Knitlandia: A Knitter Sees the World
Clara Parkes
Language: English
Pages: 160
ISBN: 1617691909
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Building on the success of The Yarn Whisperer, Parkes's rich personal essays invite readers and devoted crafters on excursions to be savored, from a guide who quickly comes to feel like a trusted confidante. In Knitlandia, she takes readers along on 17 of her most memorable journeys across the globe over the last 15 years, with stories spanning from the fjords of Iceland to a cozy yarn shop in Paris's 13th arrondissement.
Also known for her PBS television appearances and hugely popular line of small-batch handcrafted yarns, Parkes weaves her personal blend of wisdom and humor into this eloquently down-to-earth guide that is part personal travel narrative and part cultural history, touching the heart of what it means to live creatively. Join Parkes as she ventures to locales both foreign and familiar in chapters like:
- Chasing a Legend in Taos
- Glass, Grass, and the Power of Place: Tacoma, Washington
- A Thing for Socks and a Very Big Plan: Portland, Oregon
- Autumn on the Hudson: The New York Sheep & Wool Festival
- Cashmere Dreams and British Breeds: A Last-Minute Visit to Edinburgh, Scotland
Fans of travel writing, as well as knitters, crocheters, designers, and fiber artists alike, will enjoy the masterful narrative in these intimate tales from a life well crafted. Whether you've committed to exploring your own wanderlust or are an armchair traveler curled up in your coziest slippers, Knitlandia is sure to inspire laughter, tears, and maybe some travel plans of your own.
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The sixteen hours we would be enjoying. I found myself entertaining a thought I’d have again and again during my time in Iceland: What must this place be like in the winter? I pictured the streets shrouded in darkness and snow. It must be the perfect place to go after a bad break-up, to hunker down and wallow. Then summer comes, and by July they face the opposite problem: a sun that never truly sets. It just goes into dusk mode for a few hours before popping back up over the horizon. By now, the.
In store for us. Outside the restaurant, a row of taxis waited to whisk us to the suburbs, to a church where Ragga has been leading a knitting group for several years. Tonight was their big autumn gathering, we were their guests, and I was their guest of honor. They’d even announced the event on the radio. The room was barely half full when we arrived. The more outgoing members of our group immediately trotted off, inserting themselves into conversations in that endearingly loud, unselfconscious.
Bright yellow, with Fauvist flowers and leaves that matched the sign out front. The names of the contents of each canister, too, were painted in beautiful cursive. Assam. Camomille. Menthe. The more I looked, the more I noticed. Children’s drawings had been lovingly taped along the wooden wainscoting below the kitchen bar. Each table, each chair, even each tablecloth was different, sporting flowers, polka dots, abstract swirls and zigzags, in shades of pink, orange, red, yellow, blue, and gray.
And endless plastic boxes of fabric and yarns and gadgets that’d come in handy for one of the 600-plus classes filmed here since the beginning. The cinderblock hallway was lined in eggshell foam to cushion ambient noise. The studio where I would film my class was still quiet, just a jumble of lights, cameras, and assorted props. Perched on a director’s chair with her tea and her iPhone was my producer, Cara. She’d recently left Craftsy to follow her ceramics-professor boyfriend to Nebraska and.
Four-and-a-half-pound, nineteen-inch bass. He was unseated the following year by N. S. Davis, who was knocked off the pedestal in 1932 by none other than a Mrs. N. S. Davis. After what I imagine to be a very long winter, he finally seized the lead back from his wife in 1933. The fish continued to be caught, even during the war years. I wondered what the story was with Thomas B. McAdams, who took the trophy, in 1948, “for trying.” Most people were taking two six-hour workshops that week, but I’d.