For my Uncle Tupper, who taught me that intelligence and insight can occasionally be faked, provided you are willing to replace them with really hard work.
Free-Range Knitter copyright © 2008, 2010 by Stephanie Pearl-McPhee. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews. For information, write Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC, an Andrews McMeel Universal company, 1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106.
E-ISBN: 9781449400156
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pearl-McPhee, Stephanie.
Free-range knitter: the yarn harlot writes again / Stephanie Pearl-McPhee. —1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Knitting—Miscellanea. 2. Knitting—Humor. 3. Knitter (Persons)— Miscellanea. I. Title.
TT820.P372 2008
746.43′2—dc22
2008026849
Book design by Holly Camerlinck
www.andrewsmcmeel.com
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CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Introduction
CHAPTER 1
Cast On: Stories of Beginnings, Good Starts, Optimism, and Hope Springing (Mostly) Eternal
Annabelle
Dear Designer #1
Glory Days
Tell Me a Story
CHAPTER 2
Knit Two Together: Stories of Belonging, Joining, and Love (Sort Of)
Cass
A List of People Who Are Not Getting a Knitted Gift from Me and the Reasons Why
All Knitters
Ten Ways to Make a Knitter Love You More
Love Letter
CHAPTER 3
Yarn Over: Stories of Challenging People, Projects, and Knitters
Denny
Dear Designer #2
This Is a Test
Mother Says …
Fine Qualities in an Adult
Poor Planning
CHAPTER 4
Left-Leaning Decreases: Stories about Women, Politics, Knitters, and Looking at Things a Different Way
Ken
Smarter Than They Think
A Contradiction of Terms
All Things Being Equal
What It Looks Like
Knitting Self-Esteem
CHAPTER 5
Make One: Stories of Families, Encouragement, ever-Growing Stash, and Small Knitters-to-Be
Megan
Quick, a Baby Sweater
How to Make a Hat if You Are Twelve (and Not Very Careful about Stuff)
Dear Nana
Knitting and Writing
A Knitting Class
CHAPTER 6
Continue to Work Even: Stories of Perseverance, Boredom, and Overcoming
Rachel
I Swear I Don’t Have It
Things Crappy Yarn Taught Me
It’s about Balance
A Knitter’s Sense of Snow
CHAPTER 7
Cast Off: Stories of Ends, Giving Up, and Living to Knit Another Day
Samantha
Never Can Say Good-bye
Ten Knitting Tragedies (from Which There Is Little Return)
Dear John Sweater
Helen
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am enormously grateful to the people who have made this book possible by laughing, thinking, listening, knitting, and reading:
The fine people at Andrews McMeel Publishing, specifically my editor, Katherine Anderson. Their ability to see possibility where others see an oddity means a great deal to me.
My agent and friend Linda Roghaar, for everything—and then some.
My steady husband, Joe, and my remarkable daughters, Amanda, Megan, and Sam. This book wouldn’t be what it is without the time alone in the woods. Thanks for giving me that and so much more.
My family: Bonnie, Erin, Ian, Ali, Hank, Tupper, Susan, Ken, Carol, Joe, Kelly, Katie, Chris, Robyn, Ben … You are all inspiration and fodder. Thank you.
My friends Rachel, Cass, Denny, Megan, Lene, Tina … and so many more. Your support and validation is invaluable. I wouldn’t be me without you.
Every knitter I ever met. You’re all something else.
INTRODUCTION
I have been in the definitely odd and sometimes enviable position of having been on a knitting book tour (sometimes I call it a yarn crawl) for roughly the last two years. Obviously, I’m not on tour every minute of every day, but I do spend a completely unreasonable amount of time wandering from city to city all over North America talking to knitters. Since I’m not a teacher, just a knitting philosopher of sorts, I don’t necessarily have a reason for being there. I have no agenda, I don’t promote one sort of knitting or some particular patterns, I don’t sell yarn. I’m just there to sign humor books about knitting, meet knitters, drink beer with them, observe them in their natural habitat (the local yarn shop), scrutinize them as they vacation at fiber festivals and conferences, and talk to them as I discover them in the wild.
Book tours (even knitting book tours) move really fast. So fast that a typical day involves getting up at an ungodly hour, going to the airport of whatever city I’m in, knitting while I wait to be flown to another city, knitting while I fly to another city, knitting on the way to the hotel, unpacking and showering in the hotel, knitting in the cab on the way to the speaking engagement (about knitting, and usually in a yarn shop), meeting all the knitters, and then sleeping (briefly) before I do it again in another city the next day. If you wanted to meet as many knitters as possible there would be no better way to do it, though as I’m sure you can imagine, the city you are in starts to be irrelevant after a couple of days, enough so that you forget to find out where you are. Doing the same thing every day while being constantly surrounded by only yarn, knitters, and knitting for days on end gives me an odd perspective. Since I often lose track of what city (state or province) I am in, it removes the idea that geography matters and leaves me with the odd impression that I am traveling a world where only knitting matters, all the people are knitters, and all the stores sell yarn.
Following the logic here, visiting more than fifty yarn stores and guilds a year means that I meet a lot of knitters, I get a lot of material about knitting, I see knitters without the boundaries of politics and geography (mostly because I am completely freaking lost), and I buy a lot of yarn, which is another problem and another story for another day, but for the record, totally not my fault. I’m only human. (Who among you can throw the first stone? Even if you only fell down and bought yarn at half of the shops, wouldn’t you still have a really big problem?) This constant exposure to yarn, patterns, needles, and yarn shops of all kinds lends another set of insights: our stuff and what we do with it.
I have then, as a passionate knitter, a knitting book writer, a knitting traveler, and a compatriot of the knitting masses, spent a lot of time thinking about knitting and knitters. I definitely think about knitting and knitters more than most people, which I guess isn’t that hard, since I have recently confirmed an ugly truth that explains a great deal: Most people aren’t thinking about knitting or knitters at all.
This book, then, is what I think knitters are thinking. Some of these stories are true. Some are mostly true. Some
have names changed to protect the innocent, and in some cases, names have been written down perfectly to glorify the clever. This book shares stories of knitting triumph and failure, knitting success and defeat, lessons missed and lessons learned. This book is about the things we have in common, we knitters, no matter where we live, whom we love, or what we are knitting. This book is what I’m using to prove to my family that I may be completely out of my mind with this knitting thing, but I have a lot of friends just like me. This book is about yarn. This book is about needles. This book is about the truth about the way things are.
This book, though it appears to be about knitting, is actually about knitters.
Cast On
Stories of Beginnings, Good Starts, Optimism, and Hope Springing (Mostly) Eternal
Annabelle
Annabelle is four, almost five years old, and she is knitting. Sitting on the very edge of an old, once-blue, upholstered chair, she couldn’t possibly be working with a greater degree of focus. Her hair is golden and tousled, hanging in loose curls, and her downcast eyes, hidden under devastatingly long lashes, are a beautiful, warm light brown that always makes me think of toffee and topaz. I know that somewhere within you must reside certain stereotypes, maybe born of childhood readings of Little Women or a Jane Austen novel, and that those ideas mean that you have begun to form opinions and have visions about the sort of little girl who would be sitting still and enjoying knitting. Maybe these ideas have already helped you begin dressing Annabelle and that, in your mind’s eye, you’ve got her wearing something like a pinafore or a velvet dress with lace ruffles and some small buttons.
Let go of that idea right now, because although Annabelle (she prefers Annie) is currently sitting and knitting, and she is indeed quiet, concentrating, and peaceful, she is also clad in an outfit of her own choosing, which she began with a pair of gathered flannel green and black plaid pants, complemented with a yellow top with lace sleeves, and accessorized with two necklaces cleverly concocted of macaroni and a rainbow of beads. To round out the look she has donned a ripped raincoat and a purple wool hat her mother knit that is supposed to have dinosaur spikes on it, but Annie has decided it more resembles a crown. She is only wearing one sock, and there is just no way to know where the other one is. (As long as all of the motors in the house’s major appliances are still working and I don’t smell smoke, then I have decided that I’m not going to worry about where it might be.)
There are other clues to Annie’s basic nature, for those astute enough to notice. There is a very large smear of sparkle glue on the arm of the chair she’s sitting in and what may be dried ketchup or blood (or both) on the other. One wall behind this chair is covered in several vibrant works of graffiti art, which center almost entirely around the expressive use of the letter A. (Remind me to give Annie a little tip later: Never sign your name when defiling something; it makes excellent evidence for the prosecution.) Down the hall there is an entire roll of unwound toilet paper that I haven’t cleaned up yet, and frankly, if I keep her alive (and from setting fire to that roll or trying to flush it down the toilet in one big wad) until her mother comes back, I will feel that I have done an excellent job while babysitting.
As you may be beginning to suspect, Annie is not the sort of child you would expect to be knitting. In fact, she’s the opposite type. Annie is fast moving, dirty, bright, thrill seeking, and loud. She’s the exact sort of child that people are always pointing out to me as an example of the sort of kid who won’t be able to knit because they have a short attention span and can’t sit still. When I suggest teaching these quick-witted children to knit, their mothers say things to me like, “You haven’t met my Marcus” and “Ruby isn’t old enough to focus.” Yet here sits Annie, who I can assure you, even without having met Marcus or Ruby, would be able to give them a serious run for whatever titles they hold in the department of mischief … and she is knitting. She sits on the edge of the chair, one needle in each tiny hand. There are about twenty stitches on her needles, and I am only guessing at that because I cast on twenty for her, but that was a while ago and things may have gone a little freestyle since then. Annie’s yarn has rolled off of the couch and under the table in front of her, but that doesn’t bother her. Her tongue is stuck right out of her mouth to help her concentrate, and concentrating is what she is doing.
Annabelle uses her whole right hand to grasp the needle and stick it into the next stitch. Once it’s in there, she drops the needle, leaning it a little against her leg so that it doesn’t fall, then picks up the yarn, wraps it around the needle, and drops it too. Annie then grasps the needle, holding it midway along its length like a baton, and swings it frontward to pull the loop through, then way away from her to sweep the stitch off. Her movements are large, exaggerated, and awkward, and I love them. I am entirely charmed by her knitting because I know that it won’t be long at all before she has the efficiency of age and experience. The way that very young new knitters handle the needles reminds me of the crazy big feet on puppies or the ridiculously long legs on a colt.
I’m not charmed just by Annie’s knitting but because it’s being done by Annie herself. I feel that Annie and I have a connection, an understanding of sorts, and it is not only because she’s knitting, or because my mother would be happy to tell you that I was the same sort of kid (talking it through is part of her recovery program). Annabelle bears a real resemblance to my eldest daughter, Amanda, and not just because two hours ago she liberated her hamster and set off an incident involving the cat and the toaster that will likely take another hour off her poor mother’s life. Like Amanda, Annie is a seriously challenging kid. Whatever you’re thinking a regular kid is, Annie is just more. If she’s happy, she’s the happiest kid ever. If she’s angry, you will be stunned at the degree of fury her petite body can throw your way. If she’s doing something and is determined about it, she’ll define determination, and if she wants something, she will pursue it with a passion and dedication that could bring a veteran grandmother of twelve to her knees.
I’m here, babysitting Annie, because her mother has the same problem that I did when I was trying to raise my first child. Only a seasoned professional parent can take the heat these intense kids can dish out, and usually the only thing a mother with a child like this can do is to opt not to leave her side until she can be trusted not to take out a sixteen-year-old babysitter who let her guard down for a moment. (I once had three police cars show up because my novice babysitter had made the foolish mistake of going to the bathroom for a tissue. In the seventy-nine seconds it took her to blow her nose, my darling and intrepid three-year-old had dialed 911 and then hung up. The guileless sitter was none the wiser until moments later, when six cops were bashing on the door shouting, “What is the nature of your emergency?”) Annie’s mother, Ruth, had been trying to avoid just such an event by supervising her canny progeny herself and trusting no one until Annabelle was less of a danger to herself and others, but the projected twelve years became a long time to go without a dental cleaning. Ruth had tried taking Annie with her the last time, but after the firemen had left the clinic and the gas leak had been repaired, the dentist had suggested to her that she lose his number until she found Annie a babysitter. Enter me and my experience.
My daughter Amanda’s specialty was stripping. (She minored in volume and its applications in the art of persuasion, another field in which she excelled.) My kid, wearing a full set of clothes and a full-body zip-up snowsuit with boots, could go from being fully clad and restrained in her stroller’s five-point harness system to absolutely stark naked and running the store like a wild animal in the amount of time my back was turned to pay the clerk. I spent years wrestling a naked, furious, and occasionally wet toddler back into clothes in all manner of public places. I could never figure out how she did it, and I still have a special fondness for dressing kids in tights, layers, and overalls, as they were the strategies that seemed to slow Amanda down, even a little. (Should you have a similar strip a
rtist at home, know that she is now eighteen and seems to have outgrown the urge, which has been a tremendous relief. For a while there I worried it would end up being her job.)
Annie, on the other hand, specializes in escape and liberation. (Like Amanda, Annie has also chosen not to limit herself and works at a subspecialty of destruction and vandalism.) Annabelle unties dogs, opens cages, releases ferrets, and has poured fish in the pasta water. She removes babies from cribs where they have been wrongly incarcerated, serving under the cruel régime of naptime, which Annie herself has seldom succumbed to. (Like many intense and challenging kids, she seems to need less sleep than her parents.) Continuing the liberation theme, Annie will, if the possibility presents, instantly make a break for it herself. She has gone missing everywhere her mother has taken her for the last four years, and from the moment in her infancy that she gained the ability to roll over, and thereby roll away, her mother has spent half of every day saying, “Where the hell is Annabelle?”
Despite the obvious downsides to trying to parent a kid like this (constant vigilance takes its toll), I actually think that having a kid of this type is a wonderful thing. (I think this especially now that mine has grown up without either of us going to prison, and I have accepted the premature aging, gray hair, and twitch over my right eye as necessary costs for her survival to maturity.) I like kids who are hard like this in general, and I like Annie in specific, because I’ve come to believe that a lot of challenging behavior in kids comes about as a result of these particular little ankle biters being too darn smart for their own good, and I have respect for that, just because I knit.
It is my considered belief that the number one reason knitters knit is because they are so smart that they need knitting to make boring things interesting. Knitters are so compellingly clever that they simply can’t tolerate boredom. It takes more to engage and entertain this kind of human, and they need an outlet or they get into trouble. I think you could probably get a surprising number of the mothers of knitters to admit that they are grateful their child knits now (even if their child is forty-five, not four) because they know that their child’s brains cause trouble without constant occupation and that knitting probably prevents arson, prison, theft, and certainly mischief. I think knitters just can’t watch TV without doing something else. Knitters just can’t wait in line, knitters just can’t sit waiting at the doctor’s office. Knitters need knitting to add a layer of interest to the world so that they can cope without adding a layer of interest in other, less constructive ways. I can tell you that if anyone in the world thinks of me as charming, calm, or productive, they should try me without my knitting.
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