Posted on April 13, 2005 at 10:08 am
when I don’t knit.
The garden is getting ready for pea planting and lily tubers. I’m raking at a furious pace to keep ahead of the tulip leaves and daffodills that are squeezing up out of the dark earth. I worry that last year was the Dogwood’s last glorious gasp as the anthracnose takes hold of the dear old thing, and count a dizzying 24 boxwoods that need to be turfed and replaced. The roses all look like they’ve survived, the fruit trees have been pruned, and the brick walk needs some resetting here and there. The laundry is done, the sheets have been changed, the refrigerator is full of healthy food, and we had two vegetables with dinner last night.
It’s not that I haven’t wanted to knit, it’s just that my other life, the Life of Mom, has been nagging me lately for the little time I devote to it. So I threw it a bone and pretended to be interested for 48 hours. I am amazed at how high a return rate the conversion rate of knitting to regular chores works out. Did you know that in the same amount of time that it takes to turn a heel, that you can clean an entire kitchen and most of a 15 year old boy’s bathroom? Harlot was writing yesterday about the equation of converting distance traveled into knitting, so I feel like I’m tracing an already (much more humourously) worn path here as far as blogland is concerned. But any engineers out there interested in the publication potential in knitting over time equals housework have my permission to run with that baby.
Meanwhile, Tuesday Night Knit Club managed to get out of me half a heel on the Spearfish Sock and a few rows on PS136, which still creeps along. I’ve started the fourth row of ginko leaves on the body, and while this is not the most glamourous part of the sweater, it continues to boggle the minds of anyone who sees me knitting on it. It’s the prospect of the steek that is the most breathtaking. I am divided in the prospect of cutting. Everyone wants to be there when I do it, but I have several welcome offers from The Experienced Ones to hold my hand as the scissor blades meet across the strands. Which do I honour? My own fear and trembling, or the freak show element of it? I have plenty of time left to ponder the answer. And many more beds to make in the meantime.