a simple yarn

To those in northern climates, this will seem like child’s play…and it is.

Snow.  The Kiddies are jumping out of their skin.

While we all know (more in the intellectual sense, not necessarily the experiential sense) the horror of Siberians winters, my Russian-born offspring have never seen much snow.  I mean, really, Ireland isn’t known for its wintertime sports.  So, three to four inches of pure frozen atmospheric water vapor has sent them into ecstasies and they are frolicking and romping to their kiddie-hearts’ content.

Warning:  Sentimental Flashback Approaching
Quite odd the things you remember from childhood snow days.  When school was called on account of inclement weather in the hills of West Virginia, on days when no one in their right mind would venture outdoors, my family would automatically climb into the standard-issue SUV, drive approximately 1 mile down the gravel lane, 8 miles on the tarmac road, 15 miles on the country road to the nearest family restaurant and order plenty of bacon, eggs and biscuits…the scone-y ones, not the cookie ones, just to be clear.  Actually, those were the only times that I recall ever going out for breakfast and they are some of the best memories I have.  By the way, my legs are indeed the same length despite the mountainous upbringing, thank you very much.

Anyway, since we haven’t properly celebrated a snow-day-and-school’s-cancelled occasion in their little lives, I feel something warm and yummy needs to accompany their hot chocolate and rosy cheeks.

A little bit of white powder surrounding freshly made doughnuts.  Here’s hoping this becomes imprinted as a good wintertime childhood memory!

A little like going from 60 to 0 in 3.8 seconds.

I can’t be sure, but I think it wasn’t too long ago that my little loom was just smoking.  Ah yes, I remember now…5 scarves handwoven in 7 days.  Well, before I totally dislocate my shoulder from all that back-patting, I guess I ought to show you the latest loom work.

No that’s not a houndstooth-scarf-to-be.  It’s a pile of wool and cashmere rubbish.

And those bits and pieces are no longer holding a warp.

And those heddles are sadly empty.

It took a long time to decide to abort this doomed project.  Not an easy decision, mind you.  But there were too many disasters and tourniquets and patches to reclaim or recycle it.  After the decision was made, it took about 3.8 seconds to chop it off and chuck it in the bin.

Is there any moral of the story?  Ehm…no, not really.  But I’m taking it as a sign to put away the winter wool and cashmere and I’m pulling out the cotton for spring projects!

…in miniature.

There was a point in time when I had grand visions of fashioning stair treads with my own two hands—knitting lengths of I-cord from recycled/leftover wool, felting the snakes, and then stitching them together in an oval coil.  Very cool idea, I thought, for our little cottage.

Pinch me.

Then I woke up, realizing that I would no doubt be approximately 89 years old with misshapen arthritic fingers before I ever got that project done.  What was I thinking?  For each of the 14 steps in our house (or is it 19…I’ve forgotten), I would need to knit no less than 3 miles of I-cord before felting it to a piece that was still long enough to wind around and hand sew.  Okay, maybe not three miles, but pretty near, I guess.

Before that truth dawned on me, though, I had a few lengths of I-cord sitting around the house, about as useful as an Oprah-watching-bonbon-eating-out-of-work-schlepper.  So, do you think one tread might be on the cutting edge of stairstep fashion?  Ehm…no, I didn’t think so.

But hey (as my dim bulb began to glimmer into feeble light), why not make itty bitty treads?  I think I have enough for a set of coasters.  Besides, the scarf wearing season is slipping by, so I’d better get smart about what to put up in the Etsy shop.

Warning:  Yes-There-Is-More-To-Life-Than-Etsy Diversion
I realize that recent thoughts have been weighted far too heavily in the direction of Etsy.  Apologies for that.  Sure, I wanna be more than a one-trick-pony and not subject you to a continual stream of self-promotion.  (And you can easily access the shop by clicking in the sidebar! Hahaha!)  But honestly, if we thought Dublin was expensive, well DC is even more so and it’s either make a go of the independent crafter circuit or I start slinging coffee at Starbucks or ringing up sales at Target or bumping off a rich relative.  So, for familial harmony…

Anyway,  here’s the finished project…Felted Coil Coasters.

And they were in the Etsy shop.  Honest.

But Very-Nice-Blog-Reader-Angie has purchased them and so they’re going into the US postal system today on their way to her house.

Well, I do have enough wool to make another set or two or three.  Guess I better get knitting.

In which I am not the hare.

Preface:
No, this is not Monday, although it feels like it after the holiday and inaugural hooplah, and yes, this is about knitting.  I’ll get back into the orderliness of it at some point…

It would seem an obvious certainty that I am a tortoise.  I’m not an astute businesswoman.  I’m not instinctively entrepreneurial.  So, it’s taken me a year to cop onto the opportunity that Tudora neckwarmers might sell on Etsy.  In fact, it took a slap in the proverbial face to see that there are people in the world who perhaps a) don’t knit, b) don’t know anyone who knits, and c) might therefore buy such a thing.

Duh.

So, after my struggle with some principles of the world and after a suggestion or two to ‘for-heaven’s-sake-put-some-of-your-own-on-Etsy!’, I’ve taken a break from the loom and will be loading up some Tudoras in the shop during the week.  And to be honest, I have you all to thank for it.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, there is no shame in slow and steady, I mean, it ultimately won the race, right?

Okay, I really don’t mean this to be a field trip report…honestly.

Prologue
I’m not sure exactly what one should do on a Martin Luther King Jr. holiday.  It’s the first one I’ve experienced in about seven years.  I feel sure it’s more than just a Monday bank holiday since it’s intended to commemorate an individual, but there doesn’t seem to be much ‘out of the ordinary’ going on.  Shops are open.  Traffic is heavy.  But perhaps that’s more indicative of tomorrow’s inauguration.  Hmm….  Well, with a nod to today being a holiday and tomorrow being the inauguration, our family indulged in a little spontaneous outing (which I realize has nothing to do with MLK) to the nearest presidential tourist site—Mount Vernon.  That’s what season passes are for, right?

Okay, normally I wouldn’t jostle and dodge 17,000 other people, mostly bus tours full of overly energetic teens, on a day like today.  But we were lured out of our house to join a limited time National Treasure Walking Tour.  The ‘national treasure’ being, in this case, the second installment of that Disney movie franchise, just so you know.  With membership cards in hand and tickets booked for the tour, we skipped to the front of the protracted serpentine queue.  (Would I be a bad person to say that was a very satisfying moment?)

It was worth the fiver just to go into the basement of the house, usually a restricted area.

But also, the day was bright, the sky was duly blue and the temperatures were bearable, almost pleasant.  Truth be told, there were more bits about Mount Vernon in George Washington’s day than about Nicolas Cage’s presence in northern Virginia.  Then again, how much can you say about a 9-minute segment of a 2-hour movie?  But a few interesting snippets I did not know.

Snippet No. 1
The original script called for Ben Gates to present the President with an antique bottle of wine, supposedly coming from George Washington’s own wine cellars.  Trying to be as historically accurate as possible, Mount Vernon archaeologists made the filmmakers aware that Washington wouldn’t have stored bottles in the cellar, but rather wine would repose in casks until the time it was decanted into bottles for household use.  So, a script re-write focused on a map revealing an undiscovered tunnel.

The movie wasn’t actually shot in the cellar…too small and cramped for equipment and people.  The tour guide also emphasized that the sandstone walls (which are currently crumbling) wouldn’t support the two additional stories Washington built on the house, so he put in brick pillar reinforcements.  Still, they are 18th century bricks and with all of those 17,000 energetic youths tromping above my head, I was more than ready to move along.

Authentic cellar vault inspiring the movie set

See all of the ductwork and wiring?  This is why they needed a set.

Snippet No. 2
Would it be a ‘spoiler’ to say that there is no tunnel like that at Mount Vernon?  Instead, they let the movie team stretch the truth a wee bit (gasp) because there is technically a tunnel, which runs from a point near the Potomac River into the icehouse.  So, they fudged the details to blend this existing tunnel into the icehouse as being a tunnel all the way up to the house.

Snippet No. 3
Ehm, you’re not allowed to take photos during the tour.

And yes, we did re-watch that portion of the movie when we came home…there being something irresistible in being able to say ‘Hey, we’ve been there!’

A bit of a leap, perhaps, but there ya go.

Of course you know the story…
Little blond girl tromping through the forest.  Comes to a house.  No one in.
She decides to make herself at home and avail herself of the contents therein.
(What we might call breaking and entering in today’s vernacular.)
Porridge.  Hot.  Cold.  Just right.
Chairs.  Big.  Bigger.  Just right.  But Goldi might need to forego those extra bowls of porridge because the chair breaks.
Beds.  Hard.  Soft.  Just right.
Zzzzzzz.
Bears return.  (Not sure how bears can afford real estate prices.) Eventually find Goldi asleep in bed.  She wakes.  She screams.  She runs away.  And I assume she will be in therapy for a good long while, but serves her right for B&E, eh?

And such were the visions dancing through my head as I practiced the Saturday morning cappuccino ritual.

For Papa-Who-Desperately-Needed-A-Double-Coffee-Drinker, the loan of my favourite voluminous cup.
For Mama-Moderation-In-Everything-Coffee-Drinker, a regular sized cup.
For Baby-Kate-Only-On-Weekends-Coffee-Drinker, her very own miniature sized cup, a wee spotty dotty gift from the recent Dublin trip.

And they all lived happily caffeinated ever after.

The End

Spinning of the narrative kind, since…well, ‘yarn’ is in the name of the blog.

It was a miserable day.  Heavy mist mixed with perpetual wind made a perfect recipe for staying indoors.  The Kiddies and I intended to do just that, but first we had to finish walking home from school.  As we scuttled past a forlorn looking white house, the sudden opening of the door unanimously surprised us.  Never before had we seen movement within that place.  The only telltale sign of habitation was the regular disappearance of three or four newspapers accumulating on the front walk.

In the doorway stood what could only be described as a wizened old man, hunched and shuffling.  This action seemed to be his daily ritual for collecting the valuable bits of world information lying on the walk outside of his four confining walls.  “Ack!” I said, “You ought not be out in this muck.  Here let us bring your newspapers to you!” Between the two Kiddies and myself, we made short work of rounding up the papers to give to him.  A few brief words of thanks mixed with certain appreciation in his eyes—all in all a simple and very randomized act of kindness.

Walking to school the next day, it seemed quite a natural thing to do, quickly and quietly rounding up the newspapers to deposit on the front step of this gnarled little man’s home.  How in the world did he maneuver down the steep driveway to collect The Washington Post?  And why couldn’t the carrier make better aim?  Ah sure, twenty seconds out of our morning walk and the situation was sorted.  All in all, a good lesson in community service for the children.

It had been a bit of a game after a few days, until a note was left on the porch step, written in shaky script on a plastic newspaper bag.  “To My Good Samaritan” it began, asking that we ring the bell to receive due praise.  Hmm…  We three passed it by, agreeing that we didn’t want any tribute.  We rather liked the anonymity of it all and recognition quite nullified the point.  Maybe we thought our game might now be ruined to be found out so.

Thankfully, the next day was back to normal—Kate holding the dog while I tossed papers to Alex, which he dropped by the door.  The following day, however, the jig was finally up.  A bulky package lay on the porch, obviously for us, given away by its plastic newspaper bag wrapping…a package of oatmeal cookies and bag of chocolate chips.

It would have been poor manners to not offer thanks for his gift, so Dog-Rocket and I rang the bell, the kids having been duly deposited at school.  In response to the doorbell, a roar sounding vaguely like ‘come in’ was the only indication that I should turn the knob and enter.  I confess that I was glad of the dog’s company.  The house was exactly what you would expect of an 84-year old veteran living on his own.  Pictures from the 1940s were plastered on every millimeter of wall space.  Newspapers and newspaper bags were piled in every corner.  Unopened tins of beans and soup were stacked in every available nook and cranny.  An announcer chatted relentlessly from the radio.  Here was the home of a lonely old man.  Sigh.  But he, Mr. Laynor as he is called, was cheerful and agreeable and appreciative of our little service.  Rocket, too, performed his own act of kindness with his pleasant and friendly demeanor, willing to be petted by the arthritic hand; more interested, though, in beefy smells coming from the kitchen.  A brief companionable chat and I was on my way home, taking with me a vague niggling in the back of my mind that perhaps these neighborly visits might need to happen on a more regular basis.

Oh certainly there are quicker and easier ways to meet a neighbor, but possibly not so high on the ‘interesting’ scale.  A reminder, too, of how unplanned acts of charity might hold significance for another human being.

Be forewarned, a bit of gush approaching.

More than likely, you will never know the extent of therapeutic tonic you have given by your comments.  I certainly appreciate the collective wisdom shared and the support bestowed.  The burr is duly removed from under my saddle and it’s time to move on.  Even now a new project is wanting to be put on the loom…

It’s a bit of a conundrum, really.  A quandary.  A poser.

Wouldn’t it be great if everyone played by the same rules—that there was a universal understanding of being equitable and honorable?  Oh, but wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’ve been contacted in the past few months by 3 very kind souls who have seen evidence of my one-and-only knitwear design, Tudora, posted on Etsy.  What even makes this a topic for reflection is that the premise of having a design published on Knitty.com is that those patterns are, in Knitty’s own words—

“Yes, they’re free for your personal, individual use. You may print out a copy to work with. But you may not print out multiple copies, you may not reformat the pattern for commercial use, and you may not sell them or items made FROM Knitty patterns. The copyright for each pattern and article belongs to the designer or author. Any usage beyond what’s mentioned here must be negotiated with the designer or author.”

And so briefly, an Etsy seller, Karmacrochet, is selling Tudora on her site.  After first being made aware, I contacted the seller and shared Knitty’s policies and kindly asked her to remove any Tudora-type neckwarmers.  They were removed and I thought no more about it.  A few months later, another email came, sharing the fact that Tudoras are for sale on Etsy.  Same seller.  Sigh.  A few weeks later, yet another email stating that Tudoras are on Etsy.  After contacting the seller for a second time, appealing to her sense of rightness, I was informed by her that she is no longer using my pattern, but has fashioned her own and that copyrights only apply to two dimensional drawings, not three dimensional products, or some such thing.  Hmmm…  But then again, Knitty’s policies state that ‘you may not reformat the pattern for commercial use.’ At the end of the day, though, it is up to the designer (that’s me) to ‘pursue violators to the full extent of the law.’  Sigh again.

I’m not a lawyer.  Ah sure, I don’t even have a lawyer.  I’m not a full-time designer.  My one-off design is more like a one-hit-wonder.  It takes time and energy and money to pursue these things.

Here is the original Tudora.

Here is what was being sold on Karmacrochet’s site.

Here is what she is selling as being her own pattern.

I’m not sure what, if anything, is to be done. It’s overwhelming and I’d rather spend my time and energies on more positive, creative endeavors.  But it’s the principle of the thing…or so I’m told.  What would you say?

But for now, I’ll put it away so I can spend the remainder of my Sunday in more peaceful pursuits.

Postscript:  Following some initial comments, I had already contacted Etsy and they encourage first contact with the seller in question (which I have done) and then it seems to escalate quite dramatically.  Here’s Etsy’s reply—

“This is a serious allegation.  Please note that you will be liable for damages (including costs and attorneys’ fees) if you materially misrepresent that a product or activity is infringing. In fact, in Online Policy Group v. Diebold, Inc. a company that sent an infringement notification agreed to pay over $100,000 because the materials were protected by the fair use doctrine. If you are not sure whether the material on Etsy infringes on an intellectual property right, please contact an attorney first.”

Again, attorneys…damages…liability…sigh.

…and a story as well.

I’m becoming reacquainted with some of the more obscure works amongst my books.  One practically jumped off the shelf, forgotten until now, Spinning-Wheel Stories by Louisa M. Alcott, a collection of short narratives.  Whether you’re a handspinner or not, here’s a charmingly antiquated series of excerpts, familiar to anyone who’s been lured by the magnetism of a spinning wheel.

In one corner [of the garret] was a bookcase full of musty books and papers; in another kitchen utensils and rusty weapons; the third was devoted to quilts hung on lines, and in the fourth stood a loom with a spinning-wheel beside it, both seemingly well cared for, as the dust lay lightly on them, and flax was still upon the distaff…

“I mean to take this down and ask grandma to show me how it’s done.  I’ve heard her tell about spinning and weaving when she was a girl, and I know I can learn,’ said Minnie, who had fallen in love with the little wheel, and vainly tried to twist the flax into as smooth a thread as the one hanging from the distaff, as if shadowy fingers had lately spun it.

“Queen Victoria set the fashion in England, and we might do it here.  Wouldn’t it be fun to have a wheel in the parlor at home, and really use it; not keep it tied up with blue ribbons, as the other girls do!” cried Lotty, charmed with the new idea…

Glorious fires were roaring up the wide chimneys in parlor and keeping-room, and old and young were gathering around them, while the storm beat on the window-panes, and the wintry wind howled as if angry at being shut out.

“See what we’ve stolen, grandma,” cried Min, as the procession came in, rosy, dusty, gay, and eager.

“Bless the child!  What possessed you to lug that old thing down?” asked Madam Shirley, much amused as the prize was placed before her, where she sat in her high-backed chair,—a right splendid old lady in her stately cap, black silk gown, and muslin apron, with a bunch of keys at her side, like a model housekeeper, as she was.

“You don’t mind our playing with it, do you?  And will you teach me to spin?  I think it’s such a pretty little thing, and I want to be like you in all ways, grandma dear,” answered Min, sitting on the arm of the great chair, with her fresh cheek close to the wrinkled one where winter roses still bloomed.

“You wheedling gypsy!  I’ll teach you with all my heart, for it is pretty work, and I often wonder ladies don’t keep it up.  I did till I was too busy, and now I often take a turn at it when I’m tired of knitting.  The hum is very soothing, and the thread much stronger than any we get nowadays.”

As she spoke, the old lady dusted the wheel, and gave it a skilful turn or two, till the soft whir made pleasant music in the room…

…when the little ones were in bed, the elders playing whist in the parlor, and the young folks deciding what game to begin, Minnie sat down and tried to spin, sure that the familiar sound would lure grandma to give the lesson…She was right, for the wheel had not gone around many times, when the tap of the cane was heard, and the old lady came rustling in… “No dear, that’s not the way;…Fetch me that chair, and I’ll show you how, since you are bent on learning.”

Establishing herself in the straight-backed seat, a skilful tap of the foot set the wheel in swift and easy motion, and the gray thread twisted fine and evenly from the distaff.

“Isn’t it a pretty picture?” said Min to Lotty, as they watched the old lady work.

And so, the remainder of the book is then a collection of stories told by ‘grandma’ while she sits at the much-loved spinning wheel.  It’s good to know that 125 years after this was published…some things never change.

I am 46 years old.

I have grey hair.

My stomach muscles are not tight.

I think I’m developing jowls.

There is no way on God’s green earth that I could be mistaken for a 20 year old.

And yet…

I was asked for ID at the supermarket today.

I don’t know whether to be flattered or merely annoyed at having to dig around for my driver’s license.

Hmph.

Our little house doesn’t have guest quarters, which is rather inconvenient as Longtime-Family-Friend-Dan arrives on Tuesday.

It’s not a guest room.
No, that would be too lofty a term for this place.
And it’s not exactly a conservatory.
You’d need quite a few more glass panels…and wicker furniture…and also a large stately house attached to it.
It was called the sunroom when we moved in.
But that would presuppose spindly geraniums in moldy pots and I haven’t got those.
It could be called a sleeping space.
But that seems frightfully modern for our well-worn vintage cottage.
But wait, here’s a friendly term, which seems to suit the simple addition…the sleeping porch.
Even so, I realize that it’s not exactly a porch and yet it’s not entirely a room, so I’m sticking with the romanticized idea that the term conjures!

It takes a smidgen of creativity to manage a family of four in a scant 1100 square feet of space.  Every nook and cranny needs to be used.  And so our Previously-Unused-Space-Formerly-Known-As-The-Sunroom has been commandeered to become the new sleeping porch for visitors.

Harsh white walls softened with a soothing moss green to enhance the coffee colored futon.  A rescued-from-the-skip old wardrobe door cum mirror sporting new hooks from Avoca.

A sad little chest from an old Irish schoolhouse with way too many coats of chipping paint.  Didn’t have time to properly strip and restore, so a quick distressing with sandpaper for now.

Simple burlap window panels, lined with muslin for wintertime warmth and privacy.

New sheets, pillows and a mini heater…I think we’re set.
A new usable space refit for less than $125.  I’m chuffed!

Okay, so Dan might opt for sleeping on the top bunk in Son-Alex’s room, but at least we have a Plan B.