melknits-blog

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DRAGON RIDER GLOVES

Fits average to wide hands.

The gloves are approx 8.5" (22cm) circumference around the top of the fingers and around the thumb. The wrist measures approx 7" (18cm) in circumference all the way down and is stretchy so will fit most wrists.

Somethng different to our usual repertoire, but I hope you like these!

For this and many other handmade, unique shawls please visit my Etsy Shop

Please help support your friendly crafter by reblogging this post. Thank you!

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Knit A Charming Last Unicorn Pullover … It’s Still Sweater Weather For Awhile Yet! 👉 https://buff.ly/3rBNl88 🦄

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Crochet a Hocus Pocus Book Cover ... This Is So Cool ... And FREE! 👉 https://buff.ly/2TlH3tJ

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Patagonicus, Laguna de los tres, and Fire and Snow (by Marco Grassi)

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Crocheters when the hook slips off the yarn: "Whoops! Better redo those like 2 stitches I dropped :D"

Knitters when the needle slips off the yarn:

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Tina Munim, 1980s

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effort is attractive as fuck

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Photographer: UnidentifiedTitle: “Wear Masks to Save Jobs”Size/Media: Approx. 9" x 7" Glossy fiber silver gelatin Dates: (Shot 1941, Printed 1941) Vintage shot of two female office workers wearing masks to disguise their identities when testifying at a State House Hearing on the minimum wage in 1941.

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Nicu Enea (Romanian, 1897-1960)

Peasant Girls Inside

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I haven't seen dancing pumpkin guy ONCE this year, are you guys okay?

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The scene is set - November is almost upon us. Värmland, Sweden (October 31, 2018).

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Van Helsing, handing out guns: Madam Mina, I do not believe it wise for you to be getting-

Jonathan, tightening his grip on his kukri: ...

Van Helsing: ...nothing. I do not think it be wise for you to be getting nothing. H-have a gun Madam Mina.

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Does he know?

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Drawtober 2020 Day 2: Scarf

The background ended seeming a lot more darker once scanned… I’ll have to make sure to test my colours before applying a background (whoops haha) Anyways, heres a sweet little ghost knitting up a scarf, it’s getting colder y'know.

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pattern: Panna by Yucca

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Babcia, Day 4

I ask my grandma if she remembers how to knit. She mumbles, “I used to know how to do everything.” Knit, embroider, sew, bead, sweaters and mittens and skirts and ornaments and angels. She keeps mumbling. I can only make out every other word. I don’t know if she ever answers my question. When I show her the amateur scarf I’ve been knitting, she smiles bitterly from her prone position on the couch: “It’s better to do something over nothing.”

My grandma tells me that Satan visited her. He said, “Here, I hold money in the palm of my hand. How can you know so much and be so happy when you have so many children?” I don’t know how to respond to that. I think I must have misheard or misunderstood her story.

My grandma asks me what time it is. I say it’s one o’clock. She’s startled and says, “I should go to bed, then,” while trying to rise from the couch. I protest and stutter out a correction in halting Polish - she’s still confused - “No, grandma, it’s still daytime. We just ate lunch. It’s one in the afternoon.” Finally she catches on and settles back down. “I didn’t understand you.” We laugh together weakly. The pale November sunlight struggles through the sliding door, right next to our seats.

From what I’ve gathered, my grandfather was a player and a wanderer. I never knew him. My grandma remembers scolding him and chasing him down the road with a broom, demanding, “How can you leave now with your child at home?”

My grandma’s dad was shot dead by a German soldier. I still don’t know exactly why or how. She tells me she didn’t say anything when it happened since she didn’t want to be shot as well. She tells me her dad visited her after that, told her he was proud of her and that she could take care of herself. She tells me she woke up from the visit with ice-cold legs. That’s how she knew that he had really been there with her, even though he had already moved on.

My grandma cries sometimes when she talks to me. Her lids seem too big for her watery eyes. Her hands are clumsy as they wipe away thin and messy tears. Sometimes, sitting next to her in this cold dark lonely house, I want to cry, too.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I run upstairs, grab a new pair of needles and a brightly colored ball of yarn, and thrust them into her hands. “Do you want to knit with me?” Surprised, she smiles, broadly and sunnily, for the first time since my return. “Tak!”

It takes some gentle reminders, a few mistakes and retries. I have to teach her what she taught me long ago. Her movements and work are clumsy and childlike with the forgotten motions. But we work it out together, repeating as necessary, and then she’s knitting again, just like she used to. We sit up and knit together, cheerfully.

Time moves on. The sky outside turns dark, but we sit in warm lamplight. Such is life, she’d say. I find myself humming a Polish hymn under my breath.

“Pan kiedyś stanął nad brzegiem…”

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I'm having a little trouble organizing my thoughts here, but I wanted to try to explain something I've been thinking a lot about.