Trenchwork

This was the sunrise at 0845.

Somehow, we seem to have more colorful sunrises than we do sunsets. It’s been clear and cold for the past week or so, with very cold temperatures; the cold water tap has been running 24×7 for the past two weeks to keep the pipes from freezing. But this morning, the sun rose to increasing clouds, and the day has turned grey and a bit dreary. At 1133, the thermometer out my window reads 38F—which is a far cry from -4. The wind is blowing across the lake, and that usually means change. In other words, we’re liable to have a period of near-freezing and slightly soggy weather—the kind of stuff that makes you feel like hibernating inside with your favorite sweats, books, and hot drinks.

I’m working on deadlines, but am finding a few minutes here and there in computer breaks to spin a little. And I’ve had an epiphany. There really are disadvantages to being self-taught sometimes, because I’m sure that I’d have gotten this little lesson within five minutes of the first spin had there been a warm body around who could have pointed it out.

I’ve been using the park and draft—more or less. I’ve been able to draft while the spindle spins, until the cop is big enough that the extra weight becomes too heavy for the fiber I’m drafting. The problem, I realized, is that I’ve been pinching off the twist too soon. While you don’t want it to get into your fiber source—all that hunk of wool behind you—you do want it to get into the drafting triangle, which is the entire purpose of the drafting triangle in the first place. I’ve just realized that my triangle was too small; it didn’t exist. Since the twist couldn’t go beyond the spun fibers, I had to park the spindle and slide back to allow it a little room to travel, drafting as I went.

Then a couple of days ago, this came in:

And it has pictures. Crisp, clear, detailed photos.

Now I get it. I won’t say I’m doing it right or perfectly, but now I get the idea that you’re supposed to allow a little twist into the triangle. Then, when you pull the fibers out of the triangle, they sort of draft themselves. You don’t want so much twist that you get a slub you have to untwist and thin, but a little twist is a good thing that actually helps you draft.

I know there are going to be dozens of these little Simpson moments, but I have to be honest and say that I neither mind nor feel stupid. I’m enjoying the learning process. Then, yesterday, four one-ounce bags of hand-dyed BFL came in from Karen. What a thoughtful gift! I have a multicolor alpaca-corriedale blend, and a multicolor merino, and I’ve hesitated to spin them (aside from the fact that I refuse to take up a new fiber until I finish the cormo on my spindle) because I’ve been afraid it would take me an ounce to figure out how to do it properly. I’m not worried about the staple and handling, but about the colors. I’d prefer a heathery kind of yarn, and since I’ve never done it before, I’ve been afraid I’d end up with a hunk of each color—that the colors would pool because of the way I’d drafted and spun. But now, I have four lovely little bags of multicolor BFL (red, brown and orange, green, and an intense orangey-pink).  I can draft and spin and ply and play to my heart’s content . . . then knit the whole thing up into a wild hat or headband. How perfect is that? The moral of the story? Friends learning new skills love small quantities to learn with—and really appreciate those other friends who contribute to their delinquency recognize that!