Laundry Day

First Sunny Saturday

I did a bit of work on the front bed today. The perennials have come back nicely. I know it's just hole in the concrete but I've worked very hard on this patch the past three years and I shall miss it when I move.

First Baby Sweater

It's hard to believe that I've been knitting all this time and have never produced a baby sweater until now. For unknown reasons, I've resisted baby knitting.

Well, this pattern by Barbara Breiter was an absolute delight to knit and so easy too. The top down knitting was completed in two evenings and the sewing of the arm seams and weaving in of ends were easily accomplished at Friday's Drunken Knitting. I followed the pattern with no mods other than adding buttons, and the size is fine. It should fit the nephew's newborn son (is that my great nephew?) nicely come this autumn. If I ever make another one, I'll try doing the sleeves magic loop style, as Sandi suggested. Why didn't I think of that? It would make the finishing even easier.

Like A Train

I think I would like to take a train.
The motion appeals. I start Here and I end up There. I will wear a skirt - a cotton/rayon blend, and it will be full. Full enough to tuck up my feet and cross my legs underneath so that I appear a footless thinking pyramid to anyone looking. But no one is. Out the window the gravelly roadside passes - Milkweed, Thistle, Queen Anne's Lace. Count the poles. The green will increase as the city is left further behind and the light fades and the green darkens and the trees grow and the ducks sit and the green thickens while the water ripples and the golfers golf and the train makes its glorious sound. The coffee is served in styrofoam. It is bitter and thin and delicious. There is that light above. It is spherical and moves on its axis. I rotate it with my thumb until it points directly at my long, long, paperback novel. Thick binding, well thumbed. The page edges feel like velvet as I turn and read again the tiny print while the strangers around me snore and snooze. When my own head nods, I can bend into the seat, for I am still young and small. My jacket is my pillow. The seat back holds me spooned and my toes press, just slightly, against the armrest. My hair is freshly washed. My sweater is blue. The rhythmic ka-chunk of the rails is directly in my ear and it rocks me to sleep like a trusting happy wee 'un. Here I am, perfectly small and still, yet moving. Moving steadily to somewhere...Else.

Update

So, the pieces of the purple top have been done for a while, but repeated attempts at seaming them together have failed. I have seamed before. Several times, in fact. What is with this sudden brain hemorrhage?

In frustration, I have moved on to another project. It's a baby sweater for the newborn son of my favourite nephew. I love this kid. He's kind and funny. He flirts with old ladies in restaurants. He's also been floating about aimlessly for a few years now, living with various friends and relatives and working different jobs. Now he's a new dad living with his girlfriend and her parents who do not speak English. Damn.