I was going to tell this story, but I think Jinniver does it better.

It involves this:

And yes, I laughed, I cried, I dyed yarn.

Today’s post is about iced tea.

But I thought that instead of that, I would talk about yarn.

This yarn:

Ain’t it purty?

Hello, purty yarn:

I procured this yarn from the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival. It’s a blend of organic cotton and alpaca, and I like how the plies are different colors. I like the colors the yarn is dyed. I like it. It’s purty.

I intend to make the Miss Dashwood pattern from ChicKnits.

Also, this:

It’s silk, from Handmaiden. I’m thinking of making this lacy scarf. 

I’m probably never going to get back to iced tea at this point. So if you had really wanted to hear about that, stop reading now.

Here’s some other yarn. This yarn is my yarn, this yarn is your yarn. From California to the New York Island. From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters. This yarn was made for you and me.

Substitute the word yarn, and this is pretty much what I’m thinking about this yarn.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Qk2DTji46E&feature=related

This yarn (which belongs to you and me, of course), called Waterlilies, was inspired by the famed Claude Monet paintings.

I also created Lilacs and Irises to go along with it.

I’ll try to write about iced tea another time, I promise.

In case you’re wondering if this post will eventually devolve into levity and goofiness, the answer is yes. But before we reach that point, permit me a departure into something that happened to me yesterday that brought tears to my eyes. (The Yarnista regularly alternates between laughing and crying, it’s a character flaw.)

A box arrived.

This is not in and of itself remarkable — boxes arrive at the studio almost daily.  This box, though, was small, rectangular, and thin — the type you might ship a hardcover bestseller in, not yarn or dyes or the myriad other items that we have delivered. Noteworthy, too, was the return address. A local friend and customer, she was usually on the receiving end of yarny packages from me, not I from her.

I tore open the box, doing the mental calculus about what could be contained inside. “I suppose she could fit some yarn in here if she really squished,” I thought, “But why would she be sending me yarn?”

Inside the box were several small packages, all neatly wrapped with ribbons, and a card addressed to me.  My mind was aflurry — the package did arrive right before my birthday. “Chocolate, I bet it’s chocolate!” I thought.

And I was right.

Next came my second great love: a sweet little card:

Containing the key to obtaining the nectar of the gods:

Someday my obituary will describe my death by chocolate and coffee. I hope.

And in an homage to these loves, an adorable set of sticky notes. I use sticky notes as prolifically as I consume chocolate — how did she know this?

I will remember where these came from each time I reach for one.

I could’ve gone to bed a happy woman. My fundamental needs had all been met — food, drink, something beautiful, and a friend who cared.

But there was more.

A small booklet and an envelope sealed with a dot.

Inside, an incredible gift, not only because of the care and thought that so obviously went in to picking it out (favorites were even highlighted), but because the gift requires me to do what I often forget to do, the thing I need the most: take some time to breathe, to relax, to refrain from checking my emails,  to let someone else cook dinner and wipe the counters, to know that the packages, the yarn, the customers, the friends will still be there in a few hours time, and that I will be a better person for having done something for myself.

This ticket to paradise (and that’s what it sounds like to me) was sent by an incredible group of customers. The last thing I opened was the card, and within three seconds I was tearing up and calling my husband at his work to tell him about this amazing thing that had happened to me.

It wasn’t just the gift. For the gift, I am profoundly grateful. But it was also for the kindness and loyalty and good humor that accompanied the gift. Those are things I value so highly.

The card looked like this:

Inside, was a list of people near and dear to my heart. Also inside was a message that I intend to keep forever. (I have distorted the list of names on the left to protect my friends’ privacy.)

The card — and here is where this post begins to devolve — was signed “Sheepnuts.”  Now, the Yarnista was no longer alternating between laughing and crying, she was doing them both simultaneously. My trusty assistant Michelle tentatively asked if everything was OK. She didn’t sound like she believed me when I answered, “Yes, everything is great. Something amazing just happened.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Both the incredible gift — and your friendship — means so much to me.

XOXOXO

– Yarnista

That’s what my son thought I said when I told him I was headed to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival.

“Won’t the wolves eat the sheep?” he asked, incredulously.

Poor thing. WOOL, darling, WOOL.  WOOL as in yarny goodness. WOOL as in nectar of the gods.

Here’s me, setting out on a gray Saturday morning for the bestest festival ever in the invention of humanity.

Notice the orb. It follows me. It is the orb of wooly delight. Does one follow you, too?

As I traversed the beautiful Maryland countryside, something began to pelt the windshield. Something oddly wet. Please note that I did not take these pictures while operating a motor vehicle. I would never endanger myself in that way. I barely walk, for goodness sake. I don’t want something out-of-doors, like a bird, to crash into me.

Just to prove that the Maryland countryside is indeed beautiful, I present to you:

and

Those are cows. Or horses. Definitely a farm animal of some kind. Maryland has them.

Oh, oh… wait! Is this the hill approaching the Howard County Fairgrounds in West Friendship, Maryland? Is it? IS IT?

I think… WAIT…

It is! IT IS!

Cars. Maryland has them.

True story. I walked next to the delightful man and woman on the farthest left in this picture. She said to him, “How are those socks?” He replied, “They feel pretty good, I think. Cushiony.” She said, “Do they feel plasticky? If they do, all I have to do is get some sock yarn that’s 100% wool. I can do that, if the nylon content in that yarn bothers you.” He said, “I’ll give that some thought. That might be OK.”

Sock knitters take note: all you have to do to get your husband to sign off on the purchase of more sock yarn is make it sound like you’re fixing a problem he has.

One of the things that I love about the festival is that it’s free. Free to get in, free to park.

It is crowded once you’re inside, though.

I made a beeline for my babies at Cloverhill Yarn. Cloverhill had a great location just inside the main entrance of a covered barn. So the rain didn’t bother them any. And it didn’t bother my babies.

Hello, honies.

I’m sorry mama can’t take a clear picture of you to save her life. I love you anyway.

Be good at your new house. Mama will miss you.

It was a wee bit crowded in the main barn.

I decided to say hello to my friends the sheeps. Or the sheepinses, depending on what kind of mood I’m in.

Hello, beautiful Blue Faced Leicester sheeps! (It’s said Blue Faced Lester, for those of you non-sheep, non-Anglophiles.)

Thank you for your lustrous longwool!

I see your searching, soulful eyes.

These are the finalists in tonight’s evening gown competition.

This sheep is really a 65 year old man. With a remote.

These sheep have been freshly clipped. Except for one small (or large) problem.

NO I DIDN’T! NO I DID NOT PUT THAT PICTURE ON MY BLOG. No Jose, as my daughter would say. You would never catch me doing something like that.

I have pics of my haul, but we’ll save that for another post.

I do love sheep. Just so you know. In case you were wondering.