In the begining...

In the begining there were sheep. With fuzzy, cuddly fleeces. Then there was spinning, which is not a class at 24 Hour Fitness. Then there were needles, which my husband calls "knitting sticks." Finally, there were dyes, with the deepest, rarest, most vibrant colors reserved exclusively for royalty. And today there almost a dozen yarn stores within easy driving distance of my house bursting with every texture, ply, color, and fiber the human mind can cook up. Modern life has its drawbacks, but if you're a knitter part of you has to be glad you're alive today. For the love of god, there is even dog hair yarn. I love the smell of yarn stores, the look of rows and rows of tidy yarn balls stacked floor to ceiling, and, most of all, ambling down the aisles to squeeze each and every skein. When you sqeeze them they say what they want you to knit them into. A nice fresh skein of really quality alpaca, silk, or cashmere is better squeezin' than cantelope, baby cheeks, down pillows, or, in certain cases, even puppy tummies, which is the standard by which all other squeezin' is measured. It's a beautiful thing. Sigh. I heart yarn.