Of course you know I don't do memes, so this is not a meme. But say if by some fluke I decided to go along with a meme, this might be my favorite knitting place. An oversized (quite masculine, I admit) leather chair and ottoman, near a cheap bookcase that doubles as a spot to hold my tea mug (note to self: Didn't we say we were going to get that replaced about 15 years ago? Yeah, I thought so). Good lighting (note the Ott-Lite directly over the chair, natural light from the window during daylight hours, and there are also overhead can lights above). Directly to the right of the chair is my spinning wheel (the photo that included the wheel turned out too dark and then the battery died, probably because we don't do memes.) And to the right of the spinning wheel is a twin to this chair. It is piled with yarn and fiber most of the time. Unless I've cleaned up, which, you know, could happen on a random and sporadic basis. You never know.
UFO's on the ottoman: The red thrummed mitten and the Fisherman's Wool scarf. I never noticed how ugly that plastic storage bin looks there. It is usually not visible, really, to any passersby. At least I never thought so, but it sure is sticking out like a sore thumb in this photo. But it is handy for me to put my stuff on when I need to dump it somewhere, or to put a ball of wool on that is getting tangled up under the feet of the chair or ottoman, which happens on a fairly regular basis. I'm also getting a real crack-up looking on the bookshelves there and seeing the fine high-brow literature that is resident there. Until I took this picture, I had no real idea what was there. It's one of those things -- you move in, you unpack books, and the next thing you know, 18 years has gone by and you haven't organized or culled out the crap yet. What's the hurry, right? There's still time. But I am very proud of the full collection of Calvin & Hobbes books, I must admit. The knitting books are in a section of the bookcase forward of the picture, within my handy reach from the chair. The swift and ball-winder are affixed to a drafting table in the room.
This room is quite far away from the regular living space of the house, adjacent to the home office. It has gone by various names throughout its life, but now it's called the Fiber Room. There is usually silence here. I knit or spin with no TV, music, or noise. It's a good space. There is a bed for Vincent in the room and a nice daybed should I need a nap. Really, if I had a toilet and a shower here, I could live here full time. A visitor said she could live in the closet that is off this room. The closet is long and has a sharply slanted ceiling -- good thing she's tiny. All she requested was a sink and a toilet. Perhaps we're onto something here.
The Frappr map continues to give me great pleasure. It just amazes me how far and wide knitblog-readers and bloggers range.
I was super-excited to see the last couple of pins included someone from SOUTH DAKOTA!!! (Hi, Karyn!)
I had been known to say to myself, at least a couple of times, "Now, let me get this straight: There are readers here from Russia, Japan, England, Australia, Germany, Denmark, Norway, Belgium, all over Canada and more -- but none from North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana, and Wyoming????" I mean, I expected South America and Africa to maybe be a stretch, but Montana? North Dakota? What's up with that, yo? It was like some big western black hole.
So welcome, Karyn, and thanks for putting your pin in my map! We have to maybe get in a Conestoga wagon and travel out there to spread the word in those other wild western states around you. Oh, and hoy, Alaska! Anybody out there from Alaska?
Okay, now, technically I was supposed to be in a Time Out. This was supposed to be a SHORT ENTRY. I pretty much wasted the entire day yesterday and I was punishing myself by not letting myself write a blog entry. You can see that the excellent parenting in this house was probably not done by me. Or I should say that my daughter grew up to be the stellar person she is in spite of my parenting, because clearly a Time Out doesn't really mean much here. Or perhaps I truly am incorrigible.