Trenchwork

Seriously.  Enabling?  It’s the fiber world’s by-word.  Get a single spinner, knitter, dyer, crocheter, or individual who has a hobby/living/passion/obsession in any way connected with fiber, then put that spinner/knitter/whatever in a random crowd and wait five minutes.  In that five minutes, our fiber hobbyist will have found every other fibery hobbyist within the reach of a NASA radar assembly, and managed to encourage at least one fiber greenhorn  to try, buy, experience, experiment, or otherwise plunge into the seductively fascinating world of fiber and that . . . gee, ain’t it the best thing since sliced bread?  And then fiber hobbyist and newly enabled drift off into their respective worlds, each feeling happy and satisfied and envigorated.

When fiber gal tells her DH about the success of the whole thing, he smiles, agrees that it was wonderful, and privately (and totally silently) commiserates with the unwitting and momentarily innocent SO of the newly enabled enthusiast.  A CD spindle, he knows, soon leads to a commercial spindle, which of course seems to multiply since there must be spindles in different weights and styles.  A pair of 4 ounce bags of generic wool soon multiply exponentially into many pounds of wool, silks, synthetics, blends—and which seem to occupy every possible spare corner of storage.  A single wheel seems to suddenly have morphed into three, and of course each must have its own accessories.  A simple plastic ball winder transforms into a jumbo which can handle at least a pound of yarn, there’s an umbrella swift tucked under the sofa, a drum carder nestles under a corner table, and a niddy noddy hides in a drawer.  A wicker basket sprouts a bizarre assortment of nøstepinnes, dowels, cotton yarn for tying skeins, yarn ends and measuring devices.  Stainless steel pots, a spare microwave, measuring cups and spoons are stashed with a growing supply of dye ingredients.  Screens are stashed in the garage and sawhorses no longer seem to be used for sawing but for supporting screens full of washed fleece.

So DH smiles, nods in the appropriate places and makes the appropriately supportive noises.  And he thinks with something akin to relief of the fact that she’s contemplating her own little herd of Angora rabbits rather than dwelling on his near fatal blunder of observing—out loud—that alpacas didn’t seem to take much space and a pair could probably be housed on as little land as they had in the back yard.  Fiber hobbies should come with a warning.  He shakes his head, and wonders if he shouldn’t start a support group for the SOs of fiber enthusiasts.

“Hello.  My name is George.  My wife is a knitter.”

“Hi, George. ”

“Hello.  My name is Mary.  My husband is learning to spin.”

“Hi, Mary.”

Seriously.  Those of us who are the significant others of the Georges and Marys of the world probably should come up with some sort of support network for those folks.  Or at least give our enablees a brochure for their SO.   You know, something along the lines of:

So your wife is a spinner.

Breathe.  Relax.  It will all be ok.  Just remember to breathe.  Some rules which might help you . . .

• Trust that while it all looks insane, she has not lost her mind.
• She may forget basics now and then in the excitement of a new toy or fiber, but she has not forgotten you.
• Love of an agonizingly soft fiber does not mean she loves you any less.
• Now and then the house may smell like hot vinegar baths while she dyes fiber or yarn.  Don’t fret; it’s not permanent.  There’s a cake on tomorrow’s menu.
• The new dust bunnies which seem to have reproduced on their own are also temporary.  They’ll get picked up on the next vacuum run.  Eventually.
• Consider how clever she is to have learned this thing, how creative she is to have made something new, and how much you’re going to enjoy that thing she’s making for you when she finally finishes it—even if it’s the ugliest of its kind you’ve ever seen.
• Consider the possibility of fiber pursuits being a lesser evil.  There are certainly worse obsessions.
• Trust that eventually—hopefully—she will acquire some sort of balance with it all.
• Above all, remember to breathe.  Everything else falls apart if you forget to breathe.

I thought about all that last Saturday, when we had the first open-house spinning meeting.  So far, I had recruited 6 new spinners.  Six.  I’m proud of them, and they’re a foundation for something new and wonderful.

I didn’t know how many to expect at this first meeting.  I’d made the appropriate connections with the regional Husflidslag consultant who had then sent the information on to the heads of the local chapters.  I’d briefly announced the meeting on Spinnerens Hjem and Hobbyboden.  I’d dropped off a flyer with the three local yarn shops:  Garnhuset, Jens Hoff, and Husfliden.

But there was no way of knowing what to expect.  As far as I knew, I could be the only one there, although I’d gotten word that there would be at least three others, and a number of other folks wanted to come as well.  But you and I both know how those things go; people often say they’d like to do something but life and other interests intervene.  So, I packed my starter-spinner box of fiber and improvised spindles, the Babe in case I needed a training wheel, my Rose and some Spunky Eclectic fiber club fiber and half prepared to have a quiet afternoon of solitary spinning if none of my new recruits showed up.

They showed up.  Of my 6 new spinners, 4 were there.  Plus Wenche (a relatively new but fast-learning spinner who has begun her own online shop), that made 6.

But we didn’t have 6.

We had 14.

Fourteen.

The six of us (plus one daughter of about 8 who got to help her mom by treadling Wenche’s Baynes while her mom handled the plying process), plus 8 new faces.

I was astonished.  Fourteen.  I keep turning that number over in my head and feeling absurdly pleased.

In the group, there were 3 experienced spinners, two of whom were older, and I was fascinated to see some of the things that had changed between their spinning history and mine.  They were taught to spin singles counterclockwise (S) while most new spinners today spin their singles clockwise (Z).  Accustomed to spinning Norwegian fleece (which usually means Norsk Hvit/Norwegian White), they worked toward less twist rather than more, particularly in plying.  The older of the three used “snelle” where the younger population seems to be using “spole” for “bobbin.”  There are changes, and I’m mightily intrigued.

But 14 for a first spinning meeting . . . Of course we won’t have all fourteen back; some will have discovered that spinning isn’t for them, and those SOs will sleep soundly never knowing how big a bullet they may have dodged.  But the others . . . I can see at least 8 of them becoming regulars.  Two of my earlier recruits have purchased wheels—and they’ve only been spinning for a few weeks on spindles.  One is on the hunt for a wheel.

One of the new folks asked if I’d do a demo for her knitting group in March, and perhaps let those who want to try their hand at it experiment a bit.

And I’m wondering whether we should print those brochures and attach one to each spindle . . .