When I packed to come to Afghanistan, I chose things that made me happy- comfortable jeans, shirts that never needed an iron, warm socks. I needed to pack light- we live in tiny spaces- so if I brought it, it was because it suited some need perfectly- preferably, it was sensible, necessary, durable, and provided some sort of emotional comfort. Thus, when I was looking for a hat to bring with me, I chose my Kate Hat.
(That's me, in my Kate Hat, trying to get my this- software- came- free- with- my- computer's worth out of Photobooth.)
The Kate Hat is called "The Kate Hat" because it's made out of triple- ply aran weight that I spun from some Corriedale roving I bought from Kate the very first time I met her- this midnight colored, nearly- black roving with dashes of electric blue running through it. I knew I'd like her as soon as I saw it- no one who made colors like that could be anything but wonderful. It was my first attempt at Navajo plying, which makes it a firm/ sproingy yarn but also ups the Kate Factor because I taught her how to do that technique later on, too. This picture doesn't do the hat justice, to be honest, but I don't want to pull out the good camera because before I do that I'd have to pick blanket fuzz out of the hat itself and really, I just wanted to make a quick post about Kate and the hat tonight.
This is another one of the things I love about knitting, spinning, all of it- I can trace a history through the things I've made. Sometimes that history is wonderful- like The Kate Hat, which always makes me smile. Sometimes it's not so wonderful, like the silk- blend brick red cabled sweater I made while Sam was in the hospital; gorgeous as it is, I can't wear the thing, it's all waiting rooms and fear. Sometimes it's just silly- the long scarf I made for Boo, all stripes and bright colors, that's hours of 1×1 rib knitting during long late- night shifts with John, reading comics and waiting for trouble calls. Each piece has a story- usually, more than one story.
I love the thought of my hands ticking off bits of time in yarn, or roving; hands and the work that comes from them seems a more honest way to secure a history.