The Adventure of the Scarf That Ate the World, Conclusion
So it was time to weave.
The last thing to do was wind my stick shuttles. Shuttles carry your weft yarns back and forth through the warp threads–and thus is your fabric created.
Stick shuttles are perhaps the simplest kind. They’re not necessarily the most convenient; but they’re nice and flat, and slide easily through the small shed on a rigid heddle loom.
As I was using my yarns doubled in both warp and weft, I wound each side of each shuttle with a separate length of yarn. To keep the two lengths reasonably even, I counted the wraps as I made them. There’s probably a more precise way to do it. This way worked well enough.
I’d already copied out Jane Patrick’s pattern from The Weaver’s Idea Book by hand.
I like doing that. It helps my mind…which often leaps forward like a startled gazelle…to slow down and focus. It also gives me a set of instructions large enough to read easily with voluminous margins for making notes.
Then, oh then, finally finally finally finally it was really truly no fooling time to weave.
At about four inches of fabric, I paused to assess my progress.
The weird looking white bit at the beginning is the header. That’s a short section woven with twisted toilet paper (I kid you not) that brings the warp threads parallel to one another before the proper weaving begins. You can create a more dignified header with strips of rag or scrap yarn, but the bathroom was closer to the loom than my stash. You know how it is.
Above that is the nascent scarf. After hours dreaming of it, hunting down a weaving pattern, winding the yarns into balls, putting on the warp, winding the shuttles, and weaving the header, I realized two things.
Thing 1: It was not working.
Thing 2: I did not like it.
It wasn’t working because according to my draft, these floats (circled).
should all have been showing up as Guava. That way, they’d matched the Guava weft floats (circled).
and form the “windowpanes” in my scarf. Instead, I was also picking up threads in Periwinkle and Freesia, interrupting the pattern.
I re-read my own instructions. I went back to Jane Patrick’s instructions and checked to make sure I’d copied them properly. I had a cookie. I triple-checked both sets of instructions. I had another cookie. I slowly, cautiously picked up the warp threads again. I wondered if Jane’s instructions were incorrect.
Halfway through cookie number three, epiphany.
In putting on my warp, I’d planned to double my warp threads. So, where Jane Patrick had said to put in one thread of color number 1, I’d put in two threads of color number 1.
But in direct warping as I’d learned to do it, every pass of the warp through the slot in the reed is done twice. Once forward, once back. So I’d doubled my doubles, and put four threads of each color into each slot.
If you don’t quite understand what that means, here it is in plainest English: I’d made every stripe in the warp twice as wide as it should have been.
That certainly explained the voluptuous pony tail of ends I’d created.
I polished off the whole box of cookies while pondering my options.
Option 1: Cut off warp, re-dress the loom correctly. It would take another couple of hours. Problem: not enough yarn left to do it.
Option 2: Untie the warp from the apron rod, re-sley the reed using the correct threads, remove the extra threads. Problem: I didn’t know at the time that this was an option.
Option 3: Change the pick-up pattern to only pick up Guava threads. I’d get a windowpane. Rectangular instead of square, but still a windowpane. Problem: the weft floats would be almost two inches wide. Floats that long are going to snag on everything they can find. Not suitable for a garment.
Option 4: Suck it up, buttercup.
I unwove those four misbegotten inches and started over.
But first, I clipped off two Guava threads at the right and left selvedges. A small change, but I hoped it would make those stripes less overpowering.
It was decided: keep to the original pattern and see what happened. Repeating patterns are tough to evaluate fairly after only one or two repeats. You’ve already heard that a mistake, repeated, becomes a design. I hope that’d be true here.
I could have avoided all of this by sampling, of course. I can say it to you now, calmly. At the time, if you had said, “You know, you could have avoid this by sampling,” you’d have got a neatly wound stick shuttle permanently embedded in some tender part of your anatomy.
Once I sat down to it, the weaving itself was remarkably uneventful.
I jotted notes on my instructions as I figured out what pick-up produced what effect in the fabric. That not only made it easier to keep my place, it also taught me to read my weaving much in the same way that I have learned to read my knitting.
Using three shuttles at once made me wish for extra hands. The shuttles slipped. They tangled. They fell off the table. I persevered. After some time, I discovered something every experienced weaver already knows: when a shuttle is not in use, put it in front of you, in the same place, every time.
And so, I wove. There’s almost nothing to say about it. After all the preliminary fuss and botheration, just change shed, throw shuttle, beat, change shed, throw shuttle, beat, change shed, throw shuttle, beat. It was fun. It was soothing. The only complication was the regular change of weft colors, but after about four repeats even that became second nature.
In a surprisingly short amount of time–I worked on the scarf casually, over three days, for about a total of eight hours–the weaving was finished. Clip, clip, clip went the scissors on the threads, and with a flourish I pulled the scarf off the loom. And pulled and pulled and pulled.
Twelve feet of scarf. Twelve feet.
I’d worried about making a scarf that was too short. I hate short scarves. So I’d kept nudging the warping peg further and further from the loom.
Twelve feet, plus fringe. To secure the fabric, I twisted and tied the fringes…
…and subjected the whole thing to a hot, soapy, highly agitated bath in the kitchen sink followed by a press with the iron. That’s therapeutic, you know. After years and years of namby-pamby knitting instructions to “block gently,” I got to beat the hell out of a finished project. Weaving is awesome like that.
So, how did I do?
On the one hand, the fabric is even. It drapes well. It feels like heaven against the skin. The floats are of reasonable length. The pattern’s not what I had in mind, but it’s not unattractive.
On the other hand, the colors. They’re not bad. They don’t clash. They’re not dull. However, I hadn’t realized Guava would look so emphatically pink against a background of Periwinkle and Freesia. The result is a little…vivid. A smidge too candy box to go with my combat boots.
My niece has seen it, loves it, and wants it. Mind you, she’s seven years old and four-and-a half feet tall. I’d have to slice it up; there’s enough material here to make several scarves for her. If she tries to wear it as is, she’ll look like the Easter Mummy.
So, what to do? Am I allowed a second take? If I try again, come to think of it, that would mean I did sample. Yes! This scarf is a sample. A sample twelve feet long.
Oh, shut up.
[The next adventure will begin in two weeks.]
Tools and Materials Appearing in This Issue
Cottonelle Ultra Comfort Care Two-Ply Toilet Paper