jewish. My twice-widowed, Eucharistic Minister mother’s, short but sweet second marriage was to a man who kept a Kosher kitchen. At Ben’s you walk in to the best smells from every bubbie’s kitchen all at once. We had all we could manage: cabbage rolls, Ben’s "we pickle our own" corned beef, potato pancakes with applesauce, Challah and rye bread. We passed on the cheese cakes and strudel.

3. Near Lake George we feasted on sweet ruby red tomatoes and pesto made from the giant basil leaves from my friend’s garden. I am especially appreciative,  as here in BC, we’ve hardly had a summer as evidenced by the pathetic lack of tomatoes in my garden. Tomatoes need heat and sunshine to redden. My house, located up the mountain, is cooler yet, and this year we’ve enjoyed the five cherry tomatoes that ripened against the odds. There are hundreds of green ones still shivering on the vine.

4. A memorable barbecue and wine on the deck of a comfortable low key yacht club overlooking an approaching squall on Manhasset Bay. A guest of a friend I hadn’t seen in 32 years, we reminisced about our coming of age summer of ’68 in Puerto Rico. That summer’s plot and theme rivaled movies such as Now and Then.

5. I can’t mention all the memorable meals. A blog entry should only be so long. I tasted almost all my childhood memories – Clams Casino (whole, not chopped), Nathan’s Famous hotdogs, Penn Station pizza, and East Coast Chinese food. I tried something new – swordfish tacos. It didn’t matter what it was, it tasted all the better in the company of those with whom I share good memories – old and new. There must be an old saying to that effect, but it escapes me.

6. On the topic of dining, how about this sign? We discovered it while roaming the lobby of a hotel. That’s sure to spark some discussion. If you are going to the Sagamore on Lake George, best to leave the progeny with Nanny I’d say:

Let’s say, due to unfortunate circumstances, you are uprooted from your family home late in your teens. You go to college and return to your town on breaks to stay with another family, who fortunately takes good care of you. At 20 you leave for good. You establish a career, a family of your own, but you are almost 4000 miles away from home. More than 30 years passes. With your own family raised you decide to go back and visit the place of your childhood, dragging along your husband of 25 years. That’s me and it’s exactly what I just did.

My life circumstances and decisions put me in a place where I never bumped into anyone with whom I went to high school, had no aunties or grandmas for child care emergencies, no cousins around for the kids to hang out with. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not whining. We’re quite happy, but there are things we’ve missed out on.

What is is about those growing up years that seem a far larger a proportion of your life than the actual amount of years.  Is it that time feels like it passes more quickly now? 10 years, for example is now 20% of my life and back then it was 50%? Is it because those first 20 hold so much importance in your development?   

I know I’m not alone and I’d love to hear others’ stories of going home. Here’s what I found out:

1. The distances between places is much shorter than I remembered.

2. The buildings seem smaller.

3. The trees are way taller. When approaching my home town by car, there was what I remembered as a really steep hill from which you could see a park, a pond, the road ahead, a shopping center and some stores. Now, after living in the mountains of British Columbia, the hill was pathetically small, and there was no view at all due to the trees. It was like driving in an urban forest.

4. The traffic congestion is unbearable. This is 25 miles outside of New York City. There is constant traffic. You could conceivably buy a car and never get over 30mph.

5. If I had to listen to it on a daily basis, the recorded voice on the Long Island Railroad would drive me round the bend.

6. Oh the food, the food. There is no food like the food you grew up with. There will be an entire post on food : )

7. Good friends don’t change. Only in looks, a bit, but we’re supposed to. It would be more scary if our faces and bodies didn’t show years of experience. I spent time with six people I hadn’t seen in 33 years. What a thrill.

8. Towns, like people, age. Sometimes with less character. A place I remembered as quaint is now crumbly and stinky.

9. Two weeks is not enough time to catch up on half a lifetime. There were places we couldn’t get to, like my family’s cemetery plot, the house where my grandmother lived, the beach where I hung out with my friends.

10. Time to click the ruby slippers. Although the East Coast was my first home, the West Coast is my home now. So what if the sun sets on the wrong side of the street. There’s no place like home.

Finally, some recent photos: Playing tourist near my home town, my high school and the last shot is part of our hotel complex on Long Island. Believe it or not, it was less expensive than the nearest Comfort Inn.

 

Or lack thereof. I made a fair bit of progress on Print O the Wave until…I pulled it out of my knitting bag and out came the needle without the stitches. Ughhh. Lace recovery put me back from whence I came. 900 miles of vacation driving and not a stitch to show for it.

The trip knitting content took a positive turn with the opportunity to meet the wonderful Sandy, live and in person. One of the positive side effects of blogging is getting to meet people like her. As reported on her blog, in a more timely fashion, we went to Patternworks and had lunch at New Hampshire’s Hart’s Turkey Farm, "where every day is Thanksgiving." I am thankful for getting to spend time with Sandy and hope for more in the future.

My knitting radar was in prime form when this sign suddenly appeared before me while walking down the street in Saratoga, NY. Imagine that! I can smell a yarn shop from miles away, although nobody with me would believe that it was a serendipitous event. Notice their cute window presentation.

   

And in Connecticut we saw some sheep. Although C and I have vowed not to bring more into our overstuffed house, I think these guys might have fit in just fine:

That was one whirlwind trip. Nothing relaxing about it, active and exciting all the way. I’ll start with the story of getting there. Someone, who lives in this house, who isn’t me, and shall remain nameless, booked our flights to the East Coast. Vancouver to Toronto was OK as it can be, on Air Canada. Note: don’t order the $6 Chicken Caesar Salad. I’m still not convinced it was chicken languishing on the wilted bed of romaine. This is a photo of my luggage, with a tag awarded during my last trip on BC Ferries. I am so hoping that the label referred to the suitcase and not the owner:

The second leg of the trip was on Georgian Air. Ever heard of ’em? Didn’t think so. I’m not sure the Georgian moniker came from the name  of the US state or from Soviet Georgia. The two hour trip, powered by propeller, sounded like a huge lumbering flying donkey. Hee-haw, hee-haw brayed the engines over and over again. It was an 18 passenger plane where every seat is a window seat and every seat is an aisle seat except for ours, which were in the first "row" and required accepting responsibility for opening the only door on the plane in case of emergency. The pilot wore dreads. She was barely 30, younger in years than the aircraft itself.

Let me back up. I asked my sister what I could bring from Canada that they can’t get in the US. She requested catsup potato chips. I hand carried six bags of this curiously flavoured snack on the first four and a half hour flight, three and a half hours of delayed layover, finally gently placing them into the closet in front of my first row seat on the braying Beechcraft.

I mentioned that this plane made funny noises. Besides the hee-hawing, there was an occasional BANG. This provided an excellent opportunity to practice the perfect Act of Contrition that even a bad Catholic like me resorts to in times of panic. This came in handy during the landing which felt like Dorothy’s house in the Wizard of Oz. Think in terms of the song from the movie which utilizes words such as pitch, twitch, and unhitch. Are you getting the picture?

Back on the ground, the co-pilot informs me that he thinks I’ve lost my potato chips. Opening the closet to a flurry of red chip crumbs, we found every bag except for one, had burst in the lightly pressurized cabin. Hence the midflight sounds of gunshots.

And that was only the beginning of the trip to remember. Stay tuned to the highlights that include reunions with friends and family (sometimes it’s difficult to tell the difference between the two) and meeting up with famous fellow blogster Sandy. Thanks to all for the good wishes in my pre-vacation post. I’m going to play catch up with all of you starting tomorrow.

 

Otherwise known in BC as the "dog’s breakfast" – just a mess of different things:

• Look at how many of you supported Gracee in my last post with the cuteness defense! Did I mention that she once ate Chuck’s $1200 hearing aid? The upside of that one was that it was still within two weeks of his year long replacement for any reason warranty.He was informed that he was #10 that year with a dog chewed hearing aid.
• That boy, who lives in our house, but has given his parents a break from his antics by accepting a job at a sleep-away camp as the "skateboard director" (can you imagine the ego that title reinforces?), added three stitches to his tally of over 40 this year. These were caused by introducing his chin to the cement while riding a BMX bike in the camp’s skateboard park.
• Vacation time – this blog is officially on vacation as next week I’m taking my husband of nearly 25 years on the trip he’s always promised me, to see where I grew up and meet the people who are important to me from my younger years on their turf. It’s a crazy nostalgia trip. I’m hoping it will help him to understand how I came to be me, in a culture much different from his Minnesota farm boy roots. Not better, just different. Long Island New York, Connecticut, New Hampshire, here we come!
• Guess who I get to meet while we’re there? Sandy!
• You know how much I hate the use of gratuitous exclamation points. I’ve been known to suggest, ever so kindly to people at work, to read over their piece using the word "wow" at every exclamation point. Well I really meant it – East Coast – Wow! Sandy – Wow!
• I am bridge phobic. There, I’ve admitted it in public. The tragedy in Minneapolis, in Chuck’s home state, has reinforced this. Next week will bring the George Washington Bridge, a big one, as I remember, and the Throg’s Neck, an exceedingly skinny one with lots of traffic. Just preparing myself.
• Here’s the knitting I’m toting along – good ole Print O’the Wave, almost half way done:

See you in three weeks. That’s one of the nice things about getting older, adult kids and their friends to keep the house, boy and dog in order while you’re away!