Once More Into The Breach

There’s really not much left to say about traveling across half the continental United States. I mean, this is the sixth trip in roughly 14 months (and four were over the exact same route—sigh).



I packed a bag with stuff that would need to go in the new car (snow scraper, winter boots, emergency travel kit made by Thing Three, sleeping bag in case I skidded off-road, as who wants to be too cold to craft while waiting for rescue; like that) and with "just in case I get to them" crochet and knit projects. (I didn't. I never do, but they're a weird sort of comfort. If the bus had been caught out on the road in a once-in-a-century blizzard, I definitely would have had plenty to do.)

I generally get in a car, but in this case, being car-less, I got on a bus, and until I got to Boston, I enjoyed lots of space, quiet, and good scenery.

From Boston to NYC to Cleveland to Chicago, I end up with lots of people and no space and the weird sort of bus-bonding that only happens with people who either got on at your stop or, at the most, one stop after you. It’s like your suddenly comrades in arms or something. (Comrades in bus just doesn’t sound right, sorry.) It’s the whole shared experience thing, and it’s probably helpful in keeping people from experiencing Post Traumatic Bus Overcrowding Syndrome. Seriously. I’m sure there’s literature on that syndrome somewhere…

My seatmate from Boston on was girl who’d gotten on at the same stop as me. She was worried about starting college and whether or not she could really do it.

She was also a kid who was known for reading every book in her school’s library in a single year. You read correctly. The. Entire. Library. (Yet she said she had not done well in high school.) We talked Shakespeare and Eliot and popular writers for more hours than our fellow travelers probably cared to hear.

Lea? You’re gonna do well, kid. Trust me. You’ve got what it takes.

Fun, fun conversations, but not much room for crocheting, let alone knitting articles of apparel in the round for snow zombies.

By the time I dumped off the bus at my more rural destination, I was pretty much dead on my feet. Sleeping on crowded buses is possible, but not productive in terms of actual rest. Friends picked me up and in-between rudely falling asleep off and on whilst they drove the last bit to my folks’ place, I did manage to knit the felted nest ornament by Marie Mayhew.



(Felting was done upon return home and now all I need to do is needle felt the eggs. I’m nervous about that, as I am not the most graceful of humans and have visions of puncturing my finger so many times with the VERY SHARP NEEDLE--the amount of cautionary notes with the needle felting kit is terrifying--that said finger just falls right off. I’ll give you update photos of the egg attempts from the emergency room, shall I?)

Then it was off to a return trip back to my place, solo, in my new baby.

I discovered several things on that trip. One, that driving a vehicle with headlights that actually illuminate the roadway makes for far less scary evening driving; two, that I now know the Iowa to Maine route so well that I barely glanced at the map; and three, that I will spend hours with the cell phone on speaker, boring various friends out of their wits while I am driving through Ohio, because for some reason Ohio always makes me want to take a nap. Ohio is a very lulling, soothing place. Maybe it's all the vowels?

I also discovered: the joy of a car that doesn’t lurch like its been hit by a train when going down the road, that those key fobs with automatic door lock/unlock thingies are very cool, that CD players that I don’t have to plug in don’t skip, and that it takes going through every toll booth but the very last one in Maine to train me to stop reaching for the handle to roll down the window when it comes time to pay. (We won’t discuss just how many toll booths that was, okay? Thanks much.) That whole push the button thing just threw me. Got me some odd looks from toll booth attendants too.

So, not much knitting accomplished and no crocheting at all :(, but I now have a car that was actually made in the early part of this decade, rather than in the last millennium. Oh, and get this. It has all its paint.

Life is good. Chaotic and convoluted and frequently edging beyond what even I find interesting, but good. :)

Mass Thing Migration

You know, I think three times back and forth over half the country would be enough in one year's worth of months, don't you?

But no, at barely the 13-month mark we are setting out again, this time so the Things can visit their dad, who has moved back down south.

I told myself that at least we got to drive through a different half of the country this time. (Yeah, I know I was reaching there. Thanks for pointing that out.)

So, Things Two through Four and I packed up

(small bag, clothes; large bag, stuff of a yarnish nature)

and swung south in our own state to pick up Thing One.

When I hit the interstate, the bread van did something interesting. It began to shake. Not the mild, I'm-an-old-car-and-don't-care-for-all-road-surfaces-anymore shake that it did from time to time, but a strange, full-car-body shake. When I hit sixty, though, it disappeared.

Not feeling there was much choice, we drove on.

We stopped in New Hampshire to pick up our other co-driver, and Thing One was so taken with the beauty of the mountains that he asked for my camera, then said he took only two shots because there were too many buildings at the Highland Center and he didn't want those in the pictures. (And this is the Thing who thinks that nature is something best viewed through a window. Go figure.)

While we waited for the co-driver to get off work, we participated in a gingerbread house building contest (nice Christmas present--thanks!)

Thing One helped in the usual teenage fashion

but the other three Things went to town.

We all agreed that our gingerbread person (who was almost as tall as her house) looked severely deranged, though. And thus it was here that Thing One added his contribution.

(Every pyscho gingerbread person needs a butter knife to guard against home invasion by hordes of hungry children, after all).

Once that was complete, we hopped in the van and did what we always do on long car trips. We talked. We didn't talk. We read. We watched movies and listened to music and books on tape/CD.

And we crafted. I didn't get any pictures because I was too busy either knitting or driving, but Thing Two sewed buttons on snowpeople and completed the woven pipe cleaner sunhats she was making them, while Thing Three knit on a snowperson beach towel (Thing Four gets car sick easily, so exempted himself from this activity).

I knit on the red hat hat and its accessories. (Sherry was nice enough to model it for me when I returned. See?)

About the only time I put down my needles (apart from some reading and lots of driving) and did nothing was when we were in the eastern part of Virginia. There was something about the feel of the landscape, even from a van window, that just stilled me. It's the sort of place where you would go to sit beside the tomb or burial mound of your ancestors, silent, and then from which would depart as noiselessly as you came.

I want to go back there someday. I want to soak in the history of the whites and of the people who came to be there because of them and of the people who were there before them. I want to find out the name of the plant that was in all the roadsides, and someday try to capture its winter color of beige with tones of pink and orange in a dye pot (I still regret that I was "sensible" not to mention schedule fretting, and did not get a picture on the way out, as it was dark on the way back). And I want to go with someone who will walk silently with me.

Obviously, this was not the trip for any of the above, but I loved even the feeling I received from just passing through.

We did not stay long in eastern Virginia. Instead, we drove westward through some states that were longer on their east-west axises than they were tall running north-south, met the Things dad one state away from where he currently resides, and turned right around and headed back to the lovely snows of the north.

The drive back was pretty much identical to the drive down, with the exception of fewer people in the vehicle and a lot less gear (which meant that I no longer felt like a sardine with claustrophobia issues).

(And with the exception of this hotel hallway, the like of which we most definitely did not encounter on the way out. Not something you really want to step foot in at 2 a.m. I mean seriously, who the h--- did the decorating??)

There was also more shake. Definitely more.

We tried to alleviate the bad mojo of this by stopping in Chilhowie, VA at a Tastee Freeze. I had never seen a Tastee Freeze outside of Blairstown, Iowa. (And it had been a very big deal when my Great-Aunt Helen would take my cousin and me down to Main Street so we could be handed the cone of our choice through the tiny building's service window.)

This Tastee Freeze was LOTS bigger. So we went in rather than going through the drive through--anything to leave the shake for a bit--and, while being served by employees whose vowels rolled and bounced in enthusiastic waves, I discovered that in all those years, the Tastee Freeze's menu hadn't much changed. Fried food and soft-serve ice cream.

Hmm. I think that wasn't the right mojo. Because the shake got worse. Lots worse. As in the -cup-holder-routinely-popped-out-of-its-slot worse.

By the time we got back to New Hampshire, I could only go either 30 or 85 without the vehicle shaking so much that it felt as if I was receiving a rather violent full body massage (though on the up side, this did keep my shoulder from locking up).

I didn't find this reassuring, and when I rather hesitantly mentioned the lack of fun involved in driving a different route home in the dark with bad headlights (don't ask) in a car that was intent on shaking my fillings loose, my co-driver sighed and admitted that he didn't like the thought either and would follow me home.

That meant it was once more to the couch, dear friend, for you. And then stuck 1) eating eggs that were spiced in a way you didn't care for and 2) with a six-hour drive back home the next day rather than a three due to the forecasted storm hitting a day late--definitely no fun.

Sorry, dude. Two cool Chanukah gifts headed your way, okay? (Late--I mean, I'm not even making my own holiday's deadline--but headed.)

Think I'm Going to...Cleveland?

Yes, it's the (seriously belated) post about the trip home. Life tends to get like that for me. Things fog over. Especially when I discovered I have moved to the land of the cottonwoods trees. Huge amounts of white fluff in the air.

This wouldn't normally bother me, but I've realized, mostly due to being so stopped up on one side of my head that I can't hear well, that I'm allergic to cottonwoods.

Allergies, like job hunting, rather suck. Both can create hazy fogs. And while I'm trying just to ignore the allergies, I can at least poke fun at adventures while job hunting. (Especially today; won't say why, just trust me on that one, okay? Thanks, dears.)

So a few posts ago, you left me packing for my trip out east. The trip there was uneventful, thank goodness. The trip back was something else.

After leaving Boston (where, yeah, the song Boston by Augustana got stuck in my head) we were behind schedule all the way through New York and beyond. The bus drivers, bless them, drove like bats out of hell and we made our connection in Cleveland with a bare twenty minutes to spare.

"Well," said the young geologist (bound for Boulder, Colorado) whom I queued up behind in an already longish line, "at least we won't have much of a layover!"

I mentioned he was young, right? Well, add naive to that as well. We'll overlook the fact that I agreed with full conviction, shall we? After all, at 3:20 a.m. one must have hope, mustn't one?

After waiting an hour and a half, our bus arrived. They hustled everyone off for cleaning and refueling, which meant that there was a line of reboarders (such a practical name) who got to get back on the bus first.

About a half of a bus worth of reboarders to be exact. The geologist and I glanced ahead of us. Roughly a half a bus worth of new boarders stood in front of us. We glanced at each other. We are both people with advanced degrees in our professions, the glance said. We could handle the math. 1/2 reboarders + 1/2 new boarders =...

"Oh dear," said the expression on the young geologist's face (he looked too polite to swear).

"Oh bloody hell and somebody slap the Gods of Bus Scheduling because no Goddess would be this damn incompetent," mine said in return. He inched away from me and continued conversation from a safe distance.

Finally, the reboarders reboarded. The new boarders' line inched forward. Knowing that we had both already missed our connecting buses, we speculated. Would it be worse to be crammed like a sardine in a bus clear to Chicago, or to be stuck in a bus station and have the chance at a less full bus next go round?

He found out what sardine land was like.

I found out about the wait. This, of course, means I never got to ask him which was better.

Stanley and Stanley tried to console me with the fact that as we were now definitely, without a doubt, first in line due to them cutting off passengers right when they got to me, there was no way we wouldn't make the next bus. I scowled. In desperation, they pointed out that Cleveland is the only major metro area through which I actually enjoy driving in rush hour traffic.

(This is due to the insanely polite Cleveland drivers. Just for fun, I do things like signal when I'm about to lane change. The kids and I, while trekking across the country, have made a game, you see, of trying to figure out which city's drivers will cut us off the fastest when we warn said drivers of our intentions. (Extra aside: Boston has a lot of NASCAR wannabes. Just sayin'.) In Cleveland, if you signal, they let you in. And it wasn't one freakishly aberrant driver who did so. It was all of them. I know. I changed lanes a lot in order to get verifiable evidence.)

I pointed out to the Stanleys that the floor of the Cleveland bus station was something less than immaculate. (If I were in Boston or Chicago, or even some of other stops, I'd have taken the floor. Cleveland? Er, no. In its defense, I must say that 3 something in the morning is hardly the best time for people, let alone floors.)

I further pointed out that they were currently hogging the best seat on top of my practical, tiny luggage and that I had made the catastrophic mistake of changing in a toilet cubicle just moments earlier and that just proved that I was in bus station hell, do not pass limbo, do not collect your connecting bus.

The Stanleys ignored my rant and inquired into why changing was a mistake. I certainly looked fresher, they pointed out (none too diplomatically).

"Because the probability of dropping an article of clothing you rather liked into a toilet bowl due to lack of toilet seat covers means that, while said water was nonetheless clean, you will be forced to stuff the beloved article of clothing into the feminine hygiene trash receptacle by its one centimeter of dry fabric since there's no way on God's green earth you'd want to take it home with you again," I snapped.

The Stanleys promptly feigned sleep. Even flat paper men behave like the real things.

There were a few bright spots in the wait, don't get me wrong. I came up with new lyrics to the tune of Boston, which, while amusing enough (Think I'm stuck in Cleveland/I'm tired of the toilets) are essentially not for younger viewers.

There was a crocheter spotted in the wild. I was too shy to get her picture, let alone talk to her, but she was lightning quick and was creating a beautiful, delicate lacy looking piece of work. I was helping Stanley with his scarf at that time (I promised I'd hook a bit of it for him) and felt large and very not delicate with his bright yarn and jaunty colored but clear plastic hook.

There was also James, the wonderful cook at the station (not that the food was great, but dude could only work with the ingredients given him--like icky fake cheese and miniscule biscuits--and bus lines obviously don't believe in buying four star quality ingredients, you know?). James was wonderful because he fed a hungry waif of a traveler a full hour before he was supposed to be open. Seriously kind man.

The Stanleys, who immediately woke up when they smelled food (did I mention the similarities between paper and real men? Just checkin'.) thought him very kind, and, after finishing my meal for me, begged to be introduced to James so they request one of their Stanley photos.

James willingly agreed to be photographed, but Katrina the cashier fell on us like a category 5 storm and said there was a policy that no photos could be taken in the station due to the threat of terrorists. James and I stared at the Stanleys; he incredulously, I with horror, wondering what vipers I had harbored in my breast when they were purporting to be an innocent schoolchild project. The Stanleys loudly protested their innocence and begged me to not take the photo, lest their camera be confiscated and they be hauled off for questioning. It's hard to hide an escape envelope on your person when you're not a person, after all.

We were sneaky, though. We didn't tell Katrina the cashier that we had already taken these:

of the two Stanleys reveling in their first in line-ness and luckily, we escaped to Chicago before the authorities got wind of our nefarious activities.

And Chicago was where I got into a line that had, at the head of it, some of the people I'd seen ahead of me in the line in Cleveland.

I'm not the type to crow meanly over the fact that they had had to wait as well. I did begrudge them the cleaner floor, though.

But there was one incident that made the whole wait worthwhile. There was an Amish family at the station, waiting to go somewhere. The son, a boy of about 7 with blond hair peeking out from under his black-banded straw hat and mischievous eyes of a deep, bright blue which exactly matched his shirt, had fallen head over heels for a little Hispanic girl of about the same age one bench over. She had ponytails which ran the length of her back and a demure smile. He found her dazzlingly beautiful and spent his time alternating between worshipping stares, shy grins coupled with quick looks away when at last he caught her eye, and feigned cool guy indifference.

The Stanleys were confused by my giggles. They thought the boy's tactics were top notch. (I'm almost certain I've already pointed out the essential sameness of men everywhere, at every age, and in every medium, have I not? Thought so. )

She, I am pleased to say, comported herself in a manner becoming to an adored object and was in general a credit to her sex.

And I got on a bus smiling. Young love does that to me every time.

Last post of May (Technically)

This has become the blog that should have been. It was all thought up and ready to go (well, except for minor details like, say, typing it) when some terrific storm cells marched through the area. Between the hail, intermittent lightning and tornado sirens, somehow posting seemed neither the safest nor the most logical of choices at the time.

So, do me a favor, okay? Pretend it's Saturday while you're reading this. I'll even adjust the date, if that will help.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

I. Am. Tired.

You'll get more on the trip over the next few days. Suffice to say, I made it to my friend's place, made it to the interview and said things of an interviewish nature, then returned to the friend's place, where I was treated to Chinese at a local restaurant (excellent), Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull (okay) and mad packing for an equally mad return trip (much more eventful than the trip out). There are stories to tell. But not now.

Now I just want to sleep. I was pleased with the pack for the trip situation, though. Here's how the ginormous amount of "keep busy" stuff was used:

Books--Three read and the fourth well into. Only two extraneous. Pretty good for roughly three days on the road, all told.

Magazines--Both read cover to cover. Interesting, though I could have read more lace history in Piecework and not been bored.

CDs and movies--Bit of a bummer. The mini-DVD player only held a charge for about two hours, max. Never have I mourned my iPodless state more.

Extra yarn for corrupting kiddies--No kiddies above 2 years in my immediate vicinity, darn it. So I corrupted the only other people available.

Stanley decided to crochet a scarf like Stanley's, while Stanley-with-the-scarf-already-done thought a blanket might be nice, as he will be visiting the United Arab Emeritus, France and possibly Ireland this summer. Stanley-with-the-scarf fell victim to the purl-without-paying-attention syndrome and decided to keep it in as part of the design pattern. While I'm not sure about it myself, I felt letting him have his creative freedom was more important than my measly opinion, especially as he did a crochet edge for the whole thing as well. Thing 3 approved (as did Thing 4 with Stanley's scarf).

And hey, the dudes finished their first solo projects. Way to go, S & S! (Yes, there are no limits to the odd ways in which I will attempt to amuse myself while on a long trip.)

The sock monkey butt socks were finished. (It's Sockina Cotton #03/Garden, btw.)

And I do mean were. While taking the picture you are currently viewing, I realized that with the Kitchener stitch, I had (uh-duh; I did mention I'm a newb, right?) created an extra row of pinkish-tan, making the band before the toe slightly bigger on one sock.

I'd like to say that anal-retentive me did not grumble and fret that everyone who looked at my feet any time I wore them would notice and mock me for my only slightly-off-match-up on the socks. I'd really like to say that I did not frog back, with lots of muttering and cursing of my own self for weaving in ends far more thoroughly than I'd ever thought myself capable of and that I am not now sitting with a toe-less sock waiting patiently for me to get back to it and its short rows with its purl and knit encroachments (we loves the encroachments, we do; total fun).

I'd like to say that. So, er, let's just pretend that I did, shall we? Thanks ever so much.

I did the provisional cast on for the Leyburn,

but quickly realized that I did not have a small enough crochet hook with me and the toe was coming out with stitches that were a bit more open than I would want in a sock when I stretched it.

I also realized that I'd made a fatal error in checking out the different Leyburns being done by Raverly people, and that I actually, truly and really wanted to do the Ley's in variegated yarn. Socks that Rock (Cracked Canyon in process with Zeitgeist Yarns--Ravelry link--and another colorway which had some bright white in it--bwa ha, just double checked--Knitters Without Borders knitted up by the YH) were what really caught my eye.

So...I'm definitely still doing the Leyburns, but I've decided to check out Socks that Rock and go with a colorway that looks Leyburny/Me-ish to me. Especially as a quick peek confirmed that Cracked Canyon isn't available. Maybe it was her stash, or maybe part of the current Socks that Rock Club. (We wants to do the STRC someday, we do, we do.) Meanwhile, I found more possibilities than I needed to by running over to the Blue Moon Fiber Arts site. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing...

With my pretty purple yarn, I'll be doing this the Shetland Lace Rib Sock (free pattern by Marguerite Byrne). I'm looking forward to experimenting with lace and learning a new heel. I think the color and the lace patterning will complement each other extremely well.

Until next time, when you'll either hear about trip news (delays, exciting Stanley and Stanley moments and young love) or a bunny butt (yep, a bunny butt).

All Packed Up & Someplace to Go

The blog and I will be away for a bit. We're road-tripping to a state far, far away for a job interview.

Whilst packing for this, I decided, virtuously, to use this bag as my carry on:

My ex-boyfriend gave me this bag, and when he sent it, he didn't say, "Here's a small hiking backpack." He said, "I found you a good knitting bag for when you go kayaking." Dude understood.

Anyway, I was sure that this smaller bag would force me to pack less, as I tend to over-pack just a tad.

Turns out I was wrong. Instead, I became the uber-packer. I managed to add most of the following:

Lots of books because 1) who knows what I will be in the mood to read and 2) I read rather abnormally fast. I finally caved and chose a few for the suitcase; I'll switch them out on the way home.

Some magazines (Hey, only two, okay? And they're both, er, educational...)

Lots of movies, books on tape and CDs (thank goodness for those DVD cases that hold three movies each!) because (again) who knows which movie I will feel like watching, and if I'm knitting, I'll have to have something to listen to, right? And yes, I know having an iPod would make my life easier. Let's not add to my iPod envy, okay?

Two sets of socks, one set almost finished, one set not yet begun.

And, um, one mystery knit project; just in case, you know? I doubt I'll need but, but...well, what if I do?? But I was good; I packed that one in the suitcase! The French version of Fred Vargas went to the case as well. I'm too keyed up to attempt to decipher French. That'll be a ride home challenge instead.

Two Stanleys of a flatish nature (Thing 3's and Thing 4's contribution to the chaos).

And most importantly:

Items to corrupt the uninitiated short people of the world. Plus patterns. I have no shame.

(In my defense, I could argue that this could actually be more for self-protection, you know. I've taken my knitting and crocheting to every class at which I've substituted and if they are kids between the ages of two and eight, they want to do it as well. Note to all: it has always, without exception, been the boys who were first to ask to be taught and who knitted or crocheted the most on whatever project I had in my hands. We have to talk to whoever is in charge of stereotypes.)

So, the blog and I will try to update you mid-trip if we can. Otherwise, see you next week!