Knitting in the Fall: Cascata



Pattern:  Cascata, by Filipa Carneiro, published in Rosarios4.

Yarn:  I believe the yarn is by Reynolds.  It is a light DK weight wool and acrylic blend yarn I bought sometime in the mid-1980s.  Mom loved mauve (and all its variations), so I knitted a lacy vest for her.  She did not wear it much because it was too nice for “everyday” wear, and she didn’t want to get it dirty.  I brought it back after she died and took it apart, and now it is Cascata.

Modifications:  I love the lace “cascade” on the left side, but did not like how rapidly the triangle grew because of the every 4th row increases.  So, I alternated the increases on both the lace panel as well as on the right (along the faux seam).  I like my sweaters to cover my hips, so I knitted all 138 rows of the lace charts.  I also started with 138 stitches at the top, as though knitting size XXS, and adjusted all the directions as needed to compensate.  Finally, I did not like how large the arm holes were on the original cap sleeves.  I had enough yarn, so I made the sleeves elbow length.

Thoughts:  I don’t usually like in-the-round yoke construction, but the designer took care to shape the neckline so that there were no “puffy” areas, and the front and the back sit properly on the neck and shoulders.  I also like the yo increases as a design element.  This was a fast knit, and a lovely pattern for Mom’s yarn.



Bear is a sweet guinea pig we have been babysitting for almost a month while his family flit here and there all over the world.  We would keep him, but his mom probably misses him!

Lost and Found

Today, I listened to this poem by David Hollies, who died in September after nearly a decade of living with progressive dementia of unknown etiology.  On his website, he wrote about finding this poem: “I must have written this sometime last year.  I found it on my desk.”

Lost and Found, by David Hollies (~2004)

The first few times
Being lost was frightening
Stark, pregnant
With the drama of change
Then, I didn’t know
That everywhere is nowhere
Like the feeling when a ocean wave
Boils you in the sand
But as time goes by
Each occurrence of lostness is quieter
Falling from notice
Like the sound of trains
When you live near the tracks
Until one day
When a friend asks
“How often do you get lost?”
And I strain to recall a single instance
It was then that I realized
Being lost only has meaning
When contrasted with
Knowing where you are
A presumption that slipped out of my life
As quietly as smoke up a chimney
For now I live in a less anchored place
Where being lost is irrelevant
For now, only when there is a need
Do I discover where I am
No alarm, no fear
Just an unconscious check-in
Like glancing in the rear-view mirror.




NaNoWriMo 2010, Day 11, Word Count: 18,845

The Kid threw a tantrum tonight.  True, it was nothing like the hours-long kicking and screaming sort of tantrum she used to throw when she was a tot, but it was a teenage equivalent.  She fumed, she mewled, she huffed and puffed — and if she could have squawked, she would have.  Finally, she stomped upstairs, and just like when she was a toddler, fell asleep.  It was an interesting sight.

If I sound unsympathetic, it is because I am.  Not because I don’t understand why she was mad and frustrated — I do — but because I think tantrums a waste of time.  DH thinks I am jealous because I didn’t get to throw tantrums when I was a kid; perhaps there is a hint of truth in that.  I do in fact know how to throw a tantrum, I just choose not to.  It is a deliberate, on-demand act of emotional histrionics, and it is just plain silly.  And on this day of all days, it is an extravagant indulgence: The Kid has it too good to even think about raging against her lot in life.

Does It Matter? by Siegfried Sassoon, 1917

Does it matter? – losing your legs?
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter? – losing your sight?
There’s such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter – those dreams in the pit?
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won’t say that you’re mad;
For they know that you’ve fought for your country,
And no one will worry a bit.