A tale of two sleeves

I bought this Norwegian sweater in 2000. Encouraged by my husband, I had to buy a man's sweater so that it would fit my hips. You can see that the sleeves are beautiful, but I have to roll them up three times when I wear it.

I have to get used to a single flipped cuff on my made-to-me cardigan. It's hard not to think the sleeves are too short.

I've been trying to think of a way to shorten the Norwegian sleeves in a way to preserve the pattern. I don't think it's possible.

After 15 years, should I cut it and knit a new facing or keep rolling them? My arms are just not growing.

The tenth ball

I remember when I bought the yarn for my cardigan, my go-to shop keeper calculated that I would probably need nine balls of yarn. The dye lot had ten balls in the package. I am so glad that I bought the whole package. The anxiety would have been too great finishing up the collar if I had only nine balls.

For the first time, I see that the yarn is from Romania. I have never been there. Maybe someday, I will wear my cardigan back to it's home.

From the button stash

I have decided: La Mode, style 34414, 3/4 ", olive, made in Holland. They are the right size and color. And most importantly, there are eight of them.

I think they were from the collection I bought from Tuesday Morning in Amarillo, circa 2005. I bet you don't think of buying buttons there. Nobody was. They had been sitting around on a lower shelf gathering dust on clearance. I went to the manager and offered to take them all. We agreed on a mutually satisfactory deal.

My kitchen window sill

The herbs that were so promising in the fall have faded away due to drafty window or neglectful watering. They have been joined by a bulb.

Spring will come.

Update: The hyacinth bloomed on a cloudy day. I couldn't get a good picture of it.  I was looking forward to the wonderful scent. I couldn't catch it. Then I decided it was time to empty the kitchen scrap bucket which sits right below this end of the sill.

Now my kitchen smells like spring.

I have a sympathetic twinge

The underarms of my cardigan are joined, woven together by the Kitchener stitch.

As I have progressed on this garment, I have felt it snug on my hips, pulling across my chest, covering my wrists and caressing my neck. Now I giggle as it tickles my underarm.

What is wrong here?

Last Friday morning, I had some time to kill. I had driven my son to school, had some coffee, but the stores I wanted to patronize weren't open yet.

I don't often set foot inside a certain, unmentionable store. But it was open and is big enough to record a walk on my fitness app. It also was a good time to view the clearance items after the holidays.

So I went in. My device went crazy as it announced the miles passing by. 

I should have deleted it, but it was so funny. They should sign me up for the Olympics: 9.9 miles in 4:02 minutes for a pace of 00:53 min/mile.

The technology gods don't like me visiting this certain, unmentionable store.

Winter walk at dusk

My husband had given me skier bibs about 20 years ago. I pulled them out for my walk on the yellow blazed trail in the park.

I used my poles and listened to Elgar's mournful Cello Concerto. 

The snow path was well packed. 

I fell once. 

I rolled, padded with the layers of clothes.

I met two people. 

The first might have been a teacher walking briskly home from school.

The other was the strange old man with long string hair whom I had seen before.

He had a plastic bucket and appeared to be feeding the squirrels.

I joyfully marched home to Haydn's Trumpet Concerto.

Can you see the hint of a setting sun?