Tuesday Night Sock Update 3

So it's another Tuesday night and I'm STILL making socks! What were the odds?

Pretty good, as a matter of fact. I was stuck on the heel of the Bed Socks all weekend. It's been years since I'd knitted a sock, so it took me a little while to realize I HAD NEVER DONE SHORT ROWS BEFORE IN MY LIFE.

I was gobsmacked with shock. How had I made socks before?

I ripped out my failed attempt at short rows and thought about it. I'd made socks maybe four, five years ago. It wasn't from a book I owned, because I would still have it, and the only book I've possessed for more than a year with sock instructions in it I'm fairly certain I've never really make socks from. (It's an Argyle pattern. I didn't finish them.) It wasn't an internet pattern. Did I just make it up as I went?

Judging by my other early knitting projects, I'm afraid the answer to that is YES. I knew how to knit, purl, decrease and increase back then. I must have been putting the sock on my foot every couple minutes to figure out if I needed another yo or not.

That first sock must have taken me a while. Wish I still had it - it would be like archeological evidence of the reinvention of the wheel, only in sock heel knitting.

I did finally get a handle on short rows Sunday night (after much panicking and heavy breathing). Continuing the Bed Sock pattern through the heel and onto the sole was making me crazy on my first short row attempt, so I ripped that out and merrily knitted up a Dutch heel with 3x3 ribbing. It looks a little weird, I admit, but I thought stocking stitch for the heel and sole after all that openwork would be too much of a contrast.

When I finished the heel and started on the gusset I got a euphoric rush that was not unlike that experienced when eating expensive Belgium chocolate or say, being given $100 credit at a yarn shop. It felt like I was going to be k3togging my way through the leg forever, and I was finally free! Free!

I'm not really concerned about ruining the mystery behind this X-mas gift by posting photos of it since I'm fairly certain my mom has never thought to visit this blog. I asked Sibling #7 if our mother even realizes I'm making her TV socks, and she said she told her, and the action was approved of in what I interpret to be (as much as one can interpret these things through email) an extremely nonchalant manner. Hmmm. Must ask Sibling #7 if she clearly stressed that I'm making knitted socks. (Perhaps I am knitting for the wrong audience. Grandma, do you want hand-knit TV socks?)

RURAL NOSTALGIA
You may notice when reading this blog (as opposed to just breezing through, looking at the pictures! That's right, I'm onto you!) that I sometimes make references to primitive conditions, nature, and livestock. This is not because I am interested in cultural anthropology. It is that ever vigilant (and surprisingly widespread) psychological disease, Rural Nostalgia.

Rural Nostalgia comes in many forms and strengths, the most publicized form being Urbanis Relocatis, wherein seemingly "normal" people (such as New York stockbrokers) astonish their wife and kids by suddenly liquidating all their worldly assets to breed llamas, or grow squash, or some other such occupation they read about in a book, miles and miles away from a descent sushi bar. Ruralis Regressivis (which is more along along the line of what I suffer from) is usually quite innocuous, resulting in much whining and many calls home to Iowa to ask how the barn roof weathered some minor storm.

In my case the symptoms rival my chronic sinitus. Do I feel ill because of the level of particulate matter in the air today, or is it my yearning for wet socks and a long walk home, uphill along a soft shoulder littered with pine cones? Is the ventilation really so poor in underground subway platforms that I feel nauseous, or is it just a premonition that my dad is procrastinating about "making wood" this year? Dammit, he knows it should be done by the rainy season, not during!

Where did I contract this terrible illness?

I contracted it at birth. I'm from Mendocino County, California.

Ah, you say, I see the problem. Redwoods and quaint clapboard houses and a thermometer that rarely dips to freezing. Ocean views and lots of live jazz and raggedy artists painting blue whales. Headlands covered in wildflowers and sea grass and nights where you can see the Milky Way with the naked eye.

Oh, man, why did I move?

Oh, yeah! I remember now: I was related to half the town, and the other half I knew everything about anyway. Nothing like knowing someone's dating history and income before you even meet them. And there isn't an architecture school in Mendocino County, California.

Maybe my allergy to city air is just a subconscious ploy on my part to rationalize moving to the country? In the meantime, I'll be comforted that I have managed to move to a place that gets overcast and foggy - just like home - although it is somewhat more frigid here at this time of year.