Chicken Backs

At the age of 47, I am so very lucky to still have three of my grandparents alive and in relatively good health. (One of my grandfathers died with Alzheimer's 20 years ago.) My paternal grandmother is in a home, but she has a private room, gets around with the help of her cane or walker despite having fallen and broken her neck a few months ago. Seriously. At 88. Pretty amazing. I would say she's sticking around to spite some people, but she is the last of 14 children, so not too many people left to spite. My other grandparents are in their own home, still keep a vegetable garden, watch my cousin's 4-year-old, and, on a regular basis, crack me up.

Just this week, grandma sent a thank you letter for the hydrangea I sent for Mother's Day. Her letters are very stream-of-consciousness, with details missing that she assumes I already know or that my mom has filled me in on. Usually, neither is true, and the letters jump from non sequitur to non sequitur. This one was great:

Paragraph of cute stories of their great-granddaughter, Cora, helping in the garden. And then...
 "Aunt Betty (my great aunt) has a problem. They are telling her she needs a new toilet, but I don't believe them."

Another cute story of 4-year-old Cora telling my grandfather that he's too old to drive, even if it is for ice cream.

I have no idea how Aunt Betty's plumbing issues got in there, or why grandma fancies herself a plumbing detective, but that was all the information I was given. It made  me, my husband, and my mom, to whom I read the letter, laugh and laugh.

So, how do we get to chicken backs? Grandma was never one to waste. If we had a chicken barbecue, she would eat the backs while the rest of us got the legs. Nothing could go to waste. We once took a day trip to Great Adventure in New Jersey. After, we stopped at a diner and we bought a coconut cream pie to take home. Unfortunately, the baker forgot to add the sugar. None. This thing had no taste. Grandma could not let the food go to waste, and she ate that pie anyway. Quilts that were worn got new tops and were used as the batting for the subsequent incarnation. Usable clothing scraps were saved to be turned into patches for future quilts, or knee patches, or, rags, if that's all they were good for. Grandma never got the newest or best or first choice of anything, and I have never heard her complain much about it. So how does this apply to me? My life is very different from my grandma's. She left school in sixth grade and cleaned houses. I went to college, and even some graduate school, and I have been lucky to be able to hire people to help clean my house, on occasion. (I have deep seated psychological blocks about it--it is a huge guilt trigger for me.) Grandma has always lived within a few mile (12, maybe) radius. She was a farm wife who drove a tractor, but never a car. She has never had a dishwasher. She still has a manual wringer washtub to wash clothing. I have lived all over the place, driven in some of the most chaotic city traffic in the country, and my house had two sets of washers and dryers. And I would be a sad girl without my dishwasher.

Oh, chicken backs, yes, the chicken backs...So, now that I dye my own yarns, what do I knit with? The odd skeins, the ones with knots, the ones that aren't quite right. The ones no one else should have. I knit with the chicken back skeins. In the end, though, the things I make are just as lovely. So the color isn't what I originally planned, or I have to weave in some extra ends because of a knot or and under-plied section. Tomorrow the cutest little baby sweater is going to warm a new arrival in Estonia.

And, I am knitting myself a sweater with an entire weird batch of skeins. The color just came out all wrong--not bad, just not what it was supposed to be. I have gotten more compliments on it than almost any other colorway. Maybe I'll call it Chicken Back.

Who Am I?!

When I was in junior high, we had to take home ec. I was on a different path; I wanted bright lights and big cities, even then. I wasn't interested in those things my mom and grandmothers did: sewing, quilting, embroidery, gardening, cooking. I viewed them as weights holding me back. (Shop class, however, got my seal of approval. Go figure.) I never finished my home ec skirt, and I really didn't care.

Fast forward to college, where I was pursuing a theatre degree. We were required to put in mandatory crew hours, either in props, costumes, scene shop, etc. I tried hard enough to not annoy my costume teacher, primarily because I really respected her, but it was clear I did better in the scene shop. I learned to read scenic drawings, and I was given the role of crew chief my freshman year. I feigned toughness, and would climb huge A-frame ladders that were crowned with a vertical portion that went straight up, all the while hauling a lighting instrument with one hand. When I hit my mark, I would hook my leg around a rung, pull my wrench from my pocket, and hang the light. When I was done, I'd skitter back down and do it again.  I helped assemble rolling scaffolding that would become my workplace for weeks as I headed a paint crew. I ran band saws and table saws and miter saws, and, for the most part, I liked it.

Meanwhile, back in June Cleaverville, by necessity, my cooking skills were called upon. It was like they had always lurked under the surface. I came from a make-it-from-scratch background. TV Dinners were a rare treat. Brownies, cookies, and cakes did not come from boxes.  My talent in the kitchen is something that just emerged one day, like a hibernating bear, and I have put it to good use.

As I navigated my way through my arts career, I sought respite outside of the stresses of work. While no one in my family knitted (one grandma dabbled in crochet), knitting was always calling me. My neighbors (Pakistani girls who had been taught by an aunt who was Swiss and who married into the family) taught me a cast on and knit. I couldn't purl and I couldn't bind off. Finally, when I was in my late 20s and living in Chicago, I took a class that led me down the path to stash and fiber content and color, color, color.

I dabbled in hand stitching every now and again, but nothing serious. A few months ago, I became aware of the work of Richard Saja and his whimsical toile pieces. I was smitten. Starting with Vegas Elvis (meets Our Lady of Guadalupe) eating a big piece of bacon, I am creating my own Rock and Roll Toile of Fame. Elvis has left the embroidery hoops, and Bruce and the Big Man are on deck. David Bowie, Jack Black, and Annie Lennox await their turns in the wings.

Just recently, my focus has shifted to sewing...machine sewing. I had a Singer sewing machine (the treadle kind in a lovely wooden cabinet) that was in my bedroom during my teen years. When my parents split, mom moved some things to her parents' for safe-keeping, and unlike the hoarders found in her progeny, my grandmother strips away all but the necessary, and she gave the sewing machine to her brother, who gave it to his wife whom he later divorced, and she subsequently sold the machine out of the family. All the while, my grandmother had no idea how much I wanted the old Singer. At the time, I was living my life touring the country doing theater, so there was no place for me to keep it. After it became clear that my great-grandma's machine was never coming back, I set out looking for one that was similar, which I finally found an antique shop just a few blocks from my house. It's not the same, but it's close, and the price was reasonable. Now it's become my sewing totem.  Ever since it was delivered, I have been amassing patterns and fabric at a mad pace. I wash and iron the pieces, I sort, I cut, I sort some more. I have yet to sew (my electric Singer machine needs to move upstairs), but I have big plans.

I (heart) the Internet

So, as I wrote in my last post (way back in February!), I am subject to enthusiasms. I get on kicks. One of them for at least a year is an interest in traditional Icelandic lopapeysa. I have been pinning pictures and queueing patterns, and collecting Lopi and Lopi-esque yarns with the intention of making a stack of them. I took Ragga Eriksdottir's Craftsy class online (yea! knitting class sitting in bed in my pajamas!). I hope to vacation in Iceland with my husband, both of us sporting new sweaters. (2014, I'm looking at you.) The other night, I stumbled on a sweater I hadn't seen before and, when I added it to my Ravelry queue, I noticed that it was out-of-print in both publications in which it had appeared. So, off I set to the place of finding all things unfindable, Ebay. The Lopi gods were smiling upon me because the first, and I mean first, item that came up in my search was a book in which it was published. I could not hit the Buy It Now button fast enough. It arrived today, and although there is no publication date, the photo styling screams the 80s. This was confirmed by the only mark I have come across in the book so far, a note next to one of the patterns that says "Henry 1986." I presume Henry got one fabulous sweater more than 20 years ago. I wonder if he still has it.

This booklet is actually packed with designs I love. I could happily knit through the whole thing. Um, yeah, I'd better get on that. 2014 isn't all that far away...

Enthusiasms

Not too long ago, I developed a renewed interest in embroidery. I did some as a kid, but it never grabbed hold of me in a significant way. My mother was an avid cross-stitcher, and there were often threaded needles stuck into the arms of the couch where she had last been sitting, so you had to be wary. As of late, I have wanted to do more embroidery projects, whether it be stitching a pocket on an apron or embellishing a knit piece. I blame Natalie Chanin. Her techniques are so appealing and addictive and her aesthetic is compelling. I want everything to be reverse applique. I did some projects using her methodology a few years ago, and I think I am gearing up for some more.

As is my wont, I have been gathering my "props." I didn't really have a stash of embroidery floss, so I went about collecting some. Now I have a dilemma. I would like to keep the floss neat, clean and organized, and they are so pretty in their little skeins, see?

Winding the floss on these little plastic bobbins and putting them in this plastic box may be orderly, but it is so...plastic.

My mom has a big, wooden DMC box with little drawers, and while it works for her, I don't think it offers the visibility I would like. I want to be able to see all my colors without having to search through drawers. Winding the threads onto the bobbins is tedious, but not nearly as tedious as getting a knot when you pull out an end from skein the wrong way or, if you are being really fastidious, removing the labels, pulling out your desired length, then wiggling the labels back onto the skein. And it is a good TV watching project.  

I recently ordered (today!) some handwoven, hand dyed cotton fabric from A Verb for Keeping Warm out in Oakland, CA. I like them so very much, and I wish I could shop there in person and take classes with them on a regular basis. Alas, with 2/3 of the country between us, I have to rely on mail orders and their newsletter to get my fix. The fabrics are striped, and I am envisioning some inclusion of stitchery to make something special. I don't know what, don't know when, but when I decide, I will let you know.

The Rest of the Story

Oh, and I almost forgot. I also had eye surgery in November, which also accounts for some of my absence. It was altogether unpleasant (one of the bonus side effects: motion sickness), and unfortunately, was not quite successful. I am facing the possibility of a repeat on one eye sometime in the future, but it requires some serious consideration. I did not tolerate some of the anesthesia and/or pain meds well, which contributed to the overall misery following the surgery. And it was no fun. And it might not work-- again. And it took longer for my eyes to heal than I expected. And my eyes itched like crazy for weeks. And I hate IVs. But, I also hate the issue I would like to correct, so it's a toss-up.

So, back to swag! When I was in Tallinn, I visited two yarn shops. One was packed to the gills with imported novelty yarn. Now, I don't want to get all yarn snobby here--novelty yarn has its place if you want to make fuzzy monster feet baby booties--but I was not about to drag furry nylon home in my already bulging bags. The other shop was tucked in to a little street very near the opera house. They had a tiny loft where they kept the "local" goods: some yarn that looked a lot like Kauni (which was no where to be found on my stops) or Aade, which is very Kauni-like. (Lots of "handicraft" or gift shops had some yarn and often some felting wool. If they had yarn, it was always Aade, but they might only have a colorway or three.) This was similar and may, in fact, be Aade. (It was not labelled.)

I also picked up some naturally colored wool that the clerk told me was produced in a small mill locally. At least that's what I think she said. Her English was limited, though it far, far surpassed my measly six words of Estonian (four of which I have since forgotten.)

In an interesting coincidence, I found some naturally dyed yarn in a lovely handicraft shop (one of my favorites) that was make in Viljandi. I purchased several skeins, as well as a pair of lovely hand knit mittens (knit with the same yarn) and the book Ornamented Journey. The yarn was actually dyed by a friend of my friend, and we tried at the last minute to arrange for me to travel to Viljandi to see her operation, but it didn't work out. Next time!

I also picked up a copy of Designs and Patterns from Muhu Island. Hoo boy. It is a huge book in every way--size, weight, and content. It is so exquisite. I hemmed and hawed since it was so large, and I knew that I would be schlepping it around all day in Haapsalu, again the next day when I walked from my hotel to the train station, in Tallinn on the tram to my next hotel, and home to the US, but after I visited the table the third time (and the woman working the table gave me that nervous smile that told me I was verging on stalker weirdness), I decided to take the plunge. You should read Kate Davies's synopsis here because she captures its essence well.

So if you're keeping track, you will note that I was, by the end of my visit, quite a pack mule: all the yarn in the last two posts, the two books described (plus a copy of Ornamented Journey in Estonian, which I bought before I saw an English translation later), as well as a lovely, lovely cookbook my friends gave me, written by the owner of the cafe I dined at three times in Haapsalu. Yes, it was that good, and it was charming as all get-out, and if I could transport it--and the darling waiter who, by my third visit was giving me the same look as the book lady--here to my neighborhood, I would.) Plus there were chocolates, textiles, domino sets that featured knitting motifs, juniper utensils and cutting boards, a juniper wood mug (it was a "thing" so I got one), sleeves from a super cool store called Naiiv, some fancy schmancy stockings from designer Kristina Viirpalu, and three Haapsalu shawls. (I will try to get photos of the shawls that do them justice. Maybe this week, when it's supposed to get a little warmer again.) I was masterful in my packing, both in planning ahead to allow room and in getting it all back home without having to pay extra bag or overweight fees! A number of the items were holiday gifts, so I'd gotten a good jump on my Christmas shopping. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Gone Girl

And then, POOF!, she was gone. Wow, where did the time go? I guess other things just got in the way: dyeing, travelling, house guests, the holidays, and now it's almost Valentine's Day.

One of the big things that happened in my blogging absence was that my yarn was featured in Anne Hanson's Fall Into Full Color Club. The yarn she selected was Aries Oceanus, and the colorway was a grayish, blueish, reddish, greenish, iridescent purple called Abalone. It was a multi-step dyeing process, so there was a good deal of depth to the color. It was a lot of fun to do, but it was also quite challenging. 700 skeins is a lot of skeins when you are the only Yarn Zombie in the Craft Dungeon! It was so nice to get such great feedback from Anne's club members, and it was an amazing opportunity to get Fleur de Fiber into so many new hands.

So, I know I promised swag pictures from the trip. So, remember how I mentioned that within four hours of landing I found a city bus to my hotel, took a shower, figured out how to get to the harbor on the tram, and had Finnish wool in hand? This is what I got. There is a mitten kit and some sundry skeins from the vendor at the outdoor craft market that happens--get this--every day down by the harbor. I hear it even goes on in winter, so long as the crafters can set up. These are some hardy people, but I was happy to be there buying wool in summer, thank you very much. I am from the northeast and I live in Chicago, so I am average hardy for a resident of the Lower 48, but I prefer not to do outdoor shopping in winter if it can be avoided.

On my second day in Helsinki (my only full day, actually), I found a yarn shop down by the harbor in a little mini-mall of shops geared to tourists. I picked up these two skeins of hand dyed yarn. Helsinki is very, very expensive, and I remember thinking that these were pretty spendy, but I don't remember what I paid. It was at least 25% more than you would expect to pay in the US, but it was vacation yarn, and that doesn't count, right?

The next yarn acquisition was in Haapsalu. There was a yarn vendor at the street fair, and she had these thick, squishy, sheepy skeins of yarns for sale. The colors were heart-breakingly saturated. I have it on good authority that the Nancies (Bush and Marchand) also stashed some. In Haapsalu, I also bought some lace yarn. It doesn't photograph particularly well, and, frankly, is not all that exciting. It is yarn that is about what it becomes, not what it is. Also, the yarn used to make the shawls isn't from Estonia. I could have passed it over as there is already some stashed, but I was there, it was there, and, well... (To be continued...)

The Passage of Time



So much to look at in Tallinn. Even the architecture agrees.



I can’t believe it has been over a month since I returned. I had intended to get all my posts about the trip up quickly, but it has been hard to wrap it up. Writing the last posts means that the journey is well and truly over and I want to hold onto it as long as I can. So many expectations were exceeded and so many surprises unfolded, it was almost too fabulous to be real.



Front Side of the Haapsalu Train Station.



My last few days were spent back in Tallinn. I walked from my hotel over to the old Haapsalu train station, which no longer sees trains, but instead serves as the bus depot. (The station played a role in Dr. Zhivago, a film I shamefully have not yet seen.) Bus travel is a very organized, civilized way to move about in Estonia. The buses are clean, timely, and economical. While I was en route, my friend called to make sure I was set getting from the Tallinn bus station to my hotel. I assured him I was fine. The night before I had looked up tram routes and costs on my iPad, so I was pretty comfortable that I would be able to manage the short trip. I had read that trams cost 1 Euro if you pre-purchased a ticket from a newsstand, and 1.6 if you paid on the tram. Once you had a ticket, there was a machine in which you validate your ticket with the time the ticket was used. Good to go, right? When we arrived at the bus station, a depressing Soviet-era building, it was under renovation, so all operations (ticket booths, rest facilities, etc.) were in temporary quarters outside. Rather than try to find a newsstand in the chaos, I just decided to pay the extra money on the tram. I made my way to the correct stop with no problem, and a tram arrived fairly quickly. Then things got sticky. I muscled my large carry on up the steps, and  approached the enclosed area where the driver was located. There was a little metal drawer in which to deposit your money, which I opened, slipped in 2 Euro coin, then closed the drawer. The driver turned around and started to yell in Estonian, and none of the words she used was one of the six in my vocabulary. I said sorry, shook my head, raised my hands in the international indication of “I have no idea what’s going on here,” said sorry again, and smiled. With that, she slammed the drawer holding my coin open. I shook my head again, smiled somewhat more apologetically, and closed the drawer, hoping she’d just take the money and give me my ticket. I didn’t know if she wanted exact change, but I was happy to front the Estonian transit system a few extra cents just to get past the misunderstanding. Again, she yelled and snapped the drawer open. I looked around for someone who might understand, but no one wanted to involve themselves in my little kerfuffle. So, feeling the pressure of others waiting to just get on the dang tram, I took my coin, moved back and…I just sat down. I had the presence of mind to remove the hat I was wearing. (“She’ll never know it’s me without the hat!” I convinced myself, somewhat concerned that the ticket inspectors who do random checks were waiting for me at the next stop.) I kept my head down until my street, and I got off, never having paid. I still don’t know what the issue was, and when I saw my friends that night, they had no idea either. So, Estonia, I still owe you 1.6 Euros. Oh, and I never rode that tram again. The tram became my nemesis. I had to cross the track every day at least twice, and I was certain that the nasty woman driving the #2 was gunning for me.

The universe smiled upon me and granted me a touch of respite because my hotel upgraded me to a business class room (on the side of the hotel that doesn’t face the tram tracks!), and all was well with the world. I stayed at the Domina Il Marine, which was formerly a Soviet era factory. The building was interesting, and the pictures of the long-gone workers in the hall reminded me of the seat and sash factory my grandfather used to work in. (As I type this, I just realized that I must tell my friend what my grandfather did. My friend is VP of international manufacturing for a company that makes safety equipment (safety belts, seats, airbags, etc.) for the travel industry. I never before thought about the connection between my friend's business and my Pop Pop's trade, however separated by distance, years, technology, etc.)



The Gate I Entered Every Day

 The hotel was a five minute walk to the Paks Margareeta (Fat Margaret) gate into the old town, and for the next three days I wandered nearly every street within the walls. I spent a lot of time looking at the ground so that I didn’t fall on the uneven streets. (I did eventually fall, not on old cobblestones, but new ones. Of course. The bruise on my knee has just faded, but the scars an my knees and finger are an impressive plummy shade.)

On Monday night, I had a last dinner with my friends at a lovely restaurant in the old town. It was bittersweet, the culmination of my time with them, knowing my friendship with my old high school friend had grown to a new place, and having begun to form a new friendship with his girlfriend. Saying goodbye was a little hard, but he and I agreed that our average of seeing each other once every ten years going forward was wholly inadequate. We’re going to work on that. A few tears were shed, but they were both for the joy of a great few days together and confirmation of a teen friendship that has grown into a mature, mutually supportive relationship, and for the pangs of saying goodbye.

 

Olde Haansa

 The next days of wandering on my own were filled with taking photos of doors and windows, moments savored sipping cappuccinos in cafes, and handicraft stores scoured for souvenirs. Glasses of wine were sipped deep within the walls of the city, pastries were savored in patisseries, and elk and wild boar eaten at the Tallinn equivalent of Medieval Times, The Olde Haansa. (I bought into the idea thinking that it was a tourist trap, except that it was really, really tasty, and the honey beer was excellent.) I found a book of knitting stitch patterns in a used bookstore. It is in neither Russian nor Estonia, but Czech, I believe. I found a small, delightful yarn store that had yarns milled in the country. (Another yarn store in a nearby mall yielded lots of non-natural, foreign yarns.) I also found naturally dyed yarns in a handicraft store that became one of my favorite haunts. They had exquisite needle felted sculptures, fine mittens, and books. I think I went back three times. (I promise a post of all crafty swag will follow.)



Kristina Viirpalu Boutique



Intrigued by the knit motif on the front windows, I ended up in the Kristina Viirpalu Boutique. Viirpalu is known for incorporating tradition Haapsalu knitting techniques into contemporary clothing. She pairs the knitwear (diaphanous gowns and the like) with tailored coats and super funky accessories. I nearly had a come-apart caused by some boots that I would have had to wear as earrings to get home as there was no more room in my baggage. In the end, I opted for some super-funky printed socks that are also one of her signatures, and at 24 Euro, were much cheaper than the 750 Euro boots.



The boots (center) that were not to be mine.



Three days spent wandering about were perfect. I had my bearings, I was seeing things in minute detail, and I wasn’t rushed. I could wander and think, have coffee, think more, knit some, rest, go out and wander again. There are places I didn’t get to, and the list grows as my interest in Estonia continues to build. I am really and truly ready to go again at any time for any reason. And this time, tram lady, I am going to have more than six words at my disposal! (I'll also have correct change.)

A Story With a Lot of Holes

Haapsalu is synonymous with lace knitting, and the delicate, intricate shawls that share their name with the town were in full display on the second day of the White Lady Days Festival. There were vendors and demonstration booths highlighting not just knitting, but bobbin lace, crochet, some forms of weaving, and embroidery. The festivities began with a choreographed tribute to the shawl and to the master knitters of the town who make them. The centerpiece of the event was a knitting competition, where knitters were given a complicated pattern (with plenty of nupps, of course), needles, yarn, blocking sticks, and just two hours to see how far they could get. No, yours truly did not throw her hat into the ring. I was thrilled to see many young knitters taking the challenge and, ultimately, doing quite well.

Nancy Bush was one of the judges for the event, as were many of the master knitters. Siiri Reimann, one of the authors of the stunning Haapsalu Shawl and Haapsalu Scarf books was a significant presence, too. My favorite photographic subject was Linda Elgas, Grande Dame of Haapsalu knitting. This woman's face was amazing, and those hands...hands that have knit thousands and thousands of nupps.



Siiri Reimann (left) and Linda Elgas



It seemed like this event was largely attended by Estonians and maybe some people from Scandinavian countries, and perhaps a few other eastern European countries. Based on listening for English and then accents, I am guessing there were just a handful of Americans there, Nancy Bush, Nancy Marchant (who is an American living in the Netherlands), and I may have comprised the majority. I certainly knew Nancy Bush on sight, and I had heard of Nancy Marchant, so I just marched myself up and introduced myself. While Nancy B. had lots of official tasks, Nancy M. and I were able to sit around and observe the knitting, share yarn business insights, and become acquainted. I really enjoyed her, and hope to catch up again while she is here in Chicago for Vogue Knitting Live. While we didn't get to speak much, I have gotten a very nice email from Nancy Bush, too, and it would be lovely to spend a few moments sharing impressions of the day with her, as well.

Many of the Haapsalu Shawl Masters



Lace Samples Blocked from the Competition. Knitters were given two hours to complete their swatches.



I has several moments of "I cannot believe I am here, in this place, this place I am clearly meant to be." I felt comfortable, at peace, and connected in a way that was visceral. It is the same kind of inner peace I get at a Springsteen show (different circumstances, same internal reactions) or when I am at on of Cat Bordhi's annual retreats in Friday Harbor. I do not pretend expertise in lace knitting that extends farther than, yes, I have knit some, but my fascination with it the meanings behind the patterns, and the ways that these patterns can be extrapolated into current fashion (just wait till I get to Kristina Viirpalu in Tallinn) get me excited.


I picked up several new books, piling on the pounds knowing my carry on situation was getting trickier bu the moment. One book, dedicated to just the motifs of Muhu Island is so inspirational. I could spend years just focusing on it. (In the end, I had 20 or 30 pounds of books alone! Yipes!) I got a bit of yarn, though the yarn used to make the shawls comes from outside Estonia. I also got a few trinkets, juniper wood items, and hand dyed Estonian yarns that are more rustic.



Pottery that I would have loved to bring home, but alas, no room.

Haapsalu really did take a big chunk of my heart those two days, and I would very much like to return someday.