Have You Any Wool?

Why yes, actually. My back closet is stuffed with it, six large tubs worth, skeins and skeins of brightly colored wool, and cotton, and (gasp) acrylic. What of it? That hasn't kept me from longing to wash and dye and card and spin fleece into a yarn of my very own. Never mind that I'm just a beginning spinner, that my new drop spindle wobbles like a drunk when I flick it. There's just this irresistible appeal to the whole idea. I get out my little stick and my wool and feel an instant kinship with some distant ancestor, squatting by a smoky fire and rolling woolly mammoth hair down the length of an equally hairy thigh. I spin my little spindle and think of the Tartars, hunched over froth-mouthed horses, thundering across the steppes, their saddle pads matting into the world's first felt. How cool is that?

And why, after all, do we do anything unessential? Why does a blind man summit Mt. Everest? To make life interesting. To fill the days between now and death with something satisfying and personally worthwhile, irrespective of any tangible returns (or, in the case of the blind man, a view). Making something by hand is rarely expedient, or lucrative, or practical. But it sure is fun.

That's why I went fleece hunting last weekend, at my very first Fiber Fair. I bravely resisted all the gorgeous, tempting, handspun yarns, and concentrated only on the raw material. I ended up with something called Cormo, which is the name of a particularly fabulous breed of sheep, a breed whose fleece is so soft and squishy you'll want to press your whole body into it, facefirst. Well, after it's been shorn and washed, that is. Turns out sheep are only pure white and fluffy in children's rhymes and on appliqued sweaters. In real life, think barnyard. Who knew? But, even matted and dirty and aggressively stinky, the fleece felt soft enough to convince this novice spinner to purchase a large, stinking bagful.

Now comes the fun part; the transformation, through careful soaking and draining, of this greasy, feral mass into something wonderful and soft and fluffy, which my friends will covet, and perhaps receive in the form of a Christmas present. I won't post pictures of my worried frowns, the bubbling pots of soapy water, the cat busily kneading dirty wool into felt on the living room floor. But I may post a picture of the creations I make with it. I will not post a picture of the back closet.