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.

​

​When last we left our heroine
she was basting the skirt together,
contemplating waistband options,
casting on another wedge
and gnashing her teeth over closures.

Today we find her blissing out
over drape, texture, comfort, lustre,

and trying to share those qualities
using the tools at hand--

with varying degrees of success 
​(me and photo timers -- not a thing...)

For there HAS been much
to contemplate and decide,
beginning with waistbands.

The first possibly
was a backstrap rigid heddle experiment 
(pictured above)
that I wove a couple of years ago using Kestrel,
​  a knitted linen tube from Quince and Co.
The yarn was lovely to work with 
and the finished band drapy and soft.
It was not what I had wanted back then,
but it had potential as both button and waist band
for this Sarah-Dippity.

On the other hand...
I  still had plenty of the cotton from the skirt,
and at the last weaver's guild meeting
my friend Helen gave a program
on  straps and bands --
and I hadn't made a warp faced band in ages--
so...well... you know how it is.

It turns, alas, out warp faced bands
are not as fun for me as a balanced weave,
(though my weaving cards are still singing a siren song from the drawer).
But I got her done and had some selvedge practice to boot.
Of course I also had to choose between them.

While deciding,
I finished knitting the fourth wedge,
began the final panel sewing (vs basting),
and finally saw that, matching aside,
the older linen band suited the garment best.
This was a satisfying decision
as I was still dithering about closures.
​buttons? zipper? frogs? 
The internet is not always a decision-making friend.

But a local weaver's guild--
there a person will find compatriots
who fully understand
the enormity of these dilemmas.
So at that same (woven band-centric) guild meeting
I just happened to mention my closure angst to Helen
"What about snaps?" she said.

"SNAPS!" I cried. "NO!
Erm --I mean thanks,
good idea,
 but I don't think so.
The knitted part is too fragile.
And what if they came undone?"

"You must lead a very exciting life," she said, lifting an eyebrow.

"It's just that the fabric might catch the corner of something,"
I hedged.
"Maybe a zipper?"
​
Helen didn't reply.
She's very polite that way.
And anyway, she had done her work.

Continuing to chew on the options at home,
I sewed the panels firmly together
(replacing the rough basting),
and by the time that was done 
knew absolutely
that I wanted a zipper.
Definitely.

Except...
it was raining too hard for a bicycle,
and though I could have walked the two miles
to the fabric store in the mall,
it was windy enough to turn my umbrella inside out, 
and my raincoat leaks,
 and I was NOT going to start my car just to get a zipper,
and... and...
darn it.
Better make some Oolong and think.

Filling the kettle, I switched it on.
and decided to have a quick rummage
in the sewing machine drawer
while the water heated.
Who knew?
I might find a cast off zipper
under the spools of purple polyester Woolworth thread
that my ex-husband's Grandmother
used to buy on sale and send to me
when I lived in the wilderness
where, heaven knew,
there were probably no Woolworth stores.
(not sure she understood that there were actually no roads or people either,
or that the brownies she baked sat in Hamilton Montana
for a month or two before anyone brought us our mail,
but that is another story,
and anyway I didn't find a zipper).

What I did find,
waiting quietly in an Altoids tin,
as they had been waiting since about 1985
when I moved from said wilderness
to a teensy shack 
where though I had to carry water uphill in a bucket
there was a roadish kind of thing
that would eventually take me
to a fabric store of sorts,
were.....
​OH SNAPS!
​
​Thanks Helen.
​Those words are just delicious.

Astonishingly (or not)
I also happened upon a bit of linen tape,
hand woven in England and purchased just for me
by my dear friend Rochelle who knows I hate gifts
but always finds the ideal thing to give me anyway
in a form of friend torture for which I love her dearly,
that was perfect
 for reinforcing both knit and woven edges
and ensuring snap stability and security.

Now, however, I no longer needed
the full length of the linen band.
But as I was loathe to cut it,
and it goes twice around my waist,
I'm going with the time-honored
double wrap and safety pin solution.

Here are a few stats:
-400 grams (just under a pound) for the finished skirt
-waist: 31 (ish) inches/78 cm
- hem circumference: 73 (ish) inches/186 cm
-length (including waistband): 31 inches/78 cm
-woven panels (finished) are 8 1/2 inches/22 cm wide
-knit panels: 9 1/2 inches/24cm at the bottom
and taper evenly to 1 inch/2.5 cm at the top.

The skirt is flexible and stretchy.
The knitted sections do intimate that there are black leggings beneath
(at least when stretched out while sitting crossed legged on the floor),
but don't feel remotely immodest 
when outside without leggings
dodging raindrops,
clutching a hot cup of tea,
wondering what on earth to do with two giant willow balls,
and pretending it is perfect weather
to wander around barefoot
in a Summer Sarah-Dippity Skirt
(slightly wrinkled from three days of wear),
on wet green grass
amidst leafless trees
composing really really long sentences,
that hopefully make sense.
Au Revoir.

Please disregard the dubious expression on my face,
because I'm having a great time
with this garment.

Amidst the shoveling of February,
I got to make samples:
-hand spun linen,
-hand spun wool (for linsey woolsey),
-mill spun linen,
-walnut dyed (but not hand spun) cotton,
--a commercial blend of cotton, linen, nettle and silk,

There are so many variables.
In the photo above,
I'm re-sleying the rigid heddle,
moving from a 12 to a 15 dent.
(Both ends of the cloth are lovely and astonishingly different)

My favorite samples
are the 100% hand spun linen
and hand spun linesey-woolsey,
but I haven't yet spun enough fine linen  
so I decided to keep building working on that
while beginning on this first non-wool skirt:
--a combination of the walnut dyed cotton 
and Nettle Grove (cotton, linen, nettle and silk).
I chose this last  in part because of the name,
(though of course there is hardly any actual nettle fiber in it),
in part because there it was at the Yarn Underground (my LYS),
and mostly because it is pleasant to knit with --
and essential feature of Sarah-Dippity  skirt materials.

Using the basic warping technique
 from Backstrap Dialogues
I wound my longest  Backstrap warp yet (four+ yards)
threaded the 15 dent rigid heddle,
plunked my butt on the floor,
​and started weaving.

this part went way too fast. 

All too soon, it was done.

Of course then I got to wash and press it,
drape it against my legs,
​and get all excited about actually putting it on.
But first
​ --three wedges to knit 
(a couple of weeks of evening reading time),

--a rough layout to test my calculations,

--a more careful layout to test the actual fit

-- some time devoted to the question
of whether the knitted wedges
should go over or under the woven panels
(I chose under),

-- careful (but rough), basting 
--and finally, yesterday afternoon,
trying it on (see the beginning of this post),
at which point I learned that I do, indeed,
need to knit a fourth wedge.

More, then to come in future blog posts:
-the Great Closure Debate
(buttons? zipper? snaps?)
-The Waistband
(I think this skirt might want one,
but do I want to weave it
and if so,
how?)
and 
-Final Fitting
Oh, the DRAMA.

Until then, here are 
a few amazing  Sarah-Dippity links:

-Jaya on Instagram
-Peg on her Blog
-An entire Ravelry Thread
-#sarahdippityskirt
(a hash tag  I hope any of you making skirts and on instagram, will use)
​What else? Do let me know.
Thanks everyone!

When last we left our heroine,
she was planning to devote herself to shoveling 
and finishing her skirt,

Amazingly enough, 
​in the last week
she managed to do both
if not much else.

Pinning first,
then rough basting with cotton yarn

The basting made it easy to try on
so I could  measure and calculate
​ for the button band.

Truth be told, 
the buttons were the most traumatic part of this,
 including the sett drama at the very beginning.

Clearly I survived,
but it was not hard to notice my relative reactions
to the overwhelming abundance
of what is supposed to be a fabric store
and the joy of having one piece
of very plain cloth
waiting at home.

Brief aside about value --
When I first chose the values of yarn
I assumed I'd use the darker of the two
for the knitted panels.
But you can see that the button band above
(which I did knit in the darker value)
looks significantly darker than the woven cloth,

while the triangular knit panels,
though somewhat lighter,
blend in with the woven cloth
with more subtlety.
I can only conclude that the knitted cloth 
has so many shadows
that it reads darker than it is
thus making it blend in with the whole.
A good thing to note for future skirts --
sometimes those knitted panels
​might want to take center stage!

Sewing the buttons on
before replacing the basting with actual yarn/thread
allowed me to  adjust position
of hte woven and knitted panels
and thus the size of specific areas,
so that the skirt would drape just as I wanted. 

And yippeee!  It does!
Despite the 10 F temps yesterday,
(definitely a two sweater day),
​it was also wonderfully cozy to wear outside--
it drapes and stretches,
so I can take big steps but also not get tangled in cloth.

It is wonderfully cozy to wear inside too--

and after taking this pics so you could see 
a little more clearly how it fits.
I sat down on the floor
and spun cotton on my book charkha,
the skirt stretching where I did --
no binding or funky leg positions necessary.

So yes --
sartorial satisfaction is a thing--
and the flamingo and I are pretty pleased it ourselves.

Except I should also have worn some shades.
​It was bright out there!

And so as not to leave you 
with my smug expression ,
here's the view from the top 
(golly gee I DO love these textures)
and a few specs:
The Skirt itself is 32" long.
It weighs 405g  --approx 14 oz
Owing to the sett miscalculation mentioned above
I have another 75 ish inches of fabric left --
enough for a knee length three panel Sarah-Dippity
or a mid thigh length four panel one.
But it is snowing again.
and since I now have something cozy to wear,
it's time to get back to whatever I was doing
a couple of weeks ago.
​What was it again?

One of the great things about comics

I only wish I could draw a picture
that could describe the weight and texture 

of these two swaths of cloth
(each 104" x 8.25" after washing/light fulling)

The sett issue of last week
really did end up working in my favor
as, not only did I get another two days of blissed-out weaving,
(this kind of cloth-making is super fast compared with knitting),

but I also have nearly 70 inches of fabric left--
enough to make a second 
(if decidedly shorter) skirt.​

The extra yardage also meant
another expedition downtown
(all of five blocks away),
to buy some more yarn
​for the knitting parts of this project.
Fresh from weaving yummy yardage
I just happened to notice
that there are quite a few possibilities
for future Sarah-Dippity skirts
in that store.

While there, deep in a discussion
of how mill spun yarn is finished
​and why I find the knitting experience
so much more pleasurable
​if I wash such yarn before knitting
(if not for weaving),
we conjured an experiment,
​the results of which you can see above and below.
The yarn is not only fluffier and shorter,
it is also distinctly softer.
Why wait till after the knitting is done?

At any rate, after several swatches
I'm now deep in the knitting portion of this skirt show,
where, given the length of the woven panels I just cut,
​ I am likely to remain for a while.

But that is no hardship. 
I do love to knit.
And it'll provide balance to the other enticing
(but less pictorially sharable), thing I'm working on:
​an article for the autumn 2019 issue of Ply magazine!
​Wheeeeee!

Indeed, I seem to be having an extra delicious magazine moment,
as I drew a cartoon for the new issue of Spin Off
which should be showing up at any moment.
I haven't seen it 'in paper' yet,
but am most excited. 
Has anyone received their copy?

I sure do love to be part of this yarnish world
and treasure absolutely everyone in it. 

Nope -- not the burn carbon,
catch a cold on the airplane
on the way to someplace else
kind of holiday.

That sun is shining
​into my very own studio.

Though  I did go somewhere --
me and my big black rubber boots
strolled through the slush
to The Yarn Underground (my local yarn store),
where I was dazzled by the abundance 
and walked home with 
8 skeins of Harrisville flywheel yarn.

 So did you know about this?
That you can buy yarn that has
already been carded and spun?
It's a little weird.
But AMAZING. 

(One of the great things about spending most of my time in the studio
is that am a cheap date -- dazzled and overwhelmed by
the local downtown shops.
Of course I'm also dazzled by dead leaves 
which is slightly less helpful to the local economy....).

But no matter how you look at it,
this feels like a mighty quick turnaround--
from a mad desire
​ for a long, dark grey Sarah-Dippity skirt,
to yarn in hand.
(if not exactly fast fashion, at least less glacial than my usual approach).

Said mad desire was initially generated
by a vision of the thing I wanted to wear that day,
the realization that I had the knowledge and technology to make it,
and a teensy bit of project envy generated by
 slipping Backstrap Dialogues zines into envelopes 
and mailing them to Sweden and Germany, Califorina and Kentucky
as Sarah-Dippity instructions are downloaded
to computers around the world.

At any rate, it felt (and still feels), rather marvelous
to take a mid winter break from my cellulosic adventures,
and start winding a warp almost before 
shucking off the rubber boots.

Alas, my starry-eyed haste
also led to a teensy bit of
of a miscalculation --
this mill spun yarn is NOT
​ as much like mine as I thought.

I stormed about a bit and felt like an idiot
for making assumptions, 
and for not weaving a sample --
or at least doing a yarn wrap.
But drawing this comic gave me an idea
(you might note that the little "but maybe if..." thought bubble
was written in with a different pen),
so I clipped together a ten dent rigid heddle 
from four Schacht Variable Dent Rigid Heddle sections, 
scribbled a new sketch for the skirt
and away I went.
(10 epi vs 12 epi  meant weaving two narrower swaths of cloth since I did not want to buy more equipment, which leads to the skirt being made of  four or maybe five 8" wide panels instead of three 12" ones-- though I don't have to decide for sure till later since the design is flexible and the final
shaping and fitting is in the knitting).

The broken threader was another bummer,
but this paper clip worked just fine-- 
​indeed, maybe better than the diz threader
I've been using for the last couple of years.
​Golly, I love makeshift solutions.  
​And I really love this loom.

The last few inches of the first warp
turned into cloth
​ just before I started to write this morning.

And there's a good chance
I'll start winding the second warp 
shortly after I hit "post."

Perhaps  next week I'll be knitting the skirt wedges
and my holiday will be done.
zoom zoom zoom!
But so restful.

And then back to real life.
​
If that is what this is.

In October 2017,
I had an idea for a skirt.
My thought was to combine
shaped, hand knit panels
with my myriad backstrap experiments
to build a flexible and fitted garment. 

It was just an experiment.
​
Definitely a one-off.

Though not usually short ones--
or at least I haven't since the early 1970s
when my mother and grandmother tsk tsked 
over my desire to share more adolescent leg
than they thought fitting or attractive.

But attractive is as attractive does
(whatever that really means),
and anyway, the skirts are fun at any age--
to make and to wear.

The simple structure makes fitting a breeze--
the unbeatable texture of specially selected (or spun) yarn,
the underlying energy of hand woven cloth,
the built-in stretchiness of  hand knit panels
all work together to to make each skirt
as comfy as plain leggings--
and as long or short as I want
(​or fabric length will allow).

note: my skirts are mostly short because I made them 
using existing color and weave experiments
designed, warped and woven
with no thought to future leg coverage.

Anyway,
I've long wanted to share the idea
and fully intended to have these instructions done
shortly after the concept showed up.
Backstrap Dialogues,
(the instructional story zine that led to
the cloth that led to Sarah-Dippity),
was freshly out in the world
and somehow I imagined
that after a 56 page comic,
 a straightforward skirt guide
​ would take a mere few weeks!
​Sigh.

​But finally, after writing and re-writing,
drawing and re-drawing,
and overriding a firm decision
to shelve it permanently,
​(shows what I know),
I am beyond pleased
that Phineas reminded me
about the underlying joy
of the garments themselves--
(well, he bullied me just a bit,
​ as only a squirrel can do,
insisting that other weavers and knitters 
might well want
to cover their butts
​with their own magnificent cloth).

So HERE IT IS, 
freshly loaded into my web store:
a 16 page downloadable PDF guide
​ to using your cloth (hand woven or otherwise),
and your yarn (knit at a gauge that suits your hands and taste),
to make a garment that fits your body,
your life and your style. 

And to help celebrate the joy of hand woven cloth,
hard copies of Backstrap Dialogues
are now on sale for $13 
(I love prime numbers)
with free shipping.

Endless thanks to Phineas, for spurring me on,
and my ever patient reader/testers,
for all their support.

that among the many reasons I make things, 
is that the very act of construction
is a kind of pathway
further into--
and also further away from
my daily life.

The 'into' part seems obvious.
Immediate  tactile engagement
with materials I love
and objects I use
helps me,
both literally and figuratively,
​to feel the ground as I walk.

This is particularly powerful,
when the soles of my handmade shoes 
are worn through--

and the quick and dirty replacements 
I whipped off in April-- 

​​and wore with glee in the springtime woods--

prove, in June--

to  be magnets for every sharp
quill-like
hitchhiking seed 
around.

To tell the truth, I was less than happy
about the the state of  those shoes.
Grumpy about miles of overgrown trails,
sad about the loss of dead friends 
(one of whom used to do a lot of trail clearing on my behalf),
and in pain because those seeds are SHARP.
I felt at a complete loss.

But drawing it into my diary,
(both in the moment and later),
I remembered that it's not the fault of the plants
(just trying to propagate the world as we humans do),
or the shoes
(they'd been doing a great job for months),
but rather that I had the wrong clothing
for that moment,
and that with a little bit  (lot) of effort 
with needle, branch loppers, thimble and weed whacker,
it would all be just fine. 

If nothing else,
​I  at least could see a way to proceed.

After yanking and properly disposing of
the bulk of the barbed and painful seeds,
the grey felt shoes work fine once again--
at least for town runs--
and when they are on my feet.

But I'm not going to bring them to the woods for a while, 
so  a new pair was still in order --
something with no nap
for burrs.

 A piece of hemp canvas 
laminated to a scrap of cotton
seemed like a grand idea,
so away we went.

Unlike the grey felt,
(which sews like butter),
this stuff is tough.

But that is what I wanted, right?
​
And pre -punching the holes helped a lot.

Though not entirely.

Indeed it would be nice
if all this noticing
didn't involve callouses and blood --
(glovers needles are made, duh, to slip through skin),
but it sure makes what might otherwise be a mundane task 
a time of  edgy productivity --
(micro drama in every stitch),
with moments of great satisfaction.

Indeed, now that I've given my hands a break to write this,
it is probably time to finish stitching on those soles.
The new four selvedge students
are running off without me



*Cordwainer: The term cordwainer entered English as cordewaner(e), from the Anglo-Norman cordewaner (from Old French cordoanier, -ouanier, -uennier, etc.), and initially denoted a worker in cordwain or cordovan, the leather historically produced in Moorish Córdoba, Spain in the Middle Ages, as well as, more narrowly, a shoemaker.[6] The earliest attestation in English is a reference to “Randolf se cordewan[ere]”, ca. 1100.[1][6]According to the OED, the term is now considered obsolete except where it persists in the name of a trade-guild or company, or where otherwise employed by trade unions.
​(from Wikipedia)

So technically I am not a cordwainer.
 I don't belong to a trade-guild,
(at least not one that has anything to do wtih footwear
though I am a member of the Palouse Hills Weaver's Guild
and thus of the Association of Northwest Weaver's guilds), 
and if I use leather, it is local buckskin
(possibly from a deer shot by my aunt).
But eleven generations back,
John Swett (1575-1651)
who immigrated to Newbury, MA in 1630*
with his wife Sarah,
apparently was. 
So, close enough.
Though I bet he didn't get his leather from Córdoba, Spain either.

*Shoemakers, tanners, and other tradesmen arrived in Jamestown (Virginia) by 1610, and the secretary of Virginia recorded flourishing shoe and leather trades there by 1616. The first English shoemaker to arrive in America whose name has been preserved, was Christopher Nelme, who sailed from Bristol, England and reached Virginia in 1619. Nearly one year later, the first Pilgrim settlers landed in Massachusetts. The first shoemakers who followed the trade there arrived in 1629.
from The Honourable Cordwainer's Company website --"What is a Cordwainer"

** The dates and names of my relations are from the book Jockey Corners: Remembrances by Paul P. Swett, M.D., compiled and edited by Norris P. Swett M.D. and Steven C. Swett, Bragg Hill Press; Norwich, VT,  1997

***ALL shoes shown here are from patterns from Simple Shoemaking
​

Gotta have ‘em!

Fabric store ‘eco-felt’ (from plastic bottles apparently),
that has been languishing in my shoe experiment stash,
plus a scrap of nylon something-or-other
​from a failed waterproof shoe experiment,

and the not-quite-worn-out soles
​ from the now-disintegrating yellow ones,

equals a relatively swift,
and somewhat half-assed,
pair of minimalist running shoes.

Function has an elegance all its own.

Or, as wise women have said,
“​Done is better than perfect.”

As winter draws to a close (or pretends to),
the pile of sweaters in need of a minor mend
grows ever larger --
​one more unfinished task among many.

​Knitting sleeves from shoulder to cuff with mending in mind
means it’s generally just a matter of removing the worn out fragments,
ripping back a few rows (admiring the shape the currugated rib yarn while I’m about it),
and picking up the waiting stitches to cast off again--
so I know I’ll be thoroughly engaged in the process once I start.

Indeed, I love mending--
just as I love the satisfaction of having mended
and of using/wearing things that have proven their worth over time--
so I’m not sure why I put it off.

Perhaps that is why mending is helpful —once I start--
as it helps me to remember how much I liked this yarn,
​ how much I like it still.

​Look —the colors glow brighter even as the re-knitting commences.

Or maybe it’s just that the sun is now shining on the snow
and bouncing into the studio,
reminding me that it is not yet spring
and an almost mended sweater will keep my best beloved warm
far sooner than the fleece I’d otherwise be carding for the next one.