Dexter, the Wonder Dog

One of the things I most look forward to whenever we return to South Africa (besides hammocking, of course) is seeing Dexter. 

Dogs are plentiful in SA. The Sailor's parents currently have three of them, but Dexter is by far our favorite.

I think Dexter is actually smiling a little here, while sitting in his guard dog position.

You see, he was our wedding gift to the parents years ago, but somewhere along the way, he became 'our' dog. We took care of him in those early weeks and helped him adjust to life with the other dogs. Now, even though we can't take him with us across the ocean, he seems like 'our' dog whenever we visit. When we first got him, we thought for sure he was a Fox Terrier, but along the way, we figured out that he might be actually be a Jack Russel.

We're still not completely convinced of his lineage, but one thing is for sure, he's definitely still Dexter. 

And with a face like that, who wouldn't love to be greeted by a dog like Dexter daily?

I think he also knows he's a Wonder Dog. His only quirk? He sheds a ton. My blue cardi I'm knitting is full of white fur. It's definitely getting a good wash before I wear that thing.

Shades of Blue

Sunshine, shorts, sandals and hammocking... I must be in the Southern Hemisphere. I am trying to soak up as much Vitamin D as possible -- what a contrast to the snow and ice the Sailor and I left behind only a few days ago!  

For the trip, I specifically picked this cardigan pattern to knit. It’s not at all complicated (handy when trying to knit AND carry on a conversation when you're somewhat jet-lagged), plus it’s made of cotton (essential in my book for summertime knitting). I already made this same cardigan before, years ago, in a shade of green for my mother. 

I decided to make myself a blue one, so I ordered the yarn online. I realized later that it’s the exact same shade of blue as the first sweater I ever made -- one I knit and put together in Cape Town, the year I learned to knit. In fact I was wearing that first sweater the day the yarn arrived -- and I even chuckled a little to myself when I saw how similar the shades of blue were to each other. 

Apparently I'm drawn to all things blue when it comes to knitwear
(although I prefer my hammocks in pink and green...) 

Fitting then, that yesterday I set-up my trusty hammock and decided to float for a bit under the bright blue sky, while working on the blue cardi. 

Everyone should hammock. It's good for the soul. It's also the perfect way to see some shades of blue without feeling blue. Here's where to find your own Color Cloud Hammock. Even if you're still experiencing winter, if you order your hammock now, you'll have it in time for sunny skies and hot weather. 

* Full disclaimer... while I am friends with the fun and fabulous gals behind Color Cloud Hammocks, I received no compensation or goods from this post. Hammocking however, is contagious, so I do feel compelled to spread the word. 

Table Mountain: Framed

I sold a photography print this week. It's been a few months since I've done any photo shows, so it was a nice change of pace from what I have been working on. I love what digital photography has done for our world -- no more film rolls! However, after looking at photos on the screen for so long, it is a wonderful treat to see one actually printed out and framed. 
 

 
The lady who ordered the print had previously purchased a smaller photo of one of my shots of Table Mountain, Cape Town, South Africa. The last time we were there, the Sailor and I went for a late afternoon stroll, and I took my small Sony point and shoot camera with me.  The light was amazing and I took several shots of the mountain and the sea. 
 

This one was one of my favorites.

Further down the beach on that same walk, I took this shot of a lonely boy fishing. 

Some of my all time favorite photos have been with small cameras. I love my Nikon d80, but sometimes less is more. It's unlikely I would have carried that big camera on our walk. The Sony, on the other hand, fit right in my pocket. The result? Table Mountain, framed and ready to hang on the wall.

Driving Myself Crazy

I haven't created much in the past few days, except lists. To do lists, shopping lists, places to visit lists. 

It's not that I didn't want to create -- it's just that I've been driving. A lot. Seven hundred and twenty miles worth so far. And it's a little hard to knit, crochet or bake while I'm behind the wheel. In fact I'm feeling a little crazy that I haven't made anything in the past few days. 

But it is wonderful to do a bunch of other things when it's just me in the car.

So fun, in fact that I made up a list of the reasons why I love a good solo road trip.

1. I can stop anywhere I like, anytime I like, without consulting the other passenger/driver -- aka, the Sailor. In my case, I got a little distracted by 'junk'. I stopped at no less than half a dozen antique shops along the I-81 corridor within a 24 hour period. Seriously, people... there is no lack of stuff waiting to be purchased by collectors and vintage hunters alike, right off the highway -- like that nifty little Pyrex sugar bowl I scored for only two bucks. The good news is, there are even more antique shops that I didn't stop at, and there is always the drive home. 

The downside: Nobody is telling me to get a move on so that I actually make it to my destination at a respectable hour, like before dark.

2. I can eat whatever I like, whenever I like, including the Sailor's turkey jerky I was saving just for him when he came home, along with leftover Christmas cookies.

The downside: It took me the best part of 20 minutes to wrestle the turkey jerky bag open by myself. And I ate too many cookies and felt quite lethargic by the time I reached my destination (and of course I couldn't even go for a walk to burn off at least one cookie, because I spent too long looking at junk and it was dark by the time I arrived.)

3.  I can pack the car however I want, which means I can take up the entire trunk with my stuff. Plus, I can keep my enormous handbag and the aforementioned snacks all within reach on the passenger seat.

The downside: I packed the cooler in the wrong place and therefore couldn't reach any of the drinks while driving. Plus, I had to load and unload all of my stuff. I never have to do that on a road trip with the Sailor.

4. I can listen to whatever songs I want and flip through as many radio stations as possible, singing at the top of my lungs. 

The downside: There really is no downside to this. Singing at the top of your lungs should be compulsory on a solo road trip. Or any road trip for that matter. Who cares if there are other passengers. They probably want to belt out some tunes too -- sing loud enough, drive them crazy enough and they'll start singing to drown you out. (Oh wait... maybe that only happens to me?!)

So there's that list done. Now to create that list of projects I still need to finish -- starting with this lonely sock:

 

Cyrillic Signatures

This week, I sent a card to a Ukrainian friend. And when I went to sign my name, I got as far as the equivalent of 'Bren...' in Cyrillic and stopped.

I couldn't for the life of me remember how to write out a 'D'. I'm still not sure I have it right. 

I felt like I was losing my marbles a bit. 

You see, I know how to write my name in Cyrillic. I've written it out hundreds of times. It's the one thing I can actually spell in Cyrillic.

In 1995, I entered Ukraine for the first time to teach English on a summer trip. Only English teachers and a few students seemed to be speak English, at least where I was. The Soviet Union had since collapsed, but to me, as a naive American college student, things still seemed shaky.

I didn't have a lot of control over the entire summer situation, so I wanted to at least have a little control over how I communicated. Until that summer, I had never felt like a strong communicator -- I was born with a cleft palate which left me a little nasally. Kids made fun of me throughout school and in fact when I applied to work in Ukraine I was initially turned down because the organizer felt that people wouldn't understand me. 

(I was a little baffled by this, considering that it seemed nobody would understand anybody who spoke English, in any case.)

I think deep down, I wanted to prove people wrong. I could communicate. And I would do it well. That first summer there I struggled. People spoke Russian, Ukrainian and their own dialect of Transcarpathian. Some days, I returned to our house, proud of myself for learning three new words, only to discover I had learned the same word -- just in three different tongues. 

From then on, I decided to only learn Russian. While I know I offended a few nationalists along the way, I figured that I would get to use Russian far more in my life than Ukrainian. And indeed I have. Russian came in handy many times and still occasionally does.

Conversationally, I was pretty good. I was able to at least communicate which tomatoes I wanted in the market, where I was going and when I may actually get there to my friends, and I could give some pretty decent directions and the time of day to complete strangers. 

Something was missing though. I needed to learn how to actually write these foreign letters. 

In between summers trips to Ukraine, I took a short Russian course in England to force myself to learn to write. I had the alphabet down, but nobody actually prints in Cyrillic. Everyone writes the equivalent of cursive -- and the cursive Cyrillic alphabet is very different to the printed one.

Eventually, I learned how to write enough Cyrillic to get by. My name, of course was essential. I was proud of myself for being able to fill out the Cyrillic customs forms and to sign my name at border crossings, so non-English speakers could read it. 

You can understand then why it came as a great shock to me when I couldn't even remember how to write my first name this week. 

I'm giving myself a little slack, since I haven't been to Ukraine for seven years. I'm hoping the recipient of my card on the other side of the world cuts me some slack too. I suspect I ended up spelling out 'BrenBa' instead of 'Brenda'. Oops.

Felt Clogs

In early Spring, I hauled my mom to New York City with me for a day out on the town. We went to the Natural History Museum, ate sushi, walked through Central Park, devoured far too much European goodness at my favorite Ukrainian diner, Veselka, and we spent some time in Knitty City.

I knew I couldn't buy any yarn -- I had previously made a promise to myself that I would diminish the stash significantly before purchasing more. Nothing prevented me from stocking up on patterns, however. After all, how could I use the stash without an idea of something to actually knit? 

The clerk quickly pointed out to me a pile of patterns on sale. I scored this one for Felt Clogs on clearance. 

After our road trip and the Bullion Beach Blanket, I wanted to make something quick and easy, so I found some 100% wool in the stash and proceeded to make a pair. 

Do you see the size of these things?! That foot wearing the hand knit blueish green socks on the right -- that's my size 10 (!) 

(Do not fear dear reader, my left foot is also there, simply inside the other clog...)

I will admit that I used a larger sized needle than the pattern called for, but these things were ridiculously huge. 

However, they felted to near perfection.

They were just a touch too small for my big feet, so I gave them to my mom instead. I had planned to make her a pair in any case. Considering she is the one who handed down to me the Bigfoot genes in the first place (which then multiplied and gave me bigger feet than her), I thought it only right that she got the first pair I made. Fitting, therefore, that she was also with me when I bought the pattern in the first place.

These things are fantastic. And considering I bought the pattern and yarn on clearance, they only cost me a whopping $3 to make (not factoring in the needles, which I think I may have gotten in South Africa for a mere $2 for another project.) 

I love it when thrifting meets knitting. Together, they make quite a pair. 

Snowfall and Snowflowers

After a solid week of rain in Idaho, it finally snowed. 

I finished knitting these fun fried chicken mitts just in time: 

To celebrate the true arrival of winter, I also crocheted my friend a snowflower: 

I love watching snow falling from a window -- unless that window is in the airport. I got stuck today in Minneapolis for an extra five hours. Sadly, I checked my bag with all of that new glorious yarn AND my needles. Even the mittens are in there.

I don't know what I was thinking -- I even bought some sock yarn and new needles especially for the trip home. Then before I knew it, I had checked my bag WITH said needles and yarn (and just about anything else one might like to have on a long layover -- like a toothbrush...) Clearly my coffee had not yet kicked in this morning, because I found myself telling multiple people at various check-in counters more than once today: 'Truly, I travel more often than it appears.'

And yet here I am, at a random hotel somewhere between an airport and home, without any yarn or needles, using an awful travel toothbrush that Delta so kindly gave me (along with the hotel bill), and now I have to wear the same socks tomorrow because I didn't knit myself a new pair along the way.

Thankfully, I remembered to carry my laptop with me. The chargers for every device I own, however, are also in luggage limbo.