No Knitting Really

It has become that time of year. That golden time of summer when you wake up at five am out of sheer anticipation at the day that it’s going to be. Granted, I usually just go back to bed for a few hours like any sane person would do, but I’m still up and doing things at a reasonable hour. This morning I’ve been up and running. (Well, running is a bit of a stretch, I put on spandex and sort of sprint.) Then I came home, picked the strawberries, picked the raspberries, pulled some weeds, and then staked and caged some tomatoes. (I’ve started referring to my garden as “my annual bought of insanity”). Then I took a shower, played around on the internet for a while and now here I am writing this while listening to “disco’s greatest hits”.

It might not be known to you my gentle reader, but my father has headed for the hills, the hills being in this case, Canada. On a fishing trip. I don’t get this. If I were to go to Canada I would go to Toronto, and take myself on a tour of wool shops, that sort of thing. Eat Poutine. You know, Canadian stuff. Buy things with a two dollar coin. Have a beer. What is he doing? He’s fishing. He goes all that way to put on pleather waders and stand a river.

(Non-knitters, this is sort of like a knitter joke. When you tell people that you’re going off to a wool festival, which I haven’t had the privilege of doing, they always say, “What, are you going to do, just sit around and knit?” You always have to answer ” No, we drink and spin too!” And then you have to compare it to a fishing trip, which, when you boil it down is really just holding a stick and standing in a river, that no one ridicules. That’s knitting humor for you.”

So it’s just Ma and the baby around here for a little while. I find I let my standards of housekeeping down when there isn’t much of an audience, and my audience has decreased by a third. Or maybe I’m just getting lazy. Of course, now that it’s just the two of us, we can allow something like Spanish rice, or tuna hot-dish to pass as dinner — which is nice. (My father is one of those meat eating types, who likes to sit down to a hunk of broiled flesh and if it doesn’t have that, then it’s not a meal. Never mind that the two above both have meat in them, they still aren’t a meal. Don’t ask.)

And we’re watching tons of movies too. One recently was a re-screening of “Under the Tuscan Sun”. Have you ever seen that one? I don’t know what came over me as I watched it this time, I usually get a little choked up at that part where there old man waves, but this time it was positively ridiculous. I cried for the last half hour of that movie, and tons of parts in the middle. Oh, bring on the water works. Ah, at least I’m not one of those men who are afraid to cry. Hell, I’m afraid not to.

Anyway, I’m started to do a little pre-college packing. This isn’t really so much packing, but paring down myself, and reducing my possessions to the lowest common denominator. I don’t need that, I don’t need this. You know the drill. I got rid of tons of shoes, sweat shirts, and jeans. Tons of stuff that didn’t fit me. (Either clothes from when I was fat, or “hopeful thinking”.) I work in a used clothing store so you can imagine how the clothes have piled up. I cleaned out my books and my bags, and my yarn. Yarn was the hard one. I’ve got a lot of stuff that I will, to be perfectly honest, never use. (Sounds snobbish, but I don’t really care.) I would rather rip out a wool sweater than knit with acrylic yarn, at least for the most part. And as long as I’ve got access to a five dollar bill and a thrift store, I can knit a sweater. (And my needles and Elizabeth.) So you have that. I’m starting to think about how I want to store my things, both at home and at college. What to take and what to leave? (Smaller needles and the interchangeable set can come, leave the rest, maybe a few straight needles, my EZ books and a stitch dictionary, that sounds about right. Anything else I can live without, and it’s not like I’m going to the ends of the earth, Kent is an hour away if you hit heavy traffic. Some sock yarn and a few sweater’s worth. I will be at home at least once or twice in a month. I’ll be fine.)

And now I need to go clean up a bit. The dust buffalo look like they are planning a revolt.


1 Comment

  1. Dust buffalo? Sounds terrifying. Once, when I was a kid, a dust bunny the size of an actual rabbit was swept out from underneath the refridgerator. I’ve been uneasy around large collections of dust ever since.

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