Knitters know, there's your stash and then there's your Koigu stash. My general stash is made up of yarn for future projects. I have an idea of what the yarn will be -- a scarf, a baby sweater, a cardigan -- when I buy it. I have a sense of who it will be for -- mostly me, sometimes a friend or relative, never a boyfriend (there's a whole legend about the boyfriend sweater and the doom that accompanies it). But when it comes to Koigu, any sense of reason goes right out the window. I will buy it to make something. I will buy it to look at. The number of skeins available in the color I'm lusting after is superfluous. I will buy one skein -- 175 yards, hardly enough to make anything -- if the color is tempting enough, and then I will create a whole scenario about how I will find other yarns to blend with it in order to justify the purchase. I was fortunate to take a workshop with Sally Melville this spring, and learn how to make a garter stitch scarf with one skein of Koigu and 2-3 solid colors of fine weight yarn, thereby giving me license to pick up individual skeins of Koigu to my heart's content. For the rest of my life. How great is that?
Koigu is fingering weight, which means it's knit on teeny, tiny needles, size 3 or smaller. That means a long-sleeved pullover can take you, well, forever. At least a year, allowing for other UFO's and project diversions. I have a fetching sweater just like that on the needles -- a simple, classic Jaeger pattern, with just one sleeve to complete. I hope it will be finished by the new year. Though I think that was my plan for last year as well. I try to use this UFO to reign in my profligacy. I cannot, will not, purchase enough Koigu for another sweater (10 skeins or so) when this one leaves me feeling so guilty. My solution, then, is to only buy in small quantities. Two skeins, say, for a pair of socks. But it never seems worthwhile to make Koigu socks because they'll be on your feet, and who will get to admire them? Instead, I've made a scarf out of two skeins. And I've laid aside at least eight skeins for gauntlets (I plan to have very warm and beautiful arm candy in the near future). Still I can't stop myself. I have three or four individual skeins to make up into the Sally Melville scarves (for me? for friends? whatever). And during last month's little spree at the Knitting Basket, I had to have the two skeins in a peachy, lavender combo that I don't care if I ever knit. Of course, they went onto the needles over the weekend, and the previous pair of gauntlets in an irresistibly beautiful shade went into the knitting pile.
I'm going to grab the niecelet and her digital camera so you can see how enticing this yarn is. And sometimes, it's very soothing to be working on teeny, tiny needles so you can see how the color is distributed on each stitch...
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
Garden ramblings
My garden is:
When I moved into the Berkeley bungalow seven years ago, the front and back yards were overgrown and untended, but had great features. In the front were a yellowing camellia bush, a rhododendron and a huge white azalea bush, all of which reminded me of the shade garden in the Haight I was leaving behind. And there was a whacking great bird of paradise which returned me to my Southern California childhood.
It was the back yard, though, that closed the deal. A magnolia tree with sturdy branches you could sit on. A corner plot of bamboo that seemed contained. Three beds of calla lilies. More white azalea shrubs and a listless white camellia. A little grove of fuchsias in the shadow of a walnut tree. A rose bush that bloomed velvety red roses. And the jackpot -- a rose tree that produced sprays of peachy/pinky blossoms, plus two peony bushes, one red and one white. Never mind the weeds, the crabgrass, the overall dishabille -- I was moving to Berkeley for sunshine and roses and tomatoes, and here was a garden.
The following year, I stumbled across Ashley and Awesome Blossom. She put everything in order by pruning, weeding, shaping, adjusting, designing and introducing new plants. The front yard and back were glorious when she was done. And after another year, this time with me weeding and feeding and watering, the back yard came into its own. The white camellia that I'd fretted over bloomed, then shot out new growth. A plot of huge, fragrant, pink lilies encroached on the bamboo bed. And rose bushes that I thought were sticks, produced a few buds and then a flower or two.
Berkeley is blessed with terrific nurseries -- Magic Gardens, Berkeley Hort., East Bay Nursery -- and I spent many happy hours absorbing their offerings and researching them in my Sunset Garden Book. And then I discovered Annie's Annuals in Richmond and became a flower floozie. There have been hits and misses (more than a few misses!), but by now the garden has expanded beyond Ashley's influence and feels like my own. The columbine that had wilted in years past, is now filling in nicely alongside the poppies and lilies. The cheddar pinks and scabiosa I discovered in Shetland blend with the love-in-a-mist that has spread like wildfire.
The heavy heat from last week seems to have broken, and the garden's long soak now lasts a few days. I poke through the branches of the walnut and magnolia trees, looking for where to prune. There are not so many weeds, but more and more leaves fall and I think about where to put bulbs. The pink and white Japanese anemones have popped, and the dahlias look like they're trying to bud.
You plant a garden, tend it for a few years, and think you know all its secrets. The only mystery I was pondering was where to put the bougainvillea a friend had dropped off in August. As I was poking around the flower bed, a long, creamy, bell-shaped flower with a dusky sweet scent landed beside me. I had no recollection of buying a plant that could produce such a beauty with such an aroma, and was wondering how it could have arrived in my garden. I looked up and at the very top of a tree that is now taller than my house, I could just make out where the flower might have fallen from as well as sprays on a few neighboring branches. And I couldn't believe it. This tree started out as a little china doll plant in a 4" container that lived on the deck of my house in the Haight. I'd bought it on a lark at Cole Hardware, meaning to put it in a proper pot and bring it indoors. It stayed outside and when I moved to Berkeley, I just stuck it in the ground to see what would happen. It wasn't meant to have so much sun, and the dark, ivy green leaves grew lighter and lighter, then turned yellow and fell off. But the plant got a stalk and kept growing. As the years went by, it sprouted a few trunks and they kept climbing up too. No leaves for the first 3 feet or so, but then they'd bunch out on skinny little branches, the leaves retaining their distinctive shape, now sporting a bright shade of green. The trunks never got bigger than a foot in diameter and they framed the flower beds. The rustling of leaves from the upper reaches mirrored the sound of the bamboo shoots across the garden. And there, I thought, was my garden surprise.
Now, an added bonus -- amazing tropical flowers that fall from the sky. Who knew? And what will my next garden surprise be?
- delightfully forgiving
- a work in progress
- still able to surprise me
- this year, the best it's ever been.
When I moved into the Berkeley bungalow seven years ago, the front and back yards were overgrown and untended, but had great features. In the front were a yellowing camellia bush, a rhododendron and a huge white azalea bush, all of which reminded me of the shade garden in the Haight I was leaving behind. And there was a whacking great bird of paradise which returned me to my Southern California childhood.
It was the back yard, though, that closed the deal. A magnolia tree with sturdy branches you could sit on. A corner plot of bamboo that seemed contained. Three beds of calla lilies. More white azalea shrubs and a listless white camellia. A little grove of fuchsias in the shadow of a walnut tree. A rose bush that bloomed velvety red roses. And the jackpot -- a rose tree that produced sprays of peachy/pinky blossoms, plus two peony bushes, one red and one white. Never mind the weeds, the crabgrass, the overall dishabille -- I was moving to Berkeley for sunshine and roses and tomatoes, and here was a garden.
The following year, I stumbled across Ashley and Awesome Blossom. She put everything in order by pruning, weeding, shaping, adjusting, designing and introducing new plants. The front yard and back were glorious when she was done. And after another year, this time with me weeding and feeding and watering, the back yard came into its own. The white camellia that I'd fretted over bloomed, then shot out new growth. A plot of huge, fragrant, pink lilies encroached on the bamboo bed. And rose bushes that I thought were sticks, produced a few buds and then a flower or two.
Berkeley is blessed with terrific nurseries -- Magic Gardens, Berkeley Hort., East Bay Nursery -- and I spent many happy hours absorbing their offerings and researching them in my Sunset Garden Book. And then I discovered Annie's Annuals in Richmond and became a flower floozie. There have been hits and misses (more than a few misses!), but by now the garden has expanded beyond Ashley's influence and feels like my own. The columbine that had wilted in years past, is now filling in nicely alongside the poppies and lilies. The cheddar pinks and scabiosa I discovered in Shetland blend with the love-in-a-mist that has spread like wildfire.
The heavy heat from last week seems to have broken, and the garden's long soak now lasts a few days. I poke through the branches of the walnut and magnolia trees, looking for where to prune. There are not so many weeds, but more and more leaves fall and I think about where to put bulbs. The pink and white Japanese anemones have popped, and the dahlias look like they're trying to bud.
You plant a garden, tend it for a few years, and think you know all its secrets. The only mystery I was pondering was where to put the bougainvillea a friend had dropped off in August. As I was poking around the flower bed, a long, creamy, bell-shaped flower with a dusky sweet scent landed beside me. I had no recollection of buying a plant that could produce such a beauty with such an aroma, and was wondering how it could have arrived in my garden. I looked up and at the very top of a tree that is now taller than my house, I could just make out where the flower might have fallen from as well as sprays on a few neighboring branches. And I couldn't believe it. This tree started out as a little china doll plant in a 4" container that lived on the deck of my house in the Haight. I'd bought it on a lark at Cole Hardware, meaning to put it in a proper pot and bring it indoors. It stayed outside and when I moved to Berkeley, I just stuck it in the ground to see what would happen. It wasn't meant to have so much sun, and the dark, ivy green leaves grew lighter and lighter, then turned yellow and fell off. But the plant got a stalk and kept growing. As the years went by, it sprouted a few trunks and they kept climbing up too. No leaves for the first 3 feet or so, but then they'd bunch out on skinny little branches, the leaves retaining their distinctive shape, now sporting a bright shade of green. The trunks never got bigger than a foot in diameter and they framed the flower beds. The rustling of leaves from the upper reaches mirrored the sound of the bamboo shoots across the garden. And there, I thought, was my garden surprise.
Now, an added bonus -- amazing tropical flowers that fall from the sky. Who knew? And what will my next garden surprise be?
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Solace
For me, for these past many years, September is the cruelest month. I know I will be pitched around, submerged beneath some icy, stormy waves, left without my bearings. Some days, I'll be energetic and accomplish items on my to-do list. On far too many others, my custom-blend, java wake-up pot will ping harmlessly against my torpor.
September has signalled many happy times in my life. The beginning of a new school year, the anticipation of reuniting with friends, the excitement of opening football games. When I lived on the east coast, there would always be that one September morning when you left the house attired in your cotton and short sleeves prepped for the summer heat and humidity. But overnight, it was gone -- collapsed and dissipated for the year. You needed a sweater that morning, that day, and the layering season had begun. Here in Northern California, Sept. weather can be anything -- heated, chilly, foggy, clear -- it's just a way station for next month's Indian summer.
Establishing a routine, putting together year-end goals, outlining major projects -- all the big ideas, the semblances of order -- seem to exhaust me as I ponder them. Where will I summon the energy to put them into effect? And so I seek solace in small ways, in circumscribed activities. Knitting on small needles. Listening to Keith Jarrett's Koln Concert. Folding the laundry. Dreaming of the perfect guacamole. If the weeds don't get pulled, if the green recycling bin doesn't get put out, I'll try again in two weeks.
And in spite of myself, I can still be surprised, still brush up against unanticipated pleasures. Meeting the boys after school on Tuesday, I experienced the life of their school for the first time this year. There is nothing so alive as an elementary school at the end of the school day! The explosion of energy as kids stream out of the doors and down the steps to meet waiting parents and siblings. Son the younger, the daredevil, is riding around the playground on his trick bike with one friend propped on the handlebars, while another friend tries to say goodbye. We have to rush to avoid a parking ticket and so join the throng of families on the sidewalk, checking to see that we have everything -- backpacks, sweatshirts, homework -- before we dash to the bakery, on the way to the barbershop, to get back home in time for dinner, so that mom can head off to back to school night. I get to babysit the boys, negotiate double dessert, check over homework and curl up with them and a movie, while mom visits with this year's teachers.
Routine, goals, projects... forget about it 'til next month. For today, tonight, I'll just go along for the ride with them.
September has signalled many happy times in my life. The beginning of a new school year, the anticipation of reuniting with friends, the excitement of opening football games. When I lived on the east coast, there would always be that one September morning when you left the house attired in your cotton and short sleeves prepped for the summer heat and humidity. But overnight, it was gone -- collapsed and dissipated for the year. You needed a sweater that morning, that day, and the layering season had begun. Here in Northern California, Sept. weather can be anything -- heated, chilly, foggy, clear -- it's just a way station for next month's Indian summer.
Establishing a routine, putting together year-end goals, outlining major projects -- all the big ideas, the semblances of order -- seem to exhaust me as I ponder them. Where will I summon the energy to put them into effect? And so I seek solace in small ways, in circumscribed activities. Knitting on small needles. Listening to Keith Jarrett's Koln Concert. Folding the laundry. Dreaming of the perfect guacamole. If the weeds don't get pulled, if the green recycling bin doesn't get put out, I'll try again in two weeks.
And in spite of myself, I can still be surprised, still brush up against unanticipated pleasures. Meeting the boys after school on Tuesday, I experienced the life of their school for the first time this year. There is nothing so alive as an elementary school at the end of the school day! The explosion of energy as kids stream out of the doors and down the steps to meet waiting parents and siblings. Son the younger, the daredevil, is riding around the playground on his trick bike with one friend propped on the handlebars, while another friend tries to say goodbye. We have to rush to avoid a parking ticket and so join the throng of families on the sidewalk, checking to see that we have everything -- backpacks, sweatshirts, homework -- before we dash to the bakery, on the way to the barbershop, to get back home in time for dinner, so that mom can head off to back to school night. I get to babysit the boys, negotiate double dessert, check over homework and curl up with them and a movie, while mom visits with this year's teachers.
Routine, goals, projects... forget about it 'til next month. For today, tonight, I'll just go along for the ride with them.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Kicking it to the curb
As long as I've been a reader, I've felt a responsibility to finish a book. I'm still hauling around novels from undergraduate classes that one day I mean to finish. Henry James', The Ambassadors. George Meredith's, The Egoist. Sir Walter Scott's, The Heart of Midlothian. But I've also reached a point in my life when I recognize one day, I'll run of time. I might not finish all those books. I definitely won't finish all the knitting projects. And so, I'm trying to be discerning. All right, cutthroat. This is my year of heartlessly not finishing books. Kicking them to the curb, if you will, for not grabbing or holding my interest. If I gave the raw numbers, the year would not be deemed a success. But with each volume, I try to give myself a pat on the back and let go of a little guilt.
This week was big. I cut loose two novels by authors whose past works I've enjoyed -- Katie Fforde's, Bidding for Love and Jane Smiley's, Ten Days in the Hills. Fforde wasn't that hard; I've felt she was tiredly working old territory as I slogged through her past few books. The opening page of this one introduced our harried heroine and her pregnant cat and I just thought, go no further. I had far more hope for Smiley, but her first chapter was so tedious -- the characters unappealing, the subject matter too forced, the writing style too didactic. I skipped ahead, hoping that new characters would hold my attention. By page 80, I knew I was out of luck and returned it to the library that afternoon. It was a double victory -- in the past I would have purchased the hardback based on her track record. I'd now saved myself $26.00, as well as a lot of time.
Unfortunately, I did force myself to finish a lackluster mystery, the latest in a series that I can abandon. I hung in there because I'd just finished a luminous novel, and I knew whatever I read next wouldn't be able to compare. The novel was A Day at the Beach, by Helen Schuman, a writer I hadn't heard of. It's about Manhattan on 9/11, and the path one couple takes in its immediate aftermath. I'd consciously avoided such novels, but this one was surprisingly arresting and so beautifully written I couldn't put it down, finishing it about 2 a.m. Among other things, it posed the question, does art make life worth living? Does it really help redeem disaster? I love discovering finds like this, and it's something that's happened more often as I've taken advantage of my local library, eight blocks from home and on the way to everything.
It's the discovery that makes reading so satisfying, not duty.
This week was big. I cut loose two novels by authors whose past works I've enjoyed -- Katie Fforde's, Bidding for Love and Jane Smiley's, Ten Days in the Hills. Fforde wasn't that hard; I've felt she was tiredly working old territory as I slogged through her past few books. The opening page of this one introduced our harried heroine and her pregnant cat and I just thought, go no further. I had far more hope for Smiley, but her first chapter was so tedious -- the characters unappealing, the subject matter too forced, the writing style too didactic. I skipped ahead, hoping that new characters would hold my attention. By page 80, I knew I was out of luck and returned it to the library that afternoon. It was a double victory -- in the past I would have purchased the hardback based on her track record. I'd now saved myself $26.00, as well as a lot of time.
Unfortunately, I did force myself to finish a lackluster mystery, the latest in a series that I can abandon. I hung in there because I'd just finished a luminous novel, and I knew whatever I read next wouldn't be able to compare. The novel was A Day at the Beach, by Helen Schuman, a writer I hadn't heard of. It's about Manhattan on 9/11, and the path one couple takes in its immediate aftermath. I'd consciously avoided such novels, but this one was surprisingly arresting and so beautifully written I couldn't put it down, finishing it about 2 a.m. Among other things, it posed the question, does art make life worth living? Does it really help redeem disaster? I love discovering finds like this, and it's something that's happened more often as I've taken advantage of my local library, eight blocks from home and on the way to everything.
It's the discovery that makes reading so satisfying, not duty.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Fall Books addenda
In my earlier post, I neglected to mention new works by two stupendous, young(er) writers. Luckily, Michiko Kakutani reminded me with today's reviews of Edwidge Danticat's, A Haitian Tragedy: Brothers Yearn in Vain and Junot Diaz's, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I've been mesmerized by their earlier works, and consider them part of a critical, new wave of writers who tell migration stories that differ from the traditionally positive tales, the success stories favored by earlier generations. Hailing from Haiti and the Dominican Republic, they give voice to the oppression and violence in their home countries, giving us a valuable perspective on the instrumental and hidden role the American government played in propping up corrupt and violent regimes.
At the other end of the spectrum is Penelope Lively's, Consequences, which I just finished and quite enjoyed. It is a quiet, introspective novel looking at the role fate, or luck, plays in a number of characters' lives. A young man and woman meet in a London park, and fall in love. Everything that comes after is linked to that one action. Lively's writing plays to my English major's sensibility, with prose that is both precise and delicate. Here's an example:
At the other end of the spectrum is Penelope Lively's, Consequences, which I just finished and quite enjoyed. It is a quiet, introspective novel looking at the role fate, or luck, plays in a number of characters' lives. A young man and woman meet in a London park, and fall in love. Everything that comes after is linked to that one action. Lively's writing plays to my English major's sensibility, with prose that is both precise and delicate. Here's an example:
"It sometimes seemed to Molly that the library was a place of silent discord and anarchy, its superficial tranquility concealing a babel of assertion and dispute. Fiction is one strident lie -- or rather, many competing lies; history is a long narrative of argument and reassessment; travel shouts of self-promotion; biography is pushing a product. As for autobiography . . . And all this is just fine. That is the function of books: they offer a point of view, they offer many conflicting points of view, they provoke thought, they provoke irritation and admiration and speculation. They take you out of yourself and put you down somewhere else from whence you never entirely return... The surface repose of a library is a cynical deception."That's a great example of why I love reading British women writers. It links the worlds of Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Virginia Woolf and lots of others with the present day -- both the subject matter and the writing style. The members of my writing group spend no small amount of time discussing these "internal" novels, which are classified, frequently and dismissively, as "women's fiction". Meaning the type of fiction women write, but also describing a whole genre in which emotions figure prominently and the focus is on a woman's world. It's tone is quiet and domestic, rather than gregarious and action-packed style of men writers.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
my local rag is dying
They announced the latest round of layoffs in the spring, but the demise began long before that.
I felt the stab in my heart on Sunday, July 17 when Live!Rude!Girl! announced this was her last column. She was one of the few columnists worth reading and, along with Minerva's horoscope and the Frank Longo crossword puzzle, the only redeeming thing about the San Francisco Chronicle's Pink section.
The signs it was going wrong began so, so long ago. When the Sporting Green turned white instead of green. When Adair Lara became an occasional reporter instead of a regular columnist. When the Sunday Book Review shrank to four pages. And I won't even start on the Phil Bronstein mismatch. But most annoyingly, through all the mayhem and upheaval, the Chron has yet to figure out how to eliminate the. damn. creases. in. sections. of. the. paper. The creases are never in the whole paper, just in the one section you inevitably want to kick back and read. The sports section. The datebook section. The silly Matier and Ross political gossip (not news, never news) column. But you can't just relax and read because you have to keep yanking to straighten the paper. And you can't yank too hard or you'll rip the page, and the paper's barely readable as it is. How have they not ponied up for the technology to fix this? How hard can it be?
One of my dear friends, Ms. Q, is a crackerjack reporter in NYC who grew up on the Chronicle. Her brother wrote for it for years, and she still waxes nostalgic about Herb Caen's columns. And I loved the paper in the 80's and early 90's when Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City ran in daily installments, Patricia Holt produced a thoughtful, comprehensive Book Review that featured new and local writers as well as the accepted "old guard", Susan Yoachum wrote some of the shrewdest political commentary ever, Marc Sandalow offered serious coverage of the local political scene, and Louis Freeberg contributed an insider's view on the dissolution of the old South Africa, while posing provocative and timely questions about how race still permeates American life. The Chron would never be a paper of record like the New York Times or the Washington Post, and it didn't offer the in-depth coverage of the Los Angeles Times, the paper I grew up reading. But it had some amazing talent and it gave them a free hand to cover their beats, while accurately covering the concerns of our bustling little (and parochial) metropolis. The paper was defensible for what it was, and ambitious journalists knew to leave for more competitive papers 'cuz the Chron never had serious aspirations to be anything other than the local rag.
The initial death knell rang years ago when the Examiner folded and the Chronicle and Examiner staffs merged. Two fully staffed newsrooms in a city that produced little of note was a precarious scenario from the get go. So cuts were made (i.e. reporters let go) where there was "duplication". Some would call that the first blow. But the merger came with a financial cushion that was good for a few years, so there was a lot of grumbling, but little desperation. This stage included a lot of Phil Bronstein blustering about the Chronicle having to redefine itself for its current audience. (Translation -- a former foreign correspondent who covered the destruction in Central America during the '80's is now crafting the paper to appeal to Contra Costa County readers to boost market share).
Then the rumblings about losing money began in earnest. And escalated. And everywhere, all you heard was the paper's hemorrhaging money, and can't hold on much longer. In June, the announcement came that the paper would make a 20% cut in its staff, with buyouts and whatever polite euphemism you want to use for firing.
That, at least, is my interpretation of why my local rag is dying. But what do I know? A more informed version of the events can be found at David Weir's website, hotweir.blogspot.com, under the Aug. 17 entry.
As much as it's pained me to see talented journalists depart and an institution flag, the greatest affront has got to be a current feature on the Chronicle's website, sfgate.com. It's a tribute to all those loyal, departing staff entitled: Colleagues Remembered, The San Francisco Chronicle honors departing staff members. I kid you not. See why it's been referred to as the Comical?
It's kind of like a murderer writing his victim's obituary. Okay, that comparison's out of proportion. But the feature is tasteless. And offensive. And too often, that's the state of contemporary "news" in America.
My Sunday's are not the same without Live!Rude!Girl! To sample some of her work, check her out at www.myspace.com/liverudegirl.
I felt the stab in my heart on Sunday, July 17 when Live!Rude!Girl! announced this was her last column. She was one of the few columnists worth reading and, along with Minerva's horoscope and the Frank Longo crossword puzzle, the only redeeming thing about the San Francisco Chronicle's Pink section.
The signs it was going wrong began so, so long ago. When the Sporting Green turned white instead of green. When Adair Lara became an occasional reporter instead of a regular columnist. When the Sunday Book Review shrank to four pages. And I won't even start on the Phil Bronstein mismatch. But most annoyingly, through all the mayhem and upheaval, the Chron has yet to figure out how to eliminate the. damn. creases. in. sections. of. the. paper. The creases are never in the whole paper, just in the one section you inevitably want to kick back and read. The sports section. The datebook section. The silly Matier and Ross political gossip (not news, never news) column. But you can't just relax and read because you have to keep yanking to straighten the paper. And you can't yank too hard or you'll rip the page, and the paper's barely readable as it is. How have they not ponied up for the technology to fix this? How hard can it be?
One of my dear friends, Ms. Q, is a crackerjack reporter in NYC who grew up on the Chronicle. Her brother wrote for it for years, and she still waxes nostalgic about Herb Caen's columns. And I loved the paper in the 80's and early 90's when Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City ran in daily installments, Patricia Holt produced a thoughtful, comprehensive Book Review that featured new and local writers as well as the accepted "old guard", Susan Yoachum wrote some of the shrewdest political commentary ever, Marc Sandalow offered serious coverage of the local political scene, and Louis Freeberg contributed an insider's view on the dissolution of the old South Africa, while posing provocative and timely questions about how race still permeates American life. The Chron would never be a paper of record like the New York Times or the Washington Post, and it didn't offer the in-depth coverage of the Los Angeles Times, the paper I grew up reading. But it had some amazing talent and it gave them a free hand to cover their beats, while accurately covering the concerns of our bustling little (and parochial) metropolis. The paper was defensible for what it was, and ambitious journalists knew to leave for more competitive papers 'cuz the Chron never had serious aspirations to be anything other than the local rag.
The initial death knell rang years ago when the Examiner folded and the Chronicle and Examiner staffs merged. Two fully staffed newsrooms in a city that produced little of note was a precarious scenario from the get go. So cuts were made (i.e. reporters let go) where there was "duplication". Some would call that the first blow. But the merger came with a financial cushion that was good for a few years, so there was a lot of grumbling, but little desperation. This stage included a lot of Phil Bronstein blustering about the Chronicle having to redefine itself for its current audience. (Translation -- a former foreign correspondent who covered the destruction in Central America during the '80's is now crafting the paper to appeal to Contra Costa County readers to boost market share).
Then the rumblings about losing money began in earnest. And escalated. And everywhere, all you heard was the paper's hemorrhaging money, and can't hold on much longer. In June, the announcement came that the paper would make a 20% cut in its staff, with buyouts and whatever polite euphemism you want to use for firing.
That, at least, is my interpretation of why my local rag is dying. But what do I know? A more informed version of the events can be found at David Weir's website, hotweir.blogspot.com, under the Aug. 17 entry.
As much as it's pained me to see talented journalists depart and an institution flag, the greatest affront has got to be a current feature on the Chronicle's website, sfgate.com. It's a tribute to all those loyal, departing staff entitled: Colleagues Remembered, The San Francisco Chronicle honors departing staff members. I kid you not. See why it's been referred to as the Comical?
It's kind of like a murderer writing his victim's obituary. Okay, that comparison's out of proportion. But the feature is tasteless. And offensive. And too often, that's the state of contemporary "news" in America.
My Sunday's are not the same without Live!Rude!Girl! To sample some of her work, check her out at www.myspace.com/liverudegirl.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Adieu, Knitting Basket
I believe a community can't have too many book or yarn stores, and I'm always sad when a favorite closes its doors. In this case it's the Knitting Basket, which has been a staple in Oakland's Montclair district since it closed its shop in San Francisco. The Knitting Basket was the first yarn store I visited in San Francisco, soon after I moved here, in 1982. It was located on the same street that I worked on, Union Street, and it was pretty intimidating. All those yarns, in all those colors. How were you supposed to figure out what yarn to use for the sweater pattern that seemed easy enough for you to knit? The shop was staffed with brisk and knowledgeable salesclerks whom I was afraid to approach, sure I would expose my ignorance. So I wandered around, selecting projects on a hit and miss basis. Fortunately, there was a knitter in my office who offered me support (cheers, Frances!) and helped me when I really screwed up.
The Knitting Basket moved in the early 90's to the prosperous, Presidio Heights part of Sacramento St. My knitting knowledge had improved a lot, so I could better appreciate the selection of yarn stocked. And since I was better paid, I could afford it! The new location was also easier to navigate -- the shop was narrow rather than wide, and the cherry cubbies stuffed with yarn invited you to touch. But, by the late 90's, the shop owner decided to leave the City and focus on the East Bay store.
The one drawback to the Knitting Basket was its mark-up. Yarn owners fall into two camps -- those that stick to the manufacturer's suggested retail price and those who decide to make a dollar or more on each ball or skein sold. Dedicated knitters quickly learn the difference, and I must admit I mostly shopped at the Knitting Basket when they were having a sale -- due to the markup and because they stocked such high end yarn ($30 a skein and up). And when I did visit, it wasn't the pricey yarn I was buying.
But I always liked the shop. Montclair is one of the Oakland neighborhoods that feels like a little village, with an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, a toy store, a candy store and a couple of independent bookstores. I could spend a lazy afternoon poking through yarns and checking out the pattern books of designers my LYS doesn't carry, then stop for a Jamba Juice or a latte at Peet's. Plus, I really like Rachael, the owner who bought the shop a few years ago. She's closing up to spend more time with her kids, who are just starting school. A completely understandable reason, but she will be missed.
Faith dictates that when one door closes, another opens. Sweet Adeline, my favorite neighborhood bakery (voted Best Bakery in this summer's East Bay Express reader's poll) has a wonderful display of knitted goods up this month, and this morning when I stopped in for my Saturday indulgences there were ten or so women sitting around knitting! Providence, I think.
One of the most critical dilemmas a knitter faces when a shop departs is just how much yarn to pick up to enhance their stash. (And yes, that term accurately describes the habit we yarn addicts indulge in). I always seem to be treading that fine line between scavenging and gluttony. My strategy here was to do a little reconnaissance on the first day of the sale, to pick up the choicest yarns that would go first and then check out what else might appeal. Do I need to tell you that a woman was blocking the Koigu and Jitterbug crates, while talking on a cell phone, and that increased my adrenaline? All I could think of was supply and demand, supply and demand, as I threw the skeins into my basket. That crisis averted, I turned my attention to the selection of Noro magazines, making a mental note to go home and check out which issues I was missing. There were some nice colors of Silk Garden and Kureyon that were tempting, but I figured I could go through the magazines and review possible projects before committing.
I was going to play it cool and wait a few days before returning, but I kept thinking of that one copy of the Jo Sharp magazine that was out of print. Rather than leaving anything to chance, I popped in again the next day. And picked up some sock yarn (at 40% off, who could resist?). Plus, I'd decided on a Silk Garden and Debbie Bliss Cashmerino project that only needed a few skeins of yarn and I wanted to review colors. I knew I'd be jammed up during the end of the week, with dentist appointments and family events, but I thought I could safely wait a days. Imagine my shock, shock, and dismay when I returned Monday and found whole cubbies emptied out! My little Silk Garden sweater selection had vaporized. How could I have overlooked Saturday, the one day when knitters from all over the Bay Area would come to pillage? What an amateur's mistake!! Thank goodness no one had snatched up all the yarn for the Cavendish wrap (in the original color, even) so I could still come out with a win!
My little spree was quite the success. I can tell because I have a bag of yarn hiding in my car trunk -- afraid to bring it into the house to add to the other bags, all right bins of yarn, that make up my stash.
Denial? That's a river in Egypt.
Thanks for the memories, Rachael. I'll miss you.
The Knitting Basket moved in the early 90's to the prosperous, Presidio Heights part of Sacramento St. My knitting knowledge had improved a lot, so I could better appreciate the selection of yarn stocked. And since I was better paid, I could afford it! The new location was also easier to navigate -- the shop was narrow rather than wide, and the cherry cubbies stuffed with yarn invited you to touch. But, by the late 90's, the shop owner decided to leave the City and focus on the East Bay store.
The one drawback to the Knitting Basket was its mark-up. Yarn owners fall into two camps -- those that stick to the manufacturer's suggested retail price and those who decide to make a dollar or more on each ball or skein sold. Dedicated knitters quickly learn the difference, and I must admit I mostly shopped at the Knitting Basket when they were having a sale -- due to the markup and because they stocked such high end yarn ($30 a skein and up). And when I did visit, it wasn't the pricey yarn I was buying.
But I always liked the shop. Montclair is one of the Oakland neighborhoods that feels like a little village, with an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, a toy store, a candy store and a couple of independent bookstores. I could spend a lazy afternoon poking through yarns and checking out the pattern books of designers my LYS doesn't carry, then stop for a Jamba Juice or a latte at Peet's. Plus, I really like Rachael, the owner who bought the shop a few years ago. She's closing up to spend more time with her kids, who are just starting school. A completely understandable reason, but she will be missed.
Faith dictates that when one door closes, another opens. Sweet Adeline, my favorite neighborhood bakery (voted Best Bakery in this summer's East Bay Express reader's poll) has a wonderful display of knitted goods up this month, and this morning when I stopped in for my Saturday indulgences there were ten or so women sitting around knitting! Providence, I think.
One of the most critical dilemmas a knitter faces when a shop departs is just how much yarn to pick up to enhance their stash. (And yes, that term accurately describes the habit we yarn addicts indulge in). I always seem to be treading that fine line between scavenging and gluttony. My strategy here was to do a little reconnaissance on the first day of the sale, to pick up the choicest yarns that would go first and then check out what else might appeal. Do I need to tell you that a woman was blocking the Koigu and Jitterbug crates, while talking on a cell phone, and that increased my adrenaline? All I could think of was supply and demand, supply and demand, as I threw the skeins into my basket. That crisis averted, I turned my attention to the selection of Noro magazines, making a mental note to go home and check out which issues I was missing. There were some nice colors of Silk Garden and Kureyon that were tempting, but I figured I could go through the magazines and review possible projects before committing.
I was going to play it cool and wait a few days before returning, but I kept thinking of that one copy of the Jo Sharp magazine that was out of print. Rather than leaving anything to chance, I popped in again the next day. And picked up some sock yarn (at 40% off, who could resist?). Plus, I'd decided on a Silk Garden and Debbie Bliss Cashmerino project that only needed a few skeins of yarn and I wanted to review colors. I knew I'd be jammed up during the end of the week, with dentist appointments and family events, but I thought I could safely wait a days. Imagine my shock, shock, and dismay when I returned Monday and found whole cubbies emptied out! My little Silk Garden sweater selection had vaporized. How could I have overlooked Saturday, the one day when knitters from all over the Bay Area would come to pillage? What an amateur's mistake!! Thank goodness no one had snatched up all the yarn for the Cavendish wrap (in the original color, even) so I could still come out with a win!
My little spree was quite the success. I can tell because I have a bag of yarn hiding in my car trunk -- afraid to bring it into the house to add to the other bags, all right bins of yarn, that make up my stash.
Denial? That's a river in Egypt.
Thanks for the memories, Rachael. I'll miss you.
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