Lamb and Frog

What is there to say about summer TV? Not much. Especially after Deadliest Catch ended and Shark Week had yet to begin. “They” cancelled two of my favorite programs (My Name is Earl and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles) last summer, so I pretty much end up watching whatever the boys are watching. I’ve decided that I really like Phineas and Ferb; that I don’t mind iCarly in small doses; and that I can’t stand all the other pre-teen dramadies on Nick and Disney. But the little boys have a TV in their room, so when I find that I cannot listen to another squealy, giggly middle schooler interacting with other squealy, giggly middle schoolers or some dumbass adult (all of the adults in these shows are complete morons—it’s no wonder kids think they can get away with murder) I banish them from the living room.

Unfortunately, that still leaves Bill—unquestionably the biggest remote control bogart of them all (with Stinky being quite the little sorcerer’s apprentice…the Duck and I don’t stand a chance). Last Saturday we surfed between golf (which I don’t usually mind), NASCAR (which, unfortunately, seems to be growing on me), the NFL channel, and the SyFy (the new spelling for the Sci Fi channel). I can say without hesitation that made-for-SyFy movies suck. Even Bill thinks they suck—but that doesn’t stop him from watching them. Why? One reason: chicks in tank tops. As a matter of fact, he was watching last week and said “They ought to just call this movie Chicks in Tank Tops.” To which I responded “They ought to call all of their movies Chicks in Tank Tops. As a matter of fact, they could make a franchise out of it—like the Charlie Chan movies, only less entertaining.” For example:

Chicks in Tank Tops Meet a Giant Bear

Chicks in Tank Tops Run from a Wolf

Aliens Eat Chicks in Tank Tops

Human Sacrifice of Chicks in Tank Tops

Chicks in Tank Tops Find a Dinosaur

Chicks in Tank Tops – The Chupacabra Edition

and so on. So later, we’re cruising the guide, trying to find something to watch and lo and behold, on another channel, we find the following ‘reality’ show: Scream Queens. The description? “Aspiring actresses compete for a role in Saw 3D.” Hey! Wait a minute! That’s on the wrong channel and it has the wrong title. I think they meant to say Chicks in Tank Tops Audition for Horror Movies That Should Never Be Made.

How many more weeks until football season starts? Thank God for Shark Week.

That pretty much describes the last three months. My Grandmother’s death in April was preceded and has been followed by what seems to be non-stop chaos. I’m finally ready to write about some of it; I’m going to try to do that this month. For now, however, you will have to make do with an update to The Book Page and—perhaps a look at my Etsy store? Yep, I finally did it. If you check the left sidebar you will notice links to both my store and the Etsy home of Dagmar the Enabler. She and I have been mighty mighty busy this summer and the future holds some good (wooly) stuff. Stay tuned.

Stella Diane Thomas Gray joined her husband Raymond on April 6, 2010.

She was 99 years old.

She was laid to rest in her Temple clothes.

What I Always Knew

She was an amazing seamstress.

She was an amazing gardener.

She worked hard—real hard and for no ‘pay’.

She saved money rather than spent it—she was a child of The Great Depression.

She cooked from scratch.

She set the table for meals—everything had a serving dish, no pots on the table.

She loved nature, especially the Oregon Coast.

She loved flowers, especially pink ones.

What I Didn’t Know

She was Miss Rexburg.

She was a model for the first women’s Levis. I never saw my Grandmother in anything less formal than slacks—not even when she was mowing the lawn (with a push mower).

She was sent to live with an aunt in Utah when she was a teenager because she was “getting too big for her britches”—and that’s where she met my Grandpa.

What I Know Now

Stella was a devoted wife and mother who spent most of her life in the service of her family and her church. I think some people saw her as submissive, the little woman ruled by her husband’s wishes, but I don’t think that was really how it was. Stella wasn’t submissive. She was a bright, beautiful, passionate, and independent woman. She had a fiery temper (I’m told) and could be stubborn as a mule. She chose to live for her God and her family rather than for herself or some other, less worthy, cause.

The best way to remember Stella is not by writing down what I know and can remember of her, but by doing my best, every day of my life, to live with the kind of grace that she exemplified. As a rule, this is something at which I fail miserably, but I’m a better woman for the trying.

I have been a flying pool. Oh! Wait. In the immortal words of Willy Wonka (the Gene Wilder version) “strike that, reverse it.” I have been a plying fool. In more ways than one.

I plied probably 400 yards of merino (I haven’t counted yet). This fiber was originally in a colorway called ‘ice cream before bed’ but spinning and plying muted the once bright and crazy colors. So, the resulting yarn was christened ‘Fiona’s Bouquet’. Its namesake has a smile that lights you up like the sight of the first spring daffodils.

I also plied this green single (which I think answers the question “What do you get when you cross an alpaca with a leprechaun?” ) with a (second batch of handspun ever) white coopworth single.

Then I proceeded to ply what was left (quite a bit, obviously) of the white coopworth with my first-ever batch of handspun to create a ‘rustic’ (thick and thin, really messy) yarn that I am calling ‘chocolate-vanilla swirl’.

All this plying was quite the learning experience. I started with the merino. The singles had been sitting on the bobbins for a week or so waiting to be plied. I started plying and thought I was doing a pretty good job, but whenever I would hold out a yard or so of the plied yarn, it would twist back on itself like crazy which, if you were paying attention last time, means that the yarn is unbalanced. I started to get frustrated. I almost started to panic. Instead, I just thought, well, even if I can’t sell this yarn, maybe I can fix it so it will at least work for a felt project or something. So, I got online and put my mad skillz to work and found this article, which put my mind at rest. The article mentions two facts that I knew, but which I did not have the skill or the sense to consider together. First, as yarn sits on the bobbin, the twist relaxes (remember, these singles had been sitting for at least a week). Second, plying adds fresh twist in the opposite direction. So, a freshly plied yarn from relaxed singles may appear unbalanced during or right after plying. Usually, you have to wait until the yarn is washed and dried to to check for balance. The article, however, provides a quick, easy way to check for balance in the ‘yarn in process’ (read it if you’re interested).

The green and white yarn taught me a different lesson—what happens when you ply in the same direction you spin. The answer is nothing good.

You get a tangled mess of twisty chaos that is extremely difficult to ‘unply’ (although I am still trying). The second lesson learned from this minor disaster is that it is not a good idea to start plying 1) when you are tired and 2) right after you finished plying a single and you are tired.

Fortunately I realized what I was doing relatively early in the process and was able to ply the remaining singles into a reasonably balanced yarn in the ‘Vintage Rancho Rams’ colorway. If you are a rather-less-than-vintage Rancho Ram you may not be aware that the school colors were kelly green and white before they were their current (cheesehead wannabe) green and gold. Now, I am an LVHS Wildcat through and through (Wildcats rule! All other schools drool!), so why in the hell would I ply yarn in Rancho colors? Rancho is, after all, our arch rival and has been since the 1960s. Well, as hard as it is to admit, Mom, Aunt Connie, Uncle Clyde, and a host of their friends were Rams (Uncle Chuck was, by some act of Granny, spared the fate). So I figured as long as it was in the ‘vintage’ colors (mom and Aunt Connie are as vintage as it gets) no real harm done.

The chocolate-vanilla swirl was plied without incident. I’m done plying for a while; I’m back on singles as of today (it was supposed to be as of yesterday, but Dagmar and I got crazy sidetracked—I have her to thank for the most excellent pictures of the plied skeins).

Oh, one more thing. When you’re finishing your yarn. If you decide to thwap. Take off your glasses before you start.

Rednecks are born, not made. Try as I might to pass as a bona fide liberal treehugger, I’ll never be 100% successful. Sooner or later my red neck starts to show–the guns, the desire to trade in the VW wagon for a V8 Mustang or a big ol’ Caddy (we already have the truck), the food issues, the refusal to wear those godawful sandals no matter how cool my handknit socks are.

I can’t help the way I am and it bothers me that other people can’t accept that (as with many other human subspecies) there’s both good and bad to be found in americanus redneckus. But you know what? You can’t change what people think of you unless you change what they see of you (and even then humans have an amazing capacity for not accepting truths that are right before their eyes).

I’m not talking about trying to ‘pass’ for something other than redneck; I’m good with who I am, proud even. I’m talking about embracing redneck pride by taking back the name from those who have been using it against us–including the worst of our own kind. I’m talking about evolving, not devolving. I’m talking about becoming Redneck Nation 2.0. Here’s the manifesto—

Loud & Proud Doesn’t Have to Mean Boorish and Narrowminded

Keep the love of country; lose the nationalism.

Keep the love of guns; lose the love of war.

Ensure that ‘redneck’ is no longer a synonym for ‘racist’ or ‘homophobe’ or ‘xenophobe’. We may not understand everyone; we may not agree with everyone; we may not like everyone. That doesn’t mean we have to hate everyone who is different from us.

Exemplify your faith–be a light, not a bludgeon. People can’t truly come to Jesus in chains or at the point of a sword.

Making ‘Dumb Redneck’ an Oxymoron

Embrace common sense but respect book learnin’ too, especially when you find that book learnin’ in another redneck who has worked hard to educate himself or herself beyond K-12.

Go bravely into battle for a just cause but refuse to be used as literal or metaphorical cannon fodder.

Refuse to be led by those who identify with us publicly to subsidize their own greed while privately mocking our lifestyles, our values, our very lives.

Putting the Red in Red, White, & Blue

Take pride in your roots, but remember when roots are the only thing that is nourished you’re unlikely to ever see leaves, let alone flowers or fruit.

Mind your manners. Let’s once again make what we’re known for our politeness and hospitality.

Recommended Reading:

Deer Hunting with Jesus: Dispatches from America’s Class War