Went to the Puyallup Fair a few days ago with my mother, and I am (not so) sorry to say that we aid and abet each other in our fiber addiction. It's a bonding experience, or so I tell myself. My mother is a superb seamstress, trained in Japan to do English tailoring by a man who learned his trade in London. She can look at any picture in Vogue, make up a pattern from it, and duplicate it exactly. She probably has more fine cloth stored up in her house than a New York textiles warehouse. Well, okay not that much, but if gauged in percentage space occupied by textiles, I bet she has 'em beat.
I had gone to the Fair some days ago by myself, and I resisted temptation, despite the bounty of sheep fleece, roving, and batts there.
But then there is my mother, who is a sturdy, 4' 11" Japanese force of nature. She seems to pull people into her wake, and there is no escaping the path of her influence.
We stop first at the 4H and crafts exhibits, which are safe because you can't buy any of them. These competitors for the best dress, woven cloth, tatting, pie, cake, cookies, etc., are all very nicely arranged in rows according to category, although you may see a knitted sweater next to a woven basket, or a hand-spun skein of yarn.
My mother examines all that have won a prize and will give a thorough critique of each one. If she could, she'd reach into the display cases and look at each seam and lining, like she does every time we go into Nordstroms. She'll critique clothes from Nordstroms, too.
Peering through her bifocals, she narrows her eyes at a 11th grader's 4H contribution that consists of a tasteful plaid wool jacket with matching skirt and purse.
"Look!" she says, her face brightening with utter glee. "This girl has made a placket buttonhole! This is better than the adults' work upstairs!" She frowns for a moment. "Huh. This should be upstairs with the adults, it is that good." People turn to look at the display. "And look at this--the darts, very nicely made, very even. Perfect. See, Karen, this fringe along the seam--very original. " People begin to crowd around us. "Ahh, see the shoulder? It is even all around, smooth, no creases, no waves. Very excellent. It is good to see a young girl has learned so well."
She moves to the next display, and I notice the people who have gathered at the last follow us. "Hmph. I would not have given this one second place. It is not as good as the honorable mention over here. Look at the lining--it is cheap rayon, I am sure. Much better to have good lining like this one. The design is not original." She waves her hand at it with queenly dismissal, and goes onto the next. More people have joined us. She seems not to notice them at all, and I wouldn't be surprised if this were so, because she has a single-minded focus when examining textiles and the sewing art. By the fourth display, I notice those who are listening nod and also examine the items closely, and the crowd is larger than ever by the time we get to the woven goods.
By the time we are finished, I notice there are people who have pieces of paper out and making notes, and discussing amongst themselves. The 4H information ladies look at once alarmed and pleased, mostly pleased I hope, at the attention the 4H displays have received. One of the more alarmed looking ones approach, and I tap my mom on her shoulder. "Mom, I think we should go see the Artists in Action."
She beams at me. "Yes, yes, we have spent enough time here," she says, and we leave before the alarmed 4H lady is able to work her way through the crowd.
I high-tail it out of the building and into the square, glad that my mother has followed me quickly. I slow down so that she can catch up, and then we head out to the back of the Exhibition Hall, where the "Artists in Action" are.
It's disappointingly small, smaller it seems than it was last year, but one of the spinners explain that they'd been moved away from the Hobby House into their own area, which I think is inconvenient, because it's nice to go from the fiber arts to the pottery to the painters all at once. Still, there is much to delight in; there are nice, mundane pieces of hand-thrown pottery amongst some very superb pieces, all for sale. I resist, mostly because there is no where at home to store them. I mentally pat myself on the back for that, but then we move to the yarn....
My palms itch. My mother is smiling beatifically as she peers at the yarn and examines the texture and quality. I think, it can't hurt to touch. So, I do, and the itch in my palms subsides somewhat, but not totally. Then I see some skeins of yarn, and I recognize them by their ply and color as products of a spinner I had met earlier in the year at the Spring Fair and Shepherds' Extravaganza. (Later note: this spinner is Heike Utsch, and you can find her rovings and yarn at Handspun On the Web.) I turn to my mom and say, "I think I know who spun this yarn," when the lady herself appears. "Ah!" I say. "I knew it was your yarn by the ply. It's superb spinning." The lady beams, and we begin to talk of spinning, of the qualities of Targhee wool versus Merino, and what would work for certain knitting projects. My palms cease to itch--they ache.
I am doomed.
For she directs me to the different rovings she has hand-dyed, and discusses the process through which she chose the colors and the techniques of steam-dyeing versus a bath, and shows the results of the roving as plied yarn. My eyes roam lustily over the colors of purple, black, pink, green, blue--more colors than the rainbow. I will resist, I tell myself, and pick up what seems to me to be the ugliest combination of colors--camouflage, with a few touches of hot pink. It looks like the sort of colors Paris Hilton would wear if she went to Iraq.
A mental picture flashes before me of Paris in camo-duds liberally splashed with hot pink and matching tinkling earrings, colors that scream, Shoot Me Now!
Nope, not going to buy that roving.
My mom hovers at my shoulder, listening with much interest to the talk of dyeing. "That is a good color," she says. "You should buy it."
I look at her with doubt. Usually, she has superb color sense.
The spinner nods. "It's a strange combination, but once it's spun up, it looks very different." She points to two spun skeins of yarn. "See that one? Same colors."
I am not going to look, I am not going to look....but my eyes are drawn inexorably to the skeins, because my mother has already gone to them and taken them down off the display hooks. The skeins are beautiful. She holds them up to the roving I have in my hand and beams with glee. "Look, yes, it is the same! You should buy it, Karen."
Argh. I have probably at least 100 lbs of various types of fiber stored in my office, and more down in the basement. It would take Rumplestiltskin to spin all of what I have in any reasonable amount of time, and I'm not that fiber-crazy to give up my first born, especially since we've already sunk a lot of money in his college education. She KNOWS this. I shouldn't buy this roving, I shouldn't.
But I can't even say the words. "Well...." I say instead. "It's an interesting color." I force myself to put down the roving--yes! Will power!--and turn to the hand-dyed Targhee roving in deep hues of violet, purple, and lapis, which would make some stunning socks because of the bounce and elasticity of the wool of this particular breed. I'm not going to buy this Targhee; I have quite a lot of Targhee cross wool already in this color.
My mother shrugs. "Okay," she says. "Your choice. Maybe I will buy it."
I swivel around to look at her. "But you don't have a spinning wheel. You don't even spin on a hand spindle."
She shrugs. "Eh, maybe I will learn."
I gaze at her skeptically. Yeah, right. Like she doesn't have over 100 lbs of fabric stored in two rooms of her house, and at her age, I'm not so sure even a sewing-inclined Rumplestiltskin could go through it all by the tiime she goes to the Great Textile House In the Sky.
She lets out a large sigh. "It has very nice colors. It would make a very interesting vest. It is worth the money."
Money. She's on a fixed income, and though she's very thrifty, it's still a fixed income. I begin to feel just a twinge of guilt. "No, no," I say. "Don't buy it." A pressure underneath my breastbone begins to build. My palms itch again, and become warm. "I'll buy it!" The words burst from my lips before I can stop them.
My mother beams. The spinner smiles happily. I sigh and bring out my wallet. I buy two bound packs of the camouflage and hot pink rovings, enough to spin the yarn for a vest. I think to myself that I'll get my revenge, especially after she goes over her finances for me, and I see that she has indeed been very, very, very thrifty. (Sigh)
The roving is interesting-looking, that's for sure. Once I spin them up, I'll take pictures and put them up on my web site.
--Karen H.
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