Socks, Legwarmers (Pi Shawl in the Background)
The Pi Shawl lives on the back of my computer chair, and my son has taken to wearing it when he plays "Heroes of Might and Magic" on my computer.
So, yes, that is its border you can see in this photo of the little knitting I got done over the weekend. I knitted another inch or so on both legwarmers, and only a couple of rows on the sock ribbing.
Saturday we braved not-so-great roads and went to the local Goodwill's "50% off Saturday". I got a couple more sweaters that I intended to frog back into yarn.
Unfortunately, one of them has been claimed by our son as his "furry shirt". That would be the lambswool/angora/nylon blend one, the one I really coveted. *sigh* The child has a memory like a bear trap, too, so no use hoping he'll forget about it if I hide it away for a month or so.
The other one turns out to be 29 ounces of a thick singles cotton in two shades of purple that I think is going to work better woven than knitted. A good inspiration to get my latest stalled project the heck off my loom -- which is also a good inspiration to clear off the "stuff" that has migrated to the horizontal surface of my loom bench.
Sunday Possum Adventure
Sunday was an icy day, and after reluctantly abandoning the idea of going to a local farm to see their Shetland sheep sheared, I was sitting in my knitting spot when I heard a ruckus outside under the windows by the bird feeder: a thump, undoglike snarls, dogs rushing around.
I went to the door and called the dogs in, using the drill-sergeant dog-command voice I learned from my dad. They did not seem to think they ought to come in, so I shut them indoors, put on boots and a coat and went out to assess the situation.
There, under the bird feeder, was the possum from Friday, playing dead. (I recognized it by the frost-bitten ear.) It was still, and holding its lips skinned back from its teeth, but it was also breathing. I didn't see any blood, so I got a shovel and scooped it up out of the snow. (Those teeth looked sharp. And there are fleas.) Every time the shovel bumped under it, it squeezed its eyes shut tighter and skinned its teeth back more: "See? See? I'm dead. Just a dead possum here, folks."
I carried it back up to the pine trees on the shovel. Partway, it opened its eyes: "What's going on? I'm moving. Aagh! A human!" and it slumped back down on the shovel. I left it on the thick red pine needles. I hope it doesn't keep coming back, but a possum is not the brightest light in the string.