The Sheep Shawl
In general, I am a process, rather than a product, knitter. I like the feel of the wool, the smell of the wool, the ritual of sorting through patterns, choosing the right needles, and casting on. (This could explain a thing or two about the number of unfinished objects in the house.) I like the moment when the yarn tells you what it would like to be. I like getting past the first little bit of the knitting, to the point when I can see the pattern develop and start getting a sense of what I’m making. I like how much knitting is like a magic trick. You have string and sticks; you wave your hands about, and there you have it—a sweater, a sock, warm mittens, a blanket, a shawl. I admit that it can be slow magic. Sometimes you have to wave your hands around for a really, really long time.
Being a process knitter, I’m not often really attached to the finished product. I give away almost all of my knitting and seldom knit for myself. My darling wears only handknit socks. I wear socks bought at the local mall. He sports a pretty fancy Aran sweater that I designed just for him. I slog about in a pathetically shabby store-bought cotton cardigan with a fraying sleeve that would give any “product” knitter the heebie-jeebies. I’m happy to give up any knitted thing. I had the pleasure of knitting it. I have a brief wave of knitterly pride when I finish it and I might go around the house for a day or two showing it off, but then I’m on to the next thing.
I even manage to feel pretty humble about my knitting most of the time. There are millions and millions of knitters in the world, and in other countries the most intricate and lovely things are made by mere children. I usually feel as if I’ve got no right to be particularly proud of the things that I make. Anybody could do it, if they knew how.
That might have all changed today.
I’ve been knitting the sheep shawl. It is my first large-scale excursion into lace. I’ve knit baby blankets and scarves of lace, but this is the big time. My mum (despite her complete loathing of knitting) loves sheep, and it’s become a Christmas tradition for somebody to give her something sheep-ish each year. (I am pretty sure that this stopped being fun for my mum about five years ago, when the living room became fully saturated with sheep paraphernalia, but a tradition is a tradition, and besides, shawls are useful.)
It began while I was on vacation in Ottawa. Trolling through a local yarn store, I saw a pattern for the sheep shawl. Being sharp as a tack, I quickly grasped that this shawl could fulfill my sheepy obligations. It was a beautiful triangular shawl. Well-placed yarn overs and knit-two-togethers formed the delicate outlines of sheep cavorting in a meadow. It had a delicate pointy edging, and the whole thing was an heirloom. I decided that I could ignore my self-imposed yarn fast (besides, that’s a yarn fast, not a pattern fast) and buy the pattern. I did not buy the yarn to knit it, being sure I could find something in the stash. (We will conveniently forget the fact that I looked for yarn but didn’t see anything appropriate. Otherwise, I lose points for self-restraint.) Since the pattern was so reasonably priced, I also bought some other stuff because it’s irresponsible to incur a debit card service charge for just one pattern. Right?
Three days later I was a little bit lost in Ottawa’s rural hinterlands when I stumbled across a sheep/llama/alpaca farm. Like a creature possessed, I turned helplessly into the driveway. Where there are that many fiber-bearing animals, there will be fiber for sale. At the top of the driveway I found an older lady knitting socks in what was originally the garage but had inexplicably turned into a yarn shop, if rather an unconventional one. As fate would have it, sitting right on the table in front of me was a truly lovely dirt-cheap lace-weight alpaca, in exactly the right amount for the sheep shawl.
I wrestled briefly with the implications of it all—with buying yarn when I was officially on a yarn fast, using my family’s vacation money for yarn (not that I hadn’t done that before), and, most important, knitting the sheep shawl out of alpaca. But I decided it was just so clear. It was fated. Look at how it all fit together: I needed some new lace weight; I was lost in the boonies; I found yarn I could afford for the pattern I was planning—in a garage yarn shop? This was a no-brainer. I snatched the yarn up, paid in cash so as not to leave a paper trail, and raced back to my uncle’s farm (where we were staying) to cast on.
At first I struggled with the way the pattern was turning out. This being my first real lace pattern, I was shocked by how it looked. This was not the elegant gossamer thing in the photo. This looked like a pot scrubber knit from dental floss. It seemed too strange and “open.” I know now that knitting this—well—thread on largish needles is part of what makes the lace so fine and elegant, but at first all I could think was that I should go down one needle size, or maybe twelve. I struggled on, trying to believe that it’s got to be in the blocking.
This shawl took perseverance. The lace-point edging went on until I was bleary-eyed, and the i-cord edging along the top was like walking on hot coals. Casting off did nothing to take away the pot-scrubber image. I started to worry that I might have spent all those painstaking hours knitting something that only resembles a shawl in my imagination. This thing looked like an alpaca version of those oriental noodles that come in weird bricks, four for a dollar.
I was not happy.
Then I blocked it.
Why did no one tell me about blocking lace? This was easily the coolest thing that I had ever done. I soaked the shawl in the bath, then spread its still-ratty-looking folds on the floor. Ever so carefully I stretched it out, gingerly pinning down each edge, each point, each wee cavorting sheep. Two hundred and eleven pins later, the curdled mass opened out into the most elegant, delicate, remarkable shawl. I felt like a hero. I felt like a knitting genius. I stroked it lovingly as it lay pinned to the carpet in the living room. I wanted to leave it there forever, so that all who saw it might know the joy that I felt at this instant. This shawl was my magnum opus. I was so impressed with myself that I had to go for a little walk to keep myself from unpinning it before it dried.
When it was actually dry, I found that I was, in reality, feeling a little nervous about taking out these strategically placed pins. What if it reverted to the Chinese noodle state when I picked it up? Maybe I hadn’t done the magic right. I finally decided that it was best to unpin it right then, while no one was home. Then if it didn’t work I wouldn’t have to show it to anyone. I could just make up some story about a big bird getting into the house—yeah, that’s it, a big bird swept down into the living room. I tried to fight it off with a knitting needle but it was too big and too angry. I was desperate; I fought for what seemed like hours, but I couldn’t stop it from taking the shawl. I’ll tell people that I’m devastated about losing it, but at least I escaped with my life.
Alibi in place, I unpinned the shawl.
It was still magic. It was a thing of beauty. It was … there are no words. I decided instantly that lace knitting is very, very, very cool. I also decided that I didn’t want to give it away. My mother didn’t know about the shawl. I could just keep it. I’d need to remember never to wear it in front of my mother, which might be a little difficult, given that I never wanted to wear anything else ever again.
Suddenly, in that very moment, I was no longer generous, or even a process knitter. It was all about the product and I wanted it to be mine.
I also experienced a remarkable wave of knitterly pride. I was no longer humble. I wanted to show people. I looked around. No people, and the cat wasn’t impressed. I was alone.
I listened carefully; there were people on the street. Aha! My neighbors! Now I didn’t know these neighbors very well, in fact, I didn’t even know their names, but they seemed like nice folks. I was sure that they would want to see this shawl.
I didn’t even stop to put on my shoes. I was on a high of rabid knitterly smugness. I rushed outside with my shawl, holding it aloft like the Olympic torch.
My neighbors looked surprised as I rushed up with this piece of knitting. Well, surprised might be a generous way of describing the look on their fa
ces as I came bolting out of my house with knitting held aloft and ran excitedly down the street toward them, a barefoot crazy lady, yelling, “Hey! Hey, you! Want to see something really cool?”
They really were interested, and they asked me if I made it, and they gushed about how soft it was and said it sure was impressive, and wasn’t I talented. Conceivably, they were thinking that it was safer to humor the nut ball with the knitting. But it made me feel good. I was prepared to believe that they meant every word.
I thanked them for their time, apologized for seeming crazy (they smiled and nodded, but they did think I was crazy), and I turned, temporarily pacified, to go back into the house to phone everyone that I knew to tell them that I was the best knitter in the world. I was a fine practitioner of this highly skilled art. I was proud to be a knitter.
As I walked away I heard my neighbor behind me as she said to her husband:
“Well, now, wasn’t that some fancy crochet?”
The Entrelac Socks
Dear Famous Designer,
I’d like to apologize for all the things that I said about you last night. I was upset about my failure to accomplish your latest sock pattern, and I may have misdirected my anger. I know that there is no way that you heard what I said about you, but trust me … I owe you an apology.
When I cast on your entrelac socks (from your latest collection, AbFab Socks to Die For) I may not have had the best attitude. I’m sorry that I called the start to your sock “dumb-ass.” It was really just that I thought that starting a sock with that little square and picking up stitches around it so that I got a round toe, was … well, I guess I owe you for the “colossal waste of time” crack too. I deeply regret that I did not trust that you might have a reason for making a toe that way, I’m sure that it’s my fault that I don’t have toes as round as yours. It’s probably just a little birth defect. Now that I’ve knit a little ways on the entrelac part I see where you were going with that particular technique. It turns out that you aren’t “out of your freaking mind,” as I said you were. I guess I deserve the trouble I’m going to get into when I’ve got to work out how to position the heel, considering that it’s pretty round too. You really did think it through. Sorry for doubting you.
After I so carelessly abandoned your toe structure for my own and got to the part where you knit the cute little triangles for the foundation of the entrelac, I’m afraid that I was perhaps a little rash when I said (sort of loudly) that you were “a few jalapeños short of a zippy salsa.” It turns out that I misinterpreted an instruction that was actually very clear (if you are drunker than a wood louse in a rum barrel). Mea culpa.
Mostly, I feel that I must apologize for the … er … “episode” that I had when I got to the instruction for the first proper entrelac rectangles after the little triangles. After an hour of trying to follow the directions to knit one stinking little inane rectangle I may have said some things about you that were unladylike. (My husband, Joe, reminds me that my comment about you and “the horse you rode in on” was particularly callous. Sorry about that.) I eventually trashed your directions and did some other thing that worked out fine. I looked around online to try and find corrections or errata to your pattern but I didn’t find any. Most likely that means that my problems with your instructions are my fault again, and that the tension headache and throbbing vein in my forehead are only what I deserve and not actually the end result of any substance abuse problems on your part, whatever I may have implied.
Finally, and with the most sincere of regrets, I have to take back every single nasty thing that I said about you and your pattern when I ripped the entire thing out at two in the morning and swore off entrelac, your pattern (regrettably), you yourself, and any children you may ever have. I was deeply, deeply wrong to curse your entire lineage. I must admit that I’ve discovered that I don’t care for entrelac. Well, that’s not entirely fair. While I may have said a thing or two about how I would rather have a root canal without anesthetic than entertain the prospect of knitting those crazy little squares again, what I really meant was that I don’t like it in this application.
This is the only entrelac I’ve done, and it could be possible (as you imply, my dear designer) that it’s more fun than sliding around naked in hand-painted merino (not that I would know) if you have the right project or perhaps the right instructions. It’s not even that that I think entrelac is too time consuming or too hard. It’s like this …
I’m not sure it’s worth it. I’ve got no problem with “hard” knitting, designer darling, no problem at all. But if I’m going to spend a lot of time on something (read forty-seven hours of my life that that I will never get back), I want the damned payoff. These socks should be incredible. They are fussy and clever; the pattern must have taken hours and a degree in calculus to work out; and they should look like a million bucks. For the amount of time that they are taking, they should be so breathtaking that people would consider dedicating their lives to the pursuit of poetry, world peace, and a life of entrelac knitting worship when they see them.
Instead, I’ve managed to knit a dorky mess of freaky crooked squares that are no more beautiful than a five-year-old’s first finger painting—and I’m not sure it’s all my fault. I am now of the opinion that, having knit one half of one entrelac sock, I am the Entrelac Sock World Record holder. I know that your book has a shiny photo of a pair of finished entrelac socks, but with computer editing being what it is, I’m not convinced. Forgive me for not believing that anyone has ever successfully finished a pair, at least not using your pattern. No offense intended, it’s just that after my intense descent into knitting hell last night, I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you.
Therefore, my stalwart leader, my shining star, I have unceremoniously yanked the damn socks off the needles, (sorry for that crack about your mother), reclaimed the yarn, and moved on with my life. Furthermore, dear designer, I have forgiven you and once again must offer you my sincere apology for giving voice, however briefly, to the idea that you were “out of your everloving mind” when the inspiration for these socks came to you. The world needs visionaries, even ones who are clearly deeply delusional.
Thank you, and again, my deepest apologies—
Stephanie
Twenty Thousand Skeins Under the Bed:
Or, Stash and Why You Want It
The Beast
Heart pounding, pulse racing, fear coursing through my veins, I ran to the back door as fast as my legs would carry me. I reached for the knob, fearing that I’d be caught by the toothy beast in hot pursuit of me. I could hear its sharp claws on the pavement behind me as I opened the screen door and flung myself through it. I turned, stumbling, and slammed the door shut behind me. At last I was safe. Standing there, breathing hard, I was almost too afraid to turn and see if the thing had followed me. Nerving myself, drawing a shuddering breath, I made myself look out into my yard.
The squirrel was indeed there. Chittering angrily, it glared at me with beady little eyes and slowly backtracked to the patio table, where it stationed itself once again atop my freshly washed prize gray Shetland fleece. Again it started to stuff chunks of my beautiful fleece into its obscenely fat cheeks.
I’d had it with this squirrel. I’d been having trouble with it for two years. I try to be animal-friendly and environmentally cuddly, but I was starting to think thoughts about this squirrel that were anything but kind and gentle. I am a pacifist, a vegetarian, a tree-hugging ecofreak, but it’s hard to maintain that gentle, responsible position when you’re up against a predatory rodent with a spectacular attraction to your stash.
It started early in the previous summer on a lovely warm day. I had joyously hung a skein of finished homespun on the backyard fence to dry. Returning later that afternoon, I found my skein had vanished. Could a bird have carried it off? Not likely; it was a big skein. Considering that turkey vultures and albatross are virtually unheard of here in Toronto, there had to be another answer.
&n
bsp; Maybe it had fallen over on my neighbor’s side of the fence. No such luck. The skein was simply gone, vanished, disappeared. On one hand, I was deeply pissed off that my 190 yards of hard-won yarn—all those hours at my spinning wheel—had been taken from me. On the other hand, I found it rather charming that some furry city critter had so loved my wool that it had pilfered it to soften its home and prepare for winter.
I didn’t know then what I knew now. Otherwise, charm wouldn’t have come into it.
Over the course of that summer and the one that followed, said city critter stole, by skein and by handful, the equivalent of two full fleeces and about twenty skeins of yarn that I put out in the yard to dry. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering, as any reasonable person would, why on earth I would have continued to put fleece and yarn into the yard once it had become obvious that the squirrel in question had both a wool fetish and an obsessive-compulsive disorder. I have no real answer, but several ideas. First, wool and fleece take several days to dry in the house but only a few hours in the bright sunshine. Toronto has a brief but cherished wool-drying season (some call it “summer”) and the joy of sun-warmed, clean, dry fleece and wool is irresistible. Second, I am apparently just as determined as the squirrel. Many skeins and chunks of fleece were lost in failed attempts to safeguard the stuff. I tried boxes and tents and screens, hanging it on the clothesline—you name it, I gave it a whirl. I tried innumerable strategies to thwart the little stash rapist, each resulting in another missing treasure.
But now the squirrel had decided to take the question of wool ownership to the next level. I had carefully washed a treasured gray Shetland fleece and put it into the backyard to dry using several bungee cords and an abandoned screen door as squirrel proofing. Because I love this fleece (and because you have to draw the line somewhere) I was also willing to employ surveillance. I had a cup of coffee, a nice chair, my knitting, and a pleasant day and I was going to sit in the late summer sunshine and watch fleece dry. The little fluffy-tailed rat wouldn’t try anything with this sort of security. I was sure of it. The afternoon passed, the fleece dried, and all went well until sunset approached, and over the fence came the beady-eyed burglar.
Yarn Harlot Page 4