Time to say goodbye, Ada style, with a vigorous kiss blown at the end, to the briefest summer in my memory. All night, dozing lightly with one ear cocked upstairs for baby sounds — the only way I seem to know how to sleep anymore — I heard rain on the pavement. This morning I put on a wool sweater (Pas de Valse), a wool hat (“Mama HA’!” exclaims my small one, reaching to pull it off my head and flop it over her face for peekaboo), and wool socks. (Darned if those aren’t still the best-looking socks in the drawer, despite having been knit in 2005. My admiration for Lorna’s Laces Shepherd Sock grows annually.) Ada is in her reversible brioche cardigan (blue side out today) and her new boots. The boot leather squeaks and she steps tentatively in them, unaccustomed to the stiff soles.

We replenished the bird feeders this morning and discovered a mouse had moved into the seed bin on the back porch. I spotted the evidence right away, but didn’t expect to see Mouse herself peeping up at me from a hole in the bag, all sleek fur, bright eyes, and quivery whiskers. Ada, having been recently enchanted by a pet rat at the tea shop, thought we should pick her up and get to know her properly, but we didn’t. I am tenderhearted about mice, although I sincerely hope this one’s family isn’t expecting to move in with us for the winter. (The cat should be an effective deterrent. For all his faults, he’s a competent hunter and also pulls his weight when it comes to chores like dispatching house centipedes with alarming legs. (Don’t google them. If you don’t know what they look like from personal experience, thank the appropriate deity and go on your blissfully ignorant way.) And while the dog is useless against the creepy crawlies, she’d be thrilled to go all buddy-cop with Mingus on a mouse if he wouldn’t end her for cramping his style. So I’m not too worried about a rodent invasion.) But I’ll be devising a way to lock down the bin lid more securely. In the mean time, the finches seem untroubled to have shared some of their sunflower seeds. I’ve never seen a handful of birds tuck in with more vigor. They must realize summer is fading, too.

While the featheries are plumping up for winter, I’m feeling ready to turn my attention back to the thickest and warmest projects in my knitting basket. If you’re a knitter, there’s an excellent chance you already know what this is…

… but don’t tell, okay? Here be secret knitting. And speaking of miters, I’ve nearly finished my Mitered Cardigan: a seam to graft, buttons to attach, ends to weave, and then I cross my fingers and block this sweater like the dickens and, if all else fails, maybe take up running in case there’s a spare inch or so that could come off my middle.

… and maybe even pick a ripe one next time…

We’re having the first little rain shower of the season, the setting sun gilding the mizzle and a delicate breeze ruffling the skirts of our big sweet gums. Dressing in haste this morning to get Ada to nursery school, I put on wool socks for the first time; they weren’t necessary, but they were at hand and didn’t seem like a terrible idea. Autumn isn’t here, but it’s imaginable. So here’s a teaser glimpse of a new design I’m hoping to finish up soon:

Apparently I really am a tease, because the only detail in focus in this picture of my test sock is one I’ve subsequently decided to alter. I am fond of that little row of flowerets, but they’re too prim and static for the rest of the design. I’ll use them again on a plainer sock where they can hold the spotlight. There’s more work to be done on the cuff as well, so I’ll be casting on a mate that won’t quite match. I love both these yarns (although neither will feature in the real sample because this much contrast is difficult to photograph) — the moonlight neutral is Socks that Rock in an old colorway… Mica, I think? Remember when all the colors had rock names? And the espresso brown is Hazel Knits Artisan Sock in Chocolatier. Yum.

I tend to dash off on a whim when I’m designing and expect everything to fall together. Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t. This sock has been a doesn’t — apart from the change I’m making to the toe, I’ve tried several different cables and two other cuffs and I’m still fine tuning. But the original vision is still leading me on and I have the sense it’s worth pursuing. So watch for more this fall and kick me if it’s not forthcoming!

I’ve finally taken some photos of the knitting that’s occupied my post-baby-bedtime evenings this summer. So I’ll trot them out one by one. And summer — at least by the calendar — is on the wane, so let’s just go ahead and eat dessert first:

(Yes, those are September raspberries. Have you ever seen the like?)

You wouldn’t have been able to let this skein languish in your stash, would you? It’s Stricken Smitten’s Smitten BFL Nylon Twist. It struck and smote me, as advertised, at Sock Summit. This base has actually got more nylon (20%) than I think it needs — 10% would have been more than sufficient for a longwool like BFL, in my opinion — and it’s got a rather squeaky hand as a result, but ooooooooooh, that cherry tart red! And that tight twist. This is a bombshell sock yarn just quivering for a chance to strut its stuff. And nothing shows off a yarn like this one better than twisted stitches, Bavarian style. So I cut it out of the herd for a riff on a Cookie A. pattern I’ve been planning. The jumping-off point is Kristi, from her Sock Innovation — I was immediately drawn to the slaloming double and single ribs, but I knew I’d never finish the socks if I attempted the jack-in-the-pulpit motif the ribs frame. That Cookie A. is a genius, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t stay up all night with sticky overheated babies and then try to knit from complicated charts for a round here and a round there. So I thought I’d keep those swooshy ribs but fill in with regular twisted rib so I’d be able to read my work more easily.

We’ll see what happens, but I have high hopes thus far. I actually did feel I needed a small, single-skein project on the needles because it’s really been too hot to swelter under a wool cardigan. Our late summer is just hitting its stride and treating us to a week of temperatures in the 90s (that’s the 30s in the Celsius world, right, Meg?), so we’re spending all the time we can in the wading pool, swinging on the front porch, and gobbling “hazboo” and “buhboo” (those are raspberries and blueberries to you and me) while the gobbling’s still good. I have a feeling it’ll be some weeks before I’m ready to contemplate putting a woolen sock on my foot, but it doesn’t hurt to think ahead, right?