big bobbins and mill spun yarn

in which sarah practices changing her mind

Knit two sweaters at the same time?

Moi?

No way.

Except— gosh—maybe?

Just this once?

But if I did that (at least right now), I’d have to begin with someone else’s pattern¹ —and buy yarn instead of spinning it.²

Right. And—-what if I did both those things?

What if (while I’m about it), I stood aside and let my mind be blown while my son and daughter-in-law chose yarn and colors that filled them with glee?

What if we walked home and I cast on before afternoon tea—and forgot to stop knitting for a very long time?

And what if the colors I’d never have thought to buy and the patterns I’d never have planned to knit somehow—

—all unknowing and exquisitely—

—kept showing up everywhere I turned—

—even unto the hues induced by the heating systems to which I needed to shift last Thursday when a region-wide gas outage made it impossible for me (and 38,000 other homes in four towns) to heat and/or cook as usual for days?

And what if amidst the angst of such a moment it turned out I was more flexible than I thought—and that moving my loom to weave by the fire was a thing I might want to try more often?

And what if (while listening to the crackle of flames), I remembered the long-neglected/once-rejected great big bobbins I was sure I’d never need (and once contemplated using for kindling), and found they were just right for a 3-coffee-filter-skein?

And what if those big bobbins not only hold my yarn of choice but are also less painful to use at this moment than the tiny ones I am sure are my one and onlies—and what if suddenly after all these years, I’m so excited to use them I can hardly stop tap tap tapping—

—except to pick up the sweaters I thought I’d never knit.

And what if I then find I’m so immersed in all the things I have been sure I’d never ever do that I forget to be a puddle of dismay about of all the things about which I can do nothing—

—and it turns out that my dog and my comic self —

—have been the wisest all along?

Huckleberry (our neighbor) and Beryl on a jaunt.

What then?

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1. My very first sweater began with a pattern purchased (along with yarn and needles) in a knitting shop in Dungarvan, Ireland in 1975 on a trip with my grandmother and aunt Evie when I was 14. I remember almost nothing about rest of that trip because all I wanted to do then was knit on to the next cable, and continued like that even as I went off to boarding school a month later, because for quite some time it was the only thing that felt safe or like home. And so involved (or dependent) was I on that garment that when the irreplaceable pattern went missing, I somehow figured out how to shape the sleeves on my own — and I’ve hardly used a commercial pattern since.

And apropos of nothing other than the uncertainty of boarding school, I wanted to say that I did eventually adapt, thanks not only to that sweater but also to the delightful friendship of Pru Warren (her pen name), who showed me then that there was more to the world than yarn, and has shown me since that there is more to the world of books than I habitually see and more to life than being the same person you’ve always been. And I can no more resist this glorious, hilarious, smart friend today than I could almost fifty years ago— for what is not to adore about about a woman who retires early from her brilliant career in order to reinvent herself as a writer of delectable Rom Coms?

2. The Yarn Underground — fantastic store just a few blocks from my house. Spinning, knitting, even some weaving. Great selection. Amazing Hand Dyes. We are so so fortunate to have it here, thriving right downtown.