It was bright where I grew up. The summers, although short, were hot and sunny. The winter was often sunny, too — very cold and sunny with the light blazing off the snow. When the weather changed, the sky became white and the snow would come and the world turned black and white until the sun came out again.

Then I moved to Portland. After more then 30 years here, I’m still surprised at how dark the winter is. It rains here. Not always a lot… but always. It mists, drizzles, pours, splatters, spits and drenches. Always. No white skies here. The sky is dark and angry and presses down like a heavy, wet wool blanket until sometimes I want to scream for a bit of light an air. Just a bit!

And sometimes winter hands me a tiny, unexpected glimpse of summer that makes the darkness bearable and reminds me that it might be gloomy and wet — but you don’t have to shovel rain. And makes me remember that I never realized how bright colors were until I moved here, existed through an interminable winter, and saw the sun emerge in spring.

I looked out my back door yesterday at the grape vines. Most of the leaves are off the vines and are clumping soddenly on my patio, turning into slimy leaf-mush. I raised my eyes from the patio, considering whether I should think about the pruning yet. And there, in one corner hung a long bunch of grapes. Hidden by leaves, I had missed it when I harvested in September. All through October it had hung there, through storm and marauding ‘coons. Some of the grapes were, shall we say, a bit past their prime. But at least half were edible. And eat them I did, savoring their sweetness and almost feeling the warm September sun through my closed eyelids.

OK. It can be winter now. I will exist until the color returns. I don’t have to shovel the rain.

Perhaps it was the grapes, or maybe just the knowledge that I need to get those blasted Jaywalkers finished by next Tuesday because I need the needles for something else. I pressed on with renewed vigor and have turned the heels and started up the ankles.

I am pleased to report that the feet are not too wide and, so far at least, I can still get them on over my heel. They are a tiny, tiny bit wide on me, but the intended recipient has slightly wider feet than mine. The yarn – Regia Silk Colors – is wonderfully stretchy for a silk-blend yarn. Probably because it’s a fairly small percentage of silk — just enough to add a lovely sheen and soft hand. I really do love knitting with it. Hopefully I will have pictures tomorrow. We’ll see. I have until bedtime on Monday to have them off the needles.

We all know how well I do with deadlines, eh? But I’m feeling the mojo so I have hope.

I always think that socks are going to be too wide. Always. I look at them and look at them, and even try them on at the half-foot stage, and I’m positive they will be too wide. Once I get up past the gussets and try them one, then they’re fine. Not too wide at all. But if left to my own devices and my eye rather than a ruler, I’d probably knit socks that were too skinny to fit anyone. It’s weird how my eye does not judge sock widths well at all, when I can judge widths of other things just fine and I’m usually right on with the length.

Is there anything you knit that always looks “wrong,” even when it’s perfect?