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A Day at Petersen Farm
Jun. 26th, 2011 09:23 pmWeather was better than I expected, in fact, better than I remember it ever being for this event. Not too hot, not too cold, no rain, light breeze (my straw had stayed on my head most of the time, which is very unusual but spares me having to chase it.) Even the insects were minimal, and I used no repellent at all, though I did come prepared.
I was the only member of the spinning guild to show up. This is no surprise, since this year the invent was superimposed on several other fiber related gatherings, plus a couple of death in the family situations that clearly took precedence. Curiously, the chief organizer of the Petersen Farm event was not expected to be present today due to her husband's passing on Friday. He had been very ill for quite a while, and it was expected, but I was surprised to see her in historic costume on site. They had the funeral on Saturday, and he would have wanted her to go on with it, she said.
The crowd seemed a bit lighter than previous years, and with a few exceptions, those to whom I spoke seemed even less aware of the connections between live sheep, sheared fleece, woolen yarn, and woolen clothing than they have been in the past. That's pretty dismal. There were, indeed, a few shining exceptions, but overall the kids were distracted and uninterested while the parents tried to entice them to watch, or else the kids were curious and the parents were in a hurry to drag them away. "Let's go look at the tractors, Johnny. (Don't talk to these weird people, I don't want you getting ideas.)"
It is amusing to watch pre-teen kids queuing up for a chance to wash a dish towel by hand in a tub with soap and a washboard, then rinse it and put it through a wringer before hanging it on a line using clothes pins. They get very enthusiastic about it, though. Don't try this at home, parents, it won't work.
Also on site today: a very clever blacksmith who was making quite an array of unusual items, a Civil War recreator in uniform and mounted on a handsome black horse, the weavers of course, a group of woodworkers, and a batch of ladies using treadle sewing machines to assemble quilts and garments. Highlight for me: a fox fursuiter. Partial, ordinary street clothing but with nice head and paws. Very popular with the teenage county queen and her court who all insisted on being photographed with him. He probably should have been in Pittsburgh for AC instead, but he was here, with a couple of typical con badges hanging around his neck to make it clear to those of us who would recognize him just what sort of beast he might be.
Irritation of the day: A nicely preserved (or restored) Model T truck (I think it was a T) with not one, but two horns. A loud electric horn and the classic rubber bulb brass curlicue. Every kid in the place had to climb into that thing and blow the horns repeatedly. It was right across the lane from us and I got very tired of listening to it, especially when the wandering barbershop quartet was singing (they were good.)
I spun a couple hundred yards of very fine alpaca singles on my portable wheel and another fifty or so of ordinary gray wool while demonstrating the hand spindle. (Of course I should have been at home weaving, but that's a separate issue.)
Poor Simon, alas, is no better and probably deteriorating. He's nearly comatose, moving enough to roll over once in a while, but with no apparent awareness of his surroundings or our presence. He hasn't eaten since Friday evening, and has taken no water today. If he is still breathing by morning, we'll have to take him for his last visit to the vet, though I rather hope he'll just let go tonight so we can bury him near some of his sheep. Either way, it makes us both sad. He has been with us all his life since he was 12 weeks old, and outlived three other dogs. I realize it is probably better that he really doesn't feel anything now, but I worry that he doesn't know I am here with him. There seems to be no recognition at all.
I was the only member of the spinning guild to show up. This is no surprise, since this year the invent was superimposed on several other fiber related gatherings, plus a couple of death in the family situations that clearly took precedence. Curiously, the chief organizer of the Petersen Farm event was not expected to be present today due to her husband's passing on Friday. He had been very ill for quite a while, and it was expected, but I was surprised to see her in historic costume on site. They had the funeral on Saturday, and he would have wanted her to go on with it, she said.
The crowd seemed a bit lighter than previous years, and with a few exceptions, those to whom I spoke seemed even less aware of the connections between live sheep, sheared fleece, woolen yarn, and woolen clothing than they have been in the past. That's pretty dismal. There were, indeed, a few shining exceptions, but overall the kids were distracted and uninterested while the parents tried to entice them to watch, or else the kids were curious and the parents were in a hurry to drag them away. "Let's go look at the tractors, Johnny. (Don't talk to these weird people, I don't want you getting ideas.)"
It is amusing to watch pre-teen kids queuing up for a chance to wash a dish towel by hand in a tub with soap and a washboard, then rinse it and put it through a wringer before hanging it on a line using clothes pins. They get very enthusiastic about it, though. Don't try this at home, parents, it won't work.
Also on site today: a very clever blacksmith who was making quite an array of unusual items, a Civil War recreator in uniform and mounted on a handsome black horse, the weavers of course, a group of woodworkers, and a batch of ladies using treadle sewing machines to assemble quilts and garments. Highlight for me: a fox fursuiter. Partial, ordinary street clothing but with nice head and paws. Very popular with the teenage county queen and her court who all insisted on being photographed with him. He probably should have been in Pittsburgh for AC instead, but he was here, with a couple of typical con badges hanging around his neck to make it clear to those of us who would recognize him just what sort of beast he might be.
Irritation of the day: A nicely preserved (or restored) Model T truck (I think it was a T) with not one, but two horns. A loud electric horn and the classic rubber bulb brass curlicue. Every kid in the place had to climb into that thing and blow the horns repeatedly. It was right across the lane from us and I got very tired of listening to it, especially when the wandering barbershop quartet was singing (they were good.)
I spun a couple hundred yards of very fine alpaca singles on my portable wheel and another fifty or so of ordinary gray wool while demonstrating the hand spindle. (Of course I should have been at home weaving, but that's a separate issue.)
Poor Simon, alas, is no better and probably deteriorating. He's nearly comatose, moving enough to roll over once in a while, but with no apparent awareness of his surroundings or our presence. He hasn't eaten since Friday evening, and has taken no water today. If he is still breathing by morning, we'll have to take him for his last visit to the vet, though I rather hope he'll just let go tonight so we can bury him near some of his sheep. Either way, it makes us both sad. He has been with us all his life since he was 12 weeks old, and outlived three other dogs. I realize it is probably better that he really doesn't feel anything now, but I worry that he doesn't know I am here with him. There seems to be no recognition at all.
