When I started weaving
the cloth for this shirt
I wrote about the pleasures 
of additive clothing construction
(building garments with rectangles),
and of how much I looked forward
​to bumping into my preconceived ideas--
whatever they might turn out to be.

Several weeks into said construction
it turns out I have quite a few
​preconceived ideas,
​not least:
 how the garment should drape,
how it is constructed,
​how it feels
how it fits
and how it should look.

As I mentioned last week
what I really want most
is to get this linsey-woolsey shirt on my back
so I can learn more about the 'feel' part of that list,
and thus continue to study the​ fascinating, ancient,
and sometimes deeply troubling history
of this combination of fibers,
from a yarn-centric point of view.

At the same time,
in order to put it through its paces
it needs to be truly wearable.

And in order for me to want to wear it
it has to be comfortable,
which, since I'm making it up as I go along,
means a LOT of trail and error.

The first version of the shirt
fit quite well in most areas,
but was, as the comic showed last week,
a little too right across the chest.
Though not actively uncomfortable,
there was an awkward bunching at the armholes
(there are reasons so many sewing patterns
have curved armholes....),
that I just couldn't live with.

Had it been all wool,
the close fit might have been OK,
but the linen portion of the fabric
makes it just a little too crisp 
for what I was trying to do.

After much basting and un-basting
and yanking and pinning
 to increase the shaping,
I realized I had two preconceived ideas
working in direct opposition:
--about fit (probably gleaned from sweater construction)
and
--about my love of woven rectangles.

Embracing the grid at hand
I decided to go bigger and add ease:
 two linen panels to the front,
and a peplumish 'wedge'
​made of graduated sections
of one of my linsey/woolsey samples.
(I did contemplate a knitted wedge for a while,
as per the Sarah-Dippity skirt,
but that is a garment for the future).

The additions made it
​much more comfortable,
and thus more wearable.
​
It is also made it less elegant 
(the lack of armhole lumps aside)
and meant that the garment
​is would no longer be fully hand spun.

And guess what?
Having it be entirely hand spun
was another of the preconceived notions
I didn't realize I had.

Possible Actions:
1-stop sewing to spin and weave matching panels
2-get over myself and keep going
so I can wear the garment already
3 -finish the shirt as is (#2)
and if the invasion of the non-matching
mill-spun yarn keeps bugging me,
make linsey-woolsey replacements.
???

A quick cloth review:
The first swathe of cloth 
had a two-ply spindle-spun woolen warp,
and a singles, spindle-spun linen weft.
Though traditional linsey-woolsey
seems usually to have a linen warp,
I chose to reverse it because:
1. I trust my wool yarn more than my flax
2. I wanted the cloth to be as light as possible
 (keep the linen as singles)
3. the wool was spun from dyed fleece
and thus is somewhat variegated;
if there were to be stripes
I wanted them to run lengthwise.

That said,
when I wove  the second (narrower swathe),
I  decided to try it the other way --
because, why not, right?
Stuff to learn.
So in the photo above
you can see the variegations in the wool weft 
and the slight shift in the grist
of the less well spun two ply linen warp
​ slightly to the left of center.
This cloth is, indeed,
slightly heftier than swathe #1.

For the actual weaving (backstrap loom),
it was easier to keep steady tension
with the unstretchy linen warp.
The wool warp was more forgiving.
In other words -- I love both.

In the spirit of Coptic tabby/tapestry experimentation
I also wove a small tapestry on each warp:
wool warp: linen tapestry ground with wool squares
linen warp: wool tapestry ground with a linen swirl.
The weaving of both was lovely
but truth to tell,
I prefer weaving tapestry
on a tensioned frame loom.
Next stop: Four Selvedge tapestries***
sewn into clothing???
​Talk about Portable Property...
(also, with individual panels
rather than fixed features of existing cloth
I could be more specific about placement).

Though the wool warp/linen weft is my favorite,
both pieces of cloth feel lovely.
​Finished (washed/fulled and pressed)
they are dense and light at once.
The wool fluffs out just enough
to keep it from being overly translucent,
and the linen lends a crispness 
that wool alone would not have--
though I expect the fresh pressed crispness
that you can see below in the sleeves,
 with relax and soften with wearing.

***PS: Quick tapestry heads up: Rebecca Mezoff and I
are planning a Four Selvedge Tapestry Webinar
on Saturday, 20 July at 10 AM Pacific Time (me), 11 AM Mountain time (Rebecca)
I can hardly wait!
Rebecca is such a blast to be around, virtually or in person--
fun, funny and always a total inspiration for me.
We'll definitely talk about using Four Selvedge Warping for the Post Card Project  ,
hopefully learn a  bit about Rebecca's Tapestry Book in progress,
and definitely leave room for  your questions
and other topics as yet undecided.
​Back with specifics (like how best to ask questions and register ), when I have them.
If you already follow Rebecca, you'll hear from her too.
In the meantime, you can also check out her Youtube channel and maybe watch a few of her France tapestry tour VLOGS, just to get in the mood.
The work she saw made me want to start tapping in some weft.

Truth to tell,
I had hoped to have
a finished shirt today.

Alas, I should have known better.
The path from fiber forward
(or any path I follow for that matter),
rarely runs straight
and is almost never speedy--
which of course is often the point.

Indeed, learning how to spin flax
with some degree of comfort
seemed more than enough
when this all began,
and it wasn't until this past April
that I began to get serious about linsey woolsey,
so why should the sewing part go quickly?

But wait -- no! 
I take that back.
I just typed "linsey-woolsey"
into the search box at the top of the blog page
and found that I wove some 
back when I was first learning
to use a backstrap loom--
cloth I later used
in an entirely different
​sort of experiment
in November 2016.
(that blog post written in hope, before the results were in).

Except, was that experiment entirely different? 
Wasn't that attempt to combine
​ backstrap-woven linen/wool cloth
with some kind of imagery 
part of the same endless quest 
as the coptic-inspired tabby/tapestry
​that keeps showing up in this project?

Well yes, I think it is--
even if I'm unlikely
​to throw an actual painting
(whatever the ground material)
into a tub of water and swish it around
​to soften it up before cutting,
as I have these swaths of linen and wool.

But I suppose one can be obsessed
with the juxtaposition of cloth and image
for decades and decades
and still ask a lot of different questions.
Right now, for instance
I want to know
​how  ​the combination
of linen and wool,
feels against my skin.

Historically, at least in the United States,
Linsey-woolsey has a bad reputation
and is often described 
as rough inferior cloth--
the combination of linen and wool
 highlighting  the worst
both of the materials,
and of human power relationships.*

* Plantation Slave Weavers Remember: An Oral History by Mary Madison
is heartbreaking, humbling and un-put-downable  (if that is a word)--
 essential reading for me as a white woman, a human being and a weaver.
The end of the book includes valuable background
on the textiles that are spoken of in the text,
as well as extracts from
The Politics Of Textiles Used in African American Slave Clothing,
a paper by Eulanda A. Sanders given at a Textile Society of America Symposium.

Linsey-Woolsey was also woven
by early American Colonists
and used in myriad textiles,
from clothing to coverlets
as a way to stretch
scarce and precious wool--
though usually not as a first choice.

Yet fragments Coptic cloth of linen and wool
unearthed by archaeologist Albert Gayet 
and exhibited at the Exposition Universelle de Paris 1900
may well have inspired
the wild and colorful paintings
of  Henri Matisse and his fellow Fauves
at the turn of the last century.

It's intense, actually --
all this history and judgement,
all this power and hardship
all this misery and mystery
​and pictorial delight
associated with 
this specific combination of materials
to which I am connected,
consciously and unconsciously,
willingly and abashedly, 
in ways both historic
and of the moment.
​
It's also fascinating. ​

And with all that I learn
and hope to keep learning,
with all the things I want to change
about the world we live in,
and all the ways I want to make all lives better
I am still 
a weaver devoted to wool,
and a spinner in love with linen,
 coming to this cloth
with spindle and shuttle
pins, needles, thread,
and curiosity. 

So here's what I know so far:

1. My chest is not quite as flat as I thought it was

2. Building with rectangles,
and basting before sewing
is a pretty great idea
when designing as you go--
or rather re-designing
for the third
(or maybe fourth)
time.

3. The combination of a fine wool warp 
(targhee/debouillet)
and singles linen weft
(spindle spun and well scoured),
​feels wonderful in my hands,
airy yet robust,
warm and cool and silky all at once,
and I very much look forward
to my future physical connection
with the weavers and wearers of this cloth
willing, and unwilling,
over the millennia. 

Back eventually,
​ with a shirt!

Yesterday, I  mailed a tapestry to New Zealand.

Stitched to a piece of cardboard,
 stamped and addressed,
it is now somewhere
​between there and here,
​hopefully having a swell time
with all the other mail.

 Here and There is the name
of the exhibition for which I wove it --
an international tapestry post card exchange
organized by the American Tapestry Alliance.
​
Sue, my post card pal 
(we were randomly paired)
 lives in New Zealand
so my tapestry will live its life
on the other side of the globe
where upside down is right side up,
and there is here with a t.
Or here is there, without one.

After months of immersion
in the sartorial and cellulosic,
it was delightfully familiar
to wind a wool warp
onto a tapestry loom--
(or four selvedge jig as per the photo below).
​
Indeed, weaving a little tapestry 
proved to be its own sort of vacation--
 a great way to recover from recent actual travel!

Weaving this post card
using the Four Selvedge technique
was not even a question--
--in part because four selvedge is my fave
-- in part because of the clean edge finish.

My hands also relished 
the ease of tapping yummy strands
of wool weft into place
 and weaving in the ends.

Weaving in the ends
is incredibly satisfying to me--
both as I do it
​and after it is done.
It also makes for a smooth back,
so the tapestry nestles flush against the cardboard
and the whole thing is smooth and even.

Sometimes it is actually hard
to tell the front from the back.
Other times, it turns out
that the back actually is the front,
rendering irrelevent,
some of our tapestry angst
about which way to work. 

At any rate,
after releasing the tapestry from the loom
I stitched the side walls of the houses
and the edges of many of the letters.
Zooming across the world
in a box full of mail,
is not a thing I have experienced in this life,
but I worried a bit about
its fellow travelers
getting caught in open slits.

Then came a hot soapy bath
​(what's not to love about that),

a good press with a steamy iron,
and the final stitching onto the cardboard
as per the instructions on the ATA website .

Stamp
air mail sticker,
an address, 
and a brief message
came last of all.

​Then we biked to the Post Office
made our last farewells.
​and off it went.

Lucky tapestry
going to New Zealand.

Lucky me,
​staying home.

Flinging my body through the sky
from one side of this continent
​to the other,
is not a thing I enjoy. 

 Along with despair at its environmental aggression,
air travel induces in me
a kind of foggy spiritual disconnect--
as though, while my sleep deprived body
is slurping Dunkin Donuts coffee in Boston,
my self  is scrambling across eastern Montana
crying, "WAIT FOR MEEEEEEE,"
only to begin the long trudge back to Idaho
(without even catching a glimpse of the Dakotas),
when my disconnected carcass
is suddenly
 dumped back home.

As a weird wort of compensation however,
or perhaps a way to place myself,
travel does induce a kind of intent noticing
that can help remind me
that I once was whole --
​and will be again.

The richness of my mother's
chair-side table for instance,
is a source of such joy,
with its books, computer,
seed and course catalogues,
pencils, pads, newspaper articles
and (because I was there and she's a supportive Mum),
​her evolving Somewhat Slanted Sweater.

It was also a delight to feel
the sense of comfort and belonging
induced (at least in my heart and hands)
by tiny, yarn-filled rooms,
and the welcoming enthusiasm of Lily, 
at Norwich Knits,
the new yarn shop in Norwich, Vermont
where we bought my mother's yarn.

Nor, indeed, could I fail to notice
the beatific inner glow 
induced by a blissed out tour
of the Green Mountain Spinnery
in Putney, Vermont,
where I got to watch (and hear)
some of ​their venerable machinery in action.

The walls of yarn were fabulous too.
And oh....
the smell...
of lanolin and sheep
and yarn in the raw.

I also noticed (with surprise), 
how the wool/organic cotton
skeins grabbed my attention. 
It's not a blend I am likely to create or spin myself,
but I hadn't yet knit a Somewhat Slanted 
in this weight yarn, and I look forward to wearing it.
So far, I know that it is really nice to knit,
the drape of the first square is fantastic
and that there is enough wool in the blend
to easily spit-splice when joining skeins
or knitting stripes.
(Hard, later, not to be aware that my minimalist travel bag
was significantly more difficult to buckle up).

Noticing these morels 
was an unexpected
​and delicious treat.

Somewhat less beguiling
was noticing the ticks sneaking up my legs
after the woodsy walk wherein the morels appeared,
though I was able to note--
with something approaching pleasure--
that my white hemp pants
made the little blood suckers
easy to spot. 

Also, all the things I chose to bring with me
were blue, grey, brown or white,
so mixed and matched very well.
They are also all extremely comfortable,
perfectly practical (white hemp aside),
sources of psychological well being.
and almost entirely hand made.

The photos above include:
the aforementioned hemp pants,
my recently made linen shirt,
(which I tried not to wear every single day),
and an old favorite ankle-length blue cotton skirt,
that my friend Lodi once gave me 
 after she'd cut out the pattern pieces,
but before  sewing.

The blue sweater ( knit last summer 
and dunked in indigo a few days before my trip),
and the indigo Sarah-Dippity 
had all the comfort, stretch, practicality
and general travel clothing perfection
I could have desired.
I also love how the indigo in both my garments connects
with the blue on the pocket of my sister Lyn's
 patched and embroidered jacket
as we try to remember a long-ago clapping pattern
before I catch the bus to Boston.

Noticing Mount Rainier
was a nice reminder 
that I was about to land in Seattle,
though I fervently hope my
long term views

 closer to the ground:
a steady supply of
linsey-woolsey on the loom,
patched pants,

and tapestry --
wool, flax, coptic, and/or  four selvedge --
​will be just fine.

In the meantime,
the mug of mint/lemon balm tea
​ is quietly cooling
and the fog beginning to clear.

So i’m in new Hampshire,
knitting with coffee filters.

You know how it goes.
A gal is visiting family
and the conversations turns
​to making yarn out of trash--
as it does--

and your enthusiastic mother
jumps up to fish a couple of
used filters from the compost bin,
rinses them off and sets them to dry
so that when you return from visiting a beloved cousin,
​you can do a little spinning
​and she--your lovely mum--
can take photos of the process.

These large round Chemex (sp?) filters
were new to me,
so of course
it was extra interesting.

(I’ve written blog posts about spinning coffee filters but for some reason I can’t specifically link them while writing this on the road and in the weebly app so alas, you’ll have search a little to find them if interseted).

Then it turned out that a few
of the many wonderful people
​who have started Somewhat Slanted
weren’t familiar with beginning a row
with a YO (Yarn Over),
so yesterday I plied the yarn
and took some photos on the back steps
to (hopefully), make it more clear.

(Please forgive all out of focus moments
as I was using my big toe to click the button
while my hands were occupied).

So here goes:
​Yarn Over Increase starting from a single stitch:

1. make a slip knot and put it on the left needle.

2. Bring the Yarn Over the right needle
(or, as my mother says, bring the Needle Under the yarn)

3. Insert needle into the slip knot/ loop as usual

4. Wrap yarn

5. Complete Stitch
​ — you now have two stitches

6. Switch hands and repeat steps 2 - 5:

-Yarn Over
-insert needle
-wrap yarn
-complete stitch

Continue as per the
Somewhat Slanted Guide
until it is time to decrease,
by which time the YO thing
​should be easy as pie.

The other issue that has come up with Somewhat Slanted
has to do with making color changes with the stripes.
This is not, alas, a thing I can do with coffee filter yarn
(surprisingly pleasant though it is to knit with),
as I only have one color just now.
Also, coffee filter yarn doesn’t felt,
and I used a Spit Splice (aka Felted Join)
which requires wool or a wool blend (not superwash).
I may eventually do some drawings about the splice
but hopefully the Interweave link above will work for you.
Or just Google Spit Splice
and you’ll find all kinds of info.

Though I haven’t yet done stripes with cotton,
I imagine it would work
to tie the two colors together at the edge leaving long tails,
knit along as though they were spliced
then later untie the knots and weave in the ends to
form the YO loops.

But that is just theory right now.
Anyone tried it? Be great to know.

Also — has anyone knit more than a little square
with the coffee filter yarn?
It’s weirdly nice.
I might mess around with this little square
and see how it holds up.
Who knows?
​Who EVER knows?

A few months ago
my aunt had her hip replaced.
Happily, all went well
and she is once again
meandering in the woods with her dog.

Though totally surprised 
(I'm kind of weird about gifts),
I  was nonetheless thrilled
and knew exactly
what I was going to do.
The wall devoted to 
Harrisville Hydro Turbine
had caught my eye last winter
when I bought the yarn
​ for the Long Sarah-Dippity,
and for all my hand spinning ways,
I know yummy yarn when I see it.

No matter that bulky yarn season
should have been ending right around then --
these round and airy skeins
​seemed destined to become a heftier version 
of the  Summer Six Pack Sweater--
 a comfortable and versatile favorite for the last three years.

How fluffy Turbine yarn
would behave within the bias structure
remained to be seen--
​certainly it would be quite different 
than​ the collection of hand spun odds and ends
that made up the earlier striped garment.
And the not knowing made it extra compelling.

Luckily this sweater does not need
a gauge swatch before starting,
so I could cast on for the actual sweater
the moment I got home from the yarn store,
and start finding out.

 When I first blogged about The Six Pack Sweater
several people asked for a pattern
(or at least some kind of guide
 beyond  the vague thing I wrote on the post),
but somehow it didn't happen--
at least back then.
This spring, however,
​the versatility of the idea,
gave me the extra impetus to start drawing.

Alas, it is one thing knit
and design as you go,
and quite another to write a helpful guide
that other people can use
to knit a garment they love,
​ in the size of their choice,
with yarn they have, or want to try,
at  whatever gauge makes both yarn and knitter happy.
​
So it has taken me longer than I thought.

Plus ... ah...
​ I have been spinning
the odd yard of flax.

Today, however,
​I am now thrilled to announce that
A Sweater -- Somewhat Slanted
is now available in the store
as a PDF download.

Like my other zines and PDFs 
this is a guide booklet
for creating your own adventure
(not a pre-calculated set of instructions).
This means that 
some straightforward math
​ (formulas provided),
is part of the thrill.
Aren't you excited?

Somehow, I kind of think you actually are.
There is just so much pleasure
in making decisions--
even hard ones--
when it mean we will end up
with a personal and magical garment
we will actually wear and use.
(And somehow, I don't think armhole depth
will be the biggest decision you'll ever make).

If you give it a try,
will you let me know how it goes?

So there I was, 
happily weaving along,
 ​minding my selvedges,

thinking about the interlacement
of linen, wool and plain weave
through the millennia,
​when I remembered this book.

so you might imagine my delight
when I suddenly realized--
wait-- I'm making cloth for clothing
and I can work tapestry into this cloth
RIGHT ​NOW!

As I think I mentioned last week,
historic Linsey-Woolsey
usually seems to be wool weft on a linen warp,
and the the same holds true 
for  late 3rd to mid 7th Century Coptic Tapestry
(which makes sense  given ease of dyeing wool for imagery
and a centuries old tradition of growing flax for clothing.).

Since my cloth had a wool warp and linen weft however,
I decided to do the tapestry part backwards too --
weaving a weft faced linen ground 
with little woolen squares
(using the same yarn as the warp).

Those of you who have read Backstrap Dialogues
are already familiar with the endless disagreements
between my inner Luminist and Storymaker--
so while they are fighting over aesthetics
 I will just mention that technically,
this first stab at tabby/tapestry
​was both a delight
​ and a pain in the butt. 

There are issues of tension,
shrinkage, sett,
connection with
(and the simultaneous weaving of)
the tabby areas on the sides,
all of which I want to mess about with
​in future experiments,

but overall I'm thrilled --
both with the addition of tapestry
and with the cloth itself which,
now that it is off the loom and washed,
(by hand as for wool, with extra agitation for fulling)
I find to be crisp, light, fluid
and even a little glittery.

The tapestry section is smooth and weighty
in an intriguing and satisfying way.
Nothing odd or 'unbelonging' feeling about it.
I will probably sew the slits
before beginning the actual garment --
and of course that can't happen
until I've completed 
the next swathe --
linen warp/wool weft
with whatever touch of sartorial tapestry
​ Luminist and Storymaker decide upon--
and designed whatever it is I'm going to make.

Two final thoughts --
1. Linsey Woolsey has a long rocky history
from breeds of sheep, to the use and abuse of power,
from linen processing in Coptic Egypt
to ramifications of the British Wool Act of 1699,
from The Fibershed  movement
to the enforced spinning and weaving of slave clothing--
as I was reminded by Mary Madison in last week's comments.
It is a history at once painful, fascinating and full of possibility--
 worthy of serious inquiry on many levels.
As usual I've no idea where it all is going for me,
but as you can see,
I'm on the path,
spindle in hand.
and thank you kindly
​ for your company.

2. Switching Newsletter providers last week seemed to go well,
though a few people reported
that their newsletter went into Spam
because it came from Sarah C Swett
instead of A Field Guide To Needlework.
I have now changed that and hope it works better.  
Thank you again for your support and patience!

Yesterday was wonderful.

Honestly, the prototype shirt  
I talked about last week
is just so satisfying and comfortable
I couldn't wait another minute.

Anyway, I really like to warp--
​for tapestry or plain cloth.

What's not to love
about strand after strand
undulating through a pair of lease sticks?​

My earlier linseny-woolsey samples
had both wool and linen in the warp.
The cloth is lovely
but warping was a total pain
so for this first swathe of actual yardage
 I'm using 2 ply wool as warp
and singles linen as weft.

​Historic linsey-woolsey 
apparently used linen warp and wool weft,
​and maybe I'll try that next time.

It is also amazing
to run smack into my fixed ideas--
whatever they may be
though in this case
that garment sewing
is all about subtracting shapes
from someone else's idea
of how wide cloth can be made--
and suddenly see
that those ideas
are but illusions
 I can stroll right through.

There is more exploring to do
along these lines
--building garments in an additive,
minimal-waste way--
and I'm definitely planning to do some,
even as, for the moment,
I'll keep geeking out
on the pleasure of using paper purns
and this old boat shuttle
to slip shots of flax
across the open shed.

Speaking of geeking out --
I just moved my newsletter host 
from Mailchimp, where it has been for the last few years
to Weebly, the outfit within which I have this website and blog.
There were myriad reasons for this,
​and the odd hassle,
but all I can say for the moment is -- it's done.

Do you ever lie in bed at night,
thinking about an idea --

​trying to imagine--
and then solve--
 every issue that might arise
when you actually start
​bringing it into the physical world?​

I have also been designing
the mythical garment
the cloth will become--
and growing wildly curious
about construction possibilites.

Every piece has selvedges,
which means overlapping seams
with minimal bulk
and the particular drape that results--
a thing  I hope to make a feature
of my mythical linsey woolsey garment,
and is definitely based
​on all I've learned
from the design of the Sarah-Dippity.
Indeed, that series of skirts
has given me quite a taste
for this business of
​additive clothing construction. 

Use the shapes you have,
and/ or 
make the shapes you need
then put them together,
 take them apart
and baste again
in a different way
until things are right.
​
Basting, indeed, is my new best friend. 
Great big stitches
make it possible to try things on,
even as they are easy to whip out 
when a new (and vastly improved)
idea for sleeve and underarm construction
arises in the middle of the night.

It's been a slow process
over the last few weeks--
filled with delight, frustration
and unexpectedly visceral
textile pleasure.

Indeed those scraps of cloth
​have provided such delight 
that the wee tapestry pocket
might even be too much.

Time will tell, I suppose.
As, indeed
I hope it eventually lets me know
if this shirt wants a nice tidy hem --
​or not.

All I know for sure right now
is that this garment-in-progress
is fantastically comfortable.

​

Nothing momentous this week--

rather, a motley collection of moments
that has somehow seemed worth noticing:

--Lovely tunes at an annual outdoor Renaissance Fair,
the straw-bale seating much improved
by the purse spindle in my hands
(9 gram Jenkins Kuchulu)
and the new Brandi hat to replace the one
that fell out of my pocket after years of faithful service
keeping my ears warm and the rain off my glasses. 

--A mis-matched collection
of  backstrap experiments

--The Sides-to-Middle sheet,
apparently enjoying its extended life
as much as I have been

-Two coyotes crossing the path
(not together, but both heading south --following the mice?)
and then a black cat we thought (pretended), was a panther. 

--Also, drawing some instructions
(hopefully something I can share before too long)

--Beverages with Rochelle,
are always magical
even when the thing I most like
about fancy cocktails
is drawing them.

--That moment after lunch,
when I can get a little work done
​without moving from the spot in the sun
​outside the woodshed.

--Oh yes,
and deciding on the 20 gram yellow Hepty,
for the spin-and-knit-as-I-go Summer Sweater.
For some odd reason​
though the spindle is four grams lighter than the wooden one,
the finished chain-plied yarn is a hair thicker
(2700 yards/lb vs 2900yards/lb)
and thus slightly easier to knit.
Also, the spindle shaft is longer on the yellow one,
so it holds more.

--More laundry today
but I haven't drawn it yet
(and anyway you're probably less excited than I am
about sketches of our undies
hanging in the sun),
so I'll leave you here--
messing around,
barefoot in the mud.