focusing on the postive
I was going to complain about Mother Nature's newest attempt to bleach my island. ...but considering the weather conditions that others have had to contend with recently I thought the post in poor taste. Instead (and because I was unable to conduct a photo shot) I offer a piece of prose for your reading pleasure. Enjoy.
My husband, Byron could write a manual on the proper care and feeding of a knitter or at least the proper care and feeding of this knitter.
Our union meant that he was forced to learn how to live with a knitter. He had to adjust to life among the yarn. He was a quick study.
He learnt that sharing the sofa with knitting needles was dangerous and required a degree of caution. He learnt to look before he leapt.
He grew use to seeing my hands tangled in yarn as we watched TV. He grew sick and tired of the soothing click. He cleverly devised a plan to untangle my hands. He instituted the lights out policy. When he turned out the lights he taught me that that was my clue to separated myself from my knitting in favour of cuddle time.
When friends enquired about my knitting he learnt to dismiss their investigation by saying, “Just another sweater.”
Byron supported my habit. He bought me knitting gadgets, knitting baskets, knitting magazines, and knitting books. He feed my need. He bravely ventured into yarn shops. There he skilfully helped me locate dye lot numbers. He was a non-knitter but he loved a knitter.
The way I see it, the world should be divided into three categories. There should be the knitter, the knitter lover, and the non-knitter.
Knitters are weird. We all know we are - some of us weirder than others. Knitter-lovers are willing to overlook or tolerate our unusual knitterly ways.
When I was a newlywed, I wasn’t that unusual. I didn’t have an enormous knitting stash. I simply bought what I needed when I needed it. I didn’t hide my stash in odd places in our apartment. I didn’t name my yarn balls or sleep with them. No, that came later…. I’m joking.
Looking back, I would describe myself as an ordinary knitter: ordinary in all ways but one. Byron and I shared a secret as knitter to knitter-lover. A secret I will reveal to you now. I never used a pattern. There I said it. It’s out.
I knew that was weird. I knew other knitters used them. My Mom insisted that I use them. She taught me how to follow one. Yet I stubbornly refused to use this skill.
I knew Byron was aware that most knitters used patterns. A knitter raised him. His Mom had patterns – I didn’t.
Sure I had knitting magazines and knitting books but I read the articles I cared nothing for the patterns. Sometimes they supplied inspiration but beyond that nothing. Byron must have noticed that I never reproduced a single image from any book or magazine. He must have. Yet he never said a word. Our secret was safe.
Occasionally I would wear one of my sweaters to work. Sometimes I received a compliment but thankfully I worked with non-knitters. They didn’t ask or care about the pattern.
Then one day out of the blue a co-worker enquired, “Hey, Leanne where do you buy your patterns?” She tossed it off…just like that…innocently. Luckily we were alone.
“I don’t buy any.” I replied in a hushed voice. Trying to be calm. Trying to be casual.
“Oh, well, I thought you knit.”
“I do.”
“but…”
“I don’t follow a pattern.” My face reddened.
Silence.
“You don’t follow a pattern?” She stopped working and froze me with her eyes, “You should be a fashion designer.”
Was she serious? …a fashion designer? …a designer? Me? I was from rural Manitoba…I’d never been to New York or any fashion district. A designer? Me? Her comment was so bizarre…so laughable. I fought hard to suppress a snicker. I couldn’t wait to get home and share this joke with Byron. Oh, those silly non-knitters.
(c) ldyck 03/08
A secret
Couple hood demands compromise and adaptation: odd behaviours, unusual habits are overlooked or tolerated. My husband, Byron could write a manual on the proper care and feeding of a knitter or at least the proper care and feeding of this knitter.
Our union meant that he was forced to learn how to live with a knitter. He had to adjust to life among the yarn. He was a quick study.
He learnt that sharing the sofa with knitting needles was dangerous and required a degree of caution. He learnt to look before he leapt.
He grew use to seeing my hands tangled in yarn as we watched TV. He grew sick and tired of the soothing click. He cleverly devised a plan to untangle my hands. He instituted the lights out policy. When he turned out the lights he taught me that that was my clue to separated myself from my knitting in favour of cuddle time.
When friends enquired about my knitting he learnt to dismiss their investigation by saying, “Just another sweater.”
Byron supported my habit. He bought me knitting gadgets, knitting baskets, knitting magazines, and knitting books. He feed my need. He bravely ventured into yarn shops. There he skilfully helped me locate dye lot numbers. He was a non-knitter but he loved a knitter.
The way I see it, the world should be divided into three categories. There should be the knitter, the knitter lover, and the non-knitter.
Knitters are weird. We all know we are - some of us weirder than others. Knitter-lovers are willing to overlook or tolerate our unusual knitterly ways.
When I was a newlywed, I wasn’t that unusual. I didn’t have an enormous knitting stash. I simply bought what I needed when I needed it. I didn’t hide my stash in odd places in our apartment. I didn’t name my yarn balls or sleep with them. No, that came later…. I’m joking.
Looking back, I would describe myself as an ordinary knitter: ordinary in all ways but one. Byron and I shared a secret as knitter to knitter-lover. A secret I will reveal to you now. I never used a pattern. There I said it. It’s out.
I knew that was weird. I knew other knitters used them. My Mom insisted that I use them. She taught me how to follow one. Yet I stubbornly refused to use this skill.
I knew Byron was aware that most knitters used patterns. A knitter raised him. His Mom had patterns – I didn’t.
Sure I had knitting magazines and knitting books but I read the articles I cared nothing for the patterns. Sometimes they supplied inspiration but beyond that nothing. Byron must have noticed that I never reproduced a single image from any book or magazine. He must have. Yet he never said a word. Our secret was safe.
Occasionally I would wear one of my sweaters to work. Sometimes I received a compliment but thankfully I worked with non-knitters. They didn’t ask or care about the pattern.
Then one day out of the blue a co-worker enquired, “Hey, Leanne where do you buy your patterns?” She tossed it off…just like that…innocently. Luckily we were alone.
“I don’t buy any.” I replied in a hushed voice. Trying to be calm. Trying to be casual.
“Oh, well, I thought you knit.”
“I do.”
“but…”
“I don’t follow a pattern.” My face reddened.
Silence.
“You don’t follow a pattern?” She stopped working and froze me with her eyes, “You should be a fashion designer.”
Was she serious? …a fashion designer? …a designer? Me? I was from rural Manitoba…I’d never been to New York or any fashion district. A designer? Me? Her comment was so bizarre…so laughable. I fought hard to suppress a snicker. I couldn’t wait to get home and share this joke with Byron. Oh, those silly non-knitters.
(c) ldyck 03/08
posted by Author Leanne Dyck at 11:30 AM
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