I am old. These days people will tell you that 68 is merely one’s late middle age. Bugger that. It is old. And old people who rent a U-Haul van and hit the road for six days get just what they deserve: wrecked. I am recovering, slowly. I suppose it could have happened even to a youngster, but the journey out was seriously complicated by a very unfortunate occurrence.
I stopped for dinner in Mt. Shasta, and ate at a restaurant I had heard about from my sister. When my nephew was young, and they all set out camping in the north, they stopped at Lily’s, for Chinese Food, in Mt. Shasta. Now, my staple when traveling in the northland is the Black Bear Diner, usually the one in Grant’s Pass, Oregon, but one of the Spinny Ladies told me that the original restaurant was in Mt. Shasta, and I was planning to make a special stop there … but the parking lot was too full, and then I remembered Lily’s. Shall I brave the crowd, or build on a family tradition?
So, it was at this lovely venue that I left my wallet, and then drove on 300 miles to Eugene, Oregon.
I’m sure you can envisage my joy when I discovered that the wallet was not where it was supposed to be. And I must, of course, be immensely and eternally grateful that the wallet was at the restaurant to be retrieved … but it did add 600 miles to the trip, and it was during the return to Mt. Shasta that I experienced the next complicating aspect of long and interstate travels: truckers. Turns out there is a difference between California truckers and Oregon truckers. That is, some skitzo osmosis must occur when they cross the border; Oregon truckers are sociopathic. They are permitted to drive five miles per hour faster than California truckers (which as we all know really means ten) but instead of gratifying them, this seems to encourage some really reckless behaviors, chiefly unsafe passing. They like to play leapfrog with each other at 65 mph. You find yourself, in your little Honda, in the midst of this entertainment, and it is freakin’ terrifying.
So I did retrieve the wallet, and frankly, a sensible person would have just headed the rest of the way home. But who’s sensible? I figured that I would explore, take the other way up to Eugene: Hwys 97 and 58. It was much, much pleasanter. The burnt over volcanic terrain off 97 was very dramatic, and a person could spend a very pleasant week doing campgrounds in the Williamette National Forest some day.
And so I did get back to Eugene: had a good sleep, breakfast at my favorite venue, The People’s Choice Market, and then did the remaining 40 minutes up to the fairgrounds in Albany. It was too early for the deranged truckers.
About the event: I had not signed up for a class on the first day, knowing I would need to recuperate from the drive (and I certainly did). I spent a very pleasant morning listening to the wool judge evaluate sheep fleeces. You wouldn’t think such a thing would be as engaging as I find it. I expect it’s because there are many interludes of fantasizing about my own raising of mythical sheep, and I like to imagine lives for the folk in the audience … and, of course, experience the gratification when the judge’s assessment coincides with my own.
Class started the next day: two days of “Advanced Inkle Weaving” with a lady I will not name. It’s very sad, but I cannot recommend her. She should really have known how long it might take for a person not as experienced as she is to warp a loom. (She does now.) And she knows that an average inkle loom can be warped for 1 to three or four yards. If we had warped only a yard, we would have had time during class to actually weave, which we did not. And a shorter warp would have alleviated the consequences of the two, or three, or four, mistakes a person might make during the warping process. (I get nervous.) And then all this arduous business was exacerbated by the heat.
This was not the teacher’s fault at all, but class was such an unhappy experience that I don’t want even want to recount any more of it. More time needs to pass before I can “look back in tranquility” on the experience. I find myself, rather than ruminating over the recent adventure, remembering my 2019 trip to the Gathering. I went in the car, not a rented behemoth of a van, so there was no stress of the unfamiliar, and very large, vehicle to deal with. And I’m remembering that the 2019 event staff (and they are largely volunteers) was more on the ball, more cognizant of this, that, and the other thing than they were this year.
In 2019, I took “Felted Doll Making” in the same building where, during Inkle Weaving, I sweltered for two days’ straight. We didn’t swelter during Dolly-making.
See that big red door? You can crack that thing if you need to, and to the right of it, there are people doors you cannot see, which can be propped open at the front and back of the building to make a nice breeze. Also not quite visible is a row of grated windows up under the eave which makes for a naturally lighted corner at that end of the building. I took Dolly class right in that corner, and we were very comfortable.
Inkle class was on the other side of building where there are no windows. It was in the middle of the building and a ways from doors; we had dim light and no breeze, because this year, for whatever reason, they would not keep the doors propped open. I don’t do well in the heat.
I have a picture of my 2019 output. Isn’t she pretty?
I’m glad I have this. She did not survive life in the trunk of the car, which is very sad. And it’s me own fault. I should have put her away safely in storage right away, but I liked having her in the trunk.
I don’t have pictures of this year’s output because there isn’t any … yet. I do have two barely started Inkles that may someday be resurrected and resumed. I was careful taking them off the loom, and they are safely ziplocked. If I am even more careful, I should be able to get them back onto the loom in weaveable condition.
Do you know? … I’m still wearing that shirt.
An Old Knitty Lady 