Well, it’s been quite a week: a CT scan of my sinuses, handing over a gansey to the Fishermen’s Mission (more on that next week), a talk on ganseys, and the double-header of a flu and covid jag on Saturday, all in the teeth of the sort of wind and rain I usually associate with Snow White fleeing a wicked stepmother. (There’s a character in the novel Catch-22 who’s worked out that time passes more slowly when you’re bored, and who as a result decides to spend his whole life bored out of his mind on the grounds that it’ll make his life seem longer; at this stage all I can say is, hmm, sounds like a plan.)
Rushing waves
The CT scan was mercifully uneventful. This time last year I had a scan of my throat and chest, and that lasted far longer than I found comfortable. This time I could just about have recited Gunga Din in the time it took. You have to keep perfectly still while this things zips above your face making a noise like a hair drier having a panic attack. I’ve developed this technique where I lie on the couch and pretend the device is an enemy drone with a motion sensor, and the slightest movement would give me away: the only downside is that I keep forgetting to breathe, with the result that when the air finally rushes back in I leap like a gaffed salmon experiencing an attack of cramp, which rather ruins the effect. The test results will now be sent to the consultant in Inverness, and then we’ll see.
The gansey talk was a lot of fun. We went down to the seaside townette of Brora with our friend Elizabeth on Thursday night to meet the lovely people of Clyne Heritage Society. (And I must apologise, I hadn’t realised that it would also be on Zoom, or I’d have posted a link.) I talked about the history of the fishing, the fishermen and gutters, showed some photos from the Johnston Collection and laid out some ganseys for people to pore over. Anyway, I had a blast, as I often do. Someone mentioned that the knitters would often knit some of their hair into a “Sunday best” gansey, personalising it, a lovely idea which caused me to reflect ruefully on my own shining pate and realise, as the saying goes, that that particular herring boat has sailed; and wondering if dandruff counted instead?
Finally, I had my flu and covid jags on Saturday. I started out being impressed at the rapid throughput, then slightly alarmed; with good reason, it turned out. Previous vaccinations involved about the same degree of precision as Tiger Woods lining up an approach shot to the 18th green; this was more like Professor van Helsing hammering a stake into Dracula’s chest. I must have flinched, for the nurse asked “All right?” in much the same tone, and degree of menace, as the enquiry, “What you lookin’ at, pal?”, delivered by someone called Spud at 11.00pm on a Saturday night in Glasgow’s Sauchiehall Street. I squeaked something that might have been audible to a bat with a new hearing aid and fled. Next time I’ll be prepared, and will just scream hysterically at the top of my lungs.
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TECHNICAL STUFF
The pattern is slowly establishing itself, though I haven’t got a lot of knitting done, what with all the social whirling this week. It’s a simple combination of two panels: an 11-stitch chevron and a sort of 5-stitch moss stitch border. (The original can just about be seen here, in the gansey worn by the lad sitting in the right with his arms crossed.)
The yarn is a flecked, tawny colour, so the pattern definition isn’t always as obvious as it would be if the colour was flat and uniform. But this is exactly the subtly dappled effect I was hoping for with this yarn—the pattern is clearly visible when the light catches it, as in the photo above, and if you look for it; otherwise it’s more of a texture than a pattern, which relies on simple repetition for its effect.
Come gather round, O best beloveds, for to hear the story of how the Norse gods of old stole the mead of poetry from the jötunn (or giant) Suttungr, and why there are so many bad poets in the world. Like so many Norse myths it’s a dark tale of deception, betrayal and murder; but unlike most of the other myths this one also involves bird poo. So let’s begin (and no, I’m not making this up, though you might wish I was by the time we reach the end).
Falmouth, MA Congregational Church
At the end of the war between the gods of Asgard (the Aesir) and the Vanir, the two sides made peace. This they sealed by each spitting into a vat (as you do). Out of all this spittle they created a man, whose name was Kvasir, who was full of wisdom. Kvasir roamed the world, dispensing wisdom and knowledge to all who asked. But one day Kvasir came to the hall of couple of very wicked dwarfs called Fjalar and Galar, who killed him and drained his blood into three great vessels. They mixed the blood with honey and brewed a magical mead, which turned anyone who drank it into a skald, or poet, and a scholar, but they kept it for themselves.
Cape Cod autumn colour
Fjalar and Galar (for whom now I think about it the word wicked seems insufficient, and perhaps serial killers would be more appropriate) next killed a jötunn called Gilling, and his wife. But Gilling’s son Suttungr came after them, and as compensation for the death of his parents took from the dwarfs the Óðrœrir, the mead of poetry. He also refused to share it with anyone, and hid it under a mountain where it was guarded by his daughter Gunnlod. Now, Odin, Allfather and ruler of the gods of Asgard, came to learn of all this. By various disguises he tricked his way into the mountain where he assumed a handsome shape and seduced Gunnlod, persuading her to let him sip of the mead so he could be inspired to sing her praises. But instead he drank it all and, transforming himself into an eagle, flew away. Suttungr heard Gunnlod’s lament and at once changed into another eagle and set off in hot pursuit. Odin barely reached the walls of Asgard ahead of Suttungr, and regurgitated the mead into vessels the other gods had prepared. Meanwhile the gods had built a great fire which they now caused to blaze up, and Suttungr, unable to stop in his flight, flew into the flames and was destroyed.
And that’s the tale of how the gods stole the mead of poetry—or almost. For Odin, as he was nearing the walls of Asgard and terrified at finding Suttungr so close on his tail, let squirt some drops of mead from his bottom, and these fell into Middle Earth, where we humans dwell. And that’s why, when you hear an exceptionally fine poet, you know that Odin has let him or her drink of the true mead of poetry; but if what you hear is doggerel, then the poet has only drunk of skáldfífla hlutr, or the “rhymester’s share”, which came from Odin’s behind…
Fireworks, Wick riverside
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TECHNICAL STUFF
I was away last week on a training course, so I wasn’t sure how much knitting I’d get done. But I’m delighted to say that I have indeed reached the pattern. I’ll say more about this next week, and hopefully post a chart; for now I’ve just established the foundations, and it’s not really enough to make out the pattern clearly yet. As is my usual custom these days, I started the gussets four rows early by increasing a second purl stitch onto the existing purl “fake seam” stitch that divides back and front. It’s not necessary, but I’ve found it looks neater and makes the first knit stitch increase to start the gusset slightly easier.
It’s November and autumn has arrived with all the subtlety of Mike Tyson landing a right uppercut (a punch once happily described as having the ability to fell an opponent like a redwood in a forest: when people ask me why I decided to become an archivist I usually tell them that this was because so few of the people I meet wish to knock me unconscious, at least until they’ve known me a few minutes). It’s dark, too, in the evenings, though most mornings are just as dark, and wet, it being hardly worth drawing the curtains since the view from the windows is basically what you’d see from inside a submarine submerging during an eclipse.
Flying a kite at South Cape Beach
Wind, rain, dark, cold. You can see why the pagan people of the north adopted Odin and the Norse gods, angry deities bearing a grudge and longing for thermal underwear. You can understand why Ragnarok, the cataclysmic end of the world, would appeal, too: at least it’s something to look forward to. I always liked the description in the Old Norse poem Völuspá, when the Seer is foretelling the end of all things to Odin: it will be a vindǫld, vargǫld: “a wind age, a wolf age”. And I think: oh, you’ve been to Caithness, then.
Trees by the road
I’m typing this on Bonfire Night—remember, remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder treason and plot—harking back to the occasion 417 years ago when a group of Catholics tried to blow up the entire government, king and parliament together, with gunpowder. Guido (“call me Guy”) Fawkes was the one caught in possession of the explosives in the basement, and so he’s the one we all remember. I was interested to read that the word “guy” is probably derived from his name, since effigies of him known as “guys” were burned on Bonfire Night (a mandatory holiday 1605-1859); by the 19th century the word had evolved to cover any shabbily pressed person, before becoming a general word for a man; it’s still evolving, and seems now to be taking on a happily gender-neutral meaning (“hey, you guys”). I’m a pacifist, so I deplore the potential carnage that the Plot would have caused. But, given the often disappointing nature of politics and politicians, I do have a sneaking affection for the description of Fawkes as “the only person ever to enter Parliament with honest intentions…”
Autumn colour on the Cape
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TECHNICAL STUFF
After the rather intense gansey production line of recent months I’ve been taking my time with this one: I’m just doing an hour or so an evening, and focusing more on the knitting-as-relaxation-therapy side of things. As a result, four weeks in I’m just over the nine-inch mark. The yarn is nice and soft, and the body as a whole is rather floppy, so that it almost feels with this colour as though I’m knitting a luxury mail sack. At the current rate I’ll maybe just reach the start of the yoke pattern and gussets this week, or I may not. But it’s surprising how even just a few rows each night build up over time. It’s supposed to be a Christmas present to myself; but if it’s not ready by Christmas, that’s perfectly OK too.
I learned a useful pointer the other day that I thought I’d share with you. When making a cup of tea from a teabag, especially if it has one of those paper tags on a cord, make sure that you put the teabag in the hot water with the tag dangling outside the cup, and not, ahaha, the other way round. (Follow me, as the saying goes, for more helpful cooking tips.)
Chatham Light, Cape Cod
I went back to the hospital at Inverness last week, for the consultant to take another gander at the growth on my vocal cords. I’m starting to dread the moment she gets out the lubricating gel and starts sliming up the laryngoscope, the metal device that goes up one nostril and then down the back of the throat. It’s along, slender fibre optic tentacle with a glowing tip, and it’s hard not to feel as though ET’s decided to pick your nose for you and didn’t know when to stop. I keep expecting to feel a tickling sensation in the brain, and it’s always a surprise when instead it emerges somewhere down by the uvula. The worst part is when they ask you say “Eee” with it in position, which is a bit like trying to drink a glass of water and whistle at the same time.
More Adirondack Colour
The good news is that, a year on, the growth on my vocal cords is much the same and the consultant is now pretty confident that it’s “nothing more serious” (which is, I’ve come to learn, the medical term for cancer). It’s hard to believe it’s only been a year since I was first referred, and in that time the medical profession has been concerned about possible cancer on my vocal cords, my lymph nodes, and my thyroid. It was only a matter of time, I felt, before they became concerned about my navel, my knees and possibly my big toe. So even though I’m living my life in six-month slices (like the man in the old joke falling from a tower block, who as he passed each floor they heard him say, “So far so good… so far so good”), and the doctors use “probably” more than I could wish, this feels, literally, like a whole new lease on life.
Reflected colour on the river, Sutherland, MA
The growth is still there—there’s no point in removing it as the consultant says it’ll just grow back in a few months—so I’ll probably have a croaky voice till the end of my days. I’m also being referred for a CAT scan on my sinuses, which may be infected (words you’d rather not hear when a doctor is inside your face: “Ooh, there’s a quite surprising amount of pus”). But these are mere details. Now I have another year’s worth of ganseys to plan for. But first, a cup of tea…
[Editor’s note: Margaret’s away in the States just now, but is able to upload images to the blog remotely. This will explain the rather startling variation in quality between the main image of the gansey, taken by me on my phone, and the rest. As Hamlet observed, when comparing the poor quality of his uncle’s holiday snaps with his late father’s much better ones, “Oh, what a falling off was there…”]
So, how can you tell if you’re not having a good week? Well—voice of experience here—one way is if you find yourself confusing lip balm with shoe polish. Let me explain. Having certain weighty matters on my mind (i.e., whither I should direct my steps for a walk), and feeling that my lips were dry, I decided to go put on lip balm. On the way, I took a detour into my bedroom to don my shoes, which I also remembered needed a clean. On entering my bedroom, the first thing I noticed was my liquid shoeshine applicator. Somehow all these impulses combined to short-circuit what I laughingly call my brain, and I found myself picking up the shoeshine bottle, popping the top, and starting to apply it to my lips. Luckily it was only the briefest dab before all my senses screamed the alarm, and the application of some washing-up detergent removed the stain, but for a while there I risked looking like I’d been in a transporter accident with an over-ripe banana.
It’s been that sort of autumn. The other week I was in the museum, and some thistledown drifted in the open door. One of the charming ladies I volunteer with reached out and grabbed it, and said that when she was a child she was told that these were fairies and if you caught one you made a wish. She was thrilled, as she’d never caught one before. But as she opened her fist to reveal the mangled wisps of thistledown on her palm I heard myself saying, “Well, that’s one fairy that’s never going to grow up and have kids.” Honestly, if I could have recalled those words I would. But it was too late. They are now part of the eternal, irrecoverable unfolding history of the universe, and somewhere in heaven the Recording Angel got a ping on his phone, woke up from a doze with a jerk, and scrolled through his messages before dipping his quill in the ink bottle and making another entry in the book of my life. In red ink.
All the same, it could, I suppose, have been worse. I was talking with a retired teacher. She told me of a school trip she’d been on once, visiting some old ruins. It was a foggy day, and some of the children wandered off and started clambering on the walls. At last the head teacher noticed these two figures on the walls and shouted at them to come down. They ignored him. So he roared out, “Right! You two come down right now and stand still until I come and deal with you!” Only when he got closer he discovered that they weren’t any of his party at all but a couple of German hikers, who were now standing petrified to attention at the foot of the walls…
Autumn colour in the Adirondacks
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TECHNICAL STUFF
I’m now about 3.5 inches into the plain knitting of the body, which is, I’m delighted to say, too floppy to stand up properly. There will be about 12 inches of plain knitting before I start the pattern, so feel free to start a longish book—Moby-Dick, say, or A Brief History of Time—and catch up with me sometime in November.
Well, it’s been quite a week: a CT scan of my sinuses, handing over a gansey to the Fishermen’s Mission (more on that next week), a talk on ganseys, and the double-header of a flu and covid jag on Saturday, all in the teeth of the sort of wind and rain I usually associate with Snow White fleeing a wicked stepmother. (There’s a character in the novel Catch-22 who’s worked out that time passes more slowly when you’re bored, and who as a result decides to spend his whole life bored out of his mind on the grounds that it’ll make his life seem longer; at this stage all I can say is, hmm, sounds like a plan.)
Rushing waves
The gansey talk was a lot of fun. We went down to the seaside townette of Brora with our friend Elizabeth on Thursday night to meet the lovely people of Clyne Heritage Society. (And I must apologise, I hadn’t realised that it would also be on Zoom, or I’d have posted a link.) I talked about the history of the fishing, the fishermen and gutters, showed some photos from the Johnston Collection and laid out some ganseys for people to pore over. Anyway, I had a blast, as I often do. Someone mentioned that the knitters would often knit some of their hair into a “Sunday best” gansey, personalising it, a lovely idea which caused me to reflect ruefully on my own shining pate and realise, as the saying goes, that that particular herring boat has sailed; and wondering if dandruff counted instead?
