We'll Go No More A-Roving, Part 1

  

At one point in the ancient past I studied spinning with Richard Muto, the RI Laureate of Fiber. He is a gifted teacher, but I soon realized, despite my hope that the coordination I've developed as a musician would transfer to operation of a foot-pedaled wheel, that this was definitely not my thing.  I produced numerous yards of weak, lumpy yarn that looked more like abraded dental floss than anything generated by a woolly beast.  And then, in accordance with my LITS  (Life is Too Short) principle, decided to call it quits. Now I am quite admiring of those who spin, and since I did learn much from Richard about the qualities of different fibers, their processing, etc., I consider myself more knowledgeable than before in assessing the integrity and beauty of different yarns.

The Bristol Fiber Festival, small and admirably low-key, was a celebration of fiber in every way, shape, and form.  There was the requisite shearing of sheep, a covey of spinners and weavers, and the traditional sheep-to-shawl event.  There were fiber animals to pat--Pygora goats, alpacas, angora bunnies, sheep--and there was a way-station for knit-a-holics, hosted by an engaging group of knitters from the East Bay area.  And there were vendors of beautiful yarns, roving, knitting accessories and tools, and ancillary handcrafts, like baskets and hooked rugs.  Photos follow.

Festival Overture

The weather was beauteous and so I enjoyed getting lost in Colt State Park en route; the waterfront views were dramatic and spectacular.  Eventually I arrived at the Third Annual Bristol Fiber Festival; J had already gotten there and and was stamping her feet and alerting personnel to track me down the instant my shabby dark green stationwagon pulled into the drive of the Coggeshall Farm Museum, the charming historic mileu wherein the festivities occurred.  J, the self-proclaimed "last housewife in Weston, MA" (although I call her "the most entertaining person in Weston, MA") has a persuasive manner (i.e. a friendly stream-of -consciousness rap that always involves childhood memories, beloved pets of yore, and gossipy tidbits about people you don't know and could care less about, but who become semi- interesting by virtue of J's byzantine narratives that mainly involve whose kid went to school with so-and-so and how they have succeeded or fucked up). The traffic man did as told, and when I slowly coasted past stopped me to ask if I were S?  

Behind him I could see J flapping her wings impatiently.  I invited her to ride with me to the first available parking space, which was shortly found, and we then rushed to the farmgrounds, just in time to see the first sheep-shearing demo of the day and to discover my friends Gerry and Janice, of Westerly's May-Ger farm, selling their alpaca products (yarn, roving), honey, and eggs.