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What is your heart made of?
Sep. 19th, 2017 06:28 pmFor the last month or more, the only thing I've wanted to do in my free time is knit. I finished my first experimental pair of socks on the way back from Madison. When Steve and I were at Distant Worlds at the Chicago Symphony Center, I was the crazy lady with the yarn. When we were walking to our seats, I was knitting on my socks, and when we sat down I realized I wouldn't be able to work the decreases in the dark, and that meant I needed to start Sean's scarf.
The problem with the yarn for Sean's scarf is that it is not wound into balls yet. This meant that I would need to wind it myself, which often has disastrous results. I did not want to have an inner meltdown due to tangled yarn during my fun concert. So I tried to elect Steve's help:
The look of exasperation on his face as he struggled to get the yarn around his big feet, coupled with the fact that we were in the front row of these balcony seats and people were DEFINITELY staring, had me in uncontrollable giggles. Unfortunately, this method did not work as the yarn refused to pull or rotate the way I wanted. Steve got his repreive from being used as furniture, but he DID have to sit next to me with the yarn hanging around my neck and me rotating it around and around while I wound it into a ball. This unconventional method worked far better than I think it should have, and before long I had a cute little ball of this soft gorgeous yarn.
A simple pattern, yes. I loved the sample wrap at the yarn shop, but can't tell if I hate the plain garter with yarnover decorations...
A woman at my yarn shop talked about how she ALWAYS winds her yarn by hand, so she can get the "feel" of it. That without winding using your hands, you can't get to know the yarn - you can't develop an understanding of its tension, its personality, if it's splitty or smooth, if it's uneven, or if it's content. After winding my own ball without major issues (a first - normally I'm too busy detangling to notice anything but how difficult it's being), I totally understand the desire to experience the yarn in that way... But I still prefer the convenience of a machine winder.
As for the socks, I returned to them the following day after lunch.
In classic Leah fashion, my body is built all wonky, including my calves and feet. I have huge calves, regular human-sized ankles, and smallish feet (I wear a US 6.5 usually). Because of this, when knitting top-down, I have to cast on an abnormally high number of stitches for your average woman, decrease around the ankle so it's not baggy, and decrease even more for my feet themselves so there's not extra material on the bottom of the foot.
I knit the two socks very differently, as I learned things from the first sock and applied them to the second sock. I didn't account for the fact that with less stitches and more stretch, I would need to make the foot longer, technically speaking, on the second sock than the first. Unfortunately, I learned this AFTER I bound off and sewed in all the ends. I was shocked to discover I was a full inch and a quarter short when I tried to slip the sock on my foot.
Also in classic Leah fashion, I had a moment of panic where I thought,
"OH WELL! Guess I'm just NOT having two socks. They're my first pair anyway, who cares?! I don't need to wear them! WHATEVER!!!"
And then in defiance I worked some on Sean's scarf with the beautiful handpainted Mountain Colors Twizzlefoot yarn, a mix of wools, silk and a bit of nylon, which calmed me down enough to realize I was being overdramatic, and even though my toe decreases and end-weaving were perfection, it wouldn't take too long to undo, add rows, and redo again.
In the last leg of the four-hour drive back from Madison I sucked it up and returned to the sock, carefully finding my woven-in yarn, making one gentle cut, and I undid the toe. I inserted my three needles to the row before the decreases, and then I frogged out all the yarn until that point. It was as painless as I knew it would be, and my finishing toe ended just as well as the first. I was able to weave in all the ends and have two functional, finished woolly socks for the first time in my knitting career. Yes, it is long overdue.
You can see the difference between the two socks - the left far looser than the right due to the number of stitches. I decreased much more gently on that sock, whereas on the second sock I decreased aggressively, but not soon enough. I might actually have made the ribbing too loose! I also recently saw patterns where you change needles for the foot, using one size smaller instead of decreasing as much as I did. I'll have to keep trying.
I already can't imagine NOT making millions of socks. My next pair of will be knit toe-up, as increasing seems to be more logical in this type of situation. So will begin my NEW learning and experimentation with socks in the reverse.
A friend on another blog posed the question in my subject line. She described her heart in the way I would think many in the world do: transparent with cracks. She described her love interest as opaque, like polished obsidian. I think my heart is like a ball of yarn. It's made of fibers woven together, criss-crossed experiences and memories folded and wrapped and twisted, with bits that are thicker, bits that are thinner, with frays here and there from getting caught on the various things that may pull it out of place. It's beautiful, and dense, and malleable. It's tough, but has a lot of give.
What's your heart made of?
The problem with the yarn for Sean's scarf is that it is not wound into balls yet. This meant that I would need to wind it myself, which often has disastrous results. I did not want to have an inner meltdown due to tangled yarn during my fun concert. So I tried to elect Steve's help:
The look of exasperation on his face as he struggled to get the yarn around his big feet, coupled with the fact that we were in the front row of these balcony seats and people were DEFINITELY staring, had me in uncontrollable giggles. Unfortunately, this method did not work as the yarn refused to pull or rotate the way I wanted. Steve got his repreive from being used as furniture, but he DID have to sit next to me with the yarn hanging around my neck and me rotating it around and around while I wound it into a ball. This unconventional method worked far better than I think it should have, and before long I had a cute little ball of this soft gorgeous yarn.
A simple pattern, yes. I loved the sample wrap at the yarn shop, but can't tell if I hate the plain garter with yarnover decorations...
A woman at my yarn shop talked about how she ALWAYS winds her yarn by hand, so she can get the "feel" of it. That without winding using your hands, you can't get to know the yarn - you can't develop an understanding of its tension, its personality, if it's splitty or smooth, if it's uneven, or if it's content. After winding my own ball without major issues (a first - normally I'm too busy detangling to notice anything but how difficult it's being), I totally understand the desire to experience the yarn in that way... But I still prefer the convenience of a machine winder.
As for the socks, I returned to them the following day after lunch.
In classic Leah fashion, my body is built all wonky, including my calves and feet. I have huge calves, regular human-sized ankles, and smallish feet (I wear a US 6.5 usually). Because of this, when knitting top-down, I have to cast on an abnormally high number of stitches for your average woman, decrease around the ankle so it's not baggy, and decrease even more for my feet themselves so there's not extra material on the bottom of the foot.
I knit the two socks very differently, as I learned things from the first sock and applied them to the second sock. I didn't account for the fact that with less stitches and more stretch, I would need to make the foot longer, technically speaking, on the second sock than the first. Unfortunately, I learned this AFTER I bound off and sewed in all the ends. I was shocked to discover I was a full inch and a quarter short when I tried to slip the sock on my foot.
Also in classic Leah fashion, I had a moment of panic where I thought,
"OH WELL! Guess I'm just NOT having two socks. They're my first pair anyway, who cares?! I don't need to wear them! WHATEVER!!!"
And then in defiance I worked some on Sean's scarf with the beautiful handpainted Mountain Colors Twizzlefoot yarn, a mix of wools, silk and a bit of nylon, which calmed me down enough to realize I was being overdramatic, and even though my toe decreases and end-weaving were perfection, it wouldn't take too long to undo, add rows, and redo again.
In the last leg of the four-hour drive back from Madison I sucked it up and returned to the sock, carefully finding my woven-in yarn, making one gentle cut, and I undid the toe. I inserted my three needles to the row before the decreases, and then I frogged out all the yarn until that point. It was as painless as I knew it would be, and my finishing toe ended just as well as the first. I was able to weave in all the ends and have two functional, finished woolly socks for the first time in my knitting career. Yes, it is long overdue.
You can see the difference between the two socks - the left far looser than the right due to the number of stitches. I decreased much more gently on that sock, whereas on the second sock I decreased aggressively, but not soon enough. I might actually have made the ribbing too loose! I also recently saw patterns where you change needles for the foot, using one size smaller instead of decreasing as much as I did. I'll have to keep trying.
I already can't imagine NOT making millions of socks. My next pair of will be knit toe-up, as increasing seems to be more logical in this type of situation. So will begin my NEW learning and experimentation with socks in the reverse.
A friend on another blog posed the question in my subject line. She described her heart in the way I would think many in the world do: transparent with cracks. She described her love interest as opaque, like polished obsidian. I think my heart is like a ball of yarn. It's made of fibers woven together, criss-crossed experiences and memories folded and wrapped and twisted, with bits that are thicker, bits that are thinner, with frays here and there from getting caught on the various things that may pull it out of place. It's beautiful, and dense, and malleable. It's tough, but has a lot of give.
What's your heart made of?
