The Yarn's Taking A Bath
The handspun Coopworth has been lolling around in a soaking tub today to finish the yarn. In the process, I've learned two things.
1. Yarn under hot water is not very photogenic.
2. Especially when it steams up the camera lens.
No harm done, luckily.
But the warm wet wool does smell nice. It's just a mild animal smell that reminds me whence it came.
To dry my precious yarn, I use the bright red towels my Mom provisioned me with long ago when I set out for school on my own. Later, on a shoestring in my own new household, I arranged them artfully as a skirt for my Christmas tree. They're utility towels now, the merry red a little faded, but still bringing back good memories.
Amazing the way the wool sheds the water when I pull it in its tied skeins out of the bath, and roll it and press it in a towel. It emerges from the towel barely damp and already springy.
In fact, wool seems altogether amazing to me. How is it that the bulky protective coat of a grass-cropping creature, matted as it is when it comes off his back, can be washed and brushed and twisted into long filaments to make fluffy water-resisting sweaters and gossamer shawls? How is it that the same fibers can lock together, matting again when we want them to, to make dense, sturdy felt? How did people figure all this out?
It's just miraculous.
Miraculous, too, to me at least, being new to all this, is how the wool that I've spun with my own hands and spinning wheel has become real, honest-to- goodness yarn to knit with.
Really, everything seems a little brighter today. Just look at the ball of Schaefer Anne sock yarn glistening in the morning sunlight. No wonder I couldn't wait until breakfast before casting on.