Well. The cancer is back.
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Rhinebeck Eve: Mom Gets the Yarn, I Get the Dog
Well, folks, it’s that time of year again! The New York Sheep & Wool Festival at Rhinebeck is practically here, and tomorrow Mom is heading off to one of the happiest places on earth for yarn lovers everywhere.
And guess who’s staying home?
Yep. Me.
While Mom gets to pack up all the yarn, head to Rhinebeck, and spend time surrounded by sheep, wool, gorgeous fiber, and fellow yarn enthusiasts, I’ll be here at home in Maine, living vicariously through photos, videos, and whatever updates she can send my way.
Oh, and I’ll have company. Meet Dave Growl, the PeekaPoo, who has apparently decided that my lap is the most important destination in the entire house.
Just look at that face! How am I supposed to argue with that? He’s snuggled up like he has absolutely no idea that an entire festival full of beautiful yarn is happening without me. Or maybe he knows perfectly well and is simply reminding me that I have a very important job here: providing snacks, belly rubs, and a comfortable place to nap.
Honestly, he’s a pretty convincing argument for staying home. Almost.
Because, let’s be real, I’d much rather be at Rhinebeck!
There’s something magical about fiber festivals. The yarn, the colors, the creativity, the people who understand why buying just one more skein is a perfectly reasonable life decision. It’s a place where nobody looks at your stash and asks if you really need more yarn. They just ask what you’re planning to make with it!
Mom will be there with all the Celtic Yarns inventory, representing our little yarn business and sharing our beautiful Irish yarns with festival-goers. I’m incredibly excited for her and hope she has a wonderful time. I also hope she remembers to take plenty of pictures, because I intend to inspect every booth, every skein, and every gorgeous colorway from the comfort of my couch.
It’s not quite the same as being there, but it’s the next best thing.
As for me, I’m still recovering from cancer treatment, and traveling to Rhinebeck just isn’t in the cards this year. It’s disappointing to miss out, especially when Mom gets to take all the yarn on an adventure without me!
But I’m trying to look on the bright side. I get quality time with Dave Growl, I can work on my own projects, and I can start dreaming about next year.
Rhinebeck 2027, I’m looking at you!
Next year, I’m hoping to be back in the swing of things, feeling stronger, and ready to walk those festival grounds with Mom. Until then, I’ll be cheering her on from Maine, keeping an eye on Celtic Yarns from afar, and cuddling with my very furry assistant.
So if you’re at Rhinebeck this weekend, stop by and say hello to Mom! Check out the beautiful Irish yarn, tell her I sent you, and maybe send a little yarn-loving energy my way.
I’ll be here with Dave Growl, dreaming of sheep, skeins, and a whole lot of Rhinebeck magic.
And Dave? Well, he’s dreaming about his next nap.
Honestly, we both have our priorities.
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Granny Stripes, Still
You know that feeling when you start a new crochet project and imagine yourself whipping through it at lightning speed, finishing in record time, and proudly showing off your beautiful creation? Yeah, well… apparently, my crochet hook and I have some very different ideas about how quickly this blanket should be finished!
My Stashbuster Granny Stripe Afghan, made with Caron Big Cakes yarn, is slowly but surely growing, and I couldn’t be happier with how it’s turning out. Just look at those colors! The gorgeous mix of minty greens, teal, lavender, and soft gray gives me all the cozy beach cottage vibes. It’s like crocheting a little piece of the ocean, complete with sea glass and misty coastal mornings.
Of course, there’s one tiny complication: my fingers haven’t exactly been cooperating.
Thanks to chemotherapy-induced neuropathy, crocheting takes a little more time and patience than it used to. My fingers sometimes have their own agenda, and unfortunately, that agenda doesn’t always include making speedy progress on granny stripes. Some days, getting through a few rows feels like a major accomplishment. Other days, I manage a little more.
But here’s the important part: I’m still making progress!
It might not be the kind of progress that makes a time-lapse video particularly exciting, unless you enjoy watching someone crochet three stitches, adjust their hands, take a break, and repeat. I suspect that video might not go viral. Although, honestly, we could call it The World’s Slowest Crochet Challenge and see what happens!
The beauty of a granny stripe blanket is that I don’t have to think too hard about complicated stitch patterns. Once I find my rhythm, I can settle in, enjoy the color changes, and watch the blanket grow one little stripe at a time. The Caron Big Cakes yarn does all the color coordinating for me, which is wonderful because I have enough to keep track of without adding a complicated color chart to the mix.
And yes, this blanket has a special purpose! I’m making it as a surprise Christmas gift for my mom. I want it to fit beautifully into our beach cottage-style home, where those soft coastal colors will look right at home draped over a chair or snuggled up on the sofa.
That means I have a Christmas deadline, which is perhaps not the wisest decision for someone whose fingers occasionally behave like they’ve forgotten they’re supposed to be helping.
Still, I’m determined to keep going at a pace that works for me. Recovery has taught me that progress doesn’t always happen as quickly as we’d like, and that’s okay. Sometimes progress means finishing a row. Sometimes it’s just picking up the hook again.
So, one granny stripe at a time, this blanket is getting there. My fingers might be slow, but they’re stubborn, and I have a feeling this afghan is going to be worth every stitch.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Christmas surprise to crochet. No rushing, no racing, just yarn, a golden hook, and a whole lot of determination!
Slow and steady wins the blanket race. 🧶💚
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Granny Stripes and Big Cakes
There are two kinds of crocheters in this world: those who plan every project down to the last stitch, and those of us who see a pretty ball of yarn and immediately think, Oh, I could make a blanket out of that! You can probably guess which category I fall into.
My latest project is the Stashbuster Granny Stripe Afghan, made with Caron Big Cakes yarn in the prettiest shades of minty green, teal, soft gray, and lavender. The colors remind me of the sea, weathered beach glass, and those soft coastal shades that make a beach cottage feel like home. And that’s exactly why I chose them!
Here’s the little secret, though: this blanket is a surprise Christmas gift for my mom! 🎁
Our home has that cozy beach cottage style, with soft coastal colors and a relaxed, seaside feel. I thought this afghan would be the perfect addition to our decor, adding a little extra warmth while still fitting right in with the colors we love. Of course, now I have to actually finish it before Christmas, which means I might have accidentally crocheted myself a deadline. Oops!
And this is where things get a little tricky.
My progress has been slower than I’d like because I’m still dealing with chemotherapy-induced neuropathy. The numbness and tingling in my fingers can make crocheting a challenge, and some days my hands simply don’t cooperate the way I’d like them to. Projects that might once have flown off my hook now take a little more patience.
But slow progress is still progress! I’m learning to take my time, work when my hands allow it, and appreciate each little bit of the blanket as it grows. The neuropathy may have slowed me down, but it certainly hasn’t taken away my love of making things with yarn.
The granny stripe pattern is perfect for this kind of project. Once I get into the rhythm, I can settle in with my gold crochet hook and watch those gorgeous colors change from green to gray to lavender. The yarn does all the color planning for me, which is a good thing because my brain already has enough on its plate trying to remember where I put my scissors.
I’m hoping to have this blanket finished in time to tuck it under the Christmas tree for Mom. I can already picture it draped over a chair or the sofa, looking right at home with our beach cottage decor.
Until then, I’ll keep crocheting one granny stripe at a time. There may be a few slow days, a few tangled yarn moments, and possibly some negotiations with my fingers, but I’m determined to get there.
After all, there’s nothing quite like giving someone a handmade gift, especially when every stitch comes with a little extra love.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Christmas deadline to meet and a blanket that isn’t going to crochet itself!
And remember: Christmas is coming, and apparently, so is a very large pile of granny stripes. 🎄🧶
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Running a Yarn Business in Two States
Running a small yarn business is an adventure under the best of circumstances. Running one when your business is split between two different states? Well… let’s just say I’ve learned that yarn may be lightweight, but running a yarn company is anything but!
Celtic Yarns is currently a two-state operation. All of our beautiful Irish yarn inventory is in Pennsylvania, while I’m up here in Maine. That might not sound too complicated until you realize that I’m also the one doing a lot of the behind-the-scenes work — editing videos, creating content, writing posts, answering questions, and trying to keep our social media accounts alive and interesting.
Meanwhile, the yarn is hundreds of miles away.
And let me tell you, that creates some challenges!
One of the hardest parts is making content when you don’t physically have the inventory sitting beside you. It’s much easier to make a quick video when you can simply reach over, grab a skein of Irish Aran, hold it up to the camera, and say, “Look at this gorgeous color!”
Instead, I’m often working with photos and videos that Mom has taken in Pennsylvania. I’m trying to remember which color is which, which yarn has already sold, what needs to be restocked, and what we need to show people next.
It sometimes feels like I’m running a yarn shop by remote control.
There’s also the shipping side of things. When someone places an order, the yarn isn’t sitting in a stack beside my desk in Maine waiting for me to package it. It’s in Pennsylvania, where Mom is handling the physical inventory and shipping.
So while I’m up here editing a TikTok, she might be surrounded by boxes of beautiful Irish yarn.
It definitely takes communication, patience, and a lot of messages back and forth. Probably more messages than either of us ever imagined when we decided to start this business!
But despite the challenges, I really love what we’re building with Celtic Yarns. We may be operating from two different states, but we’re still working toward the same goal: bringing beautiful Irish yarn to knitters and crocheters here in the United States.
Is it harder this way?
Absolutely.
Would it be easier if all the yarn and all the work happened in one place?
Probably.
But for now, this is our slightly chaotic, two-state yarn adventure — and somehow, we’re making it work one skein, one video, and one shipment at a time.
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Mom Is Going to Rhinebeck Without Me
Well, Mom is going to Rhinebeck without me this year.
Technically, she has been going without me for years, because it has been years since I’ve been to the New York Sheep & Wool Festival. But this year feels a little different.
This year, Celtic Yarns will be there.
Mom will be heading to Rhinebeck with our yarn, setting up at the Dachshund Daddy Knits booth, surrounded by sheep, knitters, gorgeous sweaters, and enough yarn to make my bank account nervous just looking at pictures.
And I will be home in Maine.
As much as I would love to be there, I’m still recovering from cancer treatment. After chemotherapy and radiation, my body has made it abundantly clear that it would prefer I take things a little slower. Apparently, recovery is not the time to spend an entire weekend walking around a massive fiber festival, carrying bags of yarn, and convincing myself that I’m “just going to look.”
Which, let’s be honest, was never going to happen anyway.
I am cancer free now, and that is something I am incredibly grateful for. ❤️ But recovery takes time, and the chemotherapy-induced neuropathy has slowed me down too. It hasn’t stopped me from knitting, though. I’m still putting stitches on needles—even if those stitches occasionally take considerably longer than they used to.
So while Mom is in Rhinebeck, I’ll be experiencing the festival from several hundred miles away through photos, videos, texts, and probably FaceTime.
I have already mentally assigned her several jobs:
Take pictures of the booth.
Take pictures of the yarn.
Take pictures of interesting sweaters.
Take pictures of sheep.
Show me anything remotely interesting.
And most importantly, DO NOT BUY SOMETHING AMAZING WITHOUT SHOWING ME FIRST.
Celtic Yarns will have our Irish Aran yarn and Sport Weight Merino, both from our wonderful 300-year-old mill in Ireland. I’m sad that I won’t be there to see everyone’s reactions to the yarn in person, but I’m also incredibly proud that our little company will be represented at such an amazing fiber festival.
There is definitely a little FOMO involved.
But I’m learning that recovery means celebrating what I can do instead of beating myself up over what I can’t do yet.
So Mom gets Rhinebeck.
I’ll be here in Maine, knitting, recovering, editing Celtic Yarns videos, and demanding live updates.
And if she comes home with yarn that I haven’t approved of first?
Well.
We’ll have words.
After all, I may be recovering from cancer, but I still have standards. 🧶😂
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I live in a beach town… yet haven’t been to the beach yet
I have a confession to make.
I have lived in a Maine beach town for over a year now, and somehow I still haven’t made it to the beach.
Now, before anyone starts calling me a fraud, let me clarify: I have been to the beach. I have experienced sand. I have smelled the ocean. I have had sand find its way into places where sand has absolutely no business being.
I just haven’t been to the beach since moving here.
Which, when you think about it, is pretty impressive.
I moved to a beach town and apparently decided to embrace the coastal lifestyle from a safe distance.
I drive past the ocean. I know it’s there. I see the signs. I see people carrying beach chairs and towels and enormous bags of stuff toward the water. And this is Old Orchard Beach, where there are PIER FRIES and Lisa’s Pizza.
And I think, “That looks nice. I should do that.”
Then I go home.
There’s something particularly amusing about living in Maine during the summer. For several glorious months, everyone suddenly remembers that we have an ocean.
The roads fill up. Parking becomes a competitive sport. Tourists appear from seemingly every direction, and suddenly a five-minute drive requires a strategic plan and possibly a snack.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting at home thinking, “I could go to the beach.”
But then I remember that I would have to go to the beach.
There’s preparation involved!
Sunscreen. Towel. Chair. Water. Sunglasses. Hat. Snacks. Probably a sweatshirt because this is Maine and summer weather is merely a suggestion.
And then there’s the sand.
I like looking at sand.
I like beaches.
I like the ocean.
I just don’t particularly enjoy discovering sand in my car three weeks later.
Still, I really do love living near the coast. There’s something wonderful about knowing the ocean is just down the road. The salty air, the beautiful scenery, the seafood, the lighthouses, and the general feeling that you’re living somewhere people save up all year to visit.
I just apparently haven’t gotten around to being one of those people who actually takes advantage of it.
So maybe this fall will be the time.
Maybe I’ll grab my coffee, gather up my beach supplies, brave the traffic, and actually put my feet in (or near) the Atlantic.
And if you see me wandering toward the beach carrying a towel, looking confused and slightly overwhelmed, please be kind.
I’m a local.
I’m just still figuring out how this whole “living in a beach town” thing works.
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Bring on the Ber months!
There’s just something magical about the beginning of fall. Maybe it’s the cooler mornings, the changing leaves, or the sudden urge to put approximately 47 blankets on the couch “just in case.” Whatever it is, I am here for it.
And now we have officially entered my favorite stretch of the year: the “ber” months. September, October, November, December… otherwise known as the months when it becomes completely acceptable to wear fuzzy socks, drink ridiculous amounts of coffee, and surround yourself with enough yarn to make a small sheep nervous.
Speaking of yarn, I am ready to knit.
I’ve been looking forward to pulling out the cozy stuff—soft wool, squishy yarns, chunky textures, and all those gorgeous fall colors that make me want to knit absolutely everything. Deep reds, golden yellows, pumpkin oranges, forest greens… basically, if it looks like something I’d find in a pile of autumn leaves, I want it in my yarn basket.
Of course, my knitting plans come with a bit of a disclaimer these days.
Thanks to chemo-induced neuropathy, my hands and fingers still don’t always cooperate with my grand knitting ambitions. Sometimes they’re perfectly happy to knit. Other times they seem to have collectively decided, “Nope. We’re taking the day off.”
So I’m learning to go slow.
And honestly? That’s probably not the worst lesson to take into fall.
I don’t have to finish a sweater in three days. I don’t have to crank out a dozen projects before Christmas. I can knit a few rows, put the needles down, stretch my hands, and come back to it later. There’s something rather lovely about letting a project take its time.
Besides, knitting slowly gives me more time for the important stuff.
Like coffee.
A hot cup of coffee beside me, a basket of soft yarn at my feet, a good knitting project in my lap, and the crisp fall air outside? That sounds pretty close to heaven to me.
So bring on the chilly mornings, colorful leaves, cozy blankets, steaming mugs, and ridiculously soft yarn.
I’m easing into fall one stitch—and one cup of coffee—at a time.
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Cancer-Free, But Apparently Nobody Told My Body
There is a strange little space between “You have cancer” and “You’re cancer-free.”
You’d think once you hear those magical words—cancer free—there would be confetti. Maybe a marching band. At the very least, a cupcake.
Instead, there I was, exhausted.
Like, “I just took a shower and now I need to lie down because apparently showers are an endurance sport” exhausted.
Cancer treatments have a way of taking a lot out of you. And I don’t just mean physically. They can leave you feeling like someone unplugged your battery, shook it around a little, and then plugged it back in upside down.
And now that I’m cancer-free, I’m discovering something nobody really prepares you for:
Getting better is its own kind of work.
So… What Is “Normal” Now?
I’m still trying to figure that out.
Before cancer, I had a pretty good idea of what my normal looked like. Then treatment came along and basically threw that instruction manual directly into a wood chipper.
Now I’m trying to rebuild a routine while figuring out what my body is actually willing to cooperate with.
Some days I feel pretty good.
Other days, my body apparently files a formal complaint because I had the audacity to do laundry.
And then there are the days when I accomplish something that would have been completely unremarkable before cancer—taking a walk, cleaning something, making dinner—and I have to remind myself:
Hey. That’s actually pretty damn impressive.
Maybe my new normal isn’t about getting back to exactly who I was before.
Maybe it’s about figuring out who I am now.
And I’m slowly learning that “normal” doesn’t have to mean doing everything I used to do. It can mean listening to my body, taking breaks without feeling guilty, celebrating the little victories, and accepting that sometimes pajamas are perfectly appropriate afternoon attire.
Enter Ezra and Dave Growl
Thankfully, I have a couple of very important members of my recovery team.
First, there’s Ezra, my cat.
Ezra has perfected the art of emotional support without actually admitting that emotional support is happening.
Cats are wonderful that way.
They’ll sit near you with the expression of someone who is deeply disappointed in your life choices, but somehow their presence makes everything better.
Ezra doesn’t care if I’m tired.
Ezra doesn’t care if I accomplish absolutely nothing that day.
Ezra certainly doesn’t care about my five-year plan.
As far as Ezra is concerned, my primary responsibilities are providing food and maintaining acceptable room temperatures.
Honestly, it’s refreshing.
And then there’s Dave Growl.
Yes. Dave Growl.
And Dave is exactly the kind of dog you want around when you’re trying to keep your spirits up.
Dogs don’t understand cancer.
They don’t understand treatment schedules, scans, bloodwork, fatigue, recovery, or the bizarre emotional roller coaster that comes with all of it.
They understand you.
And sometimes that’s exactly what you need.
Dave doesn’t care whether today was productive. He cares whether I’m available for pets, snacks, and whatever exciting activity he’s currently convinced needs to happen immediately.
Looking at the two of them sitting together by the door—as they are in this picture—reminds me that life keeps happening.
The plants keep growing.
The sun comes through the window.
The cat keeps judging.
The dog keeps being Dave Growl.
And I’m still here.
Learning to Celebrate “Still Here”
I think that’s one of the biggest things I’m learning.
Being cancer-free doesn’t instantly erase everything that happened.
It doesn’t automatically refill the energy tank.
It doesn’t mean every day is going to be amazing.
And it doesn’t mean I have to pretend I’m completely fine just because the cancer is gone.
I’m allowed to be tired.
I’m allowed to have weird days.
I’m allowed to feel frustrated that my body doesn’t always cooperate with the plans I make for it.
I’m also allowed to laugh.
And boy, am I going to laugh.
Because if cancer taught me anything, it’s that life is too short to take every single thing seriously.
Sometimes the best medicine is a ridiculous dog.
Sometimes it’s a judgmental cat.
Sometimes it’s sitting quietly by a window and realizing that you’re watching the world from the other side of something you weren’t sure you’d ever get through.
And sometimes it’s simply saying:
“Well, I’m still here. What are we doing today?”
I don’t know exactly what my new normal will look like.
But I’m figuring it out.
One day at a time.
One nap at a time.
One laugh at a time.
And, apparently, with two furry supervisors keeping an extremely close eye on my progress.
Cancer-free. Tired as hell. Still figuring things out.
And honestly?
I’ll take it.
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Stitches of Celebration: Socks, Sweaters, and Wonderful News
There are some knitting projects that become more than yarn and stitches. They become companions through long days, markers of progress, and reminders that beautiful things can be created one row at a time.
Lately, my needles have been busy with two very different projects: a cheerful pair of Vanilla Latte Socks and the wonderfully cozy Autumn Valley Sweater by DROPS Design.
The Vanilla Latte Socks have been pure fun. Knit in a festive self-striping yarn of red, green, and white, they feel like Christmas in every round. Watching the stripes appear is a little bit of magic—no complicated colorwork required, just smooth, comforting knitting and the excitement of seeing what comes next.
At the same time, my Autumn Valley Sweater has been steadily growing. This DROPS Design pattern is full of beautiful, intricate cables that make the yoke especially satisfying to knit. There is something magical about watching a complicated cable pattern emerge from what started as a pile of very ordinary stitches. The soft blue yarn gives the sweater a classic, cozy feel, and every inch brings me closer to wearing it.
But both of these projects have taken considerably longer than they normally would.
One of the lingering challenges from treatment has been chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy. The numbness and tingling in my fingers have made knitting more difficult, and sometimes simply holding the needles for an extended period can be uncomfortable. Things that once felt automatic—manipulating stitches, working cables, keeping a steady rhythm—can require much more concentration now.
So yes, I’ve slowed down.
There are days when I can knit only a few rows. There are days when I have to put the needles down and give my hands a rest. And there are projects that probably would have been finished weeks or months ago if my fingers were cooperating the way they used to.
But here’s the thing:
Neuropathy has slowed me down, but it will not stop me.
If I have to knit five rows instead of fifty, I’ll knit five.
If I need to take a break, I’ll take a break.
And then I’ll pick those needles back up again.
Because there is something incredibly powerful about continuing to make things, even when your body insists on changing the rules.
And this year, these projects carry an even deeper meaning.
I have some wonderful personal news to share:
I am now cancer free after completing chemotherapy and radiation treatment.
Those words still feel a little surreal.
The road to get here has been long. There have been treatments, appointments, side effects, exhaustion, uncertainty, and plenty of days when getting through the day was accomplishment enough. Through all of it, knitting gave me something familiar to hold onto.
A sock grew.
A sweater grew.
And somehow, I did too.
Looking at these photos now, I don’t just see yarn and needles. I see perseverance. I see patience. I see all those tiny moments when I chose to pick up my knitting and keep going.
The stitches may have gotten slower, but they never stopped.
And neither did I.
As I move into this next chapter and continue recovering, I’m looking forward to more knitting, more yarn adventures, more projects for Celtic Yarns, and—hopefully—fewer medical appointments competing with my knitting time!
For now, I’m going to keep doing what knitters do best:
One stitch at a time. One row at a time. One project at a time.
And maybe that’s a pretty good way to approach recovery, too.
Here’s to finished socks, growing sweaters, sore-but-determined fingers, and a whole lot more knitting ahead.
I’m still here. I’m still knitting. And I’m not stopping.