by Clara Parkes
The next morning, long before sunrise, we’d meet in the lobby. Eunny was always the last to arrive.
“She’s like the child genius,” Annie joked. “She stumbles in at the last minute and then totally hits it out of the park.”
Marilyn would drive us to the studio in the rental car, her knowing the way, Annie shouting directions regardless.
The first item on the agenda was makeup, administered by a friendly freelance makeup artist in a brightly lit, mirrored room by the bathrooms. She would then give our hair a quick once-over with a brush before sealing it down with a giant can of Aqua Net. Returning from makeup was like Halloween, everyone turning excitedly to see what you’d become. People assured me I looked great, but I felt like Ronald McDonald in drag.
Once your face was on, you had to be careful. No rubbing or scratching, no messing with your plasticized hair, no drinking except through a straw, and God help you if your nose started to run. It was like walking around with wet nails, only instead of nails it was your entire face. Once the makeup artist was done, she packed up her brushes and left for the day, giving each of us a little stash of powder and lipstick for emergency touch-ups.
Next came the clothes. A studio assistant had already pressed and hung our polyester lab coats, so it was just a matter of picking a shirt that matched whatever shirt Eunny would wear under her lab coat, and I was set for the day. For the rest of her shoots, Eunny came in and out, swapping one sweater for the next from a vast heap of Interweave Knits extras.
In keeping with theater tradition, the studio had a “greenroom” where we all waited our turn. The walls were painted an unflattering shade of yellowish neon green that made your eyes hurt. Tables were arranged around the perimeter, and we each claimed one as our temporary desk for the week, setting up laptops, notes, bags, and snacks.
Out came the trays, giant jelly sheets like bakeries use. Each segment got one tray, and I would set about assigning all my swatches and yarns and sample garments to their proper positions. I wanted my trays to overflow with samples so that I would have enough to talk about once the cameras started rolling. The worst thing that could happen was an empty table and no words to fill your time.
Marilyn patrolled behind me, fingering the swatches.
She was not prone to effusive praise or criticism, so you had to read the signals closely. “Well, this is a lovely stitch,” was cause for rejoicing.
“Is this all you have for Episode 8?” Out came the needles. Occasionally she and Annie pitched in. This was definitely a team effort.
Tables along the middle of the room were heaped with boxes shipped from Interweave. They held all the garment samples, more samples, more yarns, more props in case we needed them. They’d been filming long enough to know that more was always safer.
Soon, Eunny’s face would appear on the big TV at the far end of the room, just above the mini-fridge and plastic tubs of pretzel sticks and Twizzlers. It was a live feed from the studio next door.
Eunny was a pro. A star blogger, she’d been hired by Interweave right out of college, and the TV gig was dumped on top of her magazine-editing duties—but she took to it like a fish to water. Her voice was always steady and calm, her face smiling and assured. Unflappable, she spoke confidently and without ever muttering “um” or “uh.”
As I sorted my swatches, Eunny would begin recording one of her segments in the next room. She’d go over stitch techniques or the steps of whatever garment was being featured in a knitalong for that season. Lace, modular knitting, cables, mosaic, intarsia, all were fair game.
Once the cameras began rolling, Marilyn migrated to the control room, where she’d sit with a local producer and the switcher who pieced together each segment, from camera to camera, as it was being filmed.
Soon I’d get the call that it was my turn. As a rule, we always started with the second episode, holding off on that first episode until the very end, after we were warmed up. I’d gather a tray, take a deep breath, and go in.
The studio had a red ON AIR light by the door. Inside was a huge space with concrete floors, unused props shoved to the side, cords and cables and lights galore, and several cameras atop camel-sized tripods on wheels. At the very back, in the center of it all, was a brightly lit, human-scale dollhouse of a “room,” which was our set. It had wallpaper and bookshelves and baskets, and way up top, a false ceiling complete with skylights.
At this point a handsome young man would approach me and start fishing under my lab coat. He was just clipping a microphone battery pack to the back of my waist, then running the wire around and up to my chest. But it always felt like an awkward first date, with him pinning his tiny corsage of a microphone to my collar. Once you had that mic, you really had to be careful. Any noise you made was immediately broadcast into the earpieces of the camera crew and everyone in the control room. I need not tell you how imperative it was that you turn off your mic before going into the bathroom.
Because distances on screen appear greater than in real life, Eunny and I had to sit knee to knee, so close that I was almost in her lap. There were rules of conduct, the most important one being that I could never, ever look at the camera. She was the only person allowed to address the audience. My job was to sit in her lap, my torso angled toward her but my face pointed toward the camera I wasn’t allowed to look at, and be intelligent and succinct and charming in one take, without ever mentioning the actual name of the product I was discussing. Easy, right?
Resplendent in our white polyester lab coats, we’d go over the premise of that episode. The theme is halo, I’d tell her, and these are the yarns I had to work with. This one (I’d point to the purple sample) has angora, this one (pointing to the green) is all about the qualities of mohair. I’d tell her what I knew and what I wanted to say, as well as what I didn’t know, like why the purple angora didn’t bloom more after I washed it, so she wouldn’t steer the conversation into dangerous territory. She was genuinely curious, taking in what I had to say, fingering the swatches, sharing my surprises and asking good questions. Sometimes, her eyes would go blank when I was in the middle of explaining something. A few seconds later she’d nod, tap her ear, and look back at me, “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
Eunny wore a translucent earpiece that connected her to the control room. Instructions were constantly being fed to her by not one but two different people. Even during filming, while the cameras were rolling, she’d get whispered words of counsel. Too slow? She’d nudge my leg. Too fast? She’d nudge my leg. Did I say something wrong? She’d nudge my leg. I became terrified of leg nudges.
Then the countdown would begin, “Five . . . four . . .” and a silent three, two, and one in our heads. Eunny and I would gaze intently at something on the table, smiling, heads bent in pretend conversation, before she’d raise her head and toss a smile, “Welcome back!”
On our very first taping, she did her slick intro and threw it to me. I got twenty words in before she tapped her ear, looked at the camera, and said, “I’m sorry, we have to stop.” What had I done?
“You said the name of the yarn,” she said. Dammit.
My mind sprang to action. “If I can’t say this is Harrisville yarn,” I asked, “can I say it was spun in Harrisville, New Hampshire?” After a pause for deliberation, I was given an affirmative.
Cameras back on, we plowed through the rest of the episode in one take. I looked at Eunny, waited for her eyes to lose that distant look. Finally, word came through her earpiece, “We’re good.” Annie came in to take a promotional picture of us with those samples before whisking them away and replacing them with the next tray.
Sometimes Marilyn would come in and offer feedback or request a reshoot. “That was great,” she’d say, but usually it was more like, “Remember to breathe,” or “Try to watch the pace of your speech,” or “We’re picking up a drumming noise whenever you pound the table.” Once she silently unfolded a note reminding us that our microphones were live and asking us to
please clean up our banter between takes. Just in case we still didn’t understand, she tapped on her chest where our microphones were pinned. We nodded.
The microphones would go off at lunch, the lab coats would be hung up, and we’d head upstairs to a rooftop break area whose tinted sunroom allegedly came from a Burger King that was being demolished. Meals were brought in. Depending on the day, it was either taco salads, which put everyone in a good mood, or Italian, which left us in a carb stupor for the rest of the afternoon. Crew tended to eat with crew, office staff with office staff, “talent” with support staff and producers.
Once the recycling was sorted and tables wiped clean, we’d return downstairs to powder our faces, reapply our lipstick, spray our hair back in place, don the next outfit, and resume shooting. My afternoons were usually spent in the green room mainlining M&Ms and going over my notes and swatches for the next day’s taping, while the big screen showed Eunny with a guest, or her crochet host, Kristin Omdahl, espousing steeks or crochet edgings or any one of an endless supply of topics.
When all was done for the day, we’d pack our bags and pile back into Marilyn’s rental car for dinner. This being the suburbs and us being tired, we’d usually head to one of the strip malls nearby. We’d go for Greek food or to a burger joint with alcoholic milkshakes and big jugs of pickles—and, always, at least one P.F. Chang’s.
Dinnertime conversation was a lesson in diversity. Annie would tell us about her latest fitness regime. (“I tried the Brazilian Butt-Lift, and it lifted my butt, but now it’s bigger!”) They’d talk sports or dating, and gradually Marilyn would steer us toward affordable healthcare or women’s reproductive rights. A waiter would appear and ask whose birthday it was. We’d shake our heads, and he’d say, “Awesome, so it’s just a ladies’ night out, huh?”
Once, at P.F. Chang’s, we did bother to explain that we were there on business, having finished a day of shooting a TV show for PBS. We had to explain what PBS was—“Yeah, like Sesame Street”—pointing to Eunny—“She’s the host”—and Marilyn—“She’s the producer.” Unawed, he continued to call each of us “honey” for the rest of the night.
I’d leave them all shivering by the hotel door, Eunny and Annie puffing away. Marilyn would sometimes join them for her one cigarette of the year, pinching it between her fingers like Groucho Marx.
Collecting my complimentary chocolate-chip cookie in the lobby, I’d go up to my room and set the alarm extra early for the next day. As Eunny and I grew more comfortable with the segment, it took less and less time to shoot. Eventually, I only came for a few days. I always felt sad leaving them behind.
Filming Knitting Daily TV was some of the best fun I’ve ever had. I loved the pressure of the camera rolling, the tight constraints of subject matter, even the obscure PBS filming rules and not being allowed to look at the camera. It was like speed-dating through everything I knew and loved, with one hand duct-taped behind my back. More than that, I loved being part of a team.
I was there when Eunny signed off for her last episode before leaving Interweave, and I was there when Marilyn shook hands with the crew for the last time before she handed over the producer role to Karin Strom (who, too, has since left). I figured that transition was as good a time as any for me to hang up my lab coat, too, and let them reshape the show from scratch with a new host, new producer, new studio, segments, and crew.
I may not have won us an Emmy, but I did have a woman point at me once and exclaim, “Hey! You come on right after Designing Women!”
AUTUMN ON THE HUDSON: Rhinebeck, New York
NESTLED ON THE EASTERN BANKS of the Hudson River, just two hours north of Manhattan by train, is the picket-fenced village of Rhinebeck. It has all the trappings of the weekend getaway: the artisanal bread shop, reliable Thai food, a pricey French bistro, a high-end liquor and wine store, and, to preserve an illusion of small-town America, a diner with vinyl-upholstered booths and brusque waitresses.
In the fall, Rhinebeck becomes a Thornton Wilder vision of bucolic small-town nostalgia. Between the foliage and the carved pumpkins on porches, you can’t help checking the local real estate ads and wondering what it would be like to live here.
I think this every third weekend in October when I turn off the Taconic State Parkway and wind my way into town for the New York State Sheep and Wool Festival. So legendary is this show, it has attained Madonna or Cher status in the knitting world. It is known by just one word: Rhinebeck. Say that word to almost any knitter and you’ll get a nod.
It’s huge. Tens of thousands of people converge on the Dutchess County Fairgrounds for two days of vending, demonstrations, workshops, competitions, and get-togethers. The town of Rhinebeck and surrounding villages along the Hudson come to a standstill on festival weekend, traffic backing up for miles in every direction. For me, it’s a return to my Upstate New York childhood, to autumnal sights and smells for which I spent years pining. I get to feast on still-warm donuts and tart apple cider, and, most important of all, feel the comfort of being nestled among my kin.
The first show was held in 1972, one year before the similarly spirited Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival got its start. Like Maryland, Rhinebeck is sponsored by an agricultural group—the Dutchess County Sheep and Wool Growers. But unlike its southern cousin, this show requires a paid ticket to get in. Were it not for the ability to preorder your tickets online, I suspect we’d see people camped out overnight to get first dibs on the hottest vendors.
It all begins on Saturday morning, as cars quickly fill acres of grassy parking lots. Tour buses, chartered by faraway guilds and yarn shops, pull up and spill out knitters by the hundreds. They line up politely, single file, sometimes two at a time, smiling, talking, strategizing. The minute those gates finally open, the rush begins. Perfectly reasonable people break into a trot, then a sprint, in that fierce I-have-a-plane-to-catch kind of way, to get to their favorite booths before everyone else. (Knitters are kind and lovely people, but you don’t want to get between them and their yarn.)
Every bed in town has been booked for months, sometimes years. The NO VACANCY signs extend up to Red Hook, down to Poughkeepsie, and across the Hudson to Newburgh. People trade rooms like drugs on the open market. “Psssst, I’ve got a double and only need one bed,” you’ll see the post on Ravelry. “Does anyone need a place to sleep?” Safety worries fly out the window as we snatch whatever we can, even if it means shacking up with a stranger.
Rhinebeck is best spent with friends, whether close or casual or even assembled just for the occasion. I first went in 2003 with my childhood friend Theresa, whom I’d only recently taught to knit. We stayed at a chain motel in Poughkeepsie and returned to our room each night like kids on Halloween, pouring the contents of our bags onto our beds to admire. Soon I returned with my Knitter’s Review friends, this time staying at a newer chain motel in Newburgh. As our group grew larger and rowdier, we decided to rent a place just for us.
In 2009, we got cabins at the Mills-Norrie State Park, which occupies 1,000 prime acres along the Hudson just a few miles south of Rhinebeck. We drove in from every direction, me from Maine, Jen from Virginia, others from even farther afield, our cars laden with space heaters and blenders, toasters, extra lamps, and half the contents of a grocery store. We hiked in with our goods, setting up cabins better equipped than your average freshman dorm. Everything was idyllic . . . until we returned home on Saturday night to the news that we had no power. It had been shut off following an electrical short in the women’s restroom. (Nobody had been hurt, although we did have particularly invigorating showers that morning.)
I wished my friends goodnight and stumbled through the pitch-black woods to my dark, freezing cabin. I locked the doors, covered myself in handknits, and shivered in my bunk bed, listening for the rat-a-tat-tat of Old Man Cooter’s bloody stumps for fingers on my window.
The next year we rented a big house east of Rhinebeck. Not only was it haunted, we all agreed, but it sold soon after we le
ft. So the following year we moved to a tiny farmhouse that had been remodeled so many times that it took us five minutes just to find the stairs leading to the second floor. We’ve since settled in a pretty home by the river, with its own indoor lap pool we all talk about but never use. If you go to Rhinebeck, or talk to those who do, you’ll soon find that many people choose to rent houses with friends and make a slumber party of it.
Another festival tradition, sparked partly by climate and partly by crowd, is the so-called Rhinebeck sweater, which Ysolda Teague immortalized in her book of the same name. Mid-October in New York marks the beginning of sweater weather, and fewer venues offer as appreciative an audience as Rhinebeck. We plan our sweaters months ahead, picking our patterns and casting on. We go public with our projects, declaring our intents as sort of guarantees that we’ll finish them in time. Friends cheer us on, goading, teasing, whatever it takes to get us to the final bind-off. Each sweater becomes such a community endeavor that, by the time we finally see a friend wearing hers in person, we can’t help but feel like we played a part in its creation.
The last-minute rush to finish our Rhinebeck sweaters (and shawls, and socks, and . . . and . . .) inevitably means late blocking sessions on Friday night. The next morning, up and down the Hudson River, hotel housekeepers are baffled to find slightly damp beds that haven’t been slept in. Who knows how many stray pins and darning needles have gone tink-tink-tink in their vacuum cleaners. By Sunday morning, the stranger things appear, like wads of what looks like wet sheep sitting on a towel in the bathroom—fleece samples handed to us by a friend and scoured in the sink before we went to bed.
The Rhinebeck dress code is pretty simple: If it’s handknitted, you wear it. This is homecoming weekend for wool lovers, there’s no holding back. For each of us, it all starts with a favorite sweater (if not a Rhinebeck sweater) over which a scarf is tossed. Maybe two. Plus a hat. Skirt? Why not? Don’t forget mittens. Maybe a felted bag, too. Oh, and knitted socks, definitely. Would leg warmers be overkill? And so we stumble through the fairgrounds in our woolens like overburdened Christmas trees. But for this weekend, our passion is praised.
