Posts Tagged With: Crochet

Summer Hours and Doll Houses


Summer hours start at Scripps this week.  I’m still in Afghan-land (about ¼ finished with the third), so the extra hours to crochet will be very nice.  I’ll post pictures of all three once they are all delivered and the packages opened.  Social media and surprises are a dangerous combination, so I refuse to mix them until they are no longer surprises.

I’m not sure what to do after I get out of Afghan-land – I can see the light at the end of the tunnel!  It isn’t the train! – but I think I might have an idea.  I have a Greenleaf Beacon Hill dollhouse sitting partially finished in my mother’s garage.  It might be nice to set it up on the kitchen table and see how much more of it I can get done this summer.  At last glance, however, Hunca Munca and Tom Thumb were having babies in the dining room.  This is a problem, but nothing a little scrubbing won’t fix (okay, a lot of scrubbing).

With the dollhouse, of course, comes bad Victorian romances.  I’m not reading, I’m writing, and loving every minute of not worrying about cliché or even quality.  Dovie and Royal Whitlock live in the house with maids Betsy and Dinah.  There may or may not be a baby on the way eventually.  She was the governess to his super-wealthy family, but he’s the second son so he won’t inherit and it’s plausible for them to marry.  I know, it’s such trash but it’s such fun!  Why is this stuff so easy and the novel so hard?  My guess is expectation…  Probably this is the closest Dovie and Royal will get to having their story in print.  It doesn’t matter if it’s stupid.

I read back through this post and realized that I’m really a sixty year old woman, or twelve.  These are the hobbies I usually refuse to talk about, because if there is anything more ridiculed than a girl playing Savage Worlds games it is a thirty two year old who (ahem) “collects” dolls.

I swear… my home features no chintz, and no quilting, and the embroidery is all shockingly modern in nature. There.  I feel much better now.

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Afghans (the kind you crochet, not the kind who live in the desert)


I always forget that crocheting goes so incredibly fast.  This is a very fortunate thing.  There has been a rush of babies this year.  Every time I turn around, someone else is expecting.  Not just family, either, but good friends and coworkers.  I like to make afghans for babies, if I can, which means that I am on the afghan train.  My “With Yarn” Pinterest board is getting well used.  I’m working on the afghans in order of due date.

I’m fairly excited about it.  This gives me a chance to make a slough of things.  I don’t have to decide on which one, I only have to decide who gets what.  I’m trying all the options, and all the options are out there.  There are boys, there are girls whose parents don’t like pink, and there are unknown genders until birth.

Amongst all of this, I have realized that my process when making an afghan is much like writing a novel.  I spend far too much time waffling about structure and color.  I stand in the yarn aisle for hours, pulling out colors and seeing how they look together, before finally coming home with a gargantuan bag full of the stuff.  Then I start hooking, absorbed in the way the pieces are coming together in my hands.

Somewhere in the middle, I look at the color scheme and the work that I’ve done and start thinking I’m crazy.  This will never come out the way I think it should.  Who thought that brown and yellow were a good idea, even with all the blue and green between?  Did I pick the correct ratio of white to other colors?  Is it baby enough? But when I finish and look at the whole thing, I usually end up satisfied.  The only way to finish anything is to trust the person I was when I made decisions, and push through.

The first one is more than 1/2 finished.  I’ve been working on it for three days.  Maybe this making 4 afghans within a few months thing will go alright after all.  Also, everyone needs to stop having babies after this so my poor hands can rest.  You’re all on notice until next year.

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