honey, hand me that yarn

When you were a kid did you ever hear the urban legend about peppermint Life Savers? Supposedly, if you bit one in the dark you could see a spark. I remember trying this out in a dark room during a youth lock-in. If I remember correctly, one time on the church van someone even cupped their hands around their mouth while another person peeked, looking for the spark. This really has nothing to do with any thing else in this post.

Knit Night! We had a fun time last night and agreed that it was so good to be together again. We went “quarters on a pie” (the SaraH brought along a book, Museum of Kitschy Stitches: A Gallery of Notorious Knits by Stitchy McYarnpants, that she had checked out from the library and it literally had me snorting in public. She also brought me a headband that she made! There are photos of several others on her blog. One day I left a comment there that said, “I want one.” Well, ask and ye shall receive.

LYLASarah was working on a bib-O, Katie on a “my so called scarf", and SaraH on a nine patch dishcloth.

From my vantage point at the table I was able to watch others watching us, which is always fun. Anytime we knit in public someone will make a comment like, “I want to learn to knit,” or, “are you crocheting or knitting?” One time a server in a coffee shop forlornly expressed her frustration at being on the clock and unable to grab her knitting and join us. We have each, individually, gotten our shares of “grandmother” comments. And I often wonder what is being said when eyes fall upon us and a couple begins to speak softly to one another. Are they envious of our craft? Or whispering something about dear ol’ granny and her yarn? Either way, I know all four of us are secure in our knitinity. We enjoy knitting for ourselves; for our emotional, mental, and spiritual health. We enjoy being able to produce a gift for someone we love from our own two hands. There is nothing like wearing an item knowing that its every stitch came into being because you willed it. We take pride in participating in the ritual of taking pointy sticks in hand and knitting something like the centuries of women-daughters, mothers, sisters, and grandmothers-before us (and a some men along the way, too). There are moments when the rhythmic tick of my needles reminds me of the tradition that I take part in. And I think of a woman of 33 years who hundreds of years ago sat somewhere frustrated that she had just split her sock yarn with her size 2 needle.