Saturday, November 30, 2019

Sweater Weather

Fall is my absolute most favourite time of the year, because it's beautiful, and because it's just the right temperature for going out inside a series of sweaters instead of a coat.  Spoiler alert: there are no sweater pictures in this post.  It's all trees, plus the occasional Hydro wire.

Earlier in the season, the changing foliage colours are just gorgeous wherever you look.  But this sort of day, with steel grey skies and mostly-barren branches reaching up to them, is so special to me.  I mean, I like sunny days with blue skies too, because they make an equally stunning backdrop. You have to admit though that this sort of weather has its own charms.

On a day like this, your sweaters and scarf keep you warm everywhere but your nose, which might even sting a bit from the cold or the wind.  You might look around and see dreariness, but that's okay and better in a way, because when you are finished doing whatever it is you're outside for, you will enjoy even more coming into a warm, cosy, softly lit nest.

It's almost like winter - those chilly grey moments when you look down from the trees and see snow all around you, and hear it crunching under your boots.  Only what you have underfoot is leaves, either wet and sluggish or dry and skittish.

It's a great time for reflection, walking in all this strange stillness.  Without colour to distract you, you can appreciate the symmetry of those tiny tree branches, not to mention the variety.  I love that some trees look stark and dark and detailed against the sky, while others look almost fuzzy with tiny twigs far away at the very tops.

I love this particular stand of trees so much.  It is near enough to my house that I get to see it almost every day, in every season.

Birds still sing when the world looks like this, and squirrels are still darting around everywhere.  Walking among all that reminds me of the resilience of life, and the value of preparation for harder times so you can enjoy the beauty they bring along with the challenges.  Like knitting sweaters in spring to wear out on a November walk.

Or even just handwarmers, in case a full mitten is too much.

(or of course, socks!)

Hope you get some nice days like this, however grey others might find them. 

Sunday, November 24, 2019

Care and Feeding of Elderly Socks

As the weather grew colder this fall, I took stock of the living room and decided it was time to tidy up the stacks of knitting, one of which was not exactly decorative.  I am referring to (cue horror music): the darning basket.

Naturally my first stop was the fireplace mantel, which I have staged with needles, thread, my little tin of knitting tools, and sewing scissors (inside the covered casserole dish) and with a gravy boat/bird's nest stuffed with yarn scraps.  It's surprising how often yarn scraps come in handy, and I never have to go looking as long as the birds are keeping them safe.  I had removed them for this picture but they are a pair of wooden tree ornaments I bought in England last year.

They like vintage buttons too, apparently. Birds after my own heart. 

And now, on to our story.

My winter boots, as it turns out, are not handknit-sock friendly.  Or maybe they are too friendly, nuzzling up against the stitches to the point of destruction?

The first time I took them off at a friend's place and discovered my actual toe sticking out from the sock toe, I thought, Well, I guess these socks were getting old anyway.  The second time, the hole was on the top of my foot on one side and I thought, okay... maybe that was a weak spot.  The third time, I knew the boots were chewing on the stitches, and stocked a few pairs of acrylic or cotton socks to wear on days when the snow and slush and general slick are definitely going to be too much for my treadless Blundstones.

Also I am hunting for new boots.

Darning is one of those things you know about but maybe don't do.  I am pretty sure I have done it in the distant past, because I have vague recollections of stringing yarn across a hole in two directions, weaving a sort of fabric where stitches used to nestle together.  Jan uses a darning egg for her socks, which is to say, my socks - I guess I haven't knit her enough yet to keep the ones she has from wearing through - but I haven't got a darning egg so I had to use my hand to keep the fabric steady. Also, importantly, to keep the fresh yarn from going through the opposite side of the sock and creating an entirely new problem.

The results are not exactly pretty, but let's face it, socks this worn are lucky to get any kind of a facelift.

I guess darning is like everything else in life: you have to do it a lot to get good at it.

My stash of leftover yarn scraps included a sample of pretty much every sock I've ever knit, so I was able to find matching colours for most of the holes, but it was a shock to see how much the vibrancy had faded over years of wear and washing.  Check out the leg of this sock, down the right side of this picture!

I mean, I wouldn't feel easy about a sock dye that didn't fade ever, but it did make me question whether I should be trying to match the new faded colour rather than the original.  The outside of the sock looks a lot better than you'd expect after looking at the inside, thank goodness.

Is it worth darning an old sock?  I think so.  I mean, the alternative is pretty horrifying.  Throwing out all those hours of work? Wool biodegrades in a year thanks to its strong supply of nitrogen, and these socks are all 100% wool, but it still means losing a whole hard-won pair.

Alternatively I could have cut off the feet and used the legs as legwarmers, or tried to pick up stitches at the bottom of the leg to reknit right from the heel, but that might look a bit weird.

Possibly not weirder than darning, but weird. This poor sock has a lot of problems, doesn't it?  The red stitches look like they're disintegrating. But it was one of my most favourite stripe combinations and I couldn't let it go.  It's better from a distance.

Okay, maybe it's not that much better.

This one also looks a bit iffy, but I don't know how I could have matched peach and turquoise stripes, while closing a hole that crossed both.

If that earlier sock is made up with one of my most favourite stripes, this is the colour combination that makes me swoon:

I still can't believe I risked ruining these inside my boots.  I also can't believe this is FOUR pairs of socks that were ruined in the same way, because it means I was even slower to catch the problem than I thought when I started writing this post.

Anyway, all these socks are back in circulation now.  They just needed a little patching, and while I was at it, a little reinforcement.  I probably won't put any of them to work on a 6-hour urban hike because there are younger socks that can take on that job, but they will still be perfect for short walks to the grocery store, or for curling up in a chair with a good book, or for sleeping.  Slower things that won't put too much strain on their joints, because I want to keep them with me for a long time yet.

Thanks for coming by today, and take care till we meet up again!

Saturday, November 9, 2019

Urban Hiking

This fall I've been putting on my beautiful handknit fingerless gloves and taking very long walks in the city, often with Jan, who agreed to refer to our marathon errand-running sessions as Urban Hiking. They feel more virtuous that way, though honestly: they are!  Even if you aren't speedwalking, 2-4 hours of moving around and (eventually) carrying purchases is a workout.

Also the views are amazing.  I love this time of year, even on a gloomy day like the one we had when I took this picture. The foliage colours are just so rich, and the texture of leaves underfoot so interesting, and the air itself so wonderful.  I mean anything that isn't swelteringly hot or three inches deep in precipitation is good for me but I am crazy about October and November.

A couple of weeks ago I went to a pen show with Holly and had SUCH an amazing time.  We both got beginner fountain pens and have been excitedly checking in ever since to share how much we are loving writing with them.  Being me, I came home with a ton of writing paper as well - notebooks and memo pads with a texture as cool and smooth as polished stone.  I still write better on a computer when it comes to work that will need many revisions, but I'm finding that working through ideas on paper with a gel or fountain or felt pen is both calming and fruitful.  Good paper makes the experience even better.  Today my attention is firmly focused on a new Moleskine letter-sized notebook with an unassuming brown paper cover, compliments of Costco, but I acquired quite a lot of Japanese paper at the pen show.

After the show I walked home, a distance that took about an hour to cover, through a wealthy old neighbourhood I like and have dreamed of living in some day.  It's set among ravines, so there are bridges with stunning views of forested areas just vast enough to make you forget you're in a large, busy city.

Also the temperature was absolutely perfect: just cold enough to need a sweater and scarf and fingerless gloves and to feel perfectly protected while inside them.

Yesterday I took the same route in the opposite direction.  It's been colder and windy, and the trees have lost most of their leaves, so now from a distance they look like ghostly fuzzy things.  Here is the same hill now, from the same spot on the same bridge:

And this is the area where the road runs through the trees.  I actually lived in one of those distant highrises for a few years when I had my first few jobs out of school.

I walked through that area with Jan later in the day and she showed me all the places she'd lived in at the same time in her own life.  We were almost neighbours! But we didn't know each other then.

A city is a funny place because there are so many layers of experience in every generation that passes through it.  Well, I guess any place has that quality but I notice it more in Toronto because there are an enormous number of wildly different people having intense, unique connections to the same places at the same time.  Sometimes I'm aware that these are people I don't know and will never know, of different cultures, from different parts of the world, for whom a particular street or building has as much meaning as it does for me. Other times I'm aware of a strong connection that's barely tangible.

Like in this spot for example:

This is an empty-looking hill in a cemetery near our house with another ravine running along behind it.  It's not the popular cemetery where everybody goes to have a gorgeous walk or run or cycle ride, but it does attract some of the same crowd at times, and I sometimes cut through it as an alternative to the busier street to the south.  But it's also where my grandparents and one of my uncles and his wife are buried.

I took this picture just after I learned that another uncle is buried somewhere within the frame, alongside other children whose parents could find the money for a personal grave but not a marker.  He was one of three who died before my dad, their baby brother, was born, and I hadn't known about any of them until I started looking at my family's history.  Isn't it amazing to think that just one generation back there could be so much lost?

The uncle who rests here was not even four years old when he died away from his mother in the isolation hospital, and he has a younger brother who lived longer buried a little farther into the background, beyond these trees, closer to the ravine.  That one made it to eleven; both succumbed to diseases for which we have vaccines now.  The not-quite-four-year-old was one of just three children who died of his disease that month, out of twenty-five children who were sick with it.  It wasn't even epidemic at that time of the year - that was typhoid, I believe, and though that took quite a few, tuberculosis took many, many more over the four weeks. I found the newspaper records tallying up the numbers and wondered if my grandmother read them too, and thought of her own child being represented in a statistic.

Now when I hike through the cemetery, I think of my grandparents, who were buried just south of these two sons and east of the one who grew up and married and brought my wonderful cousins into the world.  They came here to say goodbye to this toddler, their third child, and then a few years later for their fifth who had a longer time to imprint himself on their family.  I try to imagine how the grounds looked when they gathered for the burial, and to realize that they may have walked in the very place I am. Just as if we all lived in one small town where everybody has known everybody for generations!

People say this about Toronto, that it's too big and too cold and impersonal, but I have never found this to be true.  I run into people I know almost every time I go out, as though I were still in one of the smaller communities where I grew up.

One thing I especially like about the city is how far you can go while being within range of a warm (or cool) place to duck inside for relief and refreshment.  Fellow walk-loving friends who live in small towns describe the 45 minute loop they do every day and I wilt a little, because as much as I love those towns I like to go farther and I'm a fan of a good sidwalk.  I like off-road walks too and there are lots of options for that (have I mentioned the ravines?), but in so many weather conditions, a nice clear level sidewalk is tops.  And from where I live, there are so many directions to take and routes to explore.  What seems too far to attempt is accessible by public transit in one direction if not both, all for one flat fare.

So that's me these days, not writing Hugs but getting out for some amazing walks while the weather is perfect for them.  I've been eyeing my spinning wheel and slowly stitching a sock to the end of its toe, but my mind is on crispy leaves and cool air.

And also, oddly, on how much I am not objecting to a prolonged Halloween this year.  Normally I want to get our creepy decor back out of sight the minute we turn out our light at the end of trick or treating, but this year I left Alma out on the porch with her new pet rat for a week after the big day was over.  Check out her twig shawl pin!

Something about the grey skies we've had and the carpets of rotting leaves under bright orange newbies was just so perfect for her.  And she was so relaxed with her spiders and her pumpkin friends.

But now she's back in the laundry room, telling me what to do and being annoyed every time I have to ask her to budge so I can get at the sweater-drying mats. Good ol' Alma.

Hope you've been enjoying some scrumptious fall weather, or at least some good walks!