Lake of ghosts

I grew up about five miles from a popular local landmark called Rock Lake. It's a nine mile-long slit of a lake that was carved by retreating glaciers, and it's ringed by hundred-foot cliffs. There's only four places along the entire lakeshore where the cliffs ease enough that you can get a boat in the water.

Living so close to it, we drove by it a lot. The school bus drove past it four times daily, and the family I baby-sat for lived a couple of miles on the other side of it. Some lakes have seasons, but this one has moods.

It is so deep in parts that the bottom has never been found. The spring floods which feed it each year also bring enough silt that one can only see about a foot into the water before everything is obscured. The frigid water is about 45 degrees year-round, and the glacial gouge that forms the lake acts as a wind tunnel for its legendary sudden storms.

This lake has always reminded me of Elizabeth the First of England: strikingly beautiful, an heir to and participant in a fascinating history, majestic--and very dangerous to take lightly.
Much of the early history of the lake has been lost. The majority of what remains is known only through tall tales, folklore, and the ramblings of old men. Before the white men came, the Palouse Indians who called the land home would camp on its shores. Their legends speak of a fearful monster living within the lake depths, able to overturn entire canoes with one flick of its massive tail.
Chief Kamiakin was buried not far from here. After the white men desecrated his grave, his people reburied him in a secret place near the lake. And a century later, some say he walks the shoreline still.
The generation before my grandparents spoke of the trials of building a railroad along the cliffs above the lake. According to more than one story, feuding between Irish and Chinese railway workers led to uncounted lives being lost to the lake as an entire train sank in its waters.

My parents and grandparents spoke of the prosperity the railroad had brought to the area--and the desolation when it left. And for every happy tale of idyllic fishing trips and beautiful picnics, there was a cautionary tale of those who had misjudged their own abilities in light of the lake's treacherous power--"and were never heard from again."

But what I remember most about Rock Lake are the Easter services. Every Easter Sunday, the various churches from the outlying communities would gather at the lake at sunrise. And amid the slicing wind which always keened like the voices of the souls lost in the lake, we proclaimed the eternal truth: "Christ is risen!" And even the wind would answer back: "He is risen indeed!"

Families that lead to insanity

We visited my parents and family in Washington state last week. Now, I love my family, but the fact remains that they will drive you crazy if you spend too much time with them. And after spending the first 18 years of my life with them, is it any wonder that I'm a bit off the wall sometimes?

When I say "parents," I really mean "Mom and Aunt Tig."

Aunt Tig (on the left) is Mom's older sister, who helped raise my brother and I after Mom and Dad's divorce. Voila...parents! (Although I've gotten many uncomfortable looks from friends over the years when I introduce these two women as my parents. I guess the fabled open-mindedness of college students only goes so far.)

Nope, no pictures of EJ from this trip. Following his latest Army-sponsored surgery, my favorite Purple Heart recipient is using his convalescent leave to visit Dad's family in Wisconsin. I'm sure he's having fun with them, since they're just as crazy as Mom's family, but with more aunties and uncles and cousins to increase the noise and insanity levels.

I did get to see my little sister Christy (we adopted each other in first or second grade, a la Brian, Billy, and Brad) and her little girl Brooklynn for the first time in two years. Did you ever stop to think about just how hard it is to take a picture of two adults when the only other person in the room is a two year old?

Christy is, of course, the one on the right. She's far more photogenic than I am, but she's such a wonderful person it's impossible to hold it against her.

And I bet you don't need to be told who this is:



Doesn't Brookie look just like her mother? I swear she's Christy's little Mini-Me.

Unfortunately, even though we were going to Washington for five days, Brian still had to do his grad school work. So he spent much of the time we were there sitting on the couch typing on his assorted assignments. (And getting cornered into sharing hunting stories with my grandfather for two hours, but that is a story for another day.)

Socks that lead to insanity

I finally finished Jessica's socks.



The picture doesn't show it off particularly well, but in addition to the 5-rib cable running down both sides of the cuff, I ran a 2x2 cable down either side of the instep. When I got to the toe, I had yet another lapse of sanity, and managed to coordinate my decreases so the cable continues and becomes partof the toe shaping.

They took five weeks, which makes them the second-hardest pair of socks I've ever designed and knit. The grand prize winner in the "Nomi Went Nuts While Knitting" competition is this pair of socks:



(it does have a mate, I'm just too lazy to get up and take a picture of them together.)


They were my 2005 Christmas gift to myself (and I seem to recall someone asking if I could do cables that were two-colored...) and like many other small good things, they took nine months to complete. I started them in December 2005, and I finished them in September 2006 as I visited my brother in the hospital.

And what am I doing now? I'm working on a pair of socks in a self-striping yarn that I hand-spun from superwash roving.


They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step...

A tale of two spindles

Last week, I received a package. A very nice package, from Brian's little sister Jessica. (Here is a picture of Jessica at our wedding reception a few years back. Note the intent expressions as her then-fiancee (now husband) and Brian's brother Brad send out the traditional "she is very important to me and if you hurt her, I will beat you to a bloody pulp" manly signals. Also note Jessica's amused expression at this process.)

Jessica had told me that she has an un-wanted drop-spindle at home, and was more than willing to arange a trade with me. (I also acquired a very similar one from Becka two weeks ago, but that's a story for another day. ) So we aranged that I would knit her socks in her size and color (I'm 3/4 of the way done!) and she'd send me the spindle.

She definitely sent me the spindle, alright. And five gallon Ziplock bags filled with fiber to ease the learning how to spin process. And a book on how to spin! (The socks are by far one of the most complex designs I've ever created, but I definitely got the better end of the bargain.)

My nocturnal work schedule means that on my nights off, I wake up at about 3:30am and can't get back to sleep until around six. And while I can't get back to sleep, I'm also too sleepy to knit. But apparently my body/brain can handle spinning with a drop spindle, so I've decided to embrace this time as "my spinning time." (Because as we all know, it's much kinder to Brian for me to get up and do something and let him sleep in peace than lay there saying "I can't sleep... Can you sleep?")

Here is the spindle, loaded up with a fingering weight single spun out of acrylic. (If you ever run out of money for spinning fiber, Lion Brand's Homespun yarn is basically acrylic roving plied with two strands of sewing thread for stability. Ponder this.)
Some of you might wonder "Who sent you this particular spindle?"

And the answer is: "It's four am, you should be pleased I remember my own name at this point!" (I should probably post pictures of both spindles, as they are loaded with sport-weight gray and white yarn, but I'm really just too lazy to get the camera out right now.)

I'm delighted to have both of them, because I haven't really figured out Navajo plying and having two spindles makes making two-ply yarn much easier.

So, thank you Jessica, and thank you Becka, because you have both made my insomniac holiday season much more enjoyable!

Steal my stethescope!

As I was finally getting off work at 7:45 this morning, I thought to myself, "I'll take the stairs down to the main lobby." And as I walked down four flights of stairs, I met multiple men coming up the stairs.

I knew immediately that they were doctors from their dress shirts, harried expressions, and complete lack of manners. I realize that no one is probably at their best before 8:00am, but you should at least acknowledge that someone is holding the door open for you.

When I was a girl, the word "doctor" conjured up visions of a [handsome] man in an immaculate white coat. (There were no women doctors where I grew up.) Otoscope in hand, he boldly strode forth to save the world.

But the doctor of my dreams never carried a stethescope. Why? Because even as a girl, I intuitively knew that cardinal rule of how to recognize members of the healthcare team: "If you see a man with a stethescope around his neck, he's a nurse. If you see another man borrow that man's stethescope, the second man is a doctor."

It's become such a running gag of nursing that I heard one of the night shift nurses tell the day shift charge nurse, "If Dr. So-and-So wants to borrow anyone's stethescope, tell him he has to sing a Christmas carol first."

And the charge nurse responded. "That's not a bad idea! I met Dr. Such-and-Such in Wal-Mart yesterday--guess she didn't recognize me without stealing my stethescope!"

Circadian rhythms and family

As I type, it's about 4:30am (or as I have recently been brainwashed by the nursing profession to call it, 0430.) And I can't sleep. I'm actually more awake and alert and perky right now than I was last night at about 5pm.

I didn't have to work last night, but after working three shifts in a row the nights before that, my body is slowly getting into a "rhythm." I'm not sure what kind of rhythm it is, given my complete inability to clap on beat, but it seems that I'm slowly developing a more nocturnal sleep-wake cycle.

Brian's brothers came to visit this week.

You might have noticed that there is very, very little family resemblance between these three men. That's because they're all adopted.

Specifically, they adopted each other. Yep, Brian, Brad, and Billy have known each other since junior high, and for all intents and purposes which aren't legally binding, they are brothers. And just like when my brother EJ visits, when "the boys" come to town, many video games will be played in the name of male togetherness.

Over the years, I have become well-acquainted with this esoteric rule of masculine interactions, and accept it as a natural consequence of Thanksgiving. (Which I realize was two weeks ago, but our family has never been particularly picky about when to observe holidays. After all, holidays are about family, and if your family isn't present for the actual day, you just celebrate it some other time when they're there.)

Unfortunately, there was just one small flaw in this plan: I had to work this week. Of the three nights they were here, I worked two of them. So when I knew the dates of their visit would conflict with my work schedule, I set two important ground rules:

1) Don't wake me up.

2) Don't expect me to cook.

It turns out I was overly optimistic about rule number one. I know they tried very hard to be quiet, but it's incredibly difficult to sack Rome and be silent. (Although to be fair, I was awakened far more frequently by the apartment maintenance men, who have been laying new sidewalks at our apartment complex. Jackhammers are much louder than I would have guessed.)

But I had much better luck with rule number two. I'm still not sure what they actually ate while they were here (other than a 5 lb box of Goldfish crackers) but I didn't have to cook anything for them. (They also went through a lot of pop. And when I say a lot, what I really mean is that if you go through two 2-liter bottles and three and a half dozen cans of pop in a three day period, that's 18.96 liters of pop. And because we don't believe in diet soda in our family, 7900 calories. )

And when I woke up this morning, Brad had cleaned the kitchen. What more could a girl want when letting family members sleep on the floor and expecting them to entertain themselves?

Color-work=love?

Yesterday, I made the mistake of asking my brother EJ what he wanted for Christmas. Apparently, we haven't had enough conversations about the idea that knitting garments takes time, because his response was "Could you knit me a cardigan?"

When I pointed out that that would require more days to make than remain before Christmas, he had a second choice. "Could you make me black socks with white checks all over them?"

Again, this will not happen for EJ's Christmas. For several reasons, actually. First, there is a limited amount of time before Christmas, and as I have several gifts still to make, there's a good chance most people won't get socks. (But I got Grandma's done, and that's all that matters.) Second, I don't have enough black, or enough white yarn to do socks for my brother--or anyone else. But most importantly, I really don't like doing color-work. I've had limited success with intarsia, but attempting to do Fair Isle has resulted in my most spectacular, profanity-inducing, "let's just burn it because I hate it too much to even think about frogging it" knitting disasters of all time. (With the possible exception of when I was seven and tried to make a circular needle by gluing two chopsticks to a piece of green yarn. But we shall not speak of this.)

For Brian's Christmas sweater (which I have been working on since June) I am working a simple color panel down the center of each sleeve. Ever since I discovered that I am able to focus my short attention span on twined knitting, I can do at least some simple color work patterns. (I prefer the ones that involve stripes, because that way the twining goes into a rhythm and I don't have to count my stitches. Like the heel on this sock I designed last year:)
The twining method makes it much easier for me to do color-work (and results in much less profanity) than any other method I have tried. Unfortunately, it also makes my wrist start hurting after about twenty minutes. Brian's sweater is going to be one-of-a-kind for many reasons, but especially due to my continuing troubles with color patterns.

And for my brother? I think I'm going to knit him a little cell phone case shaped like a straight jacket. Something simple, quick, and in keeping with our family's notoriously bizarre sense of humor. And with only one color.