Monday, March 13, 2017
We He got it running and then my friend Louise helped me figure out how the heck it worked and I made some generally terrible yarn which was tighter than a bowstring and hard as nails, but whatever, it was yarn, and I'd spun it! Hoo, that really felt like something. A few years later, Doc gave me an Ashford Kiwi for christmas, and everything changed, because the Kiwi was new and well-oiled and it had all the parts it needed, and the drive band wasn't constantly coming untied or falling off. I sat out on the porch with it, spinning clumpy wads of wool into lumpy skeins of yarn, and they still looked like the dog's breakfast, but I was happy. Once time, somebody actually stopped their car and came up onto my porch to watch me at work, fully amazed that people still did this sort of thing. I wanted to braid my hair and wear brown boots and calico aprons. Grow wheat and flax, maybe acquire a cow. I also entertained an irrational thought or two about getting a couple sheep, because why not? We live in the country, and I have this idea that they are really just dogs anyway, and how hard can it be, right? They're so cute in their little straw-filled pens at the fiber fair, gnawing on hay, letting the little children--and also me--scratch their wooly foreheads through the fencing. Eventually, Doc said one of the best and smartest things of his entire genius life: "Instead of getting two sheep, why don't we just go to the fair every year and buy two fleeces?"