Leelanau

Home on Sunday - business as usual on Monday

I hear the lake calling...

Singing for my Father

"To a father growing old nothing is dearer than a daughter."

-Euripides

Today is Father's Day and I am recycling a post that speaks to my love of family and the sanctity of memories. My love of Leland is undeniably tied up in my love for my family -my brothers and sisters, my step mother, my grandparents, my children, and all who have summered at the lake.

But more than anything, it is my love for my father that draws me northward. He loves Leland with the same fierce passion I do and he is so much a part of it and me that I do not know how I will bear his absence when that sad day comes.

When I was young, my family sang everywhere, my Dad's booming bass carrying us all with him as we musically explored blue moons and harvest moons, sang the praises of sweet Adeline and Amazing Grace, and kept an eagle eye out for what was comin' round the mountain.

We sang in the car on the way home. We sang at picnics and cookouts. And, most poignantly, we sang (and continue to sing) together at the Sunday night community sings in Leland Michigan. I so look forward to attending those every Sunday night I am home in Michigan. It is something my Dad and I share in a very special way and I treasure every minute I can twine my alto around the bass line of his harmonies.

A few years back I wrote an essay about the Sing. I would like to repeat it here today in tribute to fathers everywhere who daily pass on their wisdom and love to countless generations, but most especially in honor of my Dad, who had so much to do with who I have grown to be. I love you Dad! This one's for you.

PROFOUND PRAYER

This is a love letter. It is sentimental; it is passionate; it is true. It admits no flaws (or overlooks them), it is infatuated with the beloved in all its beauty and grace, and seeks only to sit a while, reveal its wonders, and revel in its presence.

There is a place I know where time stands still, where the north wind breathes softly across the lake, and the summer never ends. It is a magical place, an enchanted peninsula, a small spit of land surrounded by water and riddled with freshwater lakes so pure and innocent that you can see clear to the bottom of their soul.

Lake Michigan whispers in the foggy dawn and sparkles in the sun at midday, when the children run shrieking with the shock of cold water on their legs. The span of beach goes on for miles, broken only by chalky bluffs and towering dunes. The white sand sifts between your toes and cradles your arches – warm and soft as the inside of a cat’s ear, as the downy head of a newborn babe, as a kind word on an angry day.

It is a place of gently rolling hills, stretching their way to the horizon or the lake - whichever comes first. It is a land of cherry orchards, ablaze with budding May promise, heavy in summer with the fruitfulness born of hard labor. Some years the land is harsh and farmers’ children go hungry to bed, praying to God for the cool days and abundant rain that make Daddy smile. But always the land is there; the land is eternal; the land is everything.

This is a place where God is found in every crooked twig and every rocky shore, every call of the great horned owl and every pulse of the land. This is a place where deer graze, and stars blaze, and children still run to catch fireflies in mayonnaise jars while their elders sit on the porch sipping something tall and cool, catching up on all the family gossip.

It is a place where parents sing their children to sleep beneath sighing pines, with the same songs their grandparents sang to them so many lifetimes ago. It is place that many visit, but few call home. It is a place where the greatest treasures to be found are not gold or silver, nor even bluestone or seagull feather. The greatest treasures of this realm lie deep within the human heart – love, peace, joy, family, and remembrance.

This is as close as I shall come to Eden during my lifetime. This is the place my parents and their parents before them bequeathed to me. This is where my grandparents rest and where my father makes his home. This is the place my children grew up. This is the place where I will grow old. This is the land my heart calls home.

It is 7:45 on a warm July evening. I sit in the old wooden clubhouse at the top of the hill. The golf course spreads out before me in the waning sunlight, golden in what my children call the “magic” hours. Every evening about 6:00, the wind drops, the lake calms, and the entire world takes on a warm glow, as if God had touched the world, put a finger to his lips and whispered “Hush.” These are the best times for water skiing (no waves), beach picnics (no wind), and long walks with your husband (no stress).

The room fills as the clock hands inch closer to 8:00. The “summer” people and the year round residents have come together for one of the most cherished traditions of the summer – the Sunday Night Sing. Grandmothers and older gentlemen get the seats nearest the open doors, along with those who have babies in tow. The elderly seek the fresh air that blows through the French doors; the new parents value the quick exit they provide in case of newborn meltdown.

The Sing is one of the only places I know where a voluntary dress code is still in current practice. I see young mothers decked out in Lily Pulitzer sundresses and strappy sandals, their blonde hair smooth and gleaming like a Clairol magazine ad. They chat with their friends about things like play dates, sandcastles, and tennis games. Men stop to visit, kibbutz, discuss how long they are staying this time before returning to the daily grind of the real world, and exchange golf scores, business tips, and fish stories.

Children walk quietly (at least while Mom and Dad are watching) to take their rightful spaces down front, where they can get in on all the action. Their hair is combed; their clothes are clean. The boys wear polo shirts and the girls wear patent leather Mary Janes. All wear innocence, and the suntanned glow of long summer days spent in the country, on the water. I have always maintained and here declare it officially: there are no kids anywhere on earth more attractive than the kids at the Sunday Night Sing.

Of course, every rule has an exception. The teen contingent shows little regard for the conventions of their elders. They wear tank tops and shorts, baggy sweatshirts and jeans. They line the scarred tables at the back of the hall, sitting with their backs against the wall, swinging their legs in rhythm, sharing secrets, smiling, flirting, out from under the watchful eye of their parents for an hour. As long as they are quiet, no one will turn around to check up on them. They perch on the tables like birds on a wire, waiting for the singing to start and their blessed hour of comparative privacy to commence.

It is eight o’clock. The piano plays and the strains of our national anthem float across the hall. As one, all stand; many place their hands over their heart, a few older gentlemen salute, and we begin to sing. The patriotic fervor that to so many in this cynical age seems laughable is everywhere in evidence here. These are good people, fortunate people, people who are glad to live in this country. And they are not ashamed of old ways. After all, the community sings have endured for almost 100 years.

We sing old songs - the ones our parents sang before us. We sing show tunes like Edelweiss and Oklahoma by Rodgers and Hammerstein, folk songs like Puff the Magic Dragon, and This Land is Your Land. For the children’s sake, we do Bingo, and The Three Little Fishies, and She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain (with all the appropriate hand gestures). Everyone groans when someone requests Green Grow the Rushes (all twelve verses – sigh!) but all seem to enjoy Capitol Ship with its nonsensical lyrics and Waltzing Matilda with its liberal use of Australian slang.

Looking out the windows, I see a few lone boys – solitary escapees from their mother’s scrutiny - let go, no doubt, due to their incessant squirming and nonstop chatter. They chase each other back and forth across the putting green and play with the golf ball washers as my brother and I did once upon a long ago time.

So little has changed since we were children. No one stands up when we sing Dixie anymore – all the rebels have gone to meet their maker – and the songbooks have been rebound, thanks to someone’s generous gift. But the voices still rise in the still summer air, undisturbed by the sound of air-conditioning. The children still laugh and play; the parents still sing with gusto, helping the younger crowd to learn the words; the grandparents still knit and visit, and look out in peace upon the place and the people they love. The generations have turned, but the memories and traditions remain.

As we approach the end of the hour, the mood mellows and deepens as we sing lullabies - Sweet and Low and All Through the Night, which has a special hold on my heart; it is what I sang my children to sleep with when they were very young. We follow up with the old songs of grace and faith – Jacob’s Ladder, All Night, All Day, and The Little Brown Church in the Vale.

When I sing the words, “No spot is so dear to my childhood as the little brown church in the vale,” I remember my mother, dead these last eight years, sitting contentedly beside me, long before the cruel reality of divorce and alcoholism took her youth; and my grandmother, her voice strong and clear, belying her age and girth, singing the low descant, “Oh come, come, come, . . “

It’s that kind of a place. The kind of place where I meet my ancestors and my childhood at every turn of the path, and imagine the future - when my children will bring their families to the lake - every time I wish upon a star. In these days of transient populations and MTV induced attention spans, there is something holy about a place where you have put down roots - a place where your children play with the offspring of your childhood friends - a place where I am still known by my maiden name, where I am still the carefree girl with skinned knees and sneakers full of sand. A place where I am most me.

As we launch into The Leelanau Song, written expressly for the Sunday Night Sing so many years ago and still sung every week without fail, I remember the summer my grandmother wouldn’t let me go home until I had memorized all the words to three verses and a chorus. I remember her teaching me to swim on sunny days and how to knit and play a mean hand of gin rummy on rainy ones. I remember her smile, and her lap, and her love.

She and my grandfather first came to this place in the ‘30’s. I have come every summer of my life save one - in college, when I was unable to get any time off from my summer job. They found the land, and built the house, and brought my father and my Aunt Kathy here so many summers ago. My grandmother planted the gardens, full of hollyhocks, phlox, and old-fashioned lilacs; ripe red raspberries and little green apples, sour and hard. My grandfather blazed trails through the woods that my father still maintains for new generations of aspiring young woodsmen to follow. Did they know what they were starting? Do they know how much I love this land? And how much a part of it all – how much a part of me - they still are?

We close the Sing with Now the Day is Over. My father leans into me, puts his arm around my shoulders, and as my voice rises in harmony with his, the past blends seamlessly into the future. I cherish the deep feeling of peace that comes over my heart and over the land, as the sun slips silently behind North Manitou Island and into Lake Michigan.

My father and I share the same wish – when we sleep at last beneath this land of pines and dunes and brilliant blue skies, we want to be sung to our rest with this song. It is a song about endings and beginnings, death and resurrection, founders and settlers gone to ground and new generations carrying on. It sings of renewal and rebirth and restoration. It sings of hope and mercy, love and life. It is a song of God’s grace, a fitting end to a day spent in a place of such beauty and blessing – a fitting end to a life spent in service of the good, the beautiful, the rare. It is profound prayer.

Now the day is over. Night is drawing nigh.
Shadows of the Evening steal across the sky.

Jesus give the weary rest and sweet repose.
With thy tenderest blessings, may my eyelids close.

When the morning wakens, then may I arise
Pure and fresh and sinless in Thy holy eyes.

Susan Pandorf 2003

Christmas in the Country

At Christmas time I believe the things that children do.

I believe with English children that holly placed in windows will protect our homes from evil.

I believe with Swiss children that the touch of edelweiss will charm a person with love.

I believe with Italian children that La Befana is not an ugly doll but a good fairy who will gladden the heart of all.

I believe with Greek children that coins concealed in freshly baked loaves of bread will bring good luck to anyone who finds them.

I believe with German children that the sight of a Christmas tree will lessen hostility among adults.

I believe with French children that lentils soaked and planted in a bowl will rekindle life in people who have lost hope.

I believe with Dutch children that the horse Sleipner will fly through the sky and fill the earth with joy.

I believe with Swedish children that Jultomte will come and deliver gifts to the poor as well as to the rich.

I believe with Finnish children that parties held on St.Stephen's Day will erase sorrow.

I believe with Danish children that the music of a band playing from a church tower will strengthen humankind.

I believe with Bulgarian children that sparks from a Christmas log will create warmth in human souls.

I believe with American children that the sending of Christmas cards will build friendships.

I believe with all children that there will be peace on earth.

Daniel Roselle

I was on line this morning when I came across this wonderful Credo. It has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas in the country, but I just loved it so much, it made its way onto the top of this post anyway!

Thank you for your many generous offers to help me spread the scarf/cowl pattern I shared yesterday. I'll be writing up the pattern asap and will email it out to all of you who have agreed to test knit.

*****************

Every year on the 27th we pack up our winter coats and our galoshes, our presents & our packages, some warm socks and a good book to snuggle up by the fire with...

And turn both our car and our hearts northward, towards Leland, Michigan.

Those of you who have been reading for a while, know that my grandparents built a home on the lake there during the war. You know my father & step-mother, my sister and her family make their homes in this quiet pastoral corner of the state. You know DH & I are eagerly awaiting January 8th when we close the deal on our own little corner of paradise - 9 wooded acres on a ridge overlooking the lake. You know how much I love it there.

And now, those who are new to this blog know it also.

I was raised a city girl, but was lucky enough each summer to spend glorious weeks at a time, enjoying what the country has to offer. The peace and quiet, the simple evenings spent playing cards, the quiet afternoons reading or knitting on the porch, the Sunday night community sings.

I am blessed beyond belief to have this place in my family, in my heart. And every summer I make my way to the little cemetery on the point where my grandparents are buried and say a simple "thank you."

This last summer, I took Conner for the first time. He is 5th generation and I hope he will come to love it as much as I do. As much as his father does.

So when I needed a name for my latest free cowl design, my heart reached out to the windy snowy reaches of the land where we will eventually came to ground and make our home. I pictured putting on this warm and comfy neckwarmer under my jeans jacket and heading out for a winter hike through the snow.

What else could I name it but Christmas in the Country?

CHRISTMAS IN THE COUNTRY COWL

size: 6 in. tall by 22 in. around
materials: dk weight yarn MC: 85 yds. CC1: 75 yds. CC2: 33 yds. model done in Berroco Ultra Alpaca Light: MC: steel cut oats CC1: redwood mix CC2: fern Size 5 (US) 24 in. circular needles
gauge: 5 ½ st. = 1 in.

Here is a shot of the back of the cowl, showing the stranding.

You will have a little jog at the beginning of each round, but just put it to the back of the cowl and no one will be the wiser.

DIRECTIONS

Notes: This cowl is knit in Fair isle style by stranding the three different colors across the back of your work. For an excellent tutorial in this method, go here.

With CC1, cast on 154 stitches. Join, taking care not to twist stitches. Place marker at beginning and work in round.

Rounds 1-4: With MC, K1, P1; rep to end of round. You may carry CC1 loosely up back of cowl or may choose to cut cast on yarn and begin anew on round 5.

Round 5: Begin Chart, working in stockinette stitch.. Work right to left in 14 stitch repeats, carrying unused colors loosely across back.

When you have completed all 36 rows of chart, repeat rounds 1 through 4. Join in CC1 and bind off loosely in rib. Weave ends in.

Pattern is also available as a free Ravelry download.

It is my heartfelt hope this holiday season that you will enjoy Christmas in the Country as much as I do...

From my house to yours, blessings & happy knitting always!

Just to spread the joy around, I will be giving away a free pattern (of your choice - Spruce excluded) to one commenter a day through Christmas, randomly chosen by Mrs. Claus (just me - don't get too excited).

I'll announce the previous day's winner in each post this month, If you are the winner, email me your preference at susanpandorf@comcast.net and I'll email your pattern right out to you.

Doesn't that sound like a lot of fun?

Yesterday's winner is: A 30-something femme createrix Email me, girl...

Now aren't you glad you left a comment?

Land Ho...

"O lands! O all so dear to me -- what you are, I become part of that, whatever it is."

-Walt Whitman

We are the proud owners-to-be of nearly nine acres of woods and clearing in Northern Michigan. Offer accepted...

We are humbled by God's bounty.

Got my computer fixed, so Stash Sale is on for tomorrow afternoon! We are getting to the end of the stash, but still some great bargains to be had.

All things come to they who wait...

Just One More

"I'm so glad we had this time together,
Just to have a laugh, and sing a song.
Seems we just get started and before we know it
Comes the time we have to say, 'So long."

- Carol Burnett theme by Joe Hamilton

When I was young, my mother would call me in for supper. I would beg...

"Just one more!"

As I grew older, my family would be ready to call it a day on the ski slopes. I would beg...

"Just one more!"

In college, my roommate would holler from the dormitory hall, "Come on; get a move on!" I would beg...

"Just one more!"

The other night, my husband asked me when I was coming to bed; was I going to knit all night? I begged...

"Just one more!"

I don't like endings, happy or not. I like beginnings.

• The anticipation of a good read as I crack the spine on a new paperback.
• The smell of the water as I approach the shore.
• The delicious stretch in the morning as I wake for another day.
• The way the air freshens and cools as I approach the lake house.
• Greeting family and welcoming friends.

I also like middles.

• The way I shut out the world because I can't turn the pages fast enough, as I become thoroughly enveloped in a fictional world.
• The heat of the sun on my back as I doze off on the beach.
• The feeling of accomplishment, as I complete a good morning's work and break for lunch.
• The sigh my life becomes as I settle into the slower rhythms of life at the lake.
• Savoring the pleasure of an evening with loved ones.

But endings, no matter how happy, leave me melancholy and pensive, as what was draws to a close and what is yet to be remains unrealized.

Except for when I finish a pattern. Them I am happy to call it a day, and move on to something else. Not because I did not enjoy the process, but because I am always looking forward to more ideas than I have time to complete.

If only I could sleep-knit...

I write this from the porch in the lake house. My DH left this afternoon, braving the post holiday traffic so he can be back in Indiana in time for a good night's sleep before returning to work tomorrow.

I, however, am enjoying a few more stolen hours, before packing up and hitting the road early tomorrow morning.

What urgent activity causes me to stay on? What task is yet to be fulfilled?

Absolutely nothing. All I can say is...

"Just one more."

One more night. One more white fish dinner. One more row. One more page. One more dream. One more day. One more kiss. One more hug. One more moment.

Before it slips away.

I feel time's passage more keenly these days. The years go so fast. Nothing lasts forever.

Not even the most intricate of lace shawls.

Has it really been six years that we have been planning our move up here full time? And yet we linger in Indy, trapped by a decaying house and an even more decrepit real estate market.

I am going to celebrate my 53rd birthday this month. My father, with whom I share this day, will turn 77 (I think- 53 year old brains don't work as well as they used to.) This is my 52nd summer at the lake, my father's somewhat more.

And yet the distant past seems so clear, when I close my eyes.

• Coming round the final turn and knowing we were finally here.
• My father's arms carrying me into the dark cottage.
• Checking for spiders before daring to get into bed at night.
• The sound of the Luna moth beating her wings against the screen.
• Helping my grandmother hang out the wash.
• My sister and I taking turns drying the dishes.
• The scavenger hunts my grandfather laid in the surrounding woods.

And memories of a less distant past:

My children:

• Toddling about the yard.
• Playing in the sand
• Sleeping on my husband's shoulder as he carries them into the dark cottage.

My father is growing older, as am I. We have talked of future arrangements and final wishes. It is best to be prepared, though he is yet vital and still beats the pants off younger family members in cards every evening.

I know that my own faculties are slipping with age; my father's are also. Time waits for no man. Or woman.

And yet I would tarry. I would remember the beginnings. I would revel in the middle.

I know that on his last day, as on mine, I will beg...

"Just one more, Lord. Just one more."

Home

"Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
Silently for me"

-Paul Simon

Actually, I am already home, and not bound to anything but the craft and people I love.

I find myself reflecting on what precisely it is that makes a place home.

I have been at the lake visiting family for the past several days and, for some reason, the life that I usually slip seamlessly into, like a well-worn glove...

Felt scratchy. And itchy. And just not quite comfortable.

Like it (or I) didn't fit.

And I wonder...

Why?

Usually, I feel a sense of calm steal over me when I am in Leland. It has this magical soothing effect on my psyche. My soul settles down and says...

Aaaaahhhhhhh...

But this time, I felt my ends flapping loose (fancy-shmancy writerly way to say "at loose ends") And I didn't seem to know quite how to gather them back in.

I think it is because I just had a welcome respite, with my cruise, and therefore was not in need of a break.

I think it is because I had trouble with my email (again!!!!) and felt a little cut off from y'all.

I think it is because I missed my DH, who I am closer to than ever before, now that the kids are grown and we have so much time to ourselves.

I think it is because home is not a place.

Home is a state of mind.

Home is the feeling that you are meant to be precisely where (and what) you are.

Home is where your horizons open up and your inhibitions close down.

Home is where everything seems possible and nothing seems unnatural.

Home is where you start from

And where you come to rest.

Sometimes home is Leland...

And sometimes home is Indy...

And all times, home is where I get to be with the ones I love.

Lucky me...

***

What did I do while I was gone?

A little of this...


A little of that...


And a whole lotta this other thing...


That's Mendhi up top - Rose (Garden Variety Collection) in the middle (which suffered a slight pullback and design tweaking last weekend) - and the next installment in the zen collection (whose name I am too lazy-assed to look up right now) on the bottom.

Added later:
Oh yeah - Mantra! That's what the beige one is called...

It's good to be home.

Are We Having Fun Yet?

"Blessed is the man who has some congenial work, some occupation in which he can put his heart, and which affords a complete outlet to all the forces there are in him."

-John Burroughs

WARNING!
SERIOUS DROOL INDUCEMENTS AHEAD
RECOMMEND EVASIVE ACTION
GET BIB...

So...

What did I do on my Christmas Vacation?

No, no, besides filling a ginormous amount of garden variety orders (thank you SO SO MUCH!)

I played.

Of course, my play looks a lot like work. With one critical difference...

I work on play with whatever I want to.

Not what my customers want most.
Not what my family wants most.
Not what is most delayed.

But whatever I darn well please.

What a concept!

Want some show and tell?

Of course you do!

I started with a couple balls I had floating around from the fall that never quite developed into full blown designs.


This is Classic Elite's Moorland in misty morning: a beautiful soft heathered single ply DK wool. It is deceptively simple. The slight halo tends to obscure fine patterning and texture stitches aren't as crisp as I'd like. But I loved the soft, foggy nature of it, if I could just find the right pattern for it.


After much knitting and subsequent frogging, I settled on this simple zigzag pattern, composed mostly of knit and purl stitches, with only one yarn over and decrease each repeat. I'm doing a stole. No name yet.


And this is Rowan's lovely Purelife organically dyed DK wool in Ivy: a very pale and subdued grey green. A natural for this leaf pattern. A scarf, I think...

Then I moved on to the hard stuff...

The Artyarn goodies Santa brought me. Simply the best. Loads of fun. Seriously drool worthy.


This is Ensemble, an absolutely pet-able fiber consisting of one strand of silk and one of (be still my heart) cashmere.

Excuse me for a moment. I'm getting all verklempt...


This one was a challenge. I loved the soft springlike colors, but I didn't want streaks. I settled on this pattern that combines cabling with lace work.



Once blocked out, I should have a lovely open early spring scarf. I think I'll call it Trellis.

Then there is the little lovely I showed you at the top of the post.


This is Drift: a pristine cream colored confection of Silk Rhapsody Glitter. The pattern is a combination of the gentle curves of a snow covered landscape, the tracks which form in the snow from our cars, the footprints of forest animals (or pets), and the schussing pattern of slalom skis.

See the little footprints between the tire tracks?

But the best part is the little silver filament that runs along with the silk and mohair strands. Its subtle sparkle reminds me so powerfully of the way new fallen snow sparkles in the sunlight.


This one just has to be a sumptuous stole. A brilliant bit of comforting warmth to wind around my shoulders on a cold midwinter day. I know it is indulgent, but I rushed right out and spent some of my ill gotten gains on three more skeins of this beauty. It is so yummy to work with and the pattern is just enough to be interesting, but not a pain in the rear.

But wait! There's more!


This is my icicle scarf, knit from Artyarns exquisite bead AND sequins silk mohair.

SHUT UP!

THIS STUFF IS TOO GORGEOUS TO BE LEGAL!

AND YOU CAN GET IT OVER THE COUNTER?

YOU MEAN I DON'T HAVE TO GET IT IN A DARK ALLEY FROM A YARN PUSHER?

NO WAY!



This stuff is like crack. It is that addictive. And that easy. No crochet hook required. Just knit.

When you have fiber this gorgeous, you really don't want the pattern to get in the way. I worked it with a simple four row, six stitch repeat lace pattern that results in a vertical wave that reminds me of melting ice. Just for panache, I did pointed ends, because that's what icicles do.

I made it thin since the yarn is so expensive, although it will block out a little wider. Besides, icicles are skinny little suckers.

You could get by with one skein for a short little scarf, but I am doing mine long and lean, with two. And this is so fast it is a turbo-aperitif. I knit the full skein in one day. Very gratifying after all those lo-o-o-ong projects...


Just look at that sparkle! I love this so much that I returned the green sweater my DH gave me for Xmas in favor of a light taupe one that will go with this scarf. Am I crazy, or what?

Now surely, I must be done, right?

Wrong.

The best thing I played with on vacation?



My grandson Conner, who accompanied us to the frozen north for a four day post-Christmas visit with family in Leland, MI and then came home with Grandma and Grandpa to stay another two days, while Mom & Dad celebrated the New Year in Chicago.

Six days...

Seriously drool worthy...

Can't say I didn't warn you...

The Great Northwoods

"I'm a lumberjack, and I'm okay.
I sleep all night and I work all day."
-Monty Python

"So", I can hear y'all asking, "What is Susan doing way up there in the Great Northwoods?"

(Hey! You try spending 3 days alone in a cabin in the woods; you'll start hearing things too!)

Hunting moose with Sarah Palin?

Communing with the bears?

Clear cutting a new trans Canadian bike trail?

Standing in a frigid stream in plastic panties, looking for trout?

Nope.

I'm knitting, silly!

Look what arrived in yesterday's mail drop (yes, we have mail in the Great Northwoods, provided the dog team holds up)

kidding...

Two full skeins of Christmas cheer.


Poinsettia goodness.

Now, if only I had remembered my skein winder. Guess this'll have to do for now.



We live simply here in the Great Northwoods.

Now excuse me while I go churn the butter, chop down a tree, build a fire, and gather berries for a pie.

On second thought, maybe I'll just stop at the Leland Mercantile (affectionately known to locals as "the Merc".)

Surely, the dogsleds deliver pies too.

Of course, I could always "put on women's clothing and hang around in bars."

later...

Patience

"Who ever is out of patience is out of possession of their soul."
-Francis Bacon

"If I'm not back in five minutes... just wait longer!"
-Jim Carrey

Well, life is never dull on the sunflower farm, especially when I pack it up and move it to Michigan.

Every time I visit the Northwoods, my email/internet goes wonky. In April I could receive email at the local coffee house, but not send. Now THAT was frustrating.

(Of course, last October, nobody missed me. I had just published my first pattern and the demand was...

null and void.)

Knowing that was no longer the case, I took steps before returning in July. I changed internet providers and glommed onto the next door neighbor's wireless feed (with their permission. Thanks Jerry & Jeannie! Only cost me a plate of chocolate chip cookies.) I had connectivity from the cottage (ooh! revelation by typo - cootage - what you get when the individual inhabiting said dwelling is no long in the , ahem, shall we say, FULL bloom of youth) I was in sunflower heaven.

And now, I have a brand new laptop with built in wifi and everything. I was good to go.

Until I got here last night and discovered no feed from the neighbors. Either they have changed their provider and password, or I am back to checking messages and filling orders once a day from the homely confines of the local watering hole coffee house.

So, patience my friends. I WILL get back with you. I WILL fill orders on a daily basis.

I will NOT, however, live 24/7 at Stone House Bread.

They aren't open 24/7 for one thing...

I'm just glad I don't have to travel to Traverse City to pick up my mail.

Nanook Susan of the North, signing off...

On the Road Again

"On the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin' music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again."

- Willie Nelson

I'm en route between Indiana and Michigan today...

Visiting the parental units...

Spreading sunflower goodness across state lines...

Gee, I hope that isn't illegal...

Catch you on the flip side (now THERE is a dated reference; CDs have no flip sides)

Why did the designer cross the road state line?

To get to the other side, of course!

Give me nine hours or so, and I'll be back in business from the great North woods. I'll send out pattern orders then.

Arrivederci...

Northern Lights

In the light of the golden moon
In the light of the silvery eyes of the night
I wandered through fire through ice...
To the valley of the shadow of death
...Northern lights...
...Northern lights...
While you were asleep I was awake to be part of the dark
While you were asleep I was awake to find the truth I had sought for
...through all my life...
Aurora Borealis -
A part of me still in the sky

-Songwriter unknown

The Aurora Borealis has intrigued people from ancient times, and still does today. The Eskimos and Indians of North America have many stories to explain these northern lights.

One story is reported by the explorer Ernest W. Hawkes in his book, The Labrador Eskimo:

The ends of the land and sea are bounded by an immense abyss, over which a narrow and dangerous pathway leads to the heavenly regions. The sky is a great dome of hard material arched over the Earth.

There is a hole in it through which the spirits pass to the true heavens. Only the spirits of those who have died a voluntary or violent death, and the Raven, have been over this pathway.

The spirits who live there light torches to guide the feet of new arrivals. This is the light of the aurora. They can be seen there feasting and playing football with a walrus skull.

The whistling crackling noise which sometimes accompanies the aurora is the voices of these spirits trying to communicate with the people of the Earth. They should always be answered in a whispering voice. Youths dance to the aurora. The heavenly spirits are called selamiut, "sky-dwellers," those who live in the sky.

*****

When we were in Alaska some years ago, we were not lucky enough to see the northern lights. It was summertime, and the price we paid for the long days of sunshine and temperate weather was the relative brevity of the nighttime and lack of true darkness. All we got was dim twilight from about 1:00 - 4:00 a.m.

Needless to say, this was NOT optimum viewing conditions.

We have, however, seen the northern lights on several occasions, up at the lake: along with the Milky Way and Perseid meteor showers. The lack of big city lights on the peninsula makes for prime viewing of all things celestial.

All we must do to be reminded of "how great Thou art" and how small we art...

Is look up.

The heavens declare the glory of God;
the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
-Psalm 19

*****

It is with these memories in mind, that I have designed Northern Lights, the next full size stole pattern coming down the pipeline after Drizzle, direct from the sunflower farm to you.

The stole begins with the pine forests so common to the northern reaches of our world and segues into a strong diagonal zig zag pattern.

This section will feature bright turquoise beading to highlight the stitch pattern, which is remarkably evocative of the swirling patterns of the Aurora Borealis.

After a number of repeats, (to be determined as I go along) the lights give way to a clear starry sky - the firmament of heaven.

The yarn is Fleece Artist Suri Blue in Aurora, a lighter weight than the sea silk, and thus easier to bead (yay!) The yarn more closely approximates Woolen Rabbit's laceweight, which I used for MD/AN and Magic Carpet Ride.

I wanted something a little more wintry for this one, and the depth of color in the yarn is amazing. So vibrant it leaps out at you. The pictures don't do it justice.

Ah, but I saved the best for last (don't I always?)

The ends of the stole (up front, where they will set off your front view, as opposed to over your rear view, which, if you're built anything like me, is definitely NOT the body part you want to highlight) will have these lovely little stars and moons dangling from the points of its scalloped border.

Ooooh...shiny...









Now I would be remiss to tease you with something that is many months away without giving you a little immediate gratification.



Zinnia is halfway bound off and bound for the blocking boards later today. Just in time for me to wear her to Stitches Midweston Friday. Nothing like a little wearable advertising, eh mates?

Release date: August 30th.

And the Hydrangea stole (otherwise known as the wedding veil) comes out tomorrow.

I was hoping to have a picture of the bride to share, but I understand from speaking with Michael that electronic rights to the pictures are prohibitively expensive, so we shall see...

Thanks to everyone who volunteered to quick-knit Zinnia. It is wonderful to have so many friendly (to say nothing of helpful) knitters out there!

Look to This Day

"The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.
Any fool can do it.
There ain't nothing to it.
Nobody knows how we got to
The top of the hill.
But since we're on our way down,
We might as well enjoy the ride."
-James Taylor

No matter how much time I think I have, no matter how long I stay at the lake, no matter how much I wish it weren't true...

This day always comes.

The last day. The cleaning out the fridge day. The washing all the towels day. The tying up all the loose ends day. The heading back to civilization day.

The day that can be delayed, but never denied.

The day I have to say goodbye.

When I was little, summers at the lake seemed a stately procession of endless days. My brother and I, cheeks bright with the flush of summer days in the sun, eyes a-sparkle with adventure, knew that school days lay far into our September futures. We lazed away our vacation under the watchful eyes and indulgent smiles of our grandparents and parents. And time stood still.

Now, I visit cemetery point to gaze upon my grandparents' final resting place. Their plots look out over the lake, between two birch trees, marked with bright geraniums, lovingly tended by my father, their son.

I remember the first summer we brought our son to the lake. We plopped him into the stroller one bright morning and wheeled our way down to the point, where he sucked his thumb pensively as I related the story of how my grandparents built the lake house. It was important to me that he know where he was, where he came from.

I lie in the hammock and remember a long ago drive up from Indiana with my then new husband. The rolled up hammock took the entire length of his hatchback from back window to front windshield, lying between us over the tops of the seats like a bundling board. It was our small contribution to family life at the lake house.

I am no longer innocent. I have drunk from the fruit of the tree of knowledge. I know that time moves on. That the day you say goodbye is always out there, lurking, whether we like it or not. Whether we are ready for it.

Or not.

I get a similar feeling when knitting a lace shawl or stole. It feels endless (especially if it is a circular - new definition of forever - beats "a turkey and two people" hands down!) You spend days, weeks, months, doing the same thing, knitting the same pattern, progressing inch by agonizing (or rewarding, depending upon your point of view) inch. And then one day you turn around, bind off the last stitch, and realize you're done.

This day always comes (well, most of the time, if you like the project, if you don't get bogged down, or distracted.)

Time runs in a circular fashion here at the lake. Some things never change, which is a comfort to me in the all-too-fast world we call home. And yet, the signs of change are ever present, as one generation gives way to the next, as new faces join the parade of family that passes through these doors.

The doors are flanked by the sign my stepmother Molly had made the year my father was trying to decide if the property needed a name. You know something poetic, like:

• Journey's End
• Heart's Rest
• Blue Water Bay

Rough translation: Funny Farm (I think that tells you everything you need to know about my family.)



The rocks lining the driveway were brought here by my grandfather, picked up (and lugged home) in his travels around the world. If you turn them over, and look hard, you can still read their provenance. You can imagine the deep love of travel and our earth that prompted the man who collected them.

And the pained expression of whoever carried the luggage.

Atop the mantel, sits a wooden replica of a Great Lakes ore boat, crafted in my grandfather's workshop when my brother was just a boy, and loved to play with boats. Come to think of it, my brother still loves to play with boats, enjoying both sailing and other forms of boating. His most recent contribution to the lake house? A canoe.


The upper reaches of the cottage feature flags won and signs hung from the family's past entries into the annual boat parade, (the infamous Bar-b-cruise) which we have won twice and placed in several times.



The sampler over the kitchen counter was completed by me in 1982. It is older than my eldest son.









The woods thin out from year to year, as trees planted in the 1930s when the area was logged over reach the end of their natural life span and give way to young saplings. I wonder how tall these oaks will be, when my grandchildren bring their children to the lake.

My brother and I both sat in this same pint sized lawn chair when we were smallm as did our children. Soon, it will belong to another generation, as my first grandchild takes his or her place among the family.

Time once again comes full circle, as the next generation write their own history, make this place their own, and learn to cherish all that it represents.

This day always comes.

Everything's Coming Up...

You'll be swell! You'll be great!
Gonna have the whole world on the plate!
Starting here, starting now...
Honey, everything's coming up roses hydrangeas!
- Gypsy

Just because it's vacation time, doesn;t mean I'm not working. After all, when you love your work as much as I do, work and play get all mixed up together.

And don't you worry your little head about whether I am getting the rest and relaxation I need to recharge. I have slept in till 10:00; I have played numerous games of Aggravation, Oh Hell, and shuffleboard with my family(and I have even won some!) I have gorged myself on whitefish fresh from lake Michigan; I have spent lazy afternoons reading on the porch, listening to the rain beat down upon the roof.

But I have also been a busy little bee, pollinating knitting the hydrangeas, both bridal white:


And pink & blue:



But enough about me. You want to see pictures, right?


Had enough?

Me neither.

Hey! It beats chasing a little white ball around a big green grassy area. At least in my book.

The only question is: Which hydrangea commands my attention today?

Hmm...