Meagan Condon

Meet the Team: Jeannie Sanke

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In a community like ours, the people are every bit as important as the craft. It may sound cliché, but we aren’t just fiber people. We are fiber people “together.” The team that curates PLY Magazine is small but mighty. You’ve seen their names at the front of every issue. You may have seen their faces at this or that fiber conference. How much do you really know about the magical people who produce PLY?

Over the next few months, we will be interviewing and featuring members of the PLY team here on the blog!

Advertising

Who are you and what is your role with PLY?

My name is Jeannie Sanke, and I handle advertising for PLY and WEFT. I joined the team this past summer. Long-time reader, first-time contributor.

How long have you been a spinner?

I’ve been spinning for 10 years, knitting for over fifty. My favorite fiber is chiengora.

What do you do when you’re not spinning or working on the magazine?

Right now I’m translating a press release on an engineering conference covering new developments in plastics recycling. I also teach privately, handle marketing and tech support for a local business, serve on my condo board, and process a ton of fiber. And my neighbor is running for local office, so I help with his campaign.

You’re not busy at all, are you? What’s a fun fact about yourself, Jeannie?

I have a Ph.D. but my mother, bless her heart, was always prouder of my Jeopardy! appearance.

What’s your favorite weird fiber fact?

Keratin. ‘Nuff said.

Anything else you’d like to share with our followers?

Trek needs more fiber arts. That is all.

Meagan Condon

Spooky Spins & Handspun Horror

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Enjoy these 3 creepy and fibery micro-stories that will strike fear into any spinner’s heart. Happy Halloween!

And Then There Was None

MaryAnn wanted nothing more than to create a sweater from her own handspun yarn. She had challenged herself to complete it by the end of October so she could wear it to her family’s Thanksgiving celebration. She had carefully calculated the amount of fiber needed for the sweater project and added an extra 10 percent to make sure she had enough yarn.

She carefully selected a gorgeous Cormo fleece for its bounce and squish-factor. She lovingly scoured it lock by lock and carded it by hand into beautiful, lofty rolags. It had taken her weeks to spin the singles and nearly as long to ply and finish it.

Now, as October 31st loomed, she did not experience the joy of completing her sweater. Instead, she felt only dread. Despite her calculations, she didn’t account for the stretch or shrinkage of the crimpy Cormo. She ran out of yarn 6 inches short of completing the second sleeve.

Scared Skeinless

The frog hair lace slipped through her fingers and buried itself in the nearly full bobbin.

The Tell-Tale Wheel

It was a dark and stormy night. All was quiet in the house, except for the sound of rain pattering against the roof and windows. Kevin rolled over in bed. He found it difficult to fall asleep to the sounds of the storm. As he stared at the ceiling, he heard a creaking, almost like footsteps on the old hardwood floors.

He rolled over and found his wife, Janet, was not in bed. Maybe she had gotten up to use the restroom. He waited but didn’t hear the bathroom door open. He just heard the rhythmic creak continue on, becoming louder.

If she wasn’t in the bathroom, maybe she was grabbing a midnight snack in the kitchen. She was known to raid the kitchen at 3 a.m. to snack on shredded cheese. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and placed his bare feet on the cold floor. As he made his way to the kitchen, he thought, I need to remind Janet that I need her to knit me a new pair of alpaca socks.

The kitchen was dark and plagued with shadows. The warm, welcoming glow of the refrigerator light was nowhere to be found. And neither was Janet. The creaking grew louder. It seemed to be coming from the living room.

As he inched down the corridor toward the living room, the creaking got louder and shriller. He turned the corner. Beneath the lamplight sat his wife, her eyes fixed in the distance as if in some sort of trance. Her feet treadled faster . . . and faster . . . and her spinning wheel squealed ever louder. It was maddening.

“Your wheel needs oil,” he said, but got no response. “Babe?”

“I’ve never oiled my wheel before,” she said, devoid of emotion.

“Babe, that’s not a Louët, it isn’t self-lubricating,” he replied.

She slowly turned her head toward him. “It will be fine. Come, look closer.”

He felt unease as he leaned forward. . . He edged closer to see the mechanism in action.

He leaned closer . . . and closer. . .

And that was when the drive band snapped.