I live in a pretty typical suburban neighborhood.

We have a fenced in back yard. It’s pretty big compared to some back yards, but not for this subdivision. We don’t have much lawn — it’s generally a bit wild for suburbia.

We’ve had our share of stray cats in the back yard and we feed them. The cat food attracts other animals like squirrels, birds, possums and raccoons. They all seem to live in harmony.

Very early one morning last week, The Husband called to me from the kitchen, “Are you awake? Come here and see something in the back yard.” I stumbled down the stairs and looked out into the still gloomy darkness of 5AM. “What?” I said, “What do you see?” Then I saw some movement in the dark, something darting around. The cats were at our feet, looking out the glass door too. They saw something and started making that noise that we call, I want to Eat You. Then they got quiet and hunkered down, making themselves small, so whatever was out there couldn’t see them.

As it got lighter, we saw a family of grey foxes cavorting in the back yard. Two small ones, about the size of cats, and two adults, a male and female. They seemed so at ease with the surroundings that it was probably not their first visit. The Husband and I watched as little ones chased each other, and tumbled around on the grass. The adults watched them from the deck. At almost full light, the female and the small ones disappeared under the deck, but the male stood guard for a while longer, and then also disappeared.

He’s a handsome beastie.

We’ve seen them most mornings since then. And they disappear in the same order with the male going last. We wonder what they eat and where they go during the day. But mostly we’re amazed that these wild animals have adopted us.

More backyard fox photos here.

As a teenager, my first summer job was in the parking lot of a local amusement park. The job was outside, and I spent the long, hot days directing traffic, parking cars, and driving a tram. The uniform was dark blue shorts, a white collared shirt, and sneakers. I had really long hair then, and I’d braid it into a long, straight plait that hung down the back of my neck.

I got really good at braiding my hair, and would do it as I walked out of the dressing room toward the shift’s muster point. I’d pull my hair over one shoulder, braid it, and then secure the end with an elastic band, letting the short ends just flair out. Then I’d give it a good tug around to the back of my head to make sure it hung straight down. I was ready for the day.

I’ve been dyeing a lot of roving lately in my kitchen with Kool-Aid and food coloring. The Husband calls me a Mad Scientist when I get out the rubber gloves, and start a pot of water for steaming the roving. It’s a lot of fun. I consult a color wheel, make a loose plan and just start. Sometimes I get blue when I wanted blue, or sometimes I get green. In any case, I haven’t been unhappy with any results, yet.

The end result is a pile of dyed roving just waiting to be spun, which in itself is a good problem to have. But they look so random and messy. I found a video on youtube that demonstrated how to braid the long pieces of roving into nice, neat coils. So I tried it. After a few attempts, I got the hang of it, and this is the result.

The braids reminded me of those summer days in the parking lot, when it was so hot that the asphalt would get mushy and I could feel the heat through my sneakers. I’d lift the braid off my neck and pour water down my back to cool off, and then find a small bit of shade to stand in until my shift was over.

My favorite yoga teacher, Amy, is writing a dissertation on yoga and meditation and the mind. In class last Sunday she talked about recent research in memory and how the brain processes it. She is very excited about how this research dovetails with her own on how meditation affects the brain.

I like Amy’s approach to yoga. Her classes are calm and quiet, challenging but restful. Her voice has the perfect pitch for a yoga instructor, clear, even and just loud enough to be heard. I’m not very good at yoga, but I always feel like I accomplished something after her class.

After after class one day, she asked me if I meditated. I told her no, I fidget. I told her that knitting was my meditation, organized fidgeting. She nodded, immediately understanding. Everyone needs a method to calm the brain, to open it to new ideas, and to remember.

Almost overnight, our weather has turned chilly. We got out the duvet, and turned on the heat. This afternoon to run my errands, I pulled my Clapotis around my shoulders. It kept me warm and cozy in the still air conditioned hardware store, bookstore and Starbucks. I made this wrap a few years ago to take to Europe. The yarn is from Brooks Farm, and is a perfect blend of silk and fine wool. I wanted something that would take a beating — be light, but hold up to stuffing in carry on bags, squishing down in a suitcase, and always look good. It is all these things.

I remember ordering the yarn, waiting for it to arrive. I remember The Husband acting as a swift, as I wound it into balls by hand. I remember how I got into the rhythm of the pattern, as it became automatic. I remember knitting it with a migraine, but without error.

I remember wearing it on our trip. In Dublin, on a pub crawl that highlighted Irish writers. In Paris wandering around the pyramid at the Louvre. I remember wearing it to the local pub in Hampshire, and to dinner in London.

When I wore it today, all these memories came back to me. While waiting for the nice man to get furnace filters, I thought of sitting on a stool in a pub frequented by James Joyce. Of the view out our hotel room in Paris, of seeing old friends in London. Of that scary bit when the chunnel train goes under the channel, and it gets really dark. Of flat beer and warm cokes.

And I remembered taking this photo of Kea, just after the yarn arrived. She added her memory to the yarn too. I think I’ll wear it to yoga on Sunday.

A standard feature of most personal blogs a blogroll which is a list of the blogs that the author reads. I don’t have one. Not because I don’t read other blogs, but because I just read a few of the most popular knitting blogs.

But I have recently expanded my horizon a bit. Added to Wendy Knits and Mason-Dixon Knitting, and Crazy Aunt Purl, are a few that are not so mainstream, so here they are.

I love titles that really tell you something, like A Year of CrockPotting. The author is documenting a recipe a day for the Crockpot. I love the before and after photos, first the ingredients, and then finished dish. Yum.

One of the great things about multi-author blogs is that readers always find something interesting. I read two multi-author blogs regularly. Whip-up covers all media: paper, fiber, fabric, wood, wire, whatever. They publish links to finished goods, as well as tutorials, and patterns. A great blog with an awful name. I also read Label-Free, a multi-author blog dedicated to sewing.

A lot of knitters listen the the Lime and Violet podcast. But if doesn’t interest you, check out their Daily Chum for what they have found on the web. Take note: Daily Chum is only for the fiber-enabled.

If you don’t plan ahead, get a newspaper, or are just looking for something to do, check out Today in Austin. Like the title says, there is a list of events every day.

I also read The Husband’s blog/training log. Insert witty sentence here.

The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself.

Joan Didion, “On Keeping a Notebook,” in Slouching Towards Bethlehem, 1968.

Over the years I’ve tried to keep a journal. I shopped for the perfect blank book. Undated. Smooth paper. Perfect bound in black leather. A bookmark. Or sometimes only a ruled composition book would do. And then choosing the pen. Black ink. Medium point. It must be balanced and smooth and noise-less.

But my efforts were always short-lived. I just got bored, or I realized that my life was just too dull to record, or I lost the pen.

When I started to knit, the itch to start a journal resurfaced. I knit most every day, so I’d have something to write about. But after so many failures this time I used a mass-produced, spiral-bound, dated journal that I get every year from my book club. I used a pen I found in a drawer with a Hilton hotel logo. But something clicked, and I filled the daily entries easily. I tracked the progress of my projects, scribbled ideas for other projects, described yarn purchases, taped in yarn samples and labels. I found my compulsion.

When I started this blog, I knew that it would never replace my journal. For me the satisfaction of holding a pen and making marks on a piece of paper cannot be replaced by the keyboard. My journal is my private space. It has evolved to include more details of my life, but it is the knitting that is the inspiration. But I’m not messing with success; I still use the same journal, but I finally lost that pen.

I once lived in an apartment that had a very large, floor to ceiling built-in bookshelf. Mine was filled with books. This bookshelf was the first thing you saw when you came into the apartment, and often visitors would stand there, mouth slightly agape, looking at the books. I thought this behavior was a bit odd, until I visited some other units in that apartment complex, and realized that not everyone had enough books to fill the bookshelf.

I’ve had bookshelves in my last two kitchens. This is a good thing, since I have a lot of cookbooks. Occasionally visitors will comment on the books. Those just trying to make conversation will say something like, “Oh, that’s handy.” Others will study the titles, and ask specific questions about a particular book. Not surprisingly, these people are usually have their own collection of cookbooks. A while back, a friend asked me a question about one of my books on bread baking. I said, “It’s nicely written, a good read.” He looked at me, as this was not the answer he expected. He said, “You’re the only person I know that would describe a cookbook that way.” But before I was a cook or a knitter, I was a reader, so characterizing a cookbook as nicely written seemed within reason.

For the last few years, I’ve been building a knitting book library. It’s still small enough that it fits on one shelf in the office. Some were impulse buys. Some were “just because” purchases. Some were gifts. I can’t honestly say that I’ve made something from each of them, but I can say that I’ve read all of them. I like the narrative structure of Debbie Stoller, the practical advice of Elizabeth Zimmerman, and the scholarship of Barbara Walker. I read the marginal notes and photo captions and the dedications. Sometimes I try to imagine knitting the projects, other times I just look at the photos, and sigh.

This year I decided to buy fewer knitting books, and according to our Amazon history, I’ve only purchased two knitting books this year. One is the Yarn Harlot’s latest — it is required reading.

The other is this book, Knitalong: Celebrating the Tradition of Knitting Together. It is a beautiful book, hardcover, great photographs, and interesting patterns. Like the Yarn Harlot, who reminds us that we share the same joys and disappointments of this solitary craft, Knitalong describes how historically knitters have always knit together, in times of war and peace and hardship and prosperity. But it does more than that. The authors are clearly in awe of the creative processes of knitters. They describe how a knitter can be inspired by a simple pattern to make their own creation. They delight in how knitters share their ideas and designs, and help each other. And they are encouraged by the charitable outpourings of all knitters.

And did I mention that Knitalong is a good read?

At about 4am this morning, I rolled over in bed. This movement prompted Cody, our cat, to walk up from the foot of the bed to snuggle with me. He started to purr, and settled down with his head very close to mine.

Cody is our boy cat. He has big golden eyes, medium gray and white fur, gray pads on his feet, and the tip of his nose is gray. He likes to have the tip of his nose stroked — not the velvety part on the top, but the very gray tip.

Sometimes when he snuggles with me, he puts a big paw gently on my cheek, like he is trying to nudge me awake. Other times he curls up on my elbow, purring all the time. This morning, he put his nose on mine. In my half-wakefulness, I moved my head gently from side to side. I was having an eskimo kiss with my cat.

I smiled.

Does this photo count as knitting content?

A couple of weeks ago The Husband and I were sitting in a coffee shop in Ketchikan, Alaska. It was a busy place. A local haunt as well as a warm spot for the “cruisers.” In a previous life, it had probably been a tavern, as evidenced by the long bar that ran along the back of the rectangular room. It even had a mirrored back wall.

In front of the bar were about six tables. Tables for two were against the window, and larger ones, set for four people were in between the windows and the bar. Off to one side were a couple of computers that patrons could use for a fee. In the corner farthest from the door were a few comfortable chairs, and a coffee table.

There was no table service. You ordered and paid at the bar, waited, and then took the drinks to a table. We ordered two coffees, and took them one of the small tables in the window. We could see the waterfront, fishing boats in a small marina, and our cruise ship, that seemed taller than the town itself. When we got there, there were people at three of the larger tables, but as we sipped our coffee, they left. A few minutes later a well-coiffed lady in a bright red wool coat entered. In her gloved hands were about six plastic carrier bags from the nearby merchants that catered to the folks on the cruise ships. The bags didn’t look heavy, but there were a lot of them.

She came in with a rush of cold air, and stood almost in the middle of the place, looking around at the unoccupied tables, the bar, the other patrons. Then she dropped the bags on a table for four, and looked toward the bar. A gentlemen in a dark winter coat and trilby hat entered, and joined her. After some discussion, she sent him to the bar to order their libations.

Then she sat down at a table for two in the window. Her bags were still spread across the larger table, effectively making it unavailable for anyone else. The gentlemen returned with their drinks, joined her at window table.

I sat there wondering about a possible reason for someone to take up two tables in a busy restaurant. What thought processes lead to her believe that the behavior is okay. But then I’m often flummoxed by such things. Like the person on front of you on an escalator who steps off at the top and stops. Or the person who abandons their grocery shopping cart, complete with an occupied baby carrier, in the middle of an aisle. Or the lady I see walking in my neighborhood with her baby in a stroller, a large dog on a leash, while talking on a cell phone.

Doesn’t anyone pay attention?

Quite a long time ago, I lived across the street from a Math professor, George. One afternoon, after a couple of beers, I told him that I didn’t balance my checkbook. He looked at me very seriously and said, “I could help you with that. Bring your statements and such to my office, and we can figure it out.” I said, “Okay, but the problem is that I throw out my statements and check stubs, and I don’t write anything down.” His expression turned from helpful to mild horror. “But,” he said, “how do you live?” I replied, “From hand to mouth.”

I’ve always had a indifferent relationship with numbers. I read Dickens during the math portion of the GRE. When I took statistics I was annoyed when after all that math, the answer was between +1 and -1. George, the math professor, told me that I had Math Anxiety and the only way to overcome it was to do a math problem before starting any task — wake up: Do long division, eat breakfast: Solve for x, shower: Count backwards from 1000 by 3. I told him that he needed another beer.

For a while I tried to hide my fear, but after 50 years, I nurture that anxiety like an old football injury.

So my eyes glaze over when I hear all those numbers associated with an Ironman. The Husband recently finished one in Arizona. I don’t know what splits are, and why they matter. I can’t figure out how an 8-minute mile translates to an under 4-hour marathon. Or, why in a race that will take fourteen hours to finish, that they can’t take a 45 seconds to get off their bicycle to pee.

There was one number I got: 1390.

And this one: 11:50:53.

I’ve been thinking about the old slogan for V-8 Juice — “Climb out of your rut. Drink V-8.” The visuals were of someone walking out of a trench, while drinking a glass of juice. First you saw their head, then shoulders, then chest — like they were walking up a flight of stairs.

I’ve been in a rut lately. I just finished my second pair of BFF socks from some great yarn — Perchance to Knit Sock, that I got last summer from the Loopy Ewe. These were a lot of fun to knit, and I was surprised to see the stripes — it’s almost a spiral.

But this is my second pair of BFF socks, so knitting them was a bit like seeing the same re-run of Law and Order two days in a row

I’ve also crocheted a bunch more potholders, including this one. Kind of looks like neopolitan ice cream, doesn’t it?

As clever as this pattern is, it’s still just a lot of single crochet stitches.

I need to take some steps to get out of my rut.

And, class, what is the best cure for being in a rut (other than a glass of V-8)? Travel of course!

The husband and I leave for Arizona this week. He’s competing in an Ironman. While he’s swimming, cycling and running, I’ll be watching, cheering, and knitting. I’m taking sock yarn and needles to the race. My goal is to turn the heel before crosses the finish line. That should be a rut-free project.

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