We’re having the first little rain shower of the season, the setting sun gilding the mizzle and a delicate breeze ruffling the skirts of our big sweet gums. Dressing in haste this morning to get Ada to nursery school, I put on wool socks for the first time; they weren’t necessary, but they were at hand and didn’t seem like a terrible idea. Autumn isn’t here, but it’s imaginable. So here’s a teaser glimpse of a new design I’m hoping to finish up soon:

Apparently I really am a tease, because the only detail in focus in this picture of my test sock is one I’ve subsequently decided to alter. I am fond of that little row of flowerets, but they’re too prim and static for the rest of the design. I’ll use them again on a plainer sock where they can hold the spotlight. There’s more work to be done on the cuff as well, so I’ll be casting on a mate that won’t quite match. I love both these yarns (although neither will feature in the real sample because this much contrast is difficult to photograph) — the moonlight neutral is Socks that Rock in an old colorway… Mica, I think? Remember when all the colors had rock names? And the espresso brown is Hazel Knits Artisan Sock in Chocolatier. Yum.

I tend to dash off on a whim when I’m designing and expect everything to fall together. Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t. This sock has been a doesn’t — apart from the change I’m making to the toe, I’ve tried several different cables and two other cuffs and I’m still fine tuning. But the original vision is still leading me on and I have the sense it’s worth pursuing. So watch for more this fall and kick me if it’s not forthcoming!

I’ve finally taken some photos of the knitting that’s occupied my post-baby-bedtime evenings this summer. So I’ll trot them out one by one. And summer — at least by the calendar — is on the wane, so let’s just go ahead and eat dessert first:

(Yes, those are September raspberries. Have you ever seen the like?)

You wouldn’t have been able to let this skein languish in your stash, would you? It’s Stricken Smitten’s Smitten BFL Nylon Twist. It struck and smote me, as advertised, at Sock Summit. This base has actually got more nylon (20%) than I think it needs — 10% would have been more than sufficient for a longwool like BFL, in my opinion — and it’s got a rather squeaky hand as a result, but ooooooooooh, that cherry tart red! And that tight twist. This is a bombshell sock yarn just quivering for a chance to strut its stuff. And nothing shows off a yarn like this one better than twisted stitches, Bavarian style. So I cut it out of the herd for a riff on a Cookie A. pattern I’ve been planning. The jumping-off point is Kristi, from her Sock Innovation — I was immediately drawn to the slaloming double and single ribs, but I knew I’d never finish the socks if I attempted the jack-in-the-pulpit motif the ribs frame. That Cookie A. is a genius, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t stay up all night with sticky overheated babies and then try to knit from complicated charts for a round here and a round there. So I thought I’d keep those swooshy ribs but fill in with regular twisted rib so I’d be able to read my work more easily.

We’ll see what happens, but I have high hopes thus far. I actually did feel I needed a small, single-skein project on the needles because it’s really been too hot to swelter under a wool cardigan. Our late summer is just hitting its stride and treating us to a week of temperatures in the 90s (that’s the 30s in the Celsius world, right, Meg?), so we’re spending all the time we can in the wading pool, swinging on the front porch, and gobbling “hazboo” and “buhboo” (those are raspberries and blueberries to you and me) while the gobbling’s still good. I have a feeling it’ll be some weeks before I’m ready to contemplate putting a woolen sock on my foot, but it doesn’t hurt to think ahead, right?

It’s quiet here because I am having a deep soak up at home with my family and friends and the golden perfection of August in the islands. Ada has toddled on the docks to peer at anemones and chitons and limpets (Mama had to restrain her from stepping right down into the sea, fearless, trusting tot); gorged on blueberries and mulberries in a friend’s garden; been sized up by newly caught mustangs; eaten pie at the County Fair; signed “milk” to me while watching a runty but enterprising piglet suckle one teat after the next as his brothers and sisters slept in an irresistible wriggly heap; dozed on long walks with her dad and grandfather; played the piano six exuberant times a day with both hands and her left foot; watched Mama and Granny pull thistles in the meadow; learned to say “oof” while pointing at a picture of a dog; and not least, but at last, has grown two comically crooked teeth. (Note to self: Stop buying so much wool so you can sock away the necessary funds for braces.)

To give you a midweek lift, I offer this edifying school report composed by my great-great-uncle Samuel Cauldwell in 1871, when he was nine years old:

The Camel.
To write anything about a Camel is very hard because he has such a long crooked neck. And he also has two humps except where he only has one, and they are to hang on by when you fall off. He has no stummick but only a pail of water inside of him, put so he can help himself easy. They fill it at the pump before he starts. His hair is bright red and blue and green; for Camel’s hair shawls have to be made of it. The Camel is very much like the monkey only he is made different. There is no more about the Camel.

(Ada has not yet met the resident island camel, so sadly I can’t close with an apt photo. Camels, like horses, are Extremely Large and probably therefore Just a Tad Bit Worrisome. Goats and sheep and pigs and calves are a better scale at the moment, but we’re working on the horses.)

More accurately, now we are thirty-three! Ada and I had birthdays. One of us had cake; the other fell asleep before dinner was over. One of us got a swing and a handknit bear; the other got  a bunch of yarn and a 50mm camera lens.

(Mama needs to practice with this nifty new lens a whole lot. And find shooting locations with more light.)

I think it’s a toss-up which of us had the more wonderful, challenging, mind-expanding year. Like all fresh parents, I can only marvel at the metamorphosis that turns a dozy, squeaky, half-cooked scrap of newborn into a sturdy, busy, willful toddler who comes home from nursery school with marker on her face and glitter in her hair in twelve short months.

(Like the dress? It’s another vintage keepsake that once belonged to our most excellent neighbor Barb!)

Here’s to making the most of every day until we’re 35, my little love.