Author: janelleserio

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How To Knit*

janelleserioLeave a comment
 *The following story may be applied to knitting, crocheting, needlepoint, differential calculus, car repair and those folks making their very first lasagna. Read on…
You know how it starts. Usually, it is a friend or new acquaintance who strikes that spark inside you. Maybe your scenario looks like this: You notice one day that they are knitting; you become curious.
Certainly, there have been other occasions when your curiosity is piqued as you observe someone knitting, but this day is different.  On any other day, in any other moment, you might ask to see what they are making and complement it sincerely, saying something like, “That is so beautiful!” But on this day, in this moment, you say instead—internally, or even out loud—I wonder if I could do that….
And so it begins.
You quietly ponder these new thoughts, not even realizing how they are starting to root, to branch into your psyche.
You go home and begin looking through your kitchen drawer coupon file, wondering if that craft store coupon is still in there, hoping it is not expired. As you rifle, tossing aside old ads and pizza fliers, you wonder to yourself, how hard can it be? I have seen so many people knitting…and—dare you even think it?—if so-and-so (insert the name of someone you momentarily, sinfully, imagine yourself to be superior to here) can do it, then surely, so can I.
You sit down with your coupon and computer after your kids are in bed that evening, seeking out new information, new knowledge, new sales that will help you figure out this mystery of knitting. You peruse YouTube videos, online yarn shops, various sites that claim to be of help to new knitters.  There are acronyms like CO and LYS. There are new, strange terms like “gauge” and “frogging.” You wonder if some of them aren’t Latin. Your mind starts to spin a little. The world of crafting suddenly seems to open into layers and layers, spreading out before you into a vast, three-dimensional maze.
After about an hour of rough—in all senses of the word—research, you determine that the best way to get started is to head to the craft store—the big, beige suburban box that anchors the strip mall nearest you. The Internet information was getting really hard to follow, you admit to yourself, and you want to begin in a place already comfortable to you. Since you bought little Suzie’s birthday decorations there, you’ll give it a whirl first. The staff there was nice enough, too. They will be a better help. You decide as you drift off to sleep that night: You will head to the craft store the next day…maybe after work or while the kids are at practice.
Sure. You can work this into your life. It’s going to be fun.
At work all the next day, strange new thoughts trickle, then thinly stream into your head. Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to make your own clothes? Your own sweaters and hats? How about for the kids? Surely, something you could make would be of a higher quality and sentimental value that the clearance Power Ranger winter hat you bought little Johnny for next year—you suddenly remember that he would be entering junior high next fall. You think that maybe that purchase was no good for several reasons, but then return to your daydream. What if, you wonder, the future things you make will be handed down through generations?
You imagine your family decked out in new things made with lovely yarn and lovingly crafted stitches—all from your very own heart and hands. What if we had a family photo together wearing things that I made?  That would be nice, you tell yourself. The thin stream of imagination is becoming something of a babbling brook. Someone passing your desk says, “Sorry? What was that?”
You didn’t realize you said it out loud. “Oh, nothing.” You smile and the person walks on. The work sort of piles up on your desk that day as you sneak peeks at the computer or jot down ideas for family wardrobes. After hours of this, it’s finally 5pm! You get up a little too quickly and hurry to leave.
You decide to head to the store before returning home. You figure you have about 30 minutes to get what you need and be home in time to make dinner. It takes you 10 minutes to get to the store and you look for a parking spot.
You have to park out in the rain about 50 spaces north of the store entrance because everyone else also thought quickly stopping by the craft store after work was a good idea. You join a throng of several other women, running in heels from their cars to the door and the light and warmth inside.
There is a slight crowding at the automatic sliding door and you are still smiling to yourself as someone more competitive than you takes the last dry shopping cart, not even acknowledging your presence as she shoves you a little. Slightly irritating, maybe, but what is that to a priceless family photo that will last for generations?
No, you will remain emotionally unmoved. You head into the store with one of the carts speckled with water droplets. You use the sleeve of your Columbia Sportswear jacket to dry the handle of the cart. The fleece only smears the water, which is now evenly distributed across the entire handle.
As you walk to the back of the store where you can clearly see the “Needlework” sign on the ceiling, you periodically shake off your hands. They are getting cold, but not for long.
Before you know it, you are standing before rows and rows, towers and towers of colorful yarns in an astonishing array of texture and color. Where to start? You stare in respectful awe for a few minutes while other people mill around you, trying to steer clear of you—sort of. After the second nip in the heel with a shopping cart, you are jolted momentarily from your stun and realize that you need to buy something. You look at your watch. You get to work.
There are signs dotting the wall of Technicolor monolithic towers. They say things like, “Classic Wool” and “4/$5” and “Fun Yarn! 2/$5.” Where to start? Online you saw several books that looked like good beginning books, or you thought you remembered it that way. What were those titles, again? Was that Barnes & Noble or that Knit Picks site?
You look behind you and find an aisle exclusively filled with books. So many books—so much information! Surely there will be answers here. If you need ingredients for a recipe, you consult the cookbook, right? This definitely will be the place to start. How different can it be?
You rifle through the flimsy white wire magazine style racks. The prices and titles on the racks don’t seem to match with the books in the slots. There doesn’t seem to be a designated location for just knitting. You see one woman handing her whining toddler a book with animals on the front to console her while the mother shops. You see her putting another book back in the same slot—was that the first one the toddler had been chewing on a second before and dropped on the floor? Note to self: Don’t touch that one—no matter what it is.
Checking your watch, you realize that you are down to about 5 minutes in the store. You speed up your search, trying to speed read titles from left to right, then right to left, row by row until your eyes rest on one that looks like the basics—some title like “Learn to Knit.” You pick it up—wait, is it wet? Whatever. It has a few scarf patterns and what it calls some “basic” sweaters. You flip through the beginning. It has several pages that seem to outline some basic things with diagrams—that works for you just fine.
You quickly choose a sweater pattern from the book—who wants just a scarf? If you’re going to invest in this, it may as well be worth your time. You hastily go to the yarn wall, pick out a few skeins of your favorite color, green, and a pair of value-priced needles hanging on a clip strip in front of the glorious yarn wall. That’s what people use, right? You decide you’ll make do.
As you drive home with your tiny treasure kit, surely destined to produce many an heirloom, you pick up a quick take-out dinner for your husband and kids.
This is gonna be great, you tell yourself. You’re off the next day. What perfect timing. You begin to plan your day—a day of knitting.
It is a weekday and you cheerfully rise early, get showered and dressed. You make your kids a hot breakfast in anticipation of your goddess-like day of domesticity. They don’t notice this, take two bites of their pancakes and eggs, leave the rest and head out the door for the bus, quarreling over who is supposed to bring the trash can in later on.
You wave to them blissfully.
Back inside, you look at the clock. 8am. Great! You have all those dishes to do, but you are okay with that. It has to be done anyway and you have always worked around those things before.
You make yourself a new pot of coffee and, since you are already wearing your coziest sweats and sweater (just to get further in the knitting mood) you are free to push the start button on the dishwasher and settle in to a cozy chair with your two needles and lovely green yarn.
The dishwasher hums and the aroma of freshly ground, freshly made coffee wafts through the house. You cleaned it last night and your mind is clear.
Once you are nestled in your favorite family room spot, you open your book. For a moment, it doesn’t seem so simple as it did in the store. Hmmm….oh! Of course, you find it: the pattern. It says things like needle size, gauge…“materials!” There it is. Why couldn’t you see it last night? You read on.
The pattern calls for size 8 and 10 circular and straight needles. Are yours circular? You pick up the pink plastic needles from the dangling yarn bin strip. They don’t look circular. You look back at the pattern. It also says something about bulky weight yarn. You look at your yarn. It seems pretty bulky. It looks bigger than the yarn on your light, summer weight cardigan you are wearing. You compare the two. You examine the lovely green yarn from the store. There are all sorts of mysterious markings on the paper.
There’s a crisscross of—what, needles?—in a square and something about rows and stitches and yards…you find the word “worsted” on the label. Maybe the Internet maze is what you need. You sigh.
It is now 9am.
You search the Internet for a few words: “worsted,” then “bulky,” then “circular needles.” You check out images on the needles. You realize after about an hour more that your needles are straight and too small. You also only purchased one pair and the pattern calls for two. You had also better find bulky yarn—wouldn’t want to ruin your first effort. Anyway, you will probably use the things you already have later on. No reason to return them, at least.
Ok, one more quick trip to the store.
You put on your UGGs and head out to the car in sweats and your sweater. In your hurry, you believe that there is no reason to grab a coat. The sun is out, it’s April, and heck, you’re just getting into a heated car.
Turning the key in the ignition, you begin to feel the cold from the vinyl seeping into your pants. The car was outside last night—what was it, 40 degrees? You flip on the heater, which finally warms up by the time you hit the craft store parking lot. You can see your breath as you jog lightly to the door of the building and you are glad to get inside.
You forgot your book.
Going to the book rack again, there is not another one like the one you purchased the night before, so you pick up a similar one. No hurry this time, so you carefully look through it. You now know how to find the “materials” section in the patterns. Ok….let’s see. One pair size 6 needles, 175 yards of sport weight yarn. It must be similar to what you have, so you get someone to point you in the direction of the circular needles and yarn, and this time you buy exactly what the pattern calls for. You think.
Smiling as you leave the store 45 minutes later, you get into your now freshly chilled car (why did you park in the shade?), endure the cold vinyl through your sweats and begin the drive home.
Your hands have not really warmed up since you left the house. Seeing a Starbucks with a drive through off to your right, you change lanes and pull in. An Americano is just the thing for stiff, cold hands preparing for a knitting lesson. As you leave the drive through with a cozy coffee in your hands, you notice the heater is working and you bask in the warmth that is finally flowing from the floor, into your slippers and through your sweats.
Renewed, you enter your house, new bag of goodies in hand. What is that smell? The coffee pot! You left it on. You only made four cups. As you drop the bag and run to the coffee pot, you see that the water is nearly gone and there is a crystallized brown residue forming in the bottom of the carafe. It’s too hot to rinse out—that would break the glass. So, enduring the smell, you leave it on the stove top and turn on the hood fan over the stove.
The time is now 1:30pm.
A little annoyed with yourself, you open a window and a little cold breeze wafts through the kitchen and family room. You button up your sweater, pick up the new bag of goodies and the Americano that is now almost to cool to drink. Then you head to your chair and attempt to salvage those good feelings from earlier this morning.
You sit down and remember that there is laundry in the washer—delicates no less! Attempting to avoid indelible wrinkles in your silk work shirts, you jettison up the stairs three at a time. You get them out, hang some, flatten some to dry on a towel on top of the washer and head back downstairs.
The phone rings.
The time is now 1:45.
Ignoring the phone, you are determined to sit down and knit. You firmly plant yourself in your cozy chair. Picking up the original book and the new supplies, you look once more at the materials and the sweater pattern, more dear to you now than ever.
Wrong needles, wrong yarn.
You jump up, forgetting your slippers. Running to the car, you are glad that at the least it is still warm. You hit the store hard this time. You sprint through the parking lot to the doors. The sliding doors are almost closed and you feel a sense of urgency like never before.
This time, you are the woman shoving other customers. The elderly lady you nudge out of the way mutters to her companion, “Where are her shoes?”
You don’t hear them. Your eyes are wild as you approach the supplies. If you open them widely enough, maybe you can take in more of the merchandise at once, saving time.
You forgot the book. Again.
The second book you looked through is still there. Not even looking through it a second time, you buy it.
You run to the checkout stands, pay and run out the door to your car.
Speeding past Starbucks this time, you wish you had brought your coffee. The time is 2:30pm.
Entering your neighborhood a little too fast, you hope it isn’t too late to start knitting before your kids get home. What day was it, again? Distracted, single minded in your mission, you dismiss this thought. People who are driven get more done in less time, you tell yourself.
The car gives a little screech as your bare foot struggles to reach the brake properly. Luckily, you don’t hit the garage.
Barely remembering the keys, you run for the door, head inside, pass the now ice cold Starbucks on the entry table and hit your spot.
Where is the pattern…where is it where is it…you mutter as you find the page. There is a lovely photo of a simple cardigan on the right side and materials on the left…for the scarf on the previous page. A “Garter Stitch Scarf.”
“It’s April!” You say aloud, nearly shouting, “Why the hell would I want a scarf in spring? What—am I supposed to wear it to church on Easter????” You realize you are standing.
You gather your composure. You get the computer, just in case. How can it hurt now?
You sit down—a little too hard—and get out the most recently purchased needles and yarn. You re-read the materials. The needles say size 6. Just 6. Not circular. Crap! Are you serious? You yank out the plethora of knitting gear you have purchased so far from its multiple bags. There, in the very first bag, is one pair of size 6 needles. Those pink ones from the dangling strip. Trying to salvage any imagined fun that was supposed to happen on this day, you breathe, you sigh. Ok…where was that book….
In the front of the book, you find some seemingly helpful diagrams and instructions on how to get started.
It suggests YouTube for a how-to-cast-on-video. You give in.
With the laptop on your knees, and your toes pointed on the floor to raise the screen just a bit, you watch the video, rewind it, watch it again and again and again. Where are they holding their fingers?
You get out your yarn and try it along with the video. The yarn slides off the needles onto the floor as the calm woman’s voice is saying, “Now that you have cast on your 8 stitches, let’s move on to knit stitch.” It pauses and directs you to the next video. It stares at you. You stare back. You drop one of the needles to the floor.
Who do you know? Anyone you can call? Depending on the age of your chosen friend—listed here in descending order—you call Opal, Mable, Ruth, Judy, Sharon, Jennifer, Ashley, Courtney or Brittany. You just need someone you can use—er—get some help from.
This kindhearted superknitter woman, whoever she is, tries to help you over the phone—to no avail. “Can we get together this weekend?” she finally says after hearing you stumbling and muttering as your try to follow her directions over the phone. Trying not to sound like lunacy personified, you hold it together, “Sure,” you manage.
What time is it, anyway?
All you know about time is that it is running out. The sweater idea long gone, you go over and over and over the cast on video, trying to do it over and over and over again. You are still talking to yourself, repeating the instructions again and again with the narrator on the video.
You feel as if you are underwater, your eyes surely are bleary and red by now and you have chewed off most of the nails on your left hand in concentration. Your thoughts are all consuming, and the woman in the video drones on and on. You think you hear your own thoughts audibly. Voices. How is this happening? Have you really sunk this far? What are they saying? You focus harder on the screen, leaning in closer to it. Maybe you can make it out….
Suddenly, something touches your shoulder. You jump. You swear. You turn to see you husband and two kids looking at you.
“Honey?”
Still staring, you make no answer.
“Uh…we tried to call you a while back to say we were going out to dinner with Johnny’s soccer team. It’s 9 o’clock.”
Still staring. Who are these people?
“Mom,” Suzie speaks up, “We thought you would like to eat out with us. What are you doing?”
They look at each other.
You look down. You have coffee stains on your sweater, which is buttoned crookedly, and the side with the buttons is sticking up, brushing your chin. As you have been muttering, looking down, it has created a sort of rug burn. You finally feel the pain.
There are piles of yarn, cut, tangled, whole skeins scattered around the family room. Plastic shopping bags are all around you.
“Honey? Why was the front door open?” Your husband motions to the door.
Flash forward 5 years…
Having long ago avoided formal institutionalization, things are better. Those distant memories are dimmer all the time.
Today you are sitting on a park bench in April! What better place to be on a sunny, warm early spring day? You have made a lunchtime habit of coming out here with your knitting. It’s all so relaxing. Today, you brought a pair of socks with you and they are coming along nicely.  It’s your third pair and they have become your favorite thing to make.
In your peripheral vision, you see someone approaching from the right. You look over. It’s a young woman. She comes right up to you and sits down. You smile at her with deep wisdom that can only come out of great difficulty.
With a familiar light in her eyes, she says, “What are you making?”
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Portlandia: The Lost Yarn Bombing Episode Part I

janelleserioLeave a comment
Above: The Actual “Portlandia”
Those of you who have watched the IFC (Independent Film Channel) show “Portlandia,” created by Fred Armisen (of SNL fame) and Carrie Brownstein, musician, know the show to be a satire focusing on some of the more extreme principles and values sometimes evident in Portland, Oregon. For those of you who have not had a chance (or maybe the desire) to watch Portlandia, I can tell you that, well, it is a satire focusing on some of the more extreme principles and values sometimes evident in Portland, Oregon, my hometown.
Speaking as someone who was raised in Milwaukie—outside the bigger city of Portland—and as someone who has never lived in the city of Portland-proper, or even in some of the closer-in rings of neighborhoods surrounding Portland-proper, and speaking as someone who has never worked or gone to college in Portland, and as someone who has seen fewer live shows or concerts than can be counted on two hands there, I can reliably say that the show is spot on. After all, I can see the city from the freeway as I pass by. That has to count for some sort of authority.
Portlandia has been renewed for another season and, since I have been to Saturday Market a few times, I thought I’d take a lame shot at writing my own script for Portlandia’s upcoming season—with yarn bombing as the theme.
Why not? There are plenty of pretty crazy people in our beloved downtown area who understand such behaviors. In fact, I am going to not only include those extreme and lovable Portland folks in my script, I am going to branch out and include a few from other places like Eugene, too. After all, characters are people, too.
This is a work in progress, so forgive my sometimes scriptish, sometimes narrative style that will surely result as I write this.
If you have a chance, I recommend you watch at least the first episode of the show before reading on. Having said that, I should also say that since these characters exist in many forms in all big (and sometimes smaller) cities around the world, well, you will probably be okay if you don’t.
Let’s get started.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the city set-up, let me give a very little…uh…background. Small pun intended. If you already know the city, you may pass the next section and get to the good stuff, beginning at the asterisk*. You may also collect $200. In Monopoly money.
The downtown area of Portland runs along the west side of the northern end of the Willamette River. The waterfront edge of the city has a large city park: Tom McCall Waterfront Park, named after one of Oregon’s governors. 
The park is simple, with grass in the center and sidewalks running alongside. It is used for celebrations like the June Rose Festival. It has a big fountain at the southern end, which is nearly continuous with the surrounding sidewalk. It is a circular fountain with all the spouts facing in. It’s one of those fountains with an unpredictable spray pattern and is a summertime favorite of hot pedestrians, rollerbladers and cyclists alike.
To the west side of the park is the downtown area, which is laid out in a sort of grid pattern and is appropriately replete with tall cement or glass structures, and large and small businesses alike. It’s fairly compact, giving it a feeling of smallness and convenience.
The city is accessible from the east and the north via a number of bridges crossing the Willamette and Columbia Rivers, thus the nickname, “Bridgetown.” We have lots of other nicknames, too—Stumptown, Rip City…anyone interested in learning more about that can check out a reliable, scholarly site like, say, Wikipedia. Let’s press on.
Like any other big cities, there are cooler, hipper places to live and those that are not so cool. Pearl District in downtown proper? Very cool. Beavercreek many miles away outside Oregon City? Tanya-Harding-uncool. You get the picture.
*With that quick layout, let’s commence the never before seen—and likely never seen again—original yarn bombing episode of Portlandia.
In the infamous words of Will Ferrell’s prisoner character in “Starsky and Hutch,” “I’m not gonna lie to ya. It’s gonna get weird.\” After all, it is Portland. And we like it that way.
The Parade
In the opening scene, let’s begin with only a few knitters—women wearing knee high stripy socks (hand-knit, of course), hot pink capris, cabled fingerless gloves and tie dye tee shirts that say “Get Your Cozy On.” They exude a sort of optimistic, joyful attitude. They have tight, Olive Oil-style braids with fans of DPNs sticking out like, well, fans. They are lilting down the street on the waterfront on a sunny day to the background music, “Shake Your Groove Thing.” They are knitting like mad, tossing freshly made hand-knit originals to passersby, beckoning them to join in the fun.
Almost as soon as the cutesy parade begins, the gleeful participants are confronted with a rival knitting gang. They are wearing black tee shirts that say, “What Happens at Knitting Club Stays at Knitting Club.” They look collectively ominous in their short, spiky, black emo hair. They stop the colorful crowd short, the music changes to that tense “Westside Story” music that plays just as The Jets and The Sharks meet for the first time.
The women all lower their bodies, circling one another, and instead of snapping, they are clicking knitting needles together. All in rhythm.
They stare, they sneeer, they coil to strike.
Then they suddenly remember that they are all knitters—a part of a larger secret society joined by unspeakable magic. The spell is broken. They shake it off. What were they thinking?
They shrug, they join forces.
They all continue down the street gathering intensity, numbers and speed. They toss a new hand-knit headdress to Zeus, the guy who paints himself silver and wears little but a belt of Barbie heads around his middle. He joyfully joins in the march. The group tosses a pair of drumstick cozies to the marimba street musicians and a guitar cover to the Elvis impersonator in Old Town. The new followers all take their place in the crowd, bringing reverberating music with them.  
The powerful group acts as one body—they have become a flash mob—dancing, committing senseless acts of yarn bombing in synchronized knitting at unthinkable rates of speed. They approach the south end of the park.
They knit cozies for the Salmon Street Fountain Spouts, still turned off for winter, tossing them into place as they pass. The fountain spontaneously turns on, sending colorful yarn shrapnel everywhere behind the unstoppable crowd. The mob covers a naval ship, docked downtown (unlikely until June, but what the hey? This is a fantasy) with an afghan of impossible proportions, adorned with chevron stripes.
Needles are flying, broken ones are left behind and new ones appear from apparently nowhere as the mob heads west into downtown, tossing colorful scraps of alpaca and silk behind them like a tickertape parade.
To be continued…

A Drive-by Fleecing
We are now in a very small, very dark coffee shop. There are only a handful of people inside the shop with one wall of west-facing windows. The other walls are covered in fliers for local band performances, ads for roommates wanted and calls to action for lesser known activist groups like “Save the Nutria.”
The few patrons present are youngish, college-student types.
Four of them are sitting at a window table, sipping foamy lattés. They are two couples, guys and girls facing one another. They are dressed in stylishly torn jeans and have backpacks on the floor. There hair is appropriately mussed—just enough as if to say, “I tossled this on purpose, but doesn’t it look incidental?” We enter in the middle of a conversation…
Girl #1: Clearly upset. “I’m not kidding, right? Like I totally saw it with my own eyes!”
Girl #2: “Tiffany, are you sure? I mean…it sounds like…weird.”
Girl #1: “I am telling you—Todd and me saw it. We were driving by in Todd’s dad’s car and we saw it. A naked sheep.”
Boy #1 (with Girl #1): “Well, it wasn’t like totally naked.”
Girl #1: Sarcastically to boy #1, “Yeah, Todd! It had like a mockery of its fur or whatever on it. It didn’t have any curly hair on it, only this like white cloth. Like, hey, sheep, we took your good stuff and you can have this.’ ”
Girl #2: Okay. Let me understand this. You were driving out in Oregon City…
Girl #1: “Yeah, only ‘cause we had to…”
Girl #2: “Ok, wait. You were driving in Oregon City past a farm and saw a naked sheep with a cloth on it.”
Girl #1: Rolls her eyes. Tiffany is getting very impatient. “Yes!! It was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen! Its fur was like stolen! We have to do something!! People shouldn’t take this sort of stuff lying down.” Tiffany is getting emotional they way young, idealistic and uninformed girls can.
Boy #2: Silent until now, quietly says, “Uh…it’s not fur, it’s wool. And don’t sheep farmers, herders, whatever, sheer sheep for the wool? You know, and cover them afterward to keep them warm?”
Girl #1: By now, Tiffany is just plain angry. “Fur! Wool! Whatever! You are so stupid! And why would a wild animal need a cover?”
Everyone else completely understands the situation. They stare at Tiffany, watching her screw up her courage and strength. From a distance, everyone but Tiffany hears it. The approaching sound of a…marching band? They can hear the deep bass of drums and the clicking of…sticks? Drumsticks? It’s getting louder.
The little group looks at each other (except Tiffany) and then out the window. Tiffany reads this as a dismissal of the sheep’s misfortune.
Girl #1: Tiffany stands, making a final dramatic gesture. “Why is everyone so dense? This is a living, breathing creature!” She pauses, looks accusingly around the table. “You know, I went to the humane society and showed the woman there the picture I took on my iPhone and she just stared, too.” Tiffany stands up to go into action, “I am going to do something! I am going to knit it a new fur!”
Girl #2: Distracted by the increasing outside noise, “You don’t know how to knit.”
Girl #1:  “My grandma showed me how one time!!!” She is screaming, now, “You’ll see. This is a tragedy and I am taking action. Don’t you see? If we don’t do anything, there will be more drive-by wool poachings! That’s what this is!” Tiffany was nearing full-blown hysteria.  She smoothes her wrinkling silk screen tee from Lillith Fair.
Crying now, she glances around one more time and storms outside in desperation. 
As the approaching storm nears, her friends try to stop her. They are too late. The yarn bomb flash mob has grown to nearly 1,000 participants. They are in a time warp of accelerated knitting mastery, and their creations become more intricate by the minute.
On their way up and down every street, they have clothed every dog and dog walker in matching entrelac hats and sweaters. They put a bikini on Portlandia and put a cozy on her trident. Like water and wind, they have become an impenetrable force of nature and they nearly trample Tiffany as she leaves the coffee shop on her mission. She stumbles away, sobbing in a lovely diamond-patterned slouchy hat and Fair Isle cardigan…
To be continued…

The Origins of Knitting
Scholars have led us to believe that the origins of knitting are hard to put an exact date on—that the existing relics of the ancient craft are hard to place in history. Fear not, fair reader, for the mystery is about to be solved.
I belong to a little-known group at Portland Community College committed to finding out the truth about knitting and other fiber arts. We are PCC, People who Care about Crafts and Culture. Through our research, we have discovered the truth about the humble beginnings of knitting. There is a little known tale—though an important one—that puts all of the questions to rest. We reveal it here for the first time: The origins of knitting.
1982: Smithville High School, USA. The class bell rings and everyone floods the halls.
A male student with a Jefferson Starship bi-level hair cut, wearing a pair of rainbow suspenders and a “nanoo nanoo” Mork & Mindy tee is hurrying to class while rat-a-tat-tatting on the wall with a pair of drumsticks.
He is nearing a corner.
From around the blind bend, an artsy girl with lots of fabric to her prairie skirt is scurrying to home economics class, carrying a big, sloppy, unwound ball of yarn. Her thick glasses keep sliding down her nose as she runs through the halls.
She rounds the corner and the two collide, the boy and the girl. Drumsticks and yarn entangle crazily. Both people crash into each other and then the floor. Arms and legs are flying as they try to get their bearings.
After the tumble subsides, they look up at each other, dazed. Then they realize the catastrophe.
Mork boy says, “You got your yarn in my drumsticks.”
Glasses girl says, “You got your drumsticks in my yarn!”
They both hold up their hands at the same time, each still clinging to their original objects. The violent encounter has produced a tiny knitted square.
Their eyes light up. They smile.
This could be the start of something big. Really, really big.
Adopt-a-Sheep
Mr. and Mrs. Smith live in a loft apartment in the Pearl District of downtown Portland. They are DINKS, to borrow an acronym from the 80’s, and live very, very well. They are both unemployed civil rights lawyers with big hearts and come from wealthy families that afford them their comfortable living.
Let’s meet with them now as they record a public service message. They have enlisted the help of Mr. Smith’s brother, Joe, the audio-video specialist at the local high school.
They are sitting on the futon in their loft living room, the kitchen behind them. They both face the camera squarely. Soft bleating can be heard somewhere in the background.
Mr. Smith speaks first, “My dear friends, we come to you tonight to reveal a devastating national crisis.”
Mrs. Smith chimes in, “Yes. Tonight around the world, millions of sheep are being denied basic rights.”
Mr. Smith continues, “That’s right. Millions of sheep, the very same ones who sacrifice their wool for our fabulous, fabulous sweaters are being forced to live out of doors, in barns and on hillsides.”
Mrs. Smith holds up a picture of a sheep. “Don’t you think it’s time for the friends who keep us warm to come into the warmth of our hearts and our homes? Haven’t they had enough?”
Mr. Smith: “That is why my wife and I are starting a new program: Adopt-a-Sheep. This groundbreaking effort will allow up to millions of sheep living out-of-doors to stay warm. And dry.”
Dramatic pause…Mrs. Smith leans in closer to the camera.
Mrs. Smith: “For pennies a day, you can sponsor a sheep like Adam Lambert, here.” She gestures to the picture. Upon closer inspection, the sheep in the photo is holding a sign that says, “Will trade fleece for food.”
Joe from behind the camera: “Uh…did you guys Photoshop that sign into that picture?”
Mr. Smith, protecting Mrs. Smith, sarcastically retorts, “Uh, did we ask you for your opinion?”
Joe, sheepish, still unseen: “It just seems like a sheep wouldn’t know how to write a sign.”
Mr. Smith, normally a very quiet, peaceful man, is becoming frazzled. He raises his voice like a younger man who always fights with his brother. “Sheep are very smart animals, in case you didn’t know, Joe! Look, you worry about the camera, and we will worry about the sheep research! Do you want to help, or not?”
Joe: “Are you still buying pizza?”
Mr. Smith: “Yes! Look, can we get back to this project?” He is starting to sweat.
Joe: “Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah…sure.”
Joe is quiet again.
Mr. Smith regains his composure. In a droning, don’t-you-totally-care-about-this? manner, he resumes his important message: “That’s right. For the cost of two lattés a day, you can do something about sheep homelessness.”
Mrs. Smith: “Once you sign up with Adopt-a-Sheep, your sheep will be delivered to you by UPS next-day air with an instruction manual and a pooper scooper.” She whispers to Mr. Smith, did you get those instructions online?
Mr. Smith whispers back out of the side of his mouth, still trying to gaze into the camera soulfully, I had a little trouble with the Soay Sheep Farms website. Can we talk about this later? He turns his attention to the camera, “Act today, before another sheep spends another night in the cold barn air.”
Mrs. Smith suddenly appears to be having a hard time holding back tears; she begins to weep. “Please, if you have ever worn a sweater, give back tonight. I’m sorry, I can’t continue….”
Mr. Smith: “We are going to do it. We are going to call. I have never actually seen a sheep in person, or held one. But I know it’s going to be great.”
Mrs. Smith: Sobbing, says partly to herself, whispers “I used to have a little stuffed lamb…my parents gave it to Good Will…”
Mr. Smith looks more intensely at the camera, “Yes. Call the number on your screen. The magnitude of my wife’s tears is matched only by the magnitude of the love in her heart. For the sheep. Call now.”
Joe, from behind the camera, “Uh…I don’t know how to put a number on the screen….”
Mr. Smith loses his cool completely. He stands, muttering unintelligibly. He puts his hand on the lens. A scuffle is heard….
To be continued…
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National Poetry Month

janelleserioLeave a comment
\”In the rhythm of the needles,            there is music for the soul.\”            — from an old sampler
In honor of National Poetry month, and since knitting is a musical, poetic activity (and since I personally enjoy writing poetry) here are a few poems celebrating knitting:
ODE TO MY SOCKS

(Translated by Robert Bly)

Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder\’s hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as though into two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin.

Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.

They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.
 
Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp tempation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.

Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.
 
The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty,
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.
Winding Wool

by Robert Service
 
She\’d bring to me a skein of wool
And beg me to hold out my hands;
so on my pipe I cease to pull
And watch her twine the shining strands
Into a ball so snug and neat,
Perchance a pair of socks to knit
To comfort my unworthy feet,
Or pullover my girth to fit.

As to the winding I would sway,
A poem in my head would sing,
And I would watch in dreamy way
The bright yarn swiftly slendering.
The best I liked were coloured strands
I let my pensive pipe grow cool . . .
Two active and two passive hands,
So busy winding shining wool.

Alas! Two of those hands are cold,
And in these days of wrath and wrong,
I am so wearyful and old,
I wonder if I\’ve lived too long.
So in my loneliness I sit
And dream of sweet domestic rule . . .
When gentle women used to knit,

And men were happy winding wool.

 

Happy Poetry Month and cozy knitting, everyone!
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Lions and Memories

janelleserioLeave a comment
Where I come from, there is a sort of divide. There are those seemingly more sophisticated folks who live in a more complex, greener, loftier lifestyle in downtownier Portland, Oregon, and then there are those of us who live around the edges of the living, breathing city—in the suburbs. Oh, we live and breath, too, we just do it in a different manner.
Portland is at least a few, if not several miles from any of the smaller towns, easily travelled to by way of a series of winding, smaller suburban side roads to greater, wider thoroughfares, all leading to and past the city. Everyone from the northerly or easterly side of Portland must also traverse a bridge or two, lending further to a feeling of intricacy in the journey.
Coming into downtown feels almost like entering another culture. The shops are different. In leaving the suburbs, the big box stores like Michael’s or Home Depot drift away behind you, as do so many easily accessed McDonald’s and Starbucks. Instead of widely spaced business with big parking lots, you increasingly encounter more tightly compacted businesses with difficult parking conditions for people with minivans and SUVs.
There are restaurants lining the narrower streets that have singular names like “Zed’s Ethiopian Cuisine” or “Abu Careem”—you get a sense that without an insider’s knowledge, you would definitely be taking a risk in eating at any of them. You suddenly wish you knew someone who was in the know.

The tension seems to be rising—is it your surroundings, or is it you? It’s excitement and nerves all at once: an alien going into a native people’s territory.

These have been my feelings since childhood, and I was experiencing them again a few months ago when my daughter, Jo, and I headed into Portland on a drizzly day. Jo, who has been living in Seattle’s Capitol Hill area for three years, felt completely at home where we were going.

These had become her people, her culture. She had become a grown young woman with a small, urban apartment who was growing her own herbs on her quaint sunny windowsill to make glycerin hand soaps and lotions. I was still living in a sprawling neighborhood with a house and a yard and just trying to remember to put the trash out each week on time.

We crossed the I-5 bridge from Vancouver into Oregon, with it’s towering, green arches where birds like to sit. The city of Portland decided recently to protect the mint-colored paint from their poop by sounding off a loud noise every minute or so.
The noise was like a simulated shot from a gun and was intended to cause perched birds to light and approaching ones to change directions. As a driver going the speed limit, you would be over the bridge in time to have only heard it about one time or so. Today there was slow traffic and the nerve-jangling sound went off about 5 times, making me jump with each “shot.” Jo laughed at me as I tried to joke at each one—each time less effectively.
Amy Rose was with us today, too. She was already late for her nap and the traffic was delaying it further, but I was willing to risk it to get to a new yarn shop. I was beginning to worry how she would behave as the minutes were passing—she had not been so good in other yarn shops.
Amy Rose had lots of energy and loved to expend it in new places in the view of strangers. She loved yarn shops, too, and would walk in, instantly mesmerized by the amazing circles and lines of colors coming from the tall, tall shelves. She loved to sprint for them and, once she reached her destination, begin rapidly tearing hank after hank of yarn from their homes in the walls, feeling the new textures and warmth on her smooth, tender little fingers.
I had learned to deal with this. It had become an Olympic event—chasing Amy. Today I was wearing sneakers and sweats. I could cut and run quickly when I needed to, dive if I must, to save the fibers from certain slobbery doom. I had my smaller jog stroller with me, too, and I planned to start with Amy in that.
Leaving the flapping wings and gunshot sounds of the bridge, we were on the home stretch. Shopping malls gave way to quaint Portland streets with hip, brightly decorated tiny shops, squeezed in like colorful little facets of a fan as though they could open up at any moment, breaking their illusion and becoming large and wide. Such is the imagining of one not used to the close quarters.  No, they stayed as they were, wind socks flying, artful paintings on the glass storefronts.
I was driving my Expedition—a big green SUV, of course, to carry my non-zero-population family of 8. As I drove down the narrowing streets, I felt like an adult in a preschool who was trying to navigate a little classroom with tiny chairs and toddlers with size 12 shoes.

Around me were Smart cars and bicycles, cars parked in front of every store, leaving only 2 lanes on the road where there might have been four. I had to stay dangerously close the center line to avoid car doors and increasingly larger numbers of pedestrians with my green giant. People on bicycles were staring at me—was it my vehicle or my granny driving?

I was relieved when we reached our destination. We parked about 8 blocks away (I was hoping that at that distance, no one who saw me get out of my truck would recognize me in the store) and made our way back—in the Oregon rain, of course—to the lovely yarn shop.

The glass storefront had three windows and was wider than many of the other stores around it. On the right were displays of knitted and crocheted things, matching yarn and patterns for sale. On the left, it looked like there was a sitting area. We opened the door, the bell sounding as if to signal the entrance of the two women with big purses and a stroller—one in cute, young, “grungy” clothes, one in Kohl’s athletic originals.

The store was lovely. It was deep, with thousands of hanks of yarn lining the wall and shelves that were also standing in rows on the interior of the store. The ceiling was open, showing tastefully painted ductwork. Displays hung high and low, new yarns, knitted into large and small samples as appropriate for the space. There were open class areas in the back with empty tables on painted cement floors. It felt like we were the only ones in there—had word gotten around about Amy Rose? Did everyone clear out?
As we turned around and headed from the back of the store, now meandering toward the front, we saw a few people. There were two ladies at the checkout counter, situated in the center of the store, and one person now sitting at the front of the store in the little sitting area. It looked like he or she was quietly knitting. I could see the silhouette of two needles. The light from outside was just enough to obscure the figure from where we stood.
One of the women at the counter greeted us pleasantly and asked us if we needed help. Jo asked where the sock yarn was. The three of us plus Amy Rose, who had been quiet so far, headed over to soft triangular towers of yarn in square birch bins. We visited for a bit, found out the woman helping us had a toddler, too, and made that magical knitting connection with her. My comfort level rose as Amy behaved and this very friendly gal made us feel so welcome. Please Amy! Hold out, I thought.
Jo selected some very nice silky sock yarn for a gift project she was working on, and we visited a little more with the lady from the store. I knew the Amy time bomb was ticking, but we were having such a great time.
As we finally neared the front of the store, we could make out the sitting area. There was a very slight young man sitting there, about 20 years old, dark haired and bearded as young men are so often these days. He was seated on one of two futons that surrounded a kidney shaped table with three legs—the kind your mother had. Or you have now if you are of a hip and certain age and live in a loft.
The young man looked up at us. He had a quiet expression and a peculiarly soft way of handling his needles—like he might break them at any moment if he were not careful. I wondered if he might be one of those people who shakes your hand with limp fingers. He smiled, “Hello.”
“Hello,” we said, almost together, in return.
The vignette looked so inviting: a peaceful retreat in a lovely yarn shop. Jo said, “Mom, let’s sit down for a minute. I need to organize my stuff.” Jo had been “organizing her stuff” since the day she was born. Jo is a free, artsy spirit and has any number of projects, pencils, hair ties, food, Seattl-y news publications, dance schedules for school, knitting needles…all thrown into one, giant, straining, one-of-a-kind, handmade, glossy satin-with-stitches catchall. We sat down.
Amy still sat in her stroller. She eyeballed this new person across from us.
I pulled out her large, pink and brown diaper bag filled with any number of wipes, diapers, Cheerios, toys, clothes, or dirty clothes that I never remembered to remove from the bag. I set my own giant, leather catchall with feet next to the diaper bag on the floor. My bag was really a knitting bag. It had feet and lots of compartments. It was from Target. I keep it filled it with two or three projects, wallet, calendar, you get the idea. I supposed I was no better than Jo. We looked like bag ladies with our stuff now taking over the little sitting area.
I gave Amy some Cheerios in a snack cup, hoping to buy five minutes or even 10 of knitting time.
The young man continued knitting, now and then tilting his head to the right or left, not concentrating, really, but regarding his own work. He looked up, then right back down.
“I’m learning to knit.” He hardly paused. “I’m trying to learn all I can in this life.”
What?
“I have a good friend who taught me how to sew last year, and I have been making my own clothes. I made a vest and a walking cloak. I prefer 18th century men’s clothing. No one wears that kind of thing, but I like it. I like to wear my styles with a felted hat.”
Jo’s interest was peaked. She loved people like this—free spirits like herself. “That’s really cool,” she said, listening for more.
“Yeah,” he continued, “I want to sew and knit and weave, too. I want to make my own cloth and cut out my own designs. I have a friend who is teaching me how to grow my own food, too. I want to be able to sustain myself with natural, healthy resources. My friends and I work a lot on it.”
This guy had a lot of nameless friends.
“My name is Lion by the way.” At least that’s how I heard it. I hadn’t said much yet, eyeballing Amy and trying to work a pair of socks.
He suddenly had my complete attention. I spoke, “Lion?”
“No,” the young knitter-gardener-sewer-sustainer said gently, “Lion.”
I was not getting it. My hearing may not be the greatest. Maybe he was pronouncing the name, Liam with a long letter “i.” I tried again: “Liom?”
Still very patient, he repeated “Lion.” That’s what I heard, at least. No way.
He said, “Here’s my card,” as if to clear up the situation.
I took the white, bent-cornered card from his pale, soft hand. The font was some sort of very fancy, ancient looking scroll, but I could finally read it. I sighed, relieved, focusing my eyes:
Layenne Mayne
Spritual Advisor
Writer and Naturalist
Was this turning into a Harry Potter Story? There was an email address and cell phone.
As I was looking for the word, \”Wizard,\” in the fine print, Layenne said, “I give lectures a few doors down from here at the new age bookstore. About the paths we are all on from my perspective. I come here to get away.” He gesture to the sitting area.
I had still been trying to understand the name on this business card—my trance about the rest was broken. “Oh?” I tried to appear unruffled. What could he mean? This very young guy was passing out advice about enlightenment?
“Yes. I have written several books. I have an unusual perspective on religion. My mother is a catholicunitarianliberalist.” He softly, casually slurred all the words together, as if the more casually he said this, the more universal the idea would become.
“Huh.” I was intrigued. I think my mouth was hanging open. Did I hear Tingstad and Rumbel playing in the atmosphere? You don’t meet such interesting people every day and he certainly didn’t mind talking to us. He continued, unbroken, not reading even my daughter’s altered expression. She looked as puzzled as I felt.
“My father was a baptisthumanist. I have a publishing firm in my mother’s basement. I usually do my readings from my own books. You should check out my blog—my speaking engagement schedule is on it. The address is there on the card.”
What to say to any of that? Couldn’t we go back to the origins of Lion’s Mane? I mean, name? That would have been a good beginning.
I hadn’t realized this whole time that Amy had been, one by one, dropping Cheerios onto the cement floor—a sure cruncher for any passing shoes. By the time I noticed, there was a veritable Hansel and Gretel trail on the floor, some of it rolling swiftly away to unknown corners of the store.
I had to get out of there, fast. Things would certainly unravel. The clock was striking midnight in this fairy tale.
Then an odor came from Amy’s direction. I scrambled for a diaper. I wasn’t supposed to be out so long! She had on a cloth diaper and I didn’t bring something to wrap it in to bring it home for washing. I threw most of the contents of the bag onto the floor….
Layenne was continuing, unfettered, “…my friend, Memorie, and I believe that all people should know how to do so much more. If we all worked together…”
There was a friend with a name. I picked up a noisy rattle, clattering on the floor, trying not to draw attention to my panic. I found a disposable diaper, still no bag for the cloth one.
I wrestled Amy out of the stroller, which seemed to now have about 15 clips to undo. Very safe for the baby and very unsafe for those around me when there might be poop. She was screaming as I carried her around the store to find a bathroom. She wanted to get down and work her Amy Rose magic on those beautiful shelves where only adults may roam.
The nice lady from the counter found us—really hard to do—and pointed us to the bathroom. “I have a two-year-old.” She smiled sweetly, “I know how it is.”
She had stocked the bathroom with a changing table, a diaper Genie, lots of paper towels, hand sanitizer and soap. The heavens had parted. For a moment.
Amy was kicking now and continued to kick in the direction of my face on the table. Her screams to get down were echoing off the walls of the white bathroom. Surely people from outside were dialing 9-1-1.
Amy Rose got poop on her kicking legs, under my nails as I tried to calm her, did some get on the wall? I struggled with her to the sink, trying to wash her legs off after finally getting the bulk of the mess off her bottom. I dried them and rubbed hand sanitizer all over the baby to take care of the rest of the smell. In desperation, I threw the cloth diaper into the Genie.
I carried the still kicking baby under my wrinkly, semi-still-rolled up right cotton sleeve. My curly hair, frizzy from the rain walk was standing up where tiny fists had tugged it.
I could hear Layenne still talking to Jo, “…that’s why we all should look deeply inside ourselves…”
Jo, was still trying to decide if this was for real or not—was she ready to go? Please, God, let her be ready to go!
I didn’t give her an opportunity to choose. Now I was really embarrassed.
I hurriedly picked up all my stuff. Why did I get it all out? I stuck two DPN’s in my hair—it would have held an entire pack of Crayolas at this point—and gathered my yarn.
I had Jo carry the stroller out, I had baby and two bags.
The sweet women from the yarn shop called out a sympathetic good bye—I looked at them, I hope, as if to say, “I hope to come back soon!”
Layenne called out, “Nice meeting you.” I could see him settle down to his knitting again. Unaffected.

 
I envied him for a moment. Layenne Mayne. Young, idealistic, hopeful. Sweet, imaginative. Possible wizard. Then I thought, we need people like Layenne in the world.
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Our First Blog Giveaway!

janelleserio10 Comments

Chrissy Gardener, sock designer and fellow Portlander has graciously agreed to give away an autographed copy of her book, \”Toe–up!: Patterns and Worksheets to Whip Your Sock Knitting Into Shape \” from our blog.

I will provide 430 yards of Araucania Itata, a wool/silk/bamboo fingering weight yarn you will need to make your first pair of socks. Just tell me the color!

I took Chrissy\’s Toe-Up! sock class last year and I loved it. Her explanations are clear and direct. Chrissy was originally a computer programmer and I feel that her logical mind helps people who are learning a new skill.

Each pattern contains several sizes worked out for you, so many can be done for your whole family. For you adventurous, more advanced knitters, this book provides options to change up each pattern with worksheets in the back of the book. I highly recommend the book and the class if you ever have a chance to take it from her.

Plus, Chrissy\’s just really nice.


If you would like to enter our giveaway, just become a follower of our blog using whatever method is convenient for you: google friend connect, twitter or email. All options are listed in the right column of the blog. In any case, please also email me your name and contact information and the yarn color you would like should your name be selected at janwin98@comcast.net, just in case. I don\’t want to lose anyone!

If you are already following: to enter, post a comment instead and email me your information. I will not share your information with anyone–this is for the contest only and afterwards, I will delete all contact info.
On May 6, 2011, we will announce the winner on the blog.

Thank you so much for reading our blog! Our next blog story will be coming out in time for your Saturday morning coffee.

Janelle, The Knitting Muse

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A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Dental Office: From Solitary to Solidarity

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Let’s talk about the power of knitting. The greater event, International Yarn Bombing Day (and let’s not forget the simultaneous Knitting in Public Day) brings people together, yes—but as those of you who knit know, it is not exclusively the event per se that is the cause of the solidarity. No, there is something inherent in the art of needlework that seems to do it. I have witnessed this time and again already in my short time so far as a knitter.
In 2008, I graduated from college with a degree in dental hygiene. A few months later, my license came in the mail and I was anxious to go to work. After working for a little while in temporary positions, I went to work in a permanent, full-time one at an office close to my home where there were great people.
They made me feel incredibly welcome, and we all became fast friends. That November, I began knitting. I was bringing projects to work with me, talking about how much I was enjoying it. At first, the other 11 women in my office thought my new hobby was really great for me—just me. But slowly, something none of us could have foreseen was happening. The people around me became curious.
At first my friends would say, “That is so cool!” when I would bring in a baby blanket in simple garter stitch. But after a while, the comments turned into, “How do you do that?” Then, “I used to knit years ago…” as they gazed in nostalgia at my sloppy beginner’s work, which was riddled with errors.
It wasn’t long before people began to act. One gal, we’ll call her Sally—who had apparently been holding back—finally revealed that she had been knitting since she was a small child and has knitted ever since. Now there were two.
Then one day Susie (also not her real name) announced that she was going to the craft store and had a coupon. She asked Sally and me what materials she should buy if she wanted to learn how to knit. The next day, Susie appeared at work with bamboo needles and some acrylic yarn. Susie was a quick learner and soon was cranking out scarves like she was working in a high-production factory. Now Susie, Sally and I were becoming even closer friends. And we couldn’t contain our excitement about knitting, either.
We giggled at work, talked hurriedly about our projects when we had time and began keeping little knitting project bags in our rooms at work, just in case. After that, it spread like wildfire (I like to call it a “staff infection”). One by one, almost the entire staff was knitting or trying to learn. We decided that we should form a club. We began casually meeting on our days off, going out to lunch and learning from each other. Some of us started taking classes, joining the Raverly website and buying books. We took “field trips” to local yarn shops, oohing and aahing over the beautiful yarns and patterns we would find.
Before we knew it, our club had regular meetings on Wednesday mornings and Friday nights once a month with alternating days. We are currently planning a trip to the Oregon Convention Center for Sock Summit. One of the girls in our club owns a sports shop that also does monogramming and is getting us matching T-shirts to wear.
The art and excitement of knitting has been just too much to contain—it is bigger than us. We recently began assembling a basket for our office waiting room, complete with needles, yarn and instructions on knitting, just in case anyone would like to give it a whirl.
Patients come in to see us, hear us talking about our favorite hobby and begin sharing their experiences with us. They return to their next appointments, projects in hand. They often come early to visit or stop by to drop off patterns to us they like. Many of them have also joined our club.
As the months and now the past two and a half years have passed, we all have gained such special friends. We have learned so much about knitting—and about each other—from this common thread of interest. Just because of two sticks and a string.
What is this magic? Do we innately feel our ancestors, those amazing people who figured out how to weave fibers together reaching through the years to us? Do we collectively wish to carry on this fine tradition through some strange evolutionary process? What compels us? Some examples are easier to figure out. Take wartime knitting for example.
During WWI and WWII, the people of the United States were asked to band together—there apparently were not enough knitting machines—to knit socks and under-helmet head coverings for soldiers. People from all walks of life were knitting like crazy. At home and in public—churches, schools, absolutely anywhere in an act of helping one another.
It would be easy to say that those folks were knitting second, showing solidarity first. And in that case, it is most likely true. But I would wager that those same people went on to continue knitting, finding friends wherever they went, knitting first, finding community second, albeit in different settings than those of wartime.
In any case, the closeness knitters feel is a mystery to me. A wonderful mystery. I would encourage anyone who has not reached out to others in your craft to do so. You have no idea what you may find.
**Anyone curious to know more about knitting war efforts can click on the photo in the right column of this blog. It speaks more about Washington state specifically, but is still a very interesting read.
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Yarn Bombing Informational Websites

janelleserioLeave a comment

Seriously, though, here are some helpful websites if you are interested in knowing more about yarn bombing, want to commit yarn bombing or want to write a song about yarn bombing. Hey, is there an anthem, yet?

Knitting in Public Day
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=203657876328052

International Yarn Bombing Day on Facebook
http://www.facebook.com/pages/International-Yarn-Bombing-Day-June-11th-2011/104441312968198?sk=wall

Yarn Bomb Website
http://yarnbombing.com/

Any others I missed? Please send me your links if you would like them posted here.

Oh, yes … how about this one?
http://prairiehome.publicradio.org/

Thanks for reading!

The Knitting Muse, I do my own stunts

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Yarn Bombing Garrison Keillor

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I am madly infatuated with Garrison Keillor.
I may not fall into the same fan category as the women who obsessively follow Robert Pattinson from the Twilight movies, weeping black tears that stream down their cheeks and onto their “Team Edward” tees upon seeing him at movie premiers, but make no mistake: I have a crush on Mr. Keillor, no matter how quiet mine has been.
In fact, it has been so quiet that my friends may be surprised to know that he is right up there, for me, with Collin Firth’s Mr. Darcy. And Collin Firth’s no slouch. Why would I consider trading the tall, dark, handsome and mysterious Mr. Darcy for a 68-year-old-man 6’3” with nosferatu-like fingers and albeit charming but Pekineseque face?  (since one is a fictional literary character and one is a man who has never seen me, either chance is slim…)
In 1995, I was transplanted to Minnesota, many miles from the fir trees and mountains of my Oregon birthplace to the very different landscape—and climate—of the upper Midwest. I knew no one but my family.
I was not lonely, exactly. I love new places, but I felt a constant element of social disequilibrium. I felt out of place. Then I found MPR, Minnesota Public Radio—and consequently A Prairie Home Companion with Garrison Keillor. It was a very unusual show to me—a comedy variety show recorded in front of live audiences, most often in St. Paul. It was very entertaining and quickly became my favorite weekend pasttime.
It was my secret outsider’s view into the private jokes of Minnesotans, their interesting insights on life in their great state and wonderful ways. At first, I laughed along because, really, the show was funny even to an outsider—after all, who can resist a good public service announcement from “The Board of Ketchup?” But the more I listened, the more I felt a part of the inside jokes.
I loved that I began to understand the jokes about the weather and how people felt compelled to go out for milk in blizzard conditions just to prove how tough they were. Soon, I was rolling with laughter with the rest of the radio audience at the thought of Norwegian bachelor farmers making baking powder biscuits that were pure, mostly. I was so in.
I thrived. I made friends, I bought a snow-blower, I put snow pants on my kids before sending them to school and I learned how to say “hot dish” instead of “casserole.” I stopped gigging inside every time someone said, “You betcha.” I started saying, “You betcha.” I knew the rules. 
Garrison Keillor, with his steady, deliberate baritone guided me through these things. He was wise, insightful, learned. He was charming and just the sound of his voice riveted me. It still does.
Garrison Keillor is still on the radio today, and his show has been running almost as long as I’ve been alive. He is still my link to his great state, and I still think so fondly of him.
Recently he announced he will be retiring soon, so I felt an unreasonably urgent need to see my crush doing his show live at least one more time. Then, out of the blue, something wonderful happened.
The other day my good friend from college, Anna, emailed to say that he is coming to do his radio show live in upper Washington state—and at one of our favorite wineries, no less! I practically ran out in the street upon receiving this news. I told the neighbors (I restrained the urge to knock on doors), I told friends, patients at work … even strangers at the grocery store were not immune to my excitement. 
The best part of all: He is coming on my birthday — June 11.
Yes, International Yarn Bombing Day. I realized this only about a week after Anna’s email. It was a terrible day.
I love knitting as much as I love Garrison Keillor, though obviously in a different way. I can’t believe how it has changed my life over the past two years. I have new wonderful friends, an emerging skill and the incredible satisfaction of being able to create things in such an amazing way.
The culture of knitters is equally as appealing to me as the craft itself. People from absolutely any walk of life or place in the world will come together like the oldest of friends once they realize they share the common interest.
Case in point: A few months ago at my son’s school play, a woman, a complete stranger, approached me and asked with restrained excitement, “Did you make your sweater?”
“Yes!” I said, surprised that someone wondered such a thing. I was getting that hopefulness common to all crafters.
“Your hat, too?” She was getting more excited, her eyes locked with mine. She could see the connection. Now, she was nodding, anticipating my answer.
“Yes! How did you know?” Of course I knew.
“I knit, too!” She could hardly contain her excitement anymore. We were pals—that was it. We started talking as fast as we could as though we had been high school friends and had only been given a few minutes to catch up, exchanging ideas, patterns and yarns we liked. When the lights went out for the play, we had almost forgotten that our kids were on the stage.
Not wanting people to think we didn’t care about our kids, we dutifully took ours seats. For an hour and a half, we glanced across the room every once in a while. I think we were trying to maintain the connection so the magic would not be lost.
It’s that kind of camaraderie that still amazes me and makes the Yarn Bombing events so incredible.  To think that we, as knitters, across the world will be united in so many acts—which really culminate into one act—of beauty nearly brings tears to the eyes.
The women in my knitting club have been abuzz about the concept for months and now are excited about the event. What to do?
In my college ethics class, we called this an ethical dilemma: two good choices with conflicting outcomes. Do I choose to see the man who was my friend when I had none and now secretly admire from afar to help send him off with a thank you before he retires even if he has no idea I am attending his show, or do I join a worldwide effort to make the world a warm, fuzzy and more beautiful place, bringing joy to millions?
When faced with dilemmas like these in a college ethics class, the steps to resolve the conflict begin with listing the stakeholders. Let\’s take a shot at it. Here are mine:
  • Me
  • Garrison Keillor
  • Everyone in the world plus an army of selfless knitters and crocheters
Then we list the possible outcomes for each stakeholder of each scenario. Scenario #1:
I go to see A Prairie Home companion
  • Me: I see the man of my dreams while sitting next to my husband on my birthday. I feel guilty the entire time because I should be enriching people’s lives with yarn bombs.
  • Garrison Keillor: Doesn’t even know who I am
  • Everyone in the world plus an army of selfless knitters and crocheters: Don’t even miss me, but bring a lot of joy to the world that I am not a part of.
Next, scenario #2:
I go with my group to do some Yarn Bombing
  • Me: I am distracted because I am missing seeing Garrison Keillor. I feel sorry for myself because it is my birthday.
  • Garrison Keillor: Doesn’t even know who I am
  • Everyone in the world plus an army of selfless knitters and crocheters: Get the same amount of work done as they would without me because I am useless.
There is one final scenario, #3. Let’s list the pros and cons.
I go to see Garrison Keillor while also making a yarn bomb showing at the show. I wear everything I have knitted and make a knitted chair cover for my plastic chair. Under my hand knits I wear my knitting club tee that says “Team Garrison” on the front and on the back, “What happens at Knitting Club Stays at Knitting Club.”
  • Me, pros: I participate simultaneously in both events.
  • Me, cons: Worst-case scenario, I am removed by security for having knitting needles and generally looking like a potential stalker.
  • Garrison Keillor: Hears a small commotion from the back row, goes on with the show. Doesn’t know who I am.
  • Everyone in the world plus an army of selfless knitters and crocheters: Get the same amount of work done as they would without me because I am useless.
After reviewing this information several times and giving it much thought, I will just have to risk show security. I already bought the tickets. Love makes you do crazy things.