For your midweek entertainment, join us on Wednesday for:
\”How to Successfully Commit Sneak-Knitting\”
Have a relaxing and wonderful Happy Mother\’s Day!
See you soon!
The Knitting Muse, committing senseless acts of knitting since 2008
Author: janelleserio
36 Hour Days: One Woman\'s Rage Against Time
“You know, days are only 24 hours—you act like they are 36!”
I have heard this many times from my husband over the years. He has said it so much that it has become a joke between us. He thinks that I cram my schedule so full that I can never completely finish all the tasks I give myself. He says I overload my time. He says it’s irrational and I am setting myself up for disappointment. I say I am an optimist and a free spirit. Who is right? Let’s discover it together…
Let’s begin by laying out the facts.
First, it is true that I have many, many activities. All the time, every day. I like it that way. I work full time, have six children, knit, garden, read, write this blog, sometimes do housework, enjoy cooking, pilates and aerobics, do much of the grocery shopping (which I can tell you in our house is no small feat!), enjoy Sudoku, feed my curiosities online or at the library when I obsess about some interesting topic such as, say, what are the real endings to those Disney fairytales? (I can tell you that Cinderella is a very different story than the one you’ve heard!) I want to learn spinning, dying, design, and more about crochet. I like sewing the occasional Daisy Kingdom dress, lead our knitting club, attend classes at church, badly maintain long-distance friendships with many girls from high school…what else…oh, yes! I also try to fill out my planner weekly, but almost never do.
I have one day off in the center of the week, Wednesday, and use it for all these purposes. Unreasonable? When I lay it out like that, maybe. Probably.
I try to be reasonable, to say “no,” once in a while. Maybe a great while. So far, it seems as though my husband is beginning to look like the winner in this one-person debate.
And, to be fair about that facts, I had better loop in a note about my children. There was an incident a few years back that began when my phone rang as I was driving home from Eugene, Oregon, two hours from my house. It was my son, Alex, who is currently 17, but was in the 4th grade at the time.
“Mom?”
“Hi, honey! Are you home, yet?” I was jamming out to the radio, windows down on a lovely, sunny afternoon drive. My then 3-year-old daughter was sleeping in the back seat after a day of ceramic tile painting.
“Uh, no. Mom, I’m at chess club. You were supposed to pick me up.”
Silence. Absolute terror realized, I freaked out—on the inside. I imagined child services taking my son because I left him at his grade school so I could paint tiny cartoon dogs on unfired ceramic squares. I imagined he was standing all alone outside the school, the doors being locked as we spoke and the principal heading home to walk his dog. I couldn’t breath.
What I said was, “Honey, I am too far away. I am going to call Jake’s mom. I’ll call you right back.”
Did it work out? Yes. Was it humiliating beyond humiliating? More than I can say.
Strike two.
Here is the problem as I see it: I like to do too many things and I want to be all in or all out. I don’t want to be half heartedly learning to grow roses or accurately knit lace, I want to understand things inside and out. “Do it well or not at all,” as Grandma Miller used to say.
The struggle then becomes finding the time to do all these things and do them, well…well. The first options that spring to my mind are the following:
- Decide to believe in reincarnation and wait until the next life to get that Ph.D.
- Do a great job on your planner and stick to your schedule.
- Decide #2 is too hard and revert to #1.
- Realize that in scenario #1, you will never consciously realize or be able to assimilate your collective accomplishments. Jack of all trades after 5 lives? Hardly.
- Choose only your favorite, most useful activities and stick to them.
- Realize you are a fickle girl and that #5 won’t work. Admit your ADD.
- Listen to your husband.
Finding no answers in these options, I move on to metaphysics/transcendentalism and/or theoretical physics. A little science fiction never hurt anyone. And hey, if it can help me knit a sweater with not only time to spare for another project, but actually leave me with more time than I started with, all the better.
First, there is always light somewhere in the world. It is always noon somewhere, as some of my margarita-loving friends might say. I suppose I could live as though it was always time to get up, a perpetual morning with endless time in front of me. That might require me to travel at the speed of the earth’s rotation in the direction away from the dawn so it can’t catch me. Or it might sound too much like a manic disorder, but let’s entertain it for a moment.
If I didn’t have to worry about crossing oceans, cultural and language barriers, and never had to mind that in each new town I would need an established life with transportation and an income, it would be nice fantasy. But even if I could, right now, make a personal, life choice to become independently wealthy and buddy up with crazy risk-taker Sir Richard Branson for this project, it’s not quite right. In the scheme of this timeless day, when would I eat dinner?
If I could travel through time, the age-old dream of so many, that might help me complete a few pairs of fingerless gloves or felted purses. However, theoretical physicists say that travelling forward is more plausible than travelling backwards (and I definitely want to go backwards—what good does it do me to eliminate time?).
Furthermore, scientists postulate that if time travel technology ever comes to pass, it may only be in the very distant, if ever, future. This also is no good for my experiment. If it takes, let’s say, 8,000 more years to develop the knowledge and capability for time travel, I’ll be dead by the year 10,011 anyway. And what if the sun burns out by then? Who would even care about time travel if that happens? Everyone will be too busy trying to rediscover fire, while little kids busy themselves trying to find new ways to fry ants on the sidewalk with a magnifying glass but no sun.
No time travel. Sigh.
If there were a way to meditate and astroproject myself into a parallel universe into another life, that would be way cool—except that in that world, there would certainly be another planner, another family, set of children, job, etc. And it’s way too silly.
No, after considering all these things, I believe that I have to concede to my husband, who is not even in the midst of this debate to enjoy his victory: He is right. If I can’t even remember my kids’ dentist appointments, it’s time to change something.
I’ll think about it tonight while I am editing this essay/rant, cooking dinner, and finishing up my plans for the next two weekends with family and friends while finishing a great scarf I have been working on for my friend, replete with bead work and sequined inclusions, and catching up on American Idol….
It’ll work out.
And the winner is….
drum roll, please….
Mokihana who follows us on Google!
Thanks for reading to Mokihana and to everyone.
Janelle
Coming up for your weekend coffee: "36 Hour Days"
New blog story, \”36 Hour Days: One Woman\’s Rage Against Time\”
What does a woman have to do to make her husband understand that a 24 day is just an illusion created by social contruction and that she can help him see past the facade? Find out Saturday morning!
In other news, Sock Summit registration opened yesterday!!!! WOO HOO!! At 12noon PDT, classes were opened and the stampede started! When I checked classes last night, there were still several options as they have added so many this year and were prepared for the onslaught of participants. I will be attending an all day class on Saturday and half a day on Sunday afternoon. One given by Anne Hanson on designing socks (you all will be the first recipients of my first design! Make it if you dare!!!) and the other given by Chrissy Gardener.
Which brings me to this: tomorrow is our drawing for the lucky winner of the book and yarn! I have 17 entries, which makes pretty good odds! Check here to see if you are the recipient of our fabulous prize tomorrow morning!
Thank you to all who participated in our promotion. I\’ve been doing the blog for a little over a month now and have been very pleased with the very nice folks I have met because of it. Thanks for all the kind emails and notes on Facebook and Ravelry. They were unexpected!
On that note, please feel free in the future to give me ideas for stories in the comments sections, let me know what you would like to read! I will do my best to please everyone. That always works out, right?
Give us a peek tomorrow!
Cheers!
Janelle
Emily Dickinson Had it All Wrong
Emily Dickinson had it all wrong. Well, not all wrong—just one line of one poem. I will not forsake my favorite poetess for only one small error; at least it’s an error by my estimation.
In her poem, “A Certain Slant of Light,” Ms. Dickinson speaks of the “slant of light” on a winter’s afternoon as oppressive, “like the heft of cathedral tunes,” she says. This image always makes me think of the book, “A Wrinkle In Time” (now there’s a quantum leap!) where, at one point, Meg and her heroic friends find themselves on a 2-dimensional planet being squished by gravity, not able to breath, feeling their bodies being crushed—only in my strange musing, there is no organ music.
Is late afternoon light oppressive? I think that Ms. Dickinson would have had a very different feeling had she lived in western Oregon or Washington State. Here, sunshine is like a happiness drug—a giddy elixir of rare joy—one that is legal, cheap, easily administered once you have it, and in very limited supply.
This past year, we have had a—dare I use such a strong word as I am thinking?—dismal time with grey skies. Back when summer came to visit us in 2010, I was okay with the still-grey and drizzly skies it brought along following a wet winter and spring.
I wasn’t ready for our wet winter and spring to be over, anyway, since both had afforded many opportunities for very cozy afternoons and evenings indeed. Coffee, hot soup, non-stop knitting … sometimes you just don’t want it to end. And sometimes you do.
After the wet summer of 2010 came wet fall, then cold and wet winter followed by a crazy-hail, cold, wet, thunderstormy spring in 2011. All grey, no exceptions. Even I, who grew up accustomed to this weather, began to have dreary, sleepy moods. I started wondering if I was developing a vitamin-D deficiency, or Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), which is relatively commonplace where I live.
Then, after seemingly endless months of cloudy skies and record–breaking precipitation, came a few days of late afternoon sun. They came like old friends–like old and cherished, but forgotten, memories that are brought back to mind by a photograph found in a shoe box by chance.
These days were not all in a row—they weren’t even close together. But they were powerful.
During each precious hour of that sun, I made it a point to sit in my favorite antique rocking chair with my two large knitting baskets around me on the floor, and a project in my hands. I set my small clock radio to the local classical station and gave it just enough volume to be heard, but not a distraction. I put my feet up on my little padded, Victorian floral-fabric box, which serves as both storage container and ottoman.
The right side of the chair is next to a west facing window with white wooden blinds. On those afternoons, the bright, late-day sun shone through the slats, onto my face and across my lap. Some people think the light at this time of day has too much glare, but not me—especially not after so many months of gloom.
With each visit to my special spot, I would look at the yarn in my hands—acrylic or wool, cotton or bamboo, and observe the intricate array of colors unveiled by the brilliant illumination. In other light, there may have been only one or two colors evident, but in this light, even the fibers with the simplest hues became like bursting prisms. I watched the yarn wind and twine around itself with each stitch, becoming more beautiful with each lost moment of sinking sun.
As I worked, I felt the light and warmth—almost heat—on my face as the sun passed through the glass of the window. By this time of day–about six or seven o’clock–its color was no longer the bright, simpler white of midday. Over time it had become golden, complex and inviting.
It cast deep shadows, dynamically lengthening, making ordinary things seem extraordinary. It was as though the sun had started out in the morning a young and inexperienced child, and was now a weathered sage, grown in wisdom and strength over its daylong journey. I imagined it was trying to share its discoveries and secrets with me, caressing my cheek and warming my hands before it would have to tell me good bye.
As the light sank lower and lower into the depths of the horizon, I sat unmoved, wishing the light would not leave me. It did eventually, of course, but not with a cold or empty feeling.
The next time you have an opportunity, take a moment to reflect in the late afternoon light, slanted though it may be. You may not feel oppressed, as Emily Dickinson did, but you may lose track of time. You may become contemplative and deeply content for a time. And you may never view “talking about the weather” in the same way again.
Now if you\’ll excuse me, it\’s 6 o\’clock. I must be getting to my chair.
The Bird and the Window
On the Monday evening before Easter Vigil service at St. John the Evangelist Church in Vancouver, Washington, there was a buzz of activity. The class I had been attending since last fall was ending, and the time had come for our group to take the final steps necessary to come into full communion with our church.
There was a rehearsal for the big Easter service that night and all of us were there—about 10 altogether. Housewives, three healthcare professionals, a courier, lay ministers from the church, a former gang member, two retired women, dads and moms alike … such different people coming together for one purpose.
Over the year, we had become close as a group and we now collectively felt that strange, dichotomous, uncertain peace one feels when successfully ending one long journey and moving on to another—one that would be new, and somewhat unknown.
We dutifully filed into the sanctuary of our church at the appointed time. There was another group in there before us and we could see that they were not finished, so we quietly seated ourselves in the center of the room near the back so they would not feel rushed.
The group we were waiting on was one of seasoned volunteers from our church. They, along with our priest, were finalizing the details of the Easter Vigil service. They were laughing and talking comfortably down in the front of the sanctuary. They were sitting near the altar on the front row of pews and some extra chairs—in the full brightness of the only light in the room.
The church staff was in the habit of using minimal lighting in the sanctuary to save money and energy. Tonight, the only lights in use were in the very front. This left the rest of the sanctuary with a sort of twilight feeling.
In the back, we waited in dusky light for instruction. I could tell it was going to be awhile before our turn, so I pulled out a pair of almost-finished wool and cashmere socks. I tried knitting a few stitches, but it was really hard to see in the dim light. I looked up from my knitting and instead contemplated the situation in the room; they in the light of familiar anticipation, us in the darkness of anxious anticipation. We were like actors waiting in the wings to go on stage.
Before I could form some fantastical theological hypothesis about this, a soft thud turned my attention from this curious happenstance of light and shadow in the sanctuary. Then it happened again, then again. Where is that coming from? I set my knitting on the pew beside me. I listened. Thud.
Others were beginning to hear it, too, and we looked around silently at one another. The people in the front didn’t seem to notice the sound. The people around me started whispering to each other. After a time, we were able to predict the timing of the sound and sat in silence accordingly in an attempt to pinpoint it.
Finally, one of the women a few places down the pew to my left said, “There it is!” She almost shouted it in a whisper.
Then, we all saw it—a bird. It was repeatedly, if not rhythmically, running into a glass emergency exit door. A window.
We hadn’t seen it earlier, because it was obscured. The early spring sun was still setting fairly early and it was almost completely dark outside. The glass door had a coating on it so it would be opaque, blocking a view of traffic on the road outside. And who would expect to see a bird out in the dark, anyway?
We stared now in the direction of the bird thuds.
“I think it’s a parakeet,” one person said, “it looks green. You know, like a lost pet trying to get indoors.”
“No,” the whisper was returned by someone in front of them, “the light outside is that color. You know, the security light?”
A third, a bird watcher interjected, “I think it’s a Flicker.”
Over and over, the bird continued its pointless efforts.
Two people behind me were having another sort of conversation, “I bet it sees its reflection. It thinks the reflection is its mate,” said one.
“No, it sees itself as a predator,” returned the second, “it’s protecting a nest.”
From down in front, our pastor called out, looking up from his meeting, “It’s been doing that for days!” He had heard us. His previous knowledge of it explained his apparent indifference earlier, “We’re trying to figure it out, but we haven’t been able to stop it.”
Days? I thought, Isn\’t there some sort of \”definition of insanity\” joke to be made here?
Thud … thud … thud …
Someone made a wise crack, “It’s a Catholic bird! It wants in the church!”
No one laughed. Unspoken though the thought was, it seemed indeed as if the bird wanted into the church. All eyes remained on it for a bit longer.
After a few moments, the meeting in the light continued and we in the back stopped our whispering chatter little by little until there was no more. We watched.
I sensed that each of us was puzzling this out individually, certain that there must be some meaning to this curious bird behavior.
Thud … thud … thud …
I stared like the others. I leaned forward a bit. This bird was so determined, yet, it wasn’t getting injured. It seemed to know just how hard to hit the glass without breaking its neck.
I thought about some small birds that use to appear in my parents’ yard every spring. They would eat the orange berries that were produced by a particular tree in our back yard and then, intoxicated, fly into our large family room window. Many of them died each year until my dad finally had pity and removed the tree.
Our church bird was smarter than those birds. He had figured out just how much pressure he could exert and not hurt himself on the glass. It was evident that this bird saw something he wanted, whatever it was, and thought he knew how to get it. He seemed to think tenacity was the key. This seemed so intelligent at first, but how smart was he, really?
As I watched his futile effort, I wondered about people—about myself. How many times in my life had I really believed that I knew all the answers, had leaned only on my understanding, no matter how naïve or uninformed I was?
I thought back to my childhood, building “houses” on our back patio out of cardboard boxes over and over again, and not understanding why a second and third floor did not work—why they always collapsed.
Thud … thud … thud …
I thought of a weekend trip with my daughter to a mother-daughter camp a couple of years ago. I spent hours on that trip trying to teach myself how to knit a sock. I tore it out no less than six times that weekend, starting it over and over, only to finally, really understand the concept in a much shorter, six hour class later on. Maybe my time at the camp would have been better spent with my child.
My thoughts began to turn a little darker. How many times had I even thought I knew the answers better than God, Himself?
Thud … thud … thud …
I realized something more vividly that night than ever before. Something that I suppose I have known all along, but have never fully articulated to myself: Sometimes we need to reach out to someone older, wiser, more experienced, or maybe even someone more evolved than ourselves—as in the case of our little bird—to help us open the door instead of banging our head on it.
Maybe sometimes it is wiser to relinquish control and wait for the door to be opened for us.
My thoughts were interrupted by the call for us to come to the front. We all stood in relative silence and walked, together, toward the light.
Sock Summit 2011 and Weekend Blog Story!
Hello, everyone! Just a quick note to say that all the classes and information are up for….drum roll…Sock Summit 2011! Click on the icon to the right of this post to go to the website.
There is an unbelievable number of classes and loads of information. I plan to start wading through it now!
So, make a weekend of it and join a whole bunch of sock knitters, vendors, designers, teachers and maybe even some Portland locals like me for a ton of fun!
Your next blog story will be up for your Saturday morning coffee. Join us then for \”The Bird and the Window.\”
The Knitting Muse, making weak jokes for over four weeks
Some of my own published poems
How about a few of my own published works (don\’t get excited…they were very small publishings!) for the final week of National Poetry Month?
Here are a couple that may be appropriate for spring. What do they have to do with knitting? Nothing at all.
The Lilies
Consider the lilies of the field
Their reincarnation is sure
New every Spring
Without blemish
Or spot.
Green anew
Innocent faces
With ageless wisdom
Yellowstone
I searched for myself
Foundations of sand
Foundations of stone
My own revelation
My genesis, my requiem
The fresh sunrise against
A bright turquoise sky
Morning\’s cool, chilled air
Distilled purity
Sultry afternoon heat and
The breeze that lessened it
Fly-beating horses\’ tails
Dusty, trodden paths, well known
Glistening bubbling pools of
Intense steaming water
Alongside joyful cathartic geysers and
Still, silent icy lakes, staring, concealing
Prairie dogs romp without care
Through grassy dandelion fields
They know their lot
Where is my substance?
Pink and orange evening skies
On fire with their reality
Sparkling nighttime eyes
Still, cold, staring–
Embedded \’round a full, wise moon
I still watch
Unmoved, I wait
For a glimpse
Of myself
Dogma
We focus pure,
In black and white,
Our filter never fails–
Simplify
And you will see–
Our cure for curiosity–
Our Lens is clear
Don\’t blur our view–
The grey
Need not apply
Portlandia: The More-Than-Likely-Lost-On-Purpose Yarn Bombing Episode, partie deux
Portlandia: The More-Than-Likely-Lost-on-Purpose Yarn Bombing Episode, partie deux
Last weekend on Portlandia: The Lost Yarn Bombing Episode, we left our heroes in some fine predicaments. Let’s recap them all in 100 words or less, “Glee” style. Deep breath. Here we go!
Tiffany feels completely misunderstood by her friends and runs out into the street over a sheared sheep only to be run over and dressed in hand-knits by the mad knitting yarn bombing mob who are in a frenzy after feeling that overwhelming thing people feel when they enter a like-minded group that causes them to develop the disorder known as “mob mentality,” except that our mob is—more or les—doing a positive thing, even if they are beginning to overrun the city of Portland with shreds of yarn, broken needles and clothing on statues. Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Mr. Smith’s brother Joe made a public service message/telethon-type appeal to the community for their adopt-a-sheep program, which they really shouldn’t be doing since they know nothing about sheep and sheep rearing practices. Mr. Smith becomes angry with Joe for pointing out some evidence of his brother’s defects in sheep knowledge and they begin fighting, cutting the important service message short. We learned how knitting began, even if it was only a rip-off of an old Reeses’ Peanut Butter Cup commercial and we learned that with a little willpower, an entire Navy ship can be afghaned to cozy it up.
How’d we do? 203 words? Good enough. Moving on…
A Drive-by Fleecing II
Tiffany is dazed and confused after being practically trampled by the well-meaning knitting mob. She is stumbling around. A passerby asks her if she needs help and she screams, spitting out, “NO! The SHEEP does, idiot!” A little alarmed, the Good Samaritan backs away and leaves her, mumbling something about “probably being on meth.”
Tiffany makes her way desperately through the city streets. She wanders sloppily, aimlessly, looking for a yarn shop. There have to be needles and yarn somewhere!
She finally sees a storefront that might be a yarn store. She stumbles in, nearly falling prostrate in the doorway, as one might do after several days without food.
It’s a small shop with a long counter in the center and a more than ample supply of yarn to cover one naked sheep. There is a television behind the counter that seems to just be on for background noise. It’s blaring something about a mob. Tiffany barely notices two women behind the counter and one lone guy in a felted hat and a vest at the front of the store who has been knitting as she enters. The three of them turn to look at her in curious silence. Should they be afraid or concerned? They wait for more information.
“I need some needles!” Tiffany is practically in hysteria.
They choose fear. One of the women reaches for the phone. She hopes the police aren’t too busy with the Yarn Bomb Gang (as they have been dubbed on the local news).
The young woman sees the phone grab and screeches, almost inaudibly, now in pitiful dramatic fashion, “No! Knitting needles. For a poor sheep.”
The yarn shop lady #1 puts the phone slowly down and asks in an even tone exactly what the girl needs.
Tiffany realizes that she is going to get nowhere if she can’t spell it out. She squeaks, “I need some knitting needles…and some yarn and uh…” she tumbles out the last words so fast they almost sound like one, “some quick instructions on how to knit.”
As the women divide and conquer the store to complete the task as fast as they can (they have to get this girl out the door—she may scare away customers), Tiffany looks in her backpack. No money. Todd had paid for her coffee earlier. She had forgotten that she had no wallet.
“…uhhhh…” Tiffany’s expression turns suddenly lucid.
“Yes?” The yarn shop ladies both turn.
“I don’t have any money.” She sees the look on their faces and very, very quickly recounts the story about the sheep and the driving and Oregon City and Toad—uh—Todd and almost out of breath says, “… it’s for a good cause. Couldn’t you donate it?”
It had been a weird day what with the yarn bombers and the guy with the felted hat. He had earlier tried to tell them he could help them find their religion. They had declined and, instead of finding religion, spent the afternoon scrutinizing him from afar like department store security, as he nested cozily on the futon in the front of their store with some knitting. The yarn ladies were at the ready to head off any customers he may approach.
God, couldn’t this day just be over?
One of the yarn ladies gives in to Tiffany. This will be quicker, she thinks. She is only interested in having one less colorful character in her store.
Tiffany thanks them with soulful crocodile tears in her eyes, mumbling something about how she will mention them when the media covers her story, and stumbles out the way she stumbled in, but this time she is armed with bamboo needles and some 100% blue alpaca yarn—to cover a sheep.
The young man on the futon calls after her, “Bless you!”
A Yarn Bomb. No, Really
Fred and Carrie meet up with a good friend from Portland named Vince who has been a very useful consultant for the show, helping to keep it true to Portland form. He is an earthy fellow who still believes in peace and love. He has very long, graying hair that is lately forming dreadlocks surrounding a kindly face. He is soft spoken, but deliberate in his way of communication. He has elegant, fine features and a slight build formed from years of yoga and a strict vegan diet. An accomplished fiber artist and glass blower, he has called the two friends for a meeting.
He has an idea for the show.
Let’s listen in as they settle down in a coffee shop…
Vince orders a chai tea without cream. No animal products, please. He softly smiles at the server, a young woman probably in her early 20’s.
Fred and Carrie order a couple of espresso drinks and ask Vince what’s up.
Vince’s serene face lights up and he strains to hold back a too-broad grin. He begins, “Well, my friends, you know how much it means to me to work toward a more peaceful existence through natural means and loving others,” his words are drawn out in a meaningful, almost dreamlike way.
He continues as Carrie and Fred glance at each other, then return their attention to Vince, “I believe I have found a way to celebrate Yarn Bombing Day, which also strives to bring people together, with a message of peace.”
No longer able to hold back, Vince produces a tiny, round knitted object with an even tinier stem of crocheted stitches on the end. He points the stem toward the ceiling. The sphere is only about 2 inches in diameter, and the stem only millimeters.
They all three gaze at the tiny…bomb?
Vince exclaims, “Isn’t it great?”
“What is it?” Fred and Carrie ask simultaneously.
“It’s a bomb!”
“Why would you want a bomb to promote peace?”
Vince is clearly glad they asked this question, “Don’t you see the social irony?” His words are freely flowing now, his excitement rising, he speaks rapidly as though all the words will not wait their turn, “A tiny, warm and fuzzy deliverer of peace in the very form that usually instills fear! What a message!” Vince, the evangelist of peace goes on, “Remember that piece you guys did a while back? ‘Put a bird on it?’ Well, put a bomb on it for International Yarn Bombing Day!”
He sits back triumphantly. His eyes welled a little with tears as his emotions have momentarily carried him away. He composes himself, waiting for the wonderful compliments from his friends that will surely ensue.
“Uhhh…” Fred hesitates, careful not to burst his friend’s bubble, “Vince, you might be able to do this in limited places, but I think overall people might think it sends the wrong message.”
Carrie nods. She holds her hands over Vince’s. “Vince, it’s a great thought, but I agree with Fred — it’s too risky.”
Vince is undaunted, he ignores their caution. They just aren’t getting it, that’s all. “Think about this for a minute. It will be cute. You know, like those miniature knitted figures. The bombs will be like a messenger of hope. Imagine! Bombs for peace!”
He says this last part too loudly, and people are starting to turn and look at him. He is wearing flowing robes and is starting to make people suspicious.
“Vince,” Fred says through his teeth, smiling and glancing around, “you might want to lower your voice.”
“Fred, we did not lower our voices back in the 60’s and we aren’t going to start now!” Now he was really getting riled up. He tried to quickly lighten the mood that was clearly turning, “Look, it could be really splashy and fun! You could use those candles that won’t burn out—the birthday candles that re-light themselves—inside the bombs. Light them for fun, leave them in a public place, and watch people try to blow them out!”
He wasn’t finished, “Or another thing you could use are those party poppers. You know, wrap them in yarn, only the string is the ‘fuse’ and kids could pull them and the streamers and stuff come out the bottom. Maybe that could be a 4th of July skit, or something. Man…you could get crazy with this!”
There was a commotion outside, which Vince did not hear at first. A few people wearing lovely entrelac sweaters and carrying dogs on leashes—wearing the same sweaters—were running by the coffee shop window. Were they running from something?
For a moment, everyone in the coffee shop turned their attention from Vince’s sermon (“…or what about New Year’s Eve and party crackers…”) about peace and bombs to the window. They all heard the sound of drums, marimbas and this clacking sound…what was that? The television behind the espresso machine in the shop was humming something about a Yarn Bomb Gang and the mayor of Portland declaring a state of emergency.
Then they all saw it. The tidal wave of color and yarn and needles and oh so many people!
Vince stopped his speech. He saw them, he heard them. He heeded them. His people. They were calling him!
He turned. He had, in his excitement, climbed a chair to preach to an unwilling crowd.
Now, as they passed, he gave up on his friends, bidding them farewell. He grabbed his bomb and lightly, freely exited the shop, joining the mob as joining old friends. They welcomed him, tossing him a tee shirt that said “only knitting.” on the back.
“We’ll never see him again,” Carrie said wistfully.
“No. He’s happy now.” Fred smiled. Then he wondered, almost to himself, “Where the heck did they get those tees?”
They both stared as they watched their old friend pass from this life into the next…
Adopt-a-Sheep II
Mr. and Mrs. Smith, who we will now call John and Martha because I am tired of typing the periods in Mr and Mrs, are holding a fundraiser for their cause at their country club. They have brought their first sheep with them.
The sheep is on a pink leash, and Martha has tied a pink bow around its neck.
Martha stands up in front of the crowd to announce some of the successes of their first participants.
“They are here tonight,” she says, gesturing around the room.
A couple sitting in the back raises their glasses in a return gesture, but their sheep, present with them tonight, has a leash and it is around the woman’s hand. The sheep lunges to one side, spilling the woman’s drink on her husband’s lap. He is clearly irritated, tries to dry his pants a bit and smile to Martha.
Another couple in the opposite corner of the room, looking exhausted, speaks up. Did they shower before coming tonight? Hmmm…Martha looks at them, “Yes? How are things going with your lovely little lamb?” She smiles sweetly, then stumbles on her heels as her pink-collared sheep tries to walk toward the sheep to her left. It begins bleating.
The husband of the couple says, “Uh, alright, I guess. What is the sheep supposed to be eating? I mean, uh, this one keeps trying to eat our carpet.”
“It ruined my spider plant!” The wife pipes up, shaking uncontrollably, “It nibbles things!” she raised a hand with two broken nails to wipe her eyes, “And it doesn’t answer to its name.”
Out of turn, John pipes up, “Did you try spraying its nose each time it came near the spider plant? You have to be consistent, but…”
Martha gave John an evil eye. Then she turns to the shaking woman’s husband, “Didn’t you get a kit in your sheep’s crate with all the information?”
“Uhhh…no, just a sheep. And I think it’s pretty hungry.” The sheep tries to pull the cloth off the table, knocking over several serving pieces. “We don’t know what it eats.”
Martha moves on, trying to keep the peace. People are murmuring, some are giggling.
Martha straightens her spine, feeling taller and says, with authority, “We will address all questions at the end of the evening. She has a PowerPoint presentation ready and the lights are dimmed. She has worked on it for weeks and is very excited to show it to someone. Her first slide has a picture of a sheep close up with the title, “Why City Folk Can Help Homeless Sheep Too.”
“Hey! Does this presentation have anything to do with the care of sheep?” The first couple speaks up again.
Martha rolls her eyes a little. They clearly have not been listening. She sighs, regains a demeanor of authority and directs her attention to the question.
The man of the couple continues, “We read online that they are supposed to have at least 50 square feet of space—outside. The paperwork in the sheep’s crate said our apartment was okay, but it seems a little small.”
Martha is getting nervous, “Well, I suppose if one is out in the countryside that would be possible. But,” she raises a finger here in an attempt to segue into her PowerPoint, “we can help the homeless sheep here in the city too!” She adds some light laughter.
The right-hand couple is quietly quarreling in the corner. The man interrupts again as Martha tries to once again begin her presentation.
“Uh… sorry, but don’t these sheep need other sheep? You know, like in a herd? I read online that they need at least one more sheep to feel comfortable, and we can’t take on anymore sheep.”
The left corner couple agrees, “Yeah…and there’s no category on Craigslist to give away sheep. Not even for free.”
Martha is beginning to lose control. She tries again to say that questions will be answered at the end. John comes to her aid and tries to answer some of the questions now, just to keep the peace.
“Everyone, everyone,” he says, “Let’s all calm down…” the whole room is muttoning—er, muttering. John continues, “We all want to help these sheep—“
Another interruption, this time from someone sitting nearest the front who has no sheep, “Hey, aren’t you getting these sheep from U.S. farms? And aren’t they usually coming from farms where they are freely roaming? You know, like sheep should? Where they can graze? Why would you take them out of that environment and give them to, well, people who don’t seem to know anything about sheep?”
“Sir, Sir, all your questions will be addressed—and yes, the sheep came from a farm that provides pet sheep to people.”
Right–hand corner couple, “Well, then these sheep are not homeless at all!”
Martha’s sheep has somehow broken free of its leash and has toddled across the room to be with the other sheep on the left. The right side sheep is gnawing on the carpet now, and they all begin bleating, calling out to each other.
People are standing up too quickly as the sheep pass, spilling their drinks onto people around them. Women are wishing they had not worn cocktail attire—they move too slowly in tight–fitting dresses and several people get knocked over by running, confused sheep.
The couples with the sheep are shouting now at John and Martha and her PowerPoint becomes unplugged in the pandemonium. The lights go out completely with the loss of the large monitor for the PowerPoint. Joe appears from somewhere in the shadows just long enough to tell his brother that this was all a really bad idea and he was an idiot to try it with so little research.
John goes after Joe, they get into a tumbling and punching match on the floor.
John and Martha decide later that week to close down Adopt-A-Sheep, cut their losses, pay for the judgments against them and never, ever try to have livestock in their condo again. They are, however, working on a Coats-For-Yaks fundraiser. Check out their blog at www.yakkingaboutyaks.blogspot.com.
A Drive-by Fleecing Conclusion
Tiffany had no plan, really. All she could think of was the cold, naked sheep, probably shivering in its little—hooves—she thought. Did they wear horseshoes? Like, tiny ones? She shook off this little mental detour and got back to the work at hand.
She knew she had to focus—but on what? Facts, Tiffany, facts, she told herself. She was pretty bad at facts. But for the sheep! She could pull it together! Now she began muttering to herself, “No ride,” she said as the light rail train passed by, “no money…I could work on the knitting!”
She sat down on the sidewalk with the yarn, the needles and the instruction sheet. She looked at it. It looked like Greek. But this just had to work. It’s exactly like riding a bike, she told herself. If I believe it in my heart, it will be true! I can do it—I can knit that sheep a fur—fleece, whatever—exactly like it had before the brutal de-furring! She closed her eyes, took some deep breaths—just like the woman did on that FIT TV yoga show—that would do it.
She held up the needles into the sunlight, which was lowering a little, just to the top of the building across the street. The light was slanting a bit. She lifted the end of the yarn, she kept breathing. But the breathing didn’t seem to be doing anything. Why wasn’t it working? She should have been casting on like the picture on the paper and knitting away. And why didn’t her fingers remember how? Did she ever know in the first place?
She breathed again. The needles should be acting as divining rods of justice, shouldn’t they? Nothing.
Her hands were suspended, needles pointing up. The sun was just beginning to sink in the sky, the time was running out. She realized it. She had failed. She had failed the sheep. The naked, furless sheep. The temperature would be dropping soon. She thought of it shivering in the night.
She dropped her hands. Weeping uncontrollably, she hung her head in failure and shame. What had she done? She couldn’t complete this mission. And she didn’t have money, a way to get home, not even her iPhone, which she left in her bag.
A sound, creeping up at first, began in the distance. She ignored it at first, but it grew louder and louder.
She looked up out of faint curiosity and turned her head toward the sound. There was a blind hill to the right, and the sound seemed to be climbing it from the other side. After a moment, she saw something like confetti lifting into the air like it had been shot out of an air popcorn popper.
Then figures appeared under the shower of colors and sticks, determined in a sort of march.
A march of purpose.
A march of destiny.
There appeared a man at the front. Tiffany, face still tear-stained, temporarily stopped weeping to see the marvelous sight. Were those Cirque du Soleil acrobats around the edges of the crowd? Where was that music coming from? Was this a delirium?
The man in the front seemed to be singling her out—from what? She was the only one on the street. He came closer and closer, his mignons flanking his sides. Now, they seemed to form a holding pattern.
Tiffany looked up at him more and more steeply as he approached. He stepped right into the space between her and the sinking sun, its light forming an angelic, ecliptic halo around his gray dreadlocks. He held out his hand.
Vince said, “My child. Come. Join us.”
Tiffany knew in an instant: This was the answer. The muses to her knitting, the Others to her Lost, the tick to her tock, the peanut butter to her chocolate.
She held out her hand. Vince helped her stand.
The holding pattern broke and she joined in the dance.
The next day, all was quiet. The evidence of their goodwill tirade was everywhere, as though Mardi Gras and about 10 other celebrations had converged on the city all at once.
The city was sparkling with vivid hues of an unimaginable number of colors. Yarn bombs and graffiti draped, hung, dotted, scattered, spread, covered, embellished and—let’s face it—improved every corner of the fair city of Portland, Oregon.
The state of emergency was lifted, and everyone came out to see the giant mural-like landscape. People stared in awe. They never forgot that day, June 11, 2011.
No one knew what became of the paraders. Some said they went on to other cities, while others said they probably just went back to their lives.
As for Tiffany and Vince? Some say they ran off to start a commune in Vermont. Someone else claimed to have seen them trying to hand out yarn bombs at the airport a few months later. Wherever they are, I am sure they are happy. And cozy.
THE END
Cliff Note review for the coming episode, Portlandia: The More-Than-Likely-Lost-On-Purpose Yarn Bombing Episode, partie deux
Last weekend on Portlandia: The Lost Yarn Bombing Episode, we left our heroes in some fine predicaments. Let’s recap them all in 100 words or less, “Glee” style. Deep breath. Here we go!
Tiffany feels completely misunderstood by her friends and runs out into the street over a sheared sheep only to be run over and dressed in hand-knits by the mad, knitting yarn bombing mob who are in a frenzy after feeling that overwhelming thing people feel when they enter a like-minded group that causes them to develop the disorder known as “mob mentality,” except that our mob is—more or less—doing a positive thing, even if they are beginning to overrun the city of Portland with shreds of yarn, broken needles and clothing on statues. Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Mr. Smith’s brother Joe made a public service message/telethon-type appeal to the community for their adopt-a-sheep program which they really shouldn’t be doing since they know nothing about sheep and sheep rearing practices. Mr. Smith becomes angry with Joe for pointing out some evidence of his brother’s defects in sheep knowledge and they begin fighting, cutting the important service message short. We learned how knitting began, even if it was only a rip-off of an old Reeses’ Peanut Butter Cup commercial and we learned that with a little willpower, an entire navy ship can be afghaned to cozy it up.
How’d we do? 203 words? Good enough. Moving on…
Join us again for saturday morning coffee and the \”rest of the stories…\”
See you then!
The Knitting Muse, writing mildly entertaining stories for three weeks
Freckled Girl Knits 