Lene is giving it all away. Ken and I are supposed to divvy it up and take it. All of it. Despite my knitterly imperative to cavort and stuff my bags full, I can hardly touch it.
Lene is giving away her whole stash because Lene has rheumatoid arthritis. Although its vicious workings have confined her to a wheelchair, I have never considered her disabled (just nonwalking) until today.
Lene’s hands won’t do it anymore. They are exhausted and knotted and tired, and they won’t knit.
I can’t imagine giving up knitting. I simply can’t. I try to imagine what I would do if I didn’t knit. How would I fill those hours? How could I not be knitting? If I had to give up knitting I’d certainly have to take smoking up again—maybe heroin … I certainly would be ruder and wait less patiently. I think about all the time I’ve spent waiting in my life. I think about arriving at the doctor’s office and having to bide my time; instead of being frustrated and angry, I’m grateful. I pull the sock from my purse and turn the waiting time into footwear that will warm the feet of someone I love … maybe Lene. She’s always been my favorite person to knit socks for, since she doesn’t walk in them and wear them out. The softest yarn—yarn too soft to knit socks from, really—makes perfect socks for Lene. She’ll never wear through a heel. There are advantages to not walking. You get the best socks.
Lene has always appreciated the socks that I knit her. A Knitter herself, she knows how hard-won the vine lace borders on her latest pair are. She understands the sacredness of her dragon socks, because we had a long talk about the difficulties of knitting the tail that curves around her ankle. Lene is Danish, and the Danes know knitting. She learned to knit as a little girl in school where (be still my beating heart) knitting was a subject. She often mocked non-Danish Knitters like me and laughs at our patterns. A Danish pattern, she told me, doesn’t spoon-feed the knitter. It might say “After the leg, make the heel,” with no further clue as to what might be required. “Make the heel?” I asked her. “Just ‘Make the heel’?” That doesn’t seem like a lot to go on. As a matter of fact, it seems a little scary. Danish Knitters expect you to have more nerve. They expect you to know how to make a heel. Even if you missed that day in school, your friends know, your mother knows, your neighbor next door can teach you. My head is filled with little Danish girls turning out socks that rival my own. I know about the Danish love of candles and family, and I imagine a whole country of cozy Knitters quietly turning heels by candlelight in the long mild winter. Lene is Danish, and I wonder how she feels, thwarted by her tired hands, having to give up knitting.
Lene and I don’t talk much about this, this huge scary Not Knitting. When the trouble started, it unsettled me so much that I tried to fix it. Shorter needles, bigger needles. Plastic, then metal, then soft, warm wood. I counseled her against cotton, telling her that it was too inelastic. “Switch to soft wool,” I suggested. “It’s easier on your hands.”
Nothing worked. Knitting hurt.
I tried hard to absorb these two words. “Knitting. Hurt.” That couldn’t be right. Knitting couldn’t be hurting her hands. Knitting soothed. Knitting was magic. Knitting took idle moments and made them worthwhile. Knitting made stupid moments smart. Knitting was whole hours spent turning dumb useless string into shawls and scarves and mittens that warmed hands and proved love. Knitting could hurt?
My struggle to understand was nothing compared to Lene’s struggle to accept. Her body was antagonistic. Its goals weren’t the same as hers. She wanted to go; it wanted to stop. She wanted to travel; it wanted to stay home. She was about speed and quickness and cleverness, but her body disagreed. It was too busy turning itself into knots to take up her causes. It took away walking and dancing and skating. It took away running and climbing trees and getting Lene out of bed in the morning. It took so much, but it left knitting. Knitting was the one thing her hands would still do. They might be knotted and tired, but they could still make stitches. The body that wouldn’t skip or waltz or do stairs could still take a ball of soft yarn and two needles and take the time to make neat, even stitches in order. Mittens, scarves, and baby things came away from Lene’s needles, as perfect and orderly as she dreamed. Lene took this as proof that her body was not all bad, not completely the enemy. As long as she could knit, there was still this one thing, this small proof that she was not simply a marvelous brain atop a useless carriage.
Now, suddenly, knitting hurt, and no modification of the art helped. I gave Lene better and better wool and she bought heaps of it herself, both of us somehow thinking that temptation would lead her rebel hands back to the art of wrapping wool around needles and leaving socks in their wake. But nothing worked, not one thing.
Now, months after knitting her last stitch, Lene is giving away her stash.
Ken and I are torn. We both want to make her laugh, to forget that this is the end of making things. We want to forget that this is the moment when we all admit that her arthritis has, in this matter, gotten the better of her. We fight over the wool, but neither of us wants to take it. We get two bins, mine and his, and we start to divide the yarn. Lene tells us the story of each yarn as we take it, and slowly, we start to feel better. For the moment we are soothed, lost in the tale each yarn has to tell us.
We pay attention to Lene’s wishes. That blue mohair, the one the color of baby eyes, it was supposed to be a shawl for Lene’s friend Michelle. I take that one. I lay it in the bin and make a mental note: Shawl for Michelle. Ken gets the discontinued Aran-weight tweed. Lene had planned an intricately cabled pullover for herself with that yarn. I watch Ken; he’s making the same note-to-self, recording carefully what Lene’s intentions were. The chocolate milk alpaca (a scarf for Lene’s mother, Bea) goes into my bin and we laugh at the collection of bright, plain good wool in crayon colors that Ken puts in his. Lene has no idea what she was thinking for that. Sock yarn, mitten yarn, needles, and patterns, Ken and I sort them according to who likes what.
Getting this much free yarn should be a blast; I should be loving it. But it’s horrible. It’s a wake for Lene’s knitting.
When the evening ends, Ken and I each have a big bin of Lene’s wool. A whole knitting career divided into two big bins and a couple of bags. There is no evidence of Lene’s life as a Knitter left in the apartment. I try hard not to feel like we are taking all hope with us. Rheumatoid arthritis is a progressive disease; Lene knows she will not knit again and I understand her urge to see the wool meet happy and productive ends. Ken and I make a couple of lame jokes on the way out the door (“We’d like to thank arthritis for making this stash enhancement possible.”), but I’m pretty sure Lene cried when we left.
Months later, it’s almost Michelle’s birthday, and the baby blue eyes mohair is on my needles. Ken’s got a hat for Lene’s sister on the go. Lene’s yarn might be in my stash, but it isn’t my stash. I knit it for birthdays and Christmas and special events, and on the tag it always reads “from Lene.” We are proxy Knitters, Ken and I; we are making up for what her hands won’t do.
Freakin’ Birds
Not too long ago, shortly after Christmas, when I was feeling generous, I was approached by a friend with a knitting crisis. I now feel confident that he chose his victim and his timing carefully. He knows me too well.
First, he knew that having been pushed to the edge of sanity by “IT” and then barely rescued by sleep, I was bound to be vulnerable and weak. Second, he knew that knitting crises are second nature to me; since I am usually plagued by disaster and upset, I might not notice this one. Third, he knew the secret words and was not afraid to use them.
“I need you to finish this. I can’t knit it. It’s too hard.”
There they are, the magic words: “It’s too hard.” Ya got me. I know, I know. I’m going to get a T-shirt that says “Pride goeth before a fall,” and wear it every day for a month.
Since I was still riding a high that came from blocking a lace shawl, I took the bait.
He dragged out his knitting ba
g, and dumped the knitting reject onto the floor. I recognized it immediately. It was the Bird Jacket, from Debbie Bliss’s Bright Knits for Kids. It’s a really lovely thing. If you are a new knitter, or the type who feels a little woozy with color projects, then read this slowly, perhaps while sitting down.
Ten colors. Cotton. Intarsia.
Now I’m an experienced knitter, but even the surest of needle persons knows his or her limits, and while I love the Bird Jacket, those three elements are the bane of my existence. I should have remembered that ten colors is a lot, that I hate weaving in ends, and that intarsia in cotton is a particularly difficult thing for me. I’ve seen lovely examples, and I bow to knitters who can make intarsia in cotton look even and smooth, but every time I do it, I end up half crazed. For reasons that escape me even now, it takes a superhuman effort for me to end up with something that looks respectable. Cotton makes me curse.
But all of self-knowledge went straight down the tubes in the face of the challenge on the table. He claimed that this sweater was “too hard” for him? Well, without being unkind, from the look of his knitting, he had a point. He claimed that Debbie Bliss should read Elizabeth Zimmermann. He was livid with her for having the gall to put four colors in a row.
“Nobody can do four colors in a row,” he claimed angrily. He seemed to feel that Elizabeth’s dictum (“two colors in a row”) should be a law, not a suggestion.
I murmured supportive things, discussed the benefits of patience, and suggested other strategies for making this work. He was unmoved. He had a hate on for Debbie Bliss, her Bird Jacket, cotton, and knitting in general. His rant only served to motivate me further. After all, I am superknitter, and “It’s too hard,” and “Nobody can do four colors”—well … them’s fightin’ words.
I gathered up the ten balls, told him that I’d knit it for him, and set him up with an easier color project so he could improve his skills. I was feeling pretty cocky.
I cast on, feeling rather full of myself for (a) rescuing him, (b) being hailed as an all-powerful knitter who can manage the accursed Bird Jacket, and (c) promising him he could have it by his deadline, in two weeks …
Which brings us to today.
During the last two weeks I have been brought to my knees by this itty-bitty, ten-color, cotton, intarsia Bird Jacket. Disclaimer: This is not Debbie Bliss’s fault. Her pattern is lovely, error-free, and clear. The yarn is great and I still think that Debbie is a wonderful designer.
I do harbor a secret belief that she is somewhere in the world, drinking tea, knitting something in wool, Fair Isle, with two colors to a row, while laughing about the Bird Jacket, because she never intended for anyone actually to try to knit the thing.
I tried to strand parts of it, but there would be long floats along its back, and any attempt to catch the yarn not in use along the back resulted in its peeking through. This meant that there is no way out of the intarsia trap. I had to knit each little section with a separate tiny ball of yarn, resulting in lots of hanging lengths along the row—in one particularly demented row, more than twenty. I only managed to keep the number as low as twenty because I stranded the background color. There are long floats of yarn on the wrong side, but they run along the bottom edge of the sweater, and in a particularly successful fit of denial, I managed to convince myself that little fingers won’t get caught in them there.
Now it’s finished. Well, the knitting part is finished. Now I have to weave in the ends. All by itself, this is a huge job. No, huge is too simple a word, this in an enormous job, a staggering job. It is almost insurmountable. There are ten colors, all these little motifs (freakin’ birds … I hate their little two-stitch yellow beaks) and all of these billions of tiny birds with fancy tails are surrounded with four-color stars and interspersed with many, many two-row stripes. Guess how many ends to weave in?
No, I mean it…. Guess.
Now double your guess … heck, just for fun, triple it.
Now read this number. (Again, you faint of heart might want to take a couple of deep breaths or sit down or something.)
Two hundred and eighty-eight.
That’s right, 288 ends. Remember, it’s only a tiny thing, size one year, so 288 ends means that the wrong side resembles a shag carpet.
I don’t know if I can do it. I really don’t. Each end needs to be woven in such a way that the right side isn’t disrupted (remember that this is cotton, not lovely forgiving wool), and secured in a way that it will neither peek through the (you may insert the expletive of your choice here) cotton, nor work its way free, as it’s slippery to boot.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that I should have knit them in as I went, and I thought of that, but when I tried it, the end peeked through the damned cotton on the right side, and I just couldn’t live with the look.
All I keep thinking is that Debbie Bliss is mean, or crazy, or both.
I suppose that there is also the possibility that she is a far more skilled knitter than I am, and expects a higher level of competence and commitment than a mere mortal such as myself possesses, but it doesn’t seem likely.
I am sitting here (frankly, I’m typing to avoid weaving in ends) when I decided to read through to the end of the pattern. Maybe the last line is something like “When you are finished you will have 288 ends. Sorry about that.” Or, “See page 67 for instructions on how to avoid having 288 ends.” Or, “Whatever you do … don’t try to weave in these ends … it’s sheer folly and nobody does it.” Or, “Trim the 288 ends to an even length, as the “shag” interior is part of the sweater’s charm.” Or, “Invoke the spell on page 45 to have your ends woven in magically as you sleep.”
But no, nothing. In fact, just to add insult to injury, the last line actually reads …
“Work 1 round of dc around outside edge, working 2 dc together in each corner, ss in first dc. Do not turn. Work 1 round or backward dc (dc worked from left to right).”
After a moment of nauseating shock, I have no choice but to accept the truth.
These are not knitting instructions. This is CROCHET.
I hereby admit publicly that I’ve been beaten.
Freakin’ birds.
Operation: Cast On
Attention, knitters! The time is almost at hand. There are now fifty million knitters in North America with more joining us every day. The popularity of knitting is increasing moment by moment. If we are to succeed in our plan to take over the world, we must not let our guard down.
Remember that there are those who do not understand our vision. They care nothing for “Wool Access” and they are unmoved by the words “Yarn Subsidy.” Some of these people may live in your neighborhood or even in your home. Watch out for those individuals who would attempt to thwart our cause by limiting your stash or time to knit. Do not let them distract you with their tricks. Most often they try schemes like jobs, marriage, and romance. Resist.
I have devised a series of tests to allow us to quietly identify each other, even outside our headquarters (code name: yarn store). These tests can also be used to spot “potential knitters,” thus reducing the amount of time wasted on trying to convert those who are not yet ready to join their brothers and sisters in yarn. These tests are simple and reasonably conclusive.
Give the suspected knitter a handknit sweater. Those who knit, or are destined to become knitters, will turn the garment inside out to look at the making up and the weaving in of ends. They will do this instinctively. Those who lack the knitting gene will admire only the outside of the sweater.
Surreptitiously place several skeins of wool in a variety of colors on an accessible surface. Observe the response of the subject to the yarn stimuli. Those who knit will be unable to walk past the yarn. They will fondle, stroke, and possibly smell the skeins before continuing on their way. Should you encounter a subject who arranges the skeins by colorway or who attempts to steal the wool, quickly make contact, as this is likely to be a plan supervisor or “master knitter.”
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Hide some yarn in the location to be tested. Those who are knit-sympathetic will be inexplicably drawn to the area of the hidden yarn. To confirm their tendencies, approach the subjects and invite them into another room. Those called to the fiber arts will resist leaving the room with the secreted yarn, even if promised cake to do so.
If you believe that you have identified a member of our cause, use the password “circular needle.” If the person is indeed a member of the revolution, he or she will reflexively voice an extremely strong opinion on this knitting tool. It does not matter if the person adores or utterly detests circular needles; what matters is the passion.
Those who are predisposed toward knitting but have not yet been indoctrinated need to be taught the ways of the needle. Agents in the field have found that “novelty scarves” are inexplicably persuasive. Many young targets can be persuaded to knit if given these trendy yarns.
Catch them, get them going, and suddenly eyelash will no longer be enough. They will need more. They will advance quickly through the ranks of intarsia, Fair Isle, and cable. Those who are not yet ready to accept our cause will simply look at you as though you are out of your mind. Ignore them. Our day will come.
I Can Do That
Sitting in the hospital, waiting for my appointment for a test or two, I knit on my sock to kill the time and anxiety. I’m knitting around on double-pointed needles and I’m working on my plain-vanilla sock pattern. No lace, no cabling, no fancy-pants carrying on at all. I’m not even purling, just working a simple knit stitch round and round and round. It’s a complete no-brainer, something I’d expect even brand-new knitters to be able to execute without screeching too much about their lack of skills. A woman approaches me as I sit there, and she watches for a moment before she comments on my work.
Yarn Harlot Page 11
