Site maintenance

So, some of you have noticed we've been doing a little maintenance on the main site.

We're integrating some new features, including a more user-friendly version of our pattern delivery system. It's taking a bit longer than expected for everyone to be able to see the site, and I'm sorry about that. (Do not panic if you get what appears to be an Irish Girl dating site or a message that says "Bad Request." It will go away soon, I promise.)

In the meantime, you can still reach us by emailing us (threeirishgirls AT gmail DOT com, formatted correctly), or by using the Contact Us button on the right side of this screen.

Today is club shipping day -- wahoo!

The Lion in winter

Or perhaps lioness in winter is more accurate.

Lake Superior in March is capable of nearly anything. Glittering brilliance and waves that crush rock into dust. Sometimes both on the same day. She can lure you in with the promise of hardy, hungry lake trout lurking beneath the ice, beckoning you out onto her surface, only to turn against you in a moment of fury.

She must be respected. The wise know this.

The foolhardy doubt her abilities.

You wouldn't survive for ten minutes in this water, water that's cold enough to frost the rocks onshore with thick coats of ice.

The north shore of the lake is craggy. Rocky. Rugged.

For much of the winter, the gentler terrain of the south shore's bays and inlets are blanketed with thick sheets of ice and snow.

And then comes the breakup.

The tectonic plates of lake ice that bump against the Apostle Islands all winter shift toward shore, creating an eruption where frozen water meets land.

Sun and wind once again expose the sand, a sure harbinger of warmer days ahead.

Apple trees, seemingly barren, are already at work pumping food through their decades-old root systems, heeding the call of the sun-siren.

Time to wake, she says.

The snow melts, rushing down the hills of Duluth in rivulets and streams, laying bare the earth that waits, sometimes too patiently, for the conductor's signal to begin spring's riot of color and birdsong.

She's whispered to the bears in their dens, Wake up.

The crocus bulbs, buried for months under the weight of earth and snow, have heard it. We can't yet see the green shoots pushing skyward, but soon they'll break the surface, drinking up the sun.

And the people too, doughy and pale from months of shielding themselves from the lioness in winter, are heeding the siren's song to wake and rejoin the earth.

And to all of you already enjoying a revelry of blossom:

Yeah, we get it. It's warmer where you are.

But in this city on a hill, we get to enjoy the unparalleled vistas of four quadrillion gallons of fresh water all day, every day.

We'll see you some tulips and raise you  16.3 million acres of forest, 6,000 rivers, and  11,000 lakes.

And though spring comes a bit later than we'd like, we'll congratulate ourselves for the winter well-braved, the hatches well-battened, and the spirits (mostly) well-cheered.

And we'll welcome spring, whenever she decides to get here.

how this all started, pt 3

Read from the beginning, here.

Read part two here.

I'd like to say that things with Three Irish Girls soared with wings of eagles high above the treetops of adversity. But that wouldn't be the truth. 

I loved yarn and knitting. And I loved teaching. And I loved my (soon-to-be three) kids. And I loved my husband and my friends and my book club and my family, and because I loved all of these things, time was sorely lacking.

I started another venture with a dyeing friend. Yarn Love. We went about sourcing custom yarns and building a brand identity.

I also went about filling my never-ending quest for deliciousness with colorways like Turtle Cheesecake:

Strawberry Shortcake:

And I won't bore you with others like Daffodil Buttercream, Chilled Cantaloupe, Cucumber Watercress, and Bayfield Apple. Suffice it to say that food speaks to me on many levels.

I started a blog and began fielding many questions from knitters about dyeing yarn, so I created a series of tutorials that covered everything from how to twist yarn

to how to create gradient-dyed skeins.

As I got pregnanter and pregnanter, I still had yarn to dye, but I had less time and energy to fill orders. The dyeing equipment began to just stay up in the kitchen between dyeing sessions.

We ate take out and Whole Foods deli food more and mama's chicken less. Something had to give, and I picked cooking.

And here you go, honey, an official, public, atta-boy, for the nine months of trips to Dairy Queen, no matter the weather. And the foot rubs. And the pizza delivery.

True story: I broke out the window in our back door with an ax when I was seven months pregnant, in a moment of sheer desperation. You can read about it here. You can see the photographic evidence below.

Our third baby finally made her arrival in the middle of a snowstorm, two weeks later than her siblings, and two pounds heavier than her older sister.

I'm still waiting for the Congratulations, you delivered a 10-1/2 pound baby without drugs in the middle of a snowstorm!!!! award to arrive. It's been four years already, where is it?

This sweetie pie was very pleased to become a big sister.

And this dude got it in his mind that babies need to eat yogurt and play with shiny, fancy toys right away. As in, you're two hours old, I've brought you some Yoplait Light and an Etch-a-Sketch.

We moved when baby #3 was three months old. My boy started kindergarten, and I got a new studio in the basement. I was so excited that I was going to be able to simultaneously simmer soup and stripe skeins.

We hired an electrician to put in a hookup for an electric stove. I bought work tables, strung up clothesline, and listened to the crickets chirp.

No, really. We had crickets in the house. And they drove me nine kinds of crazy. If you've lived in a warmer climate, you already know what I'm talking about when I bring up the crickets. If you haven't, here's news for you: CRICKETS LIVE IN PEOPLE'S HOUSES, AND THEY MAKE LOUD, LOUD, CHIRPY CRICKET SOUNDS TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY FOR FIFTY YEARS WITHOUT STOPPING.

When I first encountered the crickets in my basement problem (and let's be fair here, we're not talking about Pharaoh, let my people go, or I shall smite you with a plague of locusts kind of infestation. More like a, where the heck is that incessant chirping coming from??????????  kind of haunting), I called a friend who lived around the corner.

"Why are there crickets in my house?" I asked her.

"Because this is Maryland, and we have crickets here," she answered.

"I don't want the crickets in my house," I replied.

"They don't bite or eat your food," she said. "And it's bad luck to kill them."

I will not say whether I killed any or not, that would be in poor taste. But the sound they make when you step on them is very crunchy.

By mid-2007, I had two business ventures, a teaching job, three children, a husband who traveled a lot for work, and no family nearby.

My wholesale orders, clubs, and retail orders were keeping me busier than ever.

This is Nora, one of my favorite colorways. Boxed up and ready for her jaunt to a local yarn shop.

And Bayfield Apple, which I said I wasn't going to bore you with, but I've changed my mind.

Let's talk about my schedule for a moment.

2:00 am: Wake up. Hit Snooze.

2:06 am: Turn off other alarm clock across the room so I actually had to get out of bed.

2:08 am: Make coffee. Head to basement to turn on dye pots.

2:11 am: Put my head on the kitchen table and whimper softly to myself.

2:15 am: Bring thermal carafe of coffee to the basement, put on headphones pumping out high-energy music.

2:16 am - 6:00 am: Work in the studio dyeing, rinsing, winding, twisting, and labeling yarn.

6:00 am: Shower, get children dressed and fed, get myself dressed and fed, leave for school.

7:30 am: Arrive at school. Copy papers. Plan, grade, teach, eat lunch

12:00 pm: Leave school (I was able to configure my schedule so I only taught three classes, all in a row. This meant I spent less time at school, but also had less time to grade and plan at school.)

12:30 pm: Pick up younger children from babysitter's house, drive home, lay children down for nap.

1:30 pm: Answer business emails. Get packages ready to ship.

3:25 pm: Get children up from nap, pick up son from kindergarten, drive to post office to ship packages.

5:00 pm: Answer more business emails, take pictures and list products, get yarn prepped for the following day.

6:00 pm: Throw something together for dinner, grade papers, plan lessons.

7:00 pm: Eat dinner, get children ready for bed, wave at husband across the kitchen.

8:00 pm: Fall asleep on the couch.

10:00 pm: Stumble, bleary-eyed, up to bed.

2:00 am: Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Weekends involved being able to sleep until 5:00 am, and then working until at least 5:00 pm.

Do not underestimate the power of consistent sleep deprivation on the human psyche. I still had a young baby who woke at least once during the night to eat during this time. I subsisted on less than six -- and often, it was closer to five -- hours of sleep each night for a year.

I think it's telling that I did not take one single picture -- not one -- of my basement studio.  Was it because I didn't have time? I don't remember.

This is the lone picture I have of evidence of the studio, my middle daughter standing in front of the closed basement door.

When I wasn't at school trying to pass as a competent professional, I looked an awful lot like this, with my lank hair and my stained clothing.

Fortunately, my babies were beautiful and healthy, and made the sleep deprivation tolerable.

Number three was chubby and cheeky.

Middle Girl was graceful and ethereal.

Oldest boy was boisterous and funny:

Mama was tired.

During this time, I made two important decisions. One was that I really needed to improve my photography. So I started reading everything I could in my vast quantities of spare time, and taking as many pictures as I could, even of seemingly mundane objects.

And the second was that I need to hire some help.

To be continued...

A glimpse of glimpse.

Thought you might like to see these.

A tiny glimpse of the Glimpse colorway, the drying lines groaning under the weight of more than 500 skeins of yarn.

To say we're overwhelmed by your generosity wouldn't even cut it close.

The yarn has all been dyed, and we've already begun the shipping process. Next week, all of these skeins will head to their new families.

On behalf of Share, on behalf of my friend Shelley, on behalf of everyone with whom this colorway resonates,

Thank you.

She's the bad, bad horsedog...

...except when she's not.

I was checking on my girls during a sleepover.

And looking for what could have happened to Rosie the Horsedog. She's usually the first one in bed for the night, and she was nowhere to be found.

Oh dear.

That protective paw. The quiet snores.

Maybe you aren't such a bad, bad horsedog after all, Rosita.

P.S. What are you doing out of your sleeping bag, girl? This is American Siberia!