Virginia: A Weekend.

In which I reveal just how much of a wine, food, and yarn snob I have become, teach a great group of knitters, and manage to have the best day in spite of sunburn and heatstroke.

This is how much junk a woman writing a book thinks she needs to bring on a working weekend. Go ahead and guess how many of these bags actually were used while we were there.

I know I am going to forget some important things, but I need to get the basics down before I forget! We left home Thursday morning and drove to Front Royal, VA. I had wanted to stop somewhere in PA to spend some time - there are so many roadside attractions and factory tours scattered in Pennsylvania. In the end I narrowed it down to the Utz chip factory in Hanover. I have a thing about factory tours breaking up long drives. They get you up and moving after hours of sitting. You often learn things you did not know. And if you're very lucky, you get a snack thrown in for good measure, like at Cabot and Ben & Jerry's. This was my plan. Drive a lot, stop in Hanover, and finish our journey to Front Royal.

Somewhere along route 81 in Pennsylvania, however, we entered a dangerous time-space vortex. Too-frequent stops combined with heavy traffic resulted in us missing Utz by minutes. This was made up for by the amazing beauty of the Blue Ridge. Truly, I could live here and be happy. We headed on to Front Royal and checked into our hotel, a Hampton Inn. Mister Wonderful loves a good Hampton Inn, and even the not so good ones. This is a good one. We asked at the counter for some ideas on where to get dinner and headed out. We chose the Main Street Mill in downtown Front Royal. What, I thought, could be better than a local restaurant in an old feed mill?

A lot could have been better. The last time we were in this area which was three years ago we ate at Jalisco, a Mexican place in town, and I wish we'd gone back there. The food at the Main Street Mill was indifferent; the sort of standard if a bit unhealthy fare that fills you up and doesn't make you sad. But the smell of cigarette smoke was overwhelming. It carried into the side of the place where smoking is not allowed, and really made the meal unpleasant. You know that feeling when you've been on the road all day, and you're hungry, and the idea of getting back in the car and moving to another location just overwhelms you? That's where I was. So we stayed. I wish we hadn't. I did find a pamphlet describing a walking tour of Front Royal, though, which gave me an idea. I am notorious for early rising when traveling, like the sound of the chickens in my ears is there promptly at 5 even if the birds are miles away. I decided that we should get up early and walk the 2 mile tour before heading to our next destination.
On our way back to the hotel we stopped for adult libations and a bit of a snack and I saw a thing that I haven't seen since Katy's 80's birthday party...which in no way suggests how old Katy is or might be, or may have been.

 Right there in the cooler, a whole shelf of it in a wide range of flavors and everything! Mr. Wonderful chose Corona instead. Good decision. Am I the only person who remembers just haw bad these things are? Like festered fruit punch? Apparently I am.

In the end, I slept a bit more than intended and we walked a bit less. On our slightly altered early morning tour we saw the Millennium Sundial, erected in December 1999.

Notice anything...unusual about this sundial? If you do, please share it in the comments section.
We also saw this really amazing log house.

 Built in 1788, the Petty-Sumption house amazed me in it's longevity. For an old loggie with big thick chinking, that's a long life!

We stopped at the Daily Grind for some coffee (me) and some weird lemon frozen thing (him). Loved this cafe and wanted to move in. They had chairs and tables, some really nice window-seats, tables out side and even a meeting room in back! I did a bit of shopping at the Blue Ridge Hospice Thrift Shop on Main Street. I love thrift shops of all shapes and sizes, and I really love hospice work. In order for them to be there when we need them, they need support. Shopping in their thrift shops is a great way to give them that support and save yourself a dime or two. This shop even has a "man room" with "fishing poles and stuff". Perfect.

Mister Wonderful was not distracted for long by the "man room", so we headed on to our next destination - a visit with Jenn Tepper-Heverly at her lovely home to talk about her amazing Spirit Trail Fiberworks yarns for inclusion in the new book. Dyers have my awe and respect. What they do astounds me. It's not just the color. It's about choosing the base yarn that those colors will inhabit, then choosing the colors, and then - most importantly - replicating those colors over and over again with some level of standardization. I just couldn't do it. But Jenn does and she does it so very beautifully. I cannot say enough about these yarns. The base yarns are just amazing and the color is perfection. Might I particularly enable - I mean, direct your attention to Birte, which must be owned (I am currently swatching it and I am so in love), and also Penelope and Sunna either of  whom I would have an affair with. Dyers are also generous people. You'll find Spirit Trail yarns in the new book, and in another little project I dreamed up on my way home.

Jenn took us to the lovely Gadino Cellars and introduced us to Stephanie and Derek their amazing wines. Well, really Stephanie's parents' wines. Someone, somewhere other than Massachusetts should join their club and tell me all about it! I loved the meritage Imagine, and the Cabernet Sauvignon. I wish Massachusetts allowed shipping of wine. I want to be a Persono Molto Importante. We left the area happy and contented, with wine in the back seat protected from the sun by yarn and water bottles and buried under a mound of suitcase and headed for the coast. I anticipated that we'd arrive in Newport News at around 5:00pm. What I had not anticipated is the desire of locals and tourists to head for the coast for Father's Day weekend. We rolled into our hotel lobby with just enough time for me to brush my hair and teeth in the lobby restroom before heading to Coordinated Colors in Yorktown, Virginia. I'd promised to be on-hand for 7pm for a book signing and I arrived just in time! And look at what greeted me?

A shop sign with my name on it - my very first one! I signed some books and met some great knitters at Sherri's shop, and spent some time petting her adorable chocolate lab DeeDee, and then we headed off for dinner after a very tiring day in the car. I wanted to be well rested for the morning's class.

I got up early the next morning and Mr W dropped me at the shop before heading off to find a good bike ride.This made me a little edgy - love the man but really navigation is not his strong suit, and the temperatures were predicted to be around 100. But look at my distraction (there's more distraction that got cut off on my left and right, but my phone is only so wide!) -

 These were a great group of students. I know I say that a lot, but really they were. We had a good day, I think, and I hope everyone left happy!

Gene arrived promptly at 5pm to pick me up - one thing about traveling with him, there's no hanging around, no dawdle or delay, no chit-chat. He's pretty punctual. I said my good-byes and we headed out to find food. The other thing about traveling with him - I'd had a late lunch, but he'd had a bike ride. Food isn't an option. I "made" him get Thai, which I love and he does not, but dislikes less than Indian which I also love and he does not. (see if you can make sense of that.). He ate it and did not die. I ate it and was happy! We retired to the hotel in Newport News for one last night before heading on to Chincoteague.

The next morning we got up early and headed up toward the island on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. I love this thing. I think it's the feeling of being sort of in the middle of the ocean but not that I like. And I know it's a bay but it's still cool. And I love the history of it. The entire project, including the expansion from 2 to 4 lanes that opened in 1999, has been done through the sale of revenue bonds. No federal, state or local money has been used. I think that's amazing.

We headed up the Delmarva peninsula and I was sadly reminded that not all chickens get to be spoiled like mine before they are turned into freezer-stuffing. We passed a large Perdue plant. gene commented that he didn't notice a smell. We saw grower houses, the ones with the blinds and the big fans, five or six at a time in rows. A couple were open to the light because the birds had already made their journey to the plant and to the supermarket shelf. We saw this Perdue truck, used for hauling live birds to slaughter, making it's way north, devoid of chickens.

Gene saw some going south fully loaded, but I missed it. I've seen them before and I am glad I missed it. Then we came to the Tyson plant, and oh man the smell. It was awful. I wondered what the locals think - how can you ever get used to that smell? Do you ever get used to it? Or do you discover which Yankee Candle fragrance is best for covering the smell of rotting meat and stock up? Ick. I wanted to come home and hug my chickens.

I was glad to get to the Good Part of this trip. I forgot about the chickens for a while and here's what the next 24 or so hours looked like, more or less:

Bike riding in the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge. Or I guess this is bike-stopping-for-a-picture, really. This is midway around the Wildlife Loop. We also rode the Woodland Trail, Beach Access Road to the beach, and the Swan Cove Trail from the Wildlife Loop side out to the beach. All told we rode about 12 miles. It was really hot. There was some cooling off along the way. Nice of God to put the ocean right in the middle of the ride. I appreciated it. Riding in salt water wet gear is really no different than riding in sweaty wet gear, except that for a few minutes you feel a little cooler!

There's a lot of beach. Not as many people as I expected, but this is "just" beach - no dogs, no canteen, no snack bar, no fried clams, no beer, no shops.
For "lunch" we left the refuge and had ice cream at the Island Creamery, then went back to the beach for a while.

I really want to spend a whole week here. A day isn't enough.

We checked into our hotel, and rested and cleaned up, then headed to Bill's Seafood Restaurant for dinner, where I had - in a huge personal rules violation fueled by too much sun and a glass of wine (Layer Cake Shiraz) - surf and turf.

Very yummy. The seafood is local, we were told, sourced from a fisherman in town. I can't believe I ordered this, but man was it good. The tail was huge. Gene ate more than half of the lobster, but when he saw how rare the filet was I lost his attention entirely and had to leave a bunch behind. The thing was still mooing up at me. I have a rare beef problem. Well. Problem is a relative term. We skipped dessert...

On the way back to the hotel we stopped at the Roxy theater where Misty attended the preview of "her" movie in 1961.

I stood in her hoof-prints. I am going to assume she didn't actually sign her name here. We would have seen a movie if it had been of interest - sadly it was the new remake of the karate kid and not really our speed.

I sat (sort of...look, it was a long day. A little schlump is expected)in front of the statue of Misty based on the beautiful illustrations of Wesley Dennis that appear in the original Misty books. By the way if you don't know who Misty is, get thee to a library or Amazon or something, post-haste. Find Misty of Chincoteague by Marguerite Henry. Follow that up by procuring every one of her horse-crazy tomes, preferably reading them aloud to some curious, precocious child and see what happens. For added value, throw in some Thornton Burgess, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and a smattering of Howard Roger Garis and watch what happens. If the kid turns into a tree-hugging chicken-farming knitter, don't come crying to me. We walked past the house where Misty of Chincoteague was written, which is lovingly maintained as a B&B. Then we went to sleep!
We got up early the next morning for one last bit of beach before turning my wee wagon northward.

First we navigated through a flock of thoughtless pedestrians who were just all over the place. The moved out of our way and I got a picture of them to share.

 Early morning on Assateague.

A visitor, who landed and really requested that his picture be taken and then....

left us.

Out the window heading onto the reserve.

After a bit of wading and no real dipping (turns out I am too old for diving into the chilly Atlantic ocean that early in the day after all) we headed back to the Hampton Inn and Suites and bid farewell to my buddy on the pier.

I promised him I'd be back. And I will, soon!

Between TNNA and this trip I am worn right out. It's going to take me a few days to recover. I think there will be a lot of napping involved...

TNNA Hangover, In a Good Way.

I have no time to blither endlessly today, so this will be short and sweet (I hope, for your sake and mine too). I am leaving on Thursday very early for Virginia to teach at Coordinated Colors, so my plan today is to just give you the highlights of things I saw in Columbus, fiber related and not, all in one list. Then, when I am back from Virginia maybe I can take a breath and focus a little!

But, here's what I saw and found and think, some with images, some without:

Karen Alfke's unpatterns are brilliant. You need them. Hell, I need them.

I want to spend the rest of my life at North Market, just shopping for amazing cheeses, meats and produce while sampling small spoons of ice cream during shopping breaks, or possibly nibbling on olives or popping some corn and opening a bottle of a really good beer. It's all there (and then some).

If you are in Columbus and need olives, go to North Market and find The Olive Orchard stand. Get some garlic stuffed olives and a bottle of their organic oil. And the best news? They SHIP!

Miriam Felton's (aka brilliant designer of the Icarus shawl) Twist and Knit is going to be amazing also, and you should have that as well. In fact, there may be a few things in this post that you should have. She's also delightful, but that's another story.

Jeni's Ice Cream is pretty amazing. My mouth is still reeling. In the end I think my favorites are Queen City Cayenne, Lime Cardamom Yogurt, the combination of Dark Chocolate with Backyard Mint. Also Mango Lassi. And Cherry Lambic. And Salty Caramel, Wildberry Lavender and...oh you get the picture.

I need one of these Minknitures necklaces, but I cannot decide which color. I am willing to take suggestions. Pavia makes each of these items, pins as well, by hand. I was leaning toward pewter, but the copper appeals as well.

Pho is every bit as good as everyone has said it is. So was the #9 bowl. 

Think Outside the Socks is a FUN book! You need it.

Carol Sulcoski is my stalker, but I am ok with it as long as she keeps offering me her beautifully dyed yarn. Who am I to stop her?

Green Mountain Spinnery has a really beautiful certified organic 100% wool, dyed in Earthues colors by a local dyer. Local Color. This isn't just organic wool. The washing and spinning are organic as well. I love it.

Knitting 24/7 is also a wonderful book. It helps that the author is truly delightful. (Don't worry Carol. A promise is a promise. She's all yours, honest)

It is possible to break a Sassafras watch, but I really had to work at it. I've got the bruises on my wrist to prove it. My watch got hung up in my over-loaded and too-heavy backpack. I am now eyeing the beaded watch, which is smaller and would allow for my stupidity in over-packing my bags.

Save a Kiwi, Knit with Possum. No really. Possum are non-native introduced species doing bad bad things in New Zealand. I do not like non-native pest species. In fact they make me angry. I say, knit the little suckers up.

Steve Elkins can keep an audience entranced even when employees and friends of Webs are taking his picture. Unflappable, I tell you.

Although I never thought of it before, apparently there is gluten in hair and skin products. The ladies of Lavishea have a solution. A gluten-free, all natural lotion bar. I love this bar. And it made it through airport security, no problem. And it comes in a variety of fragrances. I made a list of my favorites.

This didn't fare as well at the airport, although in the end they let me keep it all - two cheeses from Curds and Whey in North market and some quince paste from same. Apparently food gives odd readings on the x-ray thing. Who knew. Let me tell you. That man knows his cheese. And the cheese is SO good. I got a Manchego and I wanted Cambozola, but it had all gone to a restaurant (and I am pretty sure I know which one), so he gave me a Blue de Bresse instead. It is SO good. Mike even vacuum sealed it for me!

I really like Goodale park, a circuit of which is part of a 2 mile loop walk or run from the convention center.
Ohio is flat. I like hills, but I hope I get to go back and see the flat again. If I do, I'll be in the North Market eating Pho and sniffing cheese.
Now. Laundry, errands, write two patterns, re-pack and head for Virginia!

Hiding Under My Yarn

Those who know me know how much I just love air travel. If you sense dripping sarcasm you would be correct. I approach each flight with something more akin to terror than trepidation. I know there are drugs and I have some. They are meted out with great austerity by the prescribing physician who seems to think that I verge on the edge of addiction. This is borne out by my obvious headlong descent into a life of crime and heavy use of street drugs in the 3 year period since the last time I asked for a refill. Since the remaining pills (of the 15 originally in the bottle three years ago) had expired I thought I should get new ones. She is, she says, not afraid of flying. I should not be either. There is no danger in flying. I should get over my fear. Her hesitance to give me a simple pill for anxiety is in no way, I am certain, biased by her own fearlessness. How could it be? She is a physician after all and trained not to make value judgments about her patients. Right? It would be cruel of me to hope that someday she is stopped in her tracks by a panic attack, doubly cruel if I hoped it happened on a plane.
The truth is that I respect and appreciate her rationality, and even covet it. The truth is that I try not to take them. I bring just enough with me to get on and off the planes I need to, and often I don't take any. I need to know they are there, the magic feather in my pocket just in case. I use relaxation techniques, I knit during as much of the flight as possible, I am really very healthy in my handling of the whole "certain death in the sky" panic thing.
I leave for TNNA on Friday morning and while I am excited to be there, happy to see people, thrilled to sign books, the time between now and then will be a delicate dance of panic versus will, fear versus the power of the mind to overcome it. I will, once on the ground, forget about the return trip in the flurry of activity. On Sunday it will creep back up on me and I will spend a potentially sleepless night mentally projecting positive images of take-offs and landings and no missed connections, always with amiable and polite seatmates; no screaming toddlers or loud people, please. And no stinky provolone cheese man, like on that train from DC to New York. Monday when I land I will be happy and a little surprised to have lived through yet another series of flights. It should get old, I should adapt, it should fade in time and yet it never does. No, I am not controlling, not one little bit!
The babies are growing here and have turned into adolescents.

I spend time with them now because I know by Monday they will be bigger, and the Monday after they'll be bigger still. I go right from TNNA to Virginia with a brief 2-day stop at home, to Coordinated Colors Yarn Shoppe where I will endeavor to teach people how to knit socks two at a time from the toes up. I am not flying. Luckily for me, flying into the Williamsburg area from Hartford takes nearly as long as driving or taking the train, and costs about as much too.
It never ceases to amaze me how quickly the birds pass from fluffy to feathered, from infant to adolescent. They begin with an insatiable curiosity about their environment right from the start and as they grow that only increases. 

Now they are concerned not just with what takes place within their pen. They want to know what else is out there, beyond their walls. The parallels to humans are not lost on me. First they explore the brooder. Then they expand outward until mom (that's me) lets them loose on an unsuspecting farmyard. Eventually the whole world is theirs, or they believe it is.
They mimic adult behaviors, like scratching, right from the start. They play at roosting along the way and now at over a month old some spend the night on the roosts. The majority pile in a heap on the floor when the sun goes down.

The ones who show precocity in their behavior now will be flock leaders as they grow. The pecking order is firmly established. I can shake it up by moving birds around which I occasionally do, but in the end the leaders still are leaders and the followers still follow. This weekend I separated them clearly into groups based on breed. For the chicken geeks, one pen now contains Marans, Fayoumi, Lakenvelders, what we think are black laced Wyandottes and the "gang of nine" mongrels. The other has meat birds and Cochins, Giants, Buttercups, Anconas and Leghorns. Somewhere in the mix are a few I am not sure about, and a couple of single birds of rare breeds which will be enjoyable to have around if they are hens, but don't enhance a breeding program. It makes me happy to see them, and that's enough. I cannot have every single breed. I probably would if I could.
The rest of my time is spent swatching and obsessively knitting projects from Vintage Baby Knits. I've only finished two, but have bought yarn for two others and discovered enough in stash for three or four more. I have a loose desire to knit the whole book, which I adore (the book, not the idea, although I find the idea very compelling).
The first project I finished was the Stella Pixie Hat. It is modeled here by the delightful and charming Jennifer who sits still and does not fuss or cry, ever. She's around 38 years old, so we'd expect good behavior. When I was five and she was fresh-smelling spotless vinyl she was more fussy, and needed a lot of attention. We've both changed.

I have not yet attached the button band. Love this hat and plan on making many more of it. It's quick and simple and adorable. I am making matching thumbless mittens from the remainder of the skein. The yarn is Blue Moon Fiber Arts Socks That Rock in Scottish Highlands. Love the yarn, love the hat, love love love.
I started first, but finished last the Violet Sacque.

Finished last because although I had the yarn on hand, I thought, I ran out and needed reinforcements. Webs, which is where I got the yarn originally, no longer carries Lang Jawoll solids. An internet search revealed some at Simply Socks Yarn Co. The yarn has been in stash long enough that I would never have found the dye lot, so I took what came. As a result the collar is significantly off from the body; noticeably darker.

I plan to distract from this by the use of a contrasting green ribbon at the neck. If that fails, maybe I will over-dye the whole shooting match with brown. That should haze things up a bit. I love the sweater. I like Jawoll well enough for a basic meat and potatoes sort of a fingering weight solid. It's durable, washes well, and softens up after washing which makes it a good baby yarn. Go ahead, unknown future infant, barf away.
And I swatch, and draw pictures and make notes. Here are some swatches.

I know. Exciting right? That's actually three sweaters and three shawls/scarves.  And then there's this:

the rest of the yarn for the new book (both bins). Almost all of it. There's a bit missing still, some Spirit Trail and a bit of Lorna's, but by and large it's all here. From now until Friday, more or less, you'll find me under it.
A note to my beloved family as I head out for TNNA: do you know what would make me feel truly loved? Really respected and appreciated? It's really quite simple. All animals alive and accounted for, hydrated and fed. And on top of that, just one small thing - the house cleaner than when I left.
Stop laughing. A girl can dream.
For updates from TNNA, or any time I am not home or blogging, you can follow me on Twitter either in the column on the right of this post or on Twitter itself. My user name is the amazingly original "Melissaknits". I also dual post tweets to my Facebook account where I am known by the even more original Melissa Morgan-Oakes. Expect sarcasm, cool stuff, and occasional wit. Lots of sarcasm.

Toot Toot!!

(That's my horn blowing)

I want to thank Michelle and Devlyn of Knit Happens PDX for having me on the Knit Happens show yesterday. It's up now as a podcast, which you can access by clicking the link above. It was a lot of fun to do, probably because I like to talk (a lot) and I like radio because if I am wearing pj's? You never know!

Where Oh Where...

Noella mentioned that she missed me at Cummington this weekend in the comments. Unfortunately, due to the craziness on the farm that sometimes happens in spring, Barb Parry was not able to attend either the NHS&W or Cummington, so I was unable to sign. I debated attending and just roaming, but then the farm asserted itself here as well, and wisdom seemed to advise staying home and working.

I've had a bit of sore throat for the past few days, and had a bunch of chaos here between times. I will admit to taking advantage of the opportunity to stick close to home. There's been a lot of non-chicken related drama here too, and I am worn out, more or less. Maybe more. Besides. Wouldn't you take a day to hang here?

I wrote the first two books on a 13 inch MacBook I bought for 2-at-a-Time Socks, from a relatively comfortable recliner chair I inherited from my Great Aunt Blanche after her death, or from my Ikea Poang chair. I like the recliner better, sorry Ikea. It's a tiny thing and I fit in it properly. Not many chairs fit me. I am short, and my spine resembles a corkscrew more than anything else. I loved the portability of the laptop. When I was working on Toe-Up 2-at-a-Time Socks it was winter. Not a fan of the cold, the ability to move my entire workspace to six inches from the woodstove made me a very happy girl.
The book I am working on now doesn't allow the sort of laid-back slacker attitude in writing location. No laptop this time - instead a 22" monitor screen with a smaller 13" beside it. And a new keyboard. And it's not a Mac. So, the day after the book launch I set up the new PC in my office. In a normal office chair. Any notes I had made for this new book were safely stashed in my Macbook. I spent a couple of days just trying to transfer files, with a deadline over my head and malfunctioning USB devices, and you get the picture? There was swearing, there was whining (a LOT of whining) about the chair, my back, my shoulder, the stupidity of computers, the difficulty of adjusting to a new keyboard, a newer version of Word and the mental blocks that accompany writing projects. This thing happens where I just sit and stare at the screen as if I have forgotten American English, and then all of a sudden words come flying out of my fingers and poof, 7,600 of them appear as if by magic. Then I have to edit, sort, rearrange, fuss over and fix until at last I can shoot them off to an editor and patiently wait their return.
I am still not adjusted to this keyboard, really. I have got to get used to this thing. And the mouse. And the whole PC thing in general. I have not touched a PC for more than five minutes in about four years. When my office machine turned into a brick there was no point. But now, one capital investment later, I have to touch, have to remember, have to be the old dog luckily just relearning old tricks. Close the window on the right. Expect little warnings popping up. Don't delete anything with a .dll extension. And so on.
Today is Memorial Day, which always makes me pause and consider the sacrifice of the women and men who've died giving birth to and defending our freedom. Although there have been many active servicemen (yes, all men) in my family, none has been lost in the line of duty. God willing none ever will be. My son just joined the Army, and leaves for Basic training and AIT in September, I believe to Fort Jackson. This wasn't a sudden decision. It has been on his radar and in discussion for about five years now, maybe longer. Knowing that it wasn't an abrupt decision makes it feel alright somehow. Not great mind you. This is my only son, and the Army is not exactly known for keeping it's members out of harm's way. But then he could get killed crossing a street, or maimed with rogue fireworks, or who knows what. I am a fatalist, if you want to call it that, although really it's more a function of my spiritual beliefs. I believe we all have a time, and then yours is up, it's up. Joining or not joining the Army will not make that time come earlier or later. It's easier to live fearlessly if you believe this. It's how I get on airplanes. If God wants me down, then the sucker is coming down and there's not a darn thing I can do about it. If I don't get on the plane, he can just as easily take me out on the drive home.
Besides, maybe Daniel's duty post will be someplace terrifying for mothers, like Germany. All that beer and bratwurst. Scary times. Regardless of where he goes or how this all turns out, I am exceedingly proud of him. This is something I do not say enough to my kids, that I am proud of them. I am proud of who they are, of who they are becoming. I am proud to say I had a hand in their rearing. I am mostly proud that although I at times disagree with what they are doing (this is not one of those times, I am simply stating this as a point of reference) I am always and forever proud that they follow their hearts and their dreams. I like to think they get that from me.

One Month and Not Much to Say Except Buk-AWWK!

It has been super busy here. It is spring and spring is always crazy. Chickens, gardens, project, and some work now and then as well. First, 95 baby chickens came from Sandhill Preservation. I ordered 50, but got very lucky and instead of a refund for the excess shipping I paid, I got bonus baby chickens instead. I'd ordered meat birds and layers. Man do I have meat birds and layers.

There they are, still in their shipping box. Sometimes people are amazed when I explain how they come. They come in the mail. I pay extra for express shipping but you can use priority, too. I like them to spend as little time in transit as possible. Now, I wasn't exactly prepared for so many, and I spent a quick morning running around gathering supplies, assuming I had 36 hours before they arrived. Wrong. The call confirming shipment was at around 7pm. They arrived the next day at 11am. We had no power as a result of a kicking spring storm. The babies were cold. They needed to be warm. 90-95 degrees warm, which is usually accomplished with a heat lamp.

Instead we pulled the stock tank I use for brooding babies in front of the woodstove and fired it up. I don't think this house has ever been so hot. We managed to keep them around 80-85 degrees. It's where they should have been, but it had to be close enough. As we headed into evening, still with no power, I became anxious for them. Really anxious. And the launch of Toe-Up 2-at-a-Time Socks was the next day. The idea of spending the night with an alarm clock every hour or so to wake me so I could check chicks and stuff the stove had no appeal. In the eleventh hour, just as the sun was setting and the temperature in the house was dropping, and I was beginning to berate myself and Poor Gene for not forging ahead sooner with the solar panels, the power came back on. I set the babies up in the mudroom with their lamp and headed for bed.

I needed to be rested for my party at Webs! Kathy gave me an wonderful introduction that made me get a little bleary.

My father would say this is genetic. We cry at everything. Hangnails, kleenex commercials, birthday parties, you name it. I talked for a while, a little about chickens and a little more about knitting. I sipped some champagne, and I signed some books.

Oh look. A rare image of me with my MOUTH OPEN. How surprising (sensing sarcasm? You'd be right). It was a wonderful evening. Friends were there, which always makes happiness, and knitters too! One friend brought me two of these:

Coolest. Chicken feeders. EVER. Now we're all stylin' with our vintage kit! I love the feeders. They are super heavy duty, and big. I am going to need big feeders around here. I have a lot of chickens. 140 I think. It's hard to count. They move so fast. And they grow so fast. Fluffy little babies change into little kids...

there they are at two weeks old, feathers popping out all over. The only way to get pictures is to corner them and snap away.

Or scare them by putting them on a child. That is my granddaughter April, for whom a pair of socks in the new book are named. Everyone say "Awww!!". Tack on a "My Gosh, Melissa, she's beautiful!" for extra points. Not that I am biased or anything. Tell me either of the grand kids are beautiful or handsome or amazing or brilliant and you've got me. The chicks sit still when terrified or small human fingers, for a minute anyway. It's effective.
There's a lot of them. And more even now, because somewhere in there I agreed to give hatching eggs to a local elementary school's first grade class. I had this great plan to separate a rooster and some hens specifically for meat birds, but time got away from me so in the end I sent along 18 random eggs from the previous day's batch. 21 incubating days went by like a shot, and in the end nine more babies were added to the farm a week or so ago. I know that they have one of four fathers. I know that they have one of 28 mothers. Beyond that, no clue what they'll look like. They'll lay if they're girls, and will go down well if they're boys. That's all I know.

I have completely lost track at this point of how old who is and so on. I think these guys are now two weeks old. I call them the gang of nine. Today we finished the last chicken room in the barn. It was clean for about five minutes before I started moving babies in.

MMmmm! I love laying down in it when it's like this. It never stays this clean for long. Eventually feathered people move in, and things change. Poop flies. Food gets scattered.

Feather dust fills the air. But for a moment it's heavenly. I love that they have this whole huge space now and all they want to do is lay in the sun. They're very funny. I don't know how many are in this room now. I lost count. The only time to really count them is at night.

I tried counting them while I was moving them, but some jumped out of the can after being counted and others jumped in, so I just filled the can and moved them. No counting. The purple tail is a bird who's been nipping excessively at it's own butt as the big feathers grow in. It's itchy. Grown up feathers are not like baby pin feathers.

There are just so many of them. I think I am slightly unhinged at times, considering this. 140 is a really lot of chickens. They're everywhere. And they've grown. Now just a month old, these are the same baby chicks from the picture at the top of the post, the sweet fuzzy babies in a cardboard box. Now they're gawky teenagers. Now plucking order is established. Bullies come to the fore. Adorableness occurs in new ways.

The environment is fully explored. Boys begin to act a bit more like boys. Girls begin to be a bit more retiring and shy. Nothing is set in stone until someone crows. But I begin to notice things.

The gang of nine has been mixed in with some of the smaller 4-week old chicks. I separated them by size - bigger birds in the big new room. Smaller guys in the small room. It works. The integration went very well. I had concerns. One of the little guys, named Meatball by the first graders, will not shut up about the change but everyone else is pleased. Meatball may be, possibly, a bit of a whiner. He'll get sorted soon enough.

This is Celia, in a rare appearance out from behind the nest boxes. Celia is an old girl, about ten. She's a Silkie hen that Meg got somewhere along the line. Although Silkies are known for making great pets, Celia is a complete and utter freak. She lives by the rule "Always Flight". No fight or flight for her. RUN. PANIC! Note the 4x4 I put down to ensure she has access to food during the day while the big chickens are out on range. We worry about her a lot. If she gets out, she sometimes will not come in. I occasionally use her as an Auntie for chicks who are too young to go out yet. If nothing else, I know she's safe inside for a while. She makes a great auntie. I keep saying I am going to give her some eggs someday and let her hatch them.

Well, that's it for now from the farm side of things. There's also been a lot of planting, watching of hives and there has even been some knitting, and a whole lot of writing about knitting. I may be able to post some projects in a couple of days that aren't related to any book, and therefore can make an appearance. I get into baby things between projects. One might even say obsessed with baby things. They're like socks; a palate cleanser, portable, fast. I am not knitting any socks right now - crazy, huh? - because I have three sock projects in the works that are "work". Time for more of that on Tuesday! For now, I will enjoy the day as it passes by planting more things and checking in on my 140 feathered charges and the 100,000 winged ones. Have a wonderful holiday weekend!