We got home, parked, and walked together quietly toward the house, and I was thinking about his ordeal. Any other person, I thought, would have expressed some sort of hostility or loud frustration by then, but Joe’s a good-natured rock. If it had been me, trapped like that, trashing a truck in the dead of night, obstructing traffic, and listening to the transmission try to vomit itself out of the hood, you would have found me crazed in the thing, thrashing around screaming in a way that would have shamed the snot out of my mother—and she can compete at the Olympic level in obscenity, should the occasion demand it. I thought about that, and the bruises both the pickup and I would bear from my fists smashing against the interior in rage had that happened to me, and I looked at Joe. “You okay?” I asked him, trying to broach the idea that if he had a little anger to share I would listen, and he looked at me. He pulled off his boots. He smiled a bit, and he said:
“Honey. That was a little demoralizing.”
I love that man.
DEATH NOTICE
abled Grey (nee Skein)—A mostly finished sweater and long-time yarn resident of Stephanie’s Stash in Toronto.
Cabled Grey died suddenly at home following a lengthy illness, surrounded by other knitting projects and a few knitters, on the 14th of November 2009. Cabled Grey was an ill-fitting sweater with raglan sleeves and largish cables, who began life as nine skeins of a pretty decent three-ply merino purchased at 20 percent off, and had marinated in the stash for about eight years. In his very early days, Cabled displayed a great deal of potential when executed as a beautiful gauge swatch, holding his shape and stitch definition, even when he was washed. Cabled will be remembered always for the promise he demonstrated when first wound into a ball of yarn, moments before his unfortunate infection with the terminal sweater pattern which was his eventual undoing. The yarns with whom he shared the work-in-progress basket fondly recall the cheerful way he endured re-knits due to errors in his chart, which of course became errors on his front, and for the way that he mostly managed to be a garment despite the way his raglan shapings were hopelessly miswritten in the pattern. They respected the way that Cabled held his ribbings high, despite the inescapable truth that there was absolutely no way that his designer had possibly written down the right number of stitches to pick up for his buttonband, leaving him eternally crooked round the front and neck.
In most obituaries, this is the part where one would say that the dearly departed fought valiantly or bravely, but such was not the case with Cabled Grey, who gave up on being a sweater faster than a sixteen-year-old can spend $50 at the mall. From the very moment that Cabled’s back was cast on, he was tragically doomed, for even though his gauge swatch had twenty-eight stitches to four inches, it turned out that Cabled actually harbored a secret desire to have twenty-two stitches to four inches, which is a destiny that he manifested about midway through the second front, creating a sweater that had cardigan fronts of two dramatically different sizes, which would have been fine were the breasts of the recipient likewise as different as a tangerine and a watermelon, which they were not.
Cabled was ripped back several times in his life, but it never seemed to bother him at all, and, in fact, his knitter rather suspected that he was trying to prolong the knitting process by embracing the errors and re-knits. He was the sort of project that was really able to cut loose and let things happen. Even as his knitter was begging him to please get his gauge together and honor the commitment that is making a sweater, Cabled was able to stay true to his inner nature, which was that of a mercurial, flighty yarn with no real goals. (Suggestions that Cabled Grey may have had some hemp in his fiber content are untrue, but we see why knitters might have gotten the idea.) In fact it was the way that Cabled was happy just to be knit, not to be knit with any degree of quality, and his stunning ability to avoid becoming a sweater through passive aggressive behavior that earned him the playful nickname “total piece of crap.”
Despite several interventions, treatments, re-knits, and pattern adjustments, Cabled Grey eventually succumbed to the terrible pattern he had contracted. One desperate final surgery was attempted, but the craftspeople present during this ill-fated procedure all supported the diagnosis of the original knitter, which was that Cabled should be helped to the great big cedar chest in the sky, and never attempted again. Cabled entered palliative care in the hall closet, until the 14th of November, when he received his final visit from neighborhood knitters during a “stash tidy.” Knitters at the visitation were welcome to spend a few final moments with Grey, and every single one agreed wholeheartedly that it truly was best that this struggle end, as the knitter looked sort of desperate and frantic when Grey was taken from the bag, and it was clear that Cabled had an inoperable series of obviously miscrossed cables that were causing both him and his knitter a great deal of intractable pain. Knitters surrounded Cabled at this time, and disconnected him from knit-support as they withdrew the needles. Shortly thereafter Cabled Grey came to the end of his repeat, and the knitters departed, sadly acknowledging that he was indeed hopelessly ugly and unfortunately ill-fitting, and had a really, really bad pattern. Services, as brief as they were, consisted of dumping the sweater into the Goodwill bin, while quaffing red wine and declaring “Life’s too short for bad knits,” “Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out,” and the profound, “Holy cow, I can’t believe I spent that much time and money on that sweater; man, I’m just pissed.”
Cabled Grey, or rather the idea of what Cabled Grey could have been, will be sadly missed by his knitter, the needles he so persistently occupied, and the pattern that was his ultimate undoing. Cabled Grey is survived by his daughter, Leftover Grey Yarn, who is thinking about becoming a hat to honor her father. Blue Mohair, who occupied the space next to Cabled Grey on the shelf for many years, will miss him tremendously, although seems rather fond of the cute hand-dyed laceweight who’s moved in. As usual, the sock yarns have no idea what is going on.
The departure of Cabled Grey was immediately followed by the casting on of Alpaca Lace Shawl, who shall be knit in his memory. In lieu of flowers, patterns without errors and yarn with good attitude may be sent to Stephanie’s Stash, although truthfully, she’s pretty much over it.
KNIT JUNKIE
e walk down the street together, my family and I, three blocks through the busy city from our front door to a little restaurant that we love, and as I take my seat and shrug off my cardigan, I reach down to my bag sitting by my feet. My hand goes in, and as it does there is more air in that bag than I expect, and my heart skips a beat. No knitting? I pull up the bag to my lap and open it, trying to understand what is going on. No knitting? I never have no knitting. I don’t leave the house without knitting like other women don’t leave the house without lipstick or a bra—neither of which I am wearing, but that’s not the point. I always have knitting. It’s one of the things I take with me each and every time I leave the house. Wallet, keys, phone, and a sock-in-progress. Hell, I usually have two kinds of knitting with me if I go to the kitchen, never mind a restaurant. I start pulling out things from my bag. No knitting. I look on the floor. Did I drop it? Maybe it’s still with me? No knitting. That’s it. I have no knitting with me. I pick up the menu and try to focus, but I am instantly and completely uncomfortable. I’m a creature of habit and my habit is more or less continuous knitting, and that’s been true for decades, and now here I am in this restaurant and I don’t have anything to knit and the waitress hasn’t even taken our drink order yet, and this restaurant is good, but slow, and that means it’s going to be a long time with no knitting and… I check my bag again to make sure that I didn’t miss my knitting in there. Maybe it’s under the gum. I rifle my belongings again, trying really hard to quiet the stirring panic.
Amanda, my eldest daughter, notices that I’m looking for something, probably because of the blizzard of receipts, stitch markers, notepads, and knitting patterns emerging from my bag and piling on the table in front of me, while I continue hopelessl
y looking for the yarn and needles I know now are sitting uselessly on the kitchen counter. “What are you looking for?” she asks, while I stare at the bottom of my bag, sweeping my hand across the surface like maybe my knitting has become invisible and that’s why I can’t find it. I see her brow crease with concern, and I realize that she can see I’m missing something important—something like a credit card or my wallet—and I can see that I’m about to be very poorly understood. I’m about to open my mouth to say that I forgot my knitting, and then there will be an eye roll of epic proportions, probably coupled with laughter around the table. I’ve been down this road before. I’m just about the only person in my house who would put the word “important” in front of the word “yarn,” and I know what it looks like when I do. They aren’t going to understand this. My love of yarn is unique in my family. I accept it, but I still try to avoid them looking at me like I’m a few elves short of an effective workshop, so when Amanda asks me what I’m missing, I just shove everything back into my bag, set it back at my feet, and smile. “Nothing, dear. It’s okay. Have you looked at the menu?”
She hasn’t, and as the minutes tick by, I start to figure out what I’ll do. I’m looking at the menu but I’m not choosing what to eat. My thoughts keep getting dragged back to the knitting. We’re three blocks from home. The walk here took about six minutes, and I think if I went to get my knitting I’d be back pretty quickly. I look around at my family and realize that again, this is going to be poorly understood, and I start tossing around the idea of sneaking out to get my knitting. I could excuse myself to go to the washroom, and then bolt off down the street at a dead run, collect the knitting, and tear back. If I really hustled I think I could do it in about seven minutes. Can I be missing for seven minutes?
I’m staring out the window plotting my route and feeling twitchy, when Joe asks me what’s on my mind. I say it’s nothing again, because I’m still trying to avoid looking crazy, and besides, I don’t want to tip him off if I decide to go with the running thing. My youngest daughter, Samantha, who’s always been the sort to notice things, has figured it out, though, and she spills the beans. “Mum forgot her knitting,” she drawls, and I can tell that she’s relishing the moment. “That’s what it is. Mum forgot her knitting, and now she’s twitching and thinking about going to get it. She can’t get through a dinner without her knitting. She’s not going to make it.” Sam pauses here for effect, and I feel the urge to defend myself, but really I’ve been sitting there thinking the same thing. I did forget my knitting. I am freaking out. I am thinking about it and wondering what I’m supposed to do for the twenty minutes in between ordering and when the food arrives. The kid has a point. Sam peers at me over her menu and smirks. “You’re addicted,” she says. “You’re a knitting junkie.”
The family erupts into laughter, and they all begin to share stories about me for which my knitting friends would absolutely come to my defense. The time Mum couldn’t knit because her finger was hurt, and she cleaned the whole bathroom with a toothbrush. The time that Mum ran out of yarn mid-hat and tried to make it to the store before it closed and fell down running. Running. For yarn. They whoop and roar, and while they do I’m thinking three things. First, none of these people are getting handknit bloody anything for Christmas. Second, that I really, really wish I had my knitting, because it’s usually what keeps me from saying things I might regret later. Finally—and I guess this is the most important point—can knitting really be addictive? Am I a yarn junkie?
I make it through the dinner without going to get my knitting. It was clear to me that everyone thought that to sprint out the door, run three blocks to our house, grab my little sock off of the counter, and run back would be crazy. I read the look on their faces and could see that’s what they thought. I even could see that there was nobody else knitting in the restaurant, so obviously it was both normal and possible to get through a meal without knitting, but that’s not how it felt. I squirmed. I fidgeted. I thought about my knitting and how to get it the whole time. I was distracted and worried, and I wasn’t just worried about how to get through a meal without my knitting; I was worried about other possibilities. What if, for example, on the way home there’s a traffic jam or some kind of obstruction? Something that hauls us up or means we have to wait in the street. What if when we get back to our house, there’s been a gas leak in the neighborhood and we can’t go inside our house? What if we have to spend seven hours sitting on the curb waiting to be allowed back in? I can’t do seven hours of waiting without knitting. I’ll start to bother people or eat rocks or… As I sit there slightly sweaty, and definitely out of sorts, I wonder again.
Is this addiction? Can knitting truly be addictive? Are we all hooked on yarn and strung out on circulars? Couldn’t stop if we wanted too? I’ve never met anyone who has told me that they are a recovering knitter, fresh out of twelve weeks of rehab, having almost lost their families, jobs, or happiness due to an unhealthy relationship with merino that they couldn’t control; I do know lots of knitters who would be happy to tell you that they’re uncomfortable and unhappy when they can’t have their knitting. I know, too, that it’s not like knitting is a hallucinogen or a straight-up psychoactive drug, but I tell you this: Knitting and yarn are absolutely mood-altering substances, and if you don’t say so, you’re lying. We wouldn’t do it if it didn’t have an effect. Some days, ten minutes with my knitting can save the lives of the humans who surround me, and it gives me the ability to cope with things I find difficult, such as waiting, or listening to people talk about shopping for pants. (It occurs to me that the last argument I’m making there is the same argument I once heard someone give as the reason it took two liters of wine a day to get through life, but let’s set that aside for the moment.)
When I get home (no gas leak—my knitting and I are quickly reunited) I make some notes, and the next morning finds me at the reference library, looking for the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders*, or DSM-IV, which is the American Psychiatric Association’s book that defines all sorts of mental illness and disorders. I flip through the pages looking for addiction, substance abuse, dependency, all the keywords.I find out that “substance dependence” (which seems about right for someone who wigged when she couldn’t get her yarn) is defined as an individual showing any three or more specific criteria within a year. I slump down in the stacks, book wide open, and start to read the list.
(1) Tolerance, as defined by either of the following:
(a) A need for markedly increased amounts of the substance to achieve intoxication or desired effect.
(b) Markedly diminished effect with continued use of the same amount of the substance.
“Uh-oh” is my first thought. I reread the sentence, substituting “knitting” and “yarn” for “the substance.” A need for markedly increased amounts of yarn? A diminished effect with the same amount of knitting? The sparks of concern are lit within me. If this were a quiz, most knitters I know would have to tick off that box. How much more yarn do I have now than I used to? How much more complex does the knitting have to be before it turns my crank? Admittedly I do still “use” garter and stockinette stitch, but ten years ago I didn’t need a hit of lace to get through the weekend. Not a good sign—not to mention the fact that I’m more tolerant of what it costs. Used to be that if a skein of yarn was $20 I thought it was ridiculous. Now I’m all like “$20? What’s the yardage?” I sigh. That’s one.
(2) Withdrawal, as defined by either of the following:
(a) The characteristic withdrawal syndrome for the substance.
(b) The same (or a closely related) substance is taken to relieve or avoid withdrawal symptoms.
At first glance, I think I might get away on this one. It’s not like knitters coming off of the good stuff get the shakes or are at risk of a seizure. We’re just sort of antsy, obnoxious, weird, and fidgety, which, truth be told, isn’t really withdrawal. At least in my case, it’s the actual personality that I have wit
hout knitting. I knit because I’m not patient, because I can’t wait well, because I’m fidgety, and it’s not like that’s characteristic. Most knitters who aren’t knitting are just themselves, no matter who that is, for better or for worse; all different, just bored. I’m about to move on to the next criterion when I realize that it says “either” (a) or (b) could apply, and I realize that I’m hosed. Almost all knitters I know are going to substitute a closely related substance if they can’t get what they usually use. If I couldn’t get wool, I would use acrylic before I quit, and the two times in my life that I’ve had an injury that kept me from knitting? I broke out the crochet hook, and I don’t even really like to crochet. Reluctantly, I mentally tick off this box too.
(3) The substance is often taken in larger amounts or over a longer period than was intended.
I only have one thing to say to that. Shut up. I always meant to have this much yarn, and for the record, I was planning the whole time to stay up that late knitting, and “just one more row” is simply a turn of phrase. Also, everybody has this many projects at once, and yarn in the freezer is normal. It keeps it safe from moths. Pass me my sock and get off my back.
(4) There is a persistent desire or unsuccessful efforts to cut down or control substance use.
Thankfully, I don’t have to tick this box. Sure, I’ve de-stashed when things got a little wild, and there are times when the yarn budget has to be reined in, but that’s just life, not addiction. It’s not like I’m walking around saying, “Man, the hangover from last night’s scarf is killing me. I can’t tie one on with mittens tonight; I’ve got to cut back.” Well, at least it’s not like I’m saying it that much. (There have been a few incidents around the holidays, but everyone tends to overindulge then.) The same is true of yarn diets. There have been times when I’m choking the wool money, but that’s the same as not buying much of anything when you’re broke, and that’s always successful. I’ve never told my kids that we’re eating a single can of discount peas for dinner because Mummy blew the budget on merino, and what’s more, I can honestly say that I have no desire—absolutely none—to cut back or control my knitting. As a matter of fact, I’d say I’ve got a persistent desire and I’ve made continuously unsuccessful efforts to increase my knitting and yarn use. I’m sure that these addiction book-writing people would just say something about needing to admit I have a problem, but screw it. I’m still going to work and cooking for my family; nobody who lives in my house is sharing a bed with a sibling because their room is full of yarn; and I say there’s no problem to admit to.
All Wound Up Page 5
