When I began this blog nearly a year ago, I knew there would be things I did not understand. Let\’s face it: my last computer science class was at McLoughlin public middle school, 7th grade, 1980 with Mr. Perkins, who was famous for saying, \”Be alert! Lerts are popular.\”

I never thought I would be on a computer as much as I am in recent memory, but since they have invaded our spaces, personal and private, as though we all lived in a real-life Isaac Asimov story, we must all learn to deal with them in big or small ways.

Until the robots take over our world, we are left to manage them and mine has gone awry.

It came to my attention a few days, no weeks, ago that my email was not receiving my blog entries. I suscribed to my own feed thinking that I could keep an eye on things. I did a rotten job.

Being a neophyte to blogging, I failed to recognize that if the feed does not go to MY email, then it is going to no one else\’s either. Instead, I just went, \”Wow! Something must be wrong with my email.\” And I didn\’t even attempt to trouble shoot that, either.

Today, I asked a friend if she was receiving emails from Through the Knitting Lens and she said, \”No. but it\’s ok. I just catch up on Facebook.\”

I came home from work and immediately got online. It turns out that the feed can get too big. So every entry from the last year, apparently, was being stored in the feed!

I hope it is fixed, now, and I apologize for any irritation and/or inconvenience!!

Kermit was right: It\’s not easy being green.

Thanks for reading!

Janelle



Only a few gifts this year! There are two pairs of slippers missing…I was also late in taking the photos!!

 Christmas. At work today, my knitterly friends and I were just discussing this knitting-sore topic, meaning this: we are all sort of new-ish knitters (I know I have been at it for 3 years now, but put me up against someone who has been knitting for 40 years and I am like primordial knitting slime) and for the last couple of years, we have been killing ourselves unnecessarily before Christmas with knitting.

Instead of realizing that it takes many months–or at least weeks–to crank out gift-worthy knits, we all seem to continue to operate under the assumption that we should wait till after Thanksgiving every year once the proper holiday season begins, cozy up by a fire on a cool day and knit away for our loved ones. And all of these projects will be, of course, finished completely by Christmas with plenty of time to spare for shopping, card writing and general fun Christmas activities. We had at one point even discussed the idea of throwing in a fun knitting club Christmas party.

Instead of the above peaceful fantasy, here is what really happens around the holidays: Thanksgiving comes seemingly faster with each passing year, then goes as fast as it came. We no sooner pack up the leftover turkey for our parting guests before it is time to look at the calendar. There are only…let\’s see…how to calculate working time…31 days in a month, but Christmas is on the 25th…that only leaves about 25-27 days to complete about 15-20 gifts, 21 if we include the outer circle of friends and the mailman.



It\’s frustrating to not be able to do everything you want.

 We then realize–seemingly afresh each year–that we have to quickly decide on patterns and yarns, shop for these things, order some things online, wait for them to come and when that task is completed, we re-check the calendar for updated working time, only to realize that there might now be a realistic 20 days (at best) to knit. And shop. And decorate. And do cards, visit Christmas light displays, take our kids to Santa, go to church, plan each family gathering, bake treats (which we also must complete as gifts for our neighbors and co-workers) and on and on it goes.

Instead of a cozy warm fireplace on a cool day, I personally end up sweating it out figuratively and literally: the days are usually not cold enough here in early December for a fire, but I am always determined to have one, even in spite of the fact that I am working at mach speed to finish gifts for at least my own children. The very children I neglect for most of December in my rush to finish projects like an underpaid worker in some third world sweat shop with my head perpetually down and my blistered fingers flying. It is not cozy.

This year, I sort of wised up…a little. I realized about midway through the month of December, that some things had to be cut, pushed out, let go. Not everyone was getting a gift this year of dainty woolen fibers lovingly wound with two sticks into magical intricate shapes. Heck, I can hardly do that on a regular day, and no matter how much Christmas magic one sprinkles on a project, some fantasies are not to be.

I stripped my knitted gift list down to a few people: my husband, three sons, three daughters and my boss. That would be manageable enough–maybe. Then I looked again at my feverish list of possible patterns, determined to pick only a few that would leave enough time for eating and sleeping, at the least.

One son loves Oregon State, and one loves UofO. Civil War in our house.

Slippers. There was something I could finish. And hats. Now we were talking. I had a great pattern from Fiber Trends for some felted clogs and another one I had wanted to make for my daughter about two stressful Christmases ago–which I had failed to do. That one was a Paton\’s pattern for sock monkey slippers.

I got out my patterns. The clog pattern was great, and I knew just the yarn for the men in my family–my husband and two of my sons. I also had practiced making a pair a few months back, so there would be no weird surprises. I knew exactly how it would turn out. The sock monkeys were another story.

I bought Patons\’s Family Felting book a couple of years ago and Annie, age 9 at the time, wanted the sock monkey slippers immediately. Back then, I fel that I could not tackle them: they looked too hard for me. I looked at them again this year. What a nice surprise they would make for Christmas. I understood the pattern. No problem after all those socks I have been making–another bonus of Sock Summit! I looked closer. Hmmm….size 8 inch foot length for a 7-8 year old child. Annie was now 11 and had a women\’s size 7.5 foot, about 9 inches long and 8 inches around.

Yup. I had to rework the pattern.

Adding to the difficulty was the fact that is was a felted project. I took a deep breath and thought about all those mathmatical measurements I had learned over the past several months for feet, socks and fit. I made myself sit down calmly with pencil, paper and calculator–sans fire–and figured out how to add stitches for 25% shrinkage that would ultimately fit her foot. I was unsure, but I went for it.

It actually worked. I will never doubt math again. Unless it promises time travel, but that\’s another story. After the monkeys, it was on to the slippers. They really are a fun project and I would recommend the Fiber Trends pattern by Bev Galeskas. They worked up pretty fast and turn out great. I used Cascade 220 wool. A friend recommended Lamb\’s Pride, but I don\’t like it as well. Those things aside, it was time for a couple of hats.

Alex\’s new Duck\’s hat. It was fun to try \”fair isle\” knitting for myself. I used very, very old Red Heart yarn. Boy, it sure feels thicker than the new stuff!

My one son, Alex, did not want slippers. He wanted a new Oregon Ducks hat. I made him one last year and he wears it so much, it can stand alone in a corner. I actually think I heard it demand dinner once. So, in order to wash it so as to prevent it coming completely alive, I agreed. I worked my own checkboard pattern into the one size fits all hats from More Knitted Gifts by Joelle Hoverson. I love that pattern and even made it a second time for my boss, this time with navy yarn and a white stripe for BYU, his favorite school.

Finally, and since I sort of had a small amount of time, I threw in a pair of fingerless mitts for my boss to match his hat. 

That was my checklist: 5 pairs of felted slippers, 2 hats, one pair of fingerless gloves and a partridge in a pear tree.

As for Amy Rose, she did not get any knitted things for Christmas, though I am working on a sweater for her as we speak out of the latest Interweave Knits magazine called Petite Facile Pullover in Plymouth Mushishi. It\’s adorable and fun to make in this breathable time.

That is the story of how I survived Christmas this year. It wasn\’t perfect and I still was late in my knitted start, but we were able to decorate our house and made it to one local light show. Next year is going to be different. I suppose I am making a resolution. In fact, earlier today, I think my work friends and I all did: we are starting now. At least the planning. The knitting, we decided must begin in Spring. Or summer at least.

Only then will the mailman be able to receive his special delivery.

My whole world opened up yesterday. I finally learned the \”new\” meaning of the word \”hipster…\” I think.

\”Hipster\” is one of those vague slang words that could mean any number of things. Usually I don\’t care too much about the true meaning of a slang term (I say \”true\” loosely). I just hear new phrases, sometimes adopt them for my own and then throw them around for my own amusement.

This usually works for me–except that one time in 6th grade when I went around my classroom with a tea cup hook, hooking people\’s jean belt loops and crying out, \”I\’m a hooker!\” to gales of classroom laughter. The more the class laughed, the more I did it. Mrs. Stanton, 6th grade teacher and understander of the term \”hooker,\” put a quick and hard end to my fun.

I have since learned to be more discerning in my use of new, hip, urban vernacular…at least that which is new to me…and my days of hooking are over. But, in general, I still lean at least a little on the fast and loose side: if the words aren\’t filthy or gang terms that might get me beat up in a mall parking lot, well, they are fair game. Until recently.

Something has been really bugging me about this newish word, \”hipster.\” Upon first hearing it a few years ago, it had the usual vauge charm and a lack of potentially ensuing violence required for my personal use, but I just couldn\’t throw it around.

My 18 and 20 year old sons were saying it, and I heard it from younger friends, but it was just too mysterious to use. For me, it would conjur up images of Austin Powers and the 60\’s swinging single crowd, or even actual jeans that fit on the hips, but these definitions didn\’t fit the contexts I was hearing it in. It was always used, well, sarcastically, as if it were a sort of insult. It was hardly a natural retort to someone\’s casual description of their Old Navy\’s.

Enter Nicole.

She is my twenty something, cool, young friend in the know. She has her intellectual finger on the pulse of all things urban, fresh, socially new, young and colloquial. Nicole is one of those people with not only a commanding knowledge of all things social, but one with an uncanny ability to read situations and people with freakish accuracy. In short, she should probably be a lawyer…or one to start a social revolution for the greater good. Whether she uses her powers for good or evil was never my concern. She is my avatar, my social guide to all things current. And she enlightened me yesterday like no other day.

We work together in the same dental office and yesterday we were cleaning instruments together and popping them into the sterilizer like some great sanitizing oven and I said, quite out of the blue, \”Nicole, I saw this Youtube video yesterday. I was looking for the \’Vancouvria\’ video, which was hilarious, but then I saw this other one that caught my attention.\” I felt sheepish. I was either about to be so right or embarrassingly wrong.

She waited for me to go on. She stopped stuffing the sterilizer and put down a stainless steel cassette wrapped in blue paper. The instruments clinked inside.

She just looked at me. Crap. There was that reading people thing again.

\”It was called, \’Confessions of a Hipster.\’ And it was really funny, I think.\” I felt unsure if I should laugh at it.

\”Oh?\” She was sort of smiling. Of course, she knew where this was going. She probably assumed that at my age, I had stopped learning new slang after \”radical\” and \”awesome.\” She might have been right.

\”Yeah. You know, I always thought of a hipster like Austin Powers, you know? Like a swinging single. But it\’s more like someone who thinks they are intellectually superior, isn\’t it?\”

Nicole\’s smile broadened. She was reading my mind and she knew she was about to blow it apart. \”You didn\’t know that?\” Bigger smile–she was proud of me, I could tell. \”Yeah that\’s like those people you know who talk about things they know you don\’t know enough of to respond or engage. And if you try, they just talk over you. I have friends like that.\” She went on, \”I say, \’hey, I heard this great new band!\’ and they say, \’that is so over! Now it\’s this other band!\’ They work really hard at being able to show off.\”

Not just one light bulb went on over my head, but 10,000 gleaming beacons. I had just been given a category for the people I never previously had the words to describe.

I thought of a friend I saw recently at a party who exclaimed, \”You know, I used to think, now why would anyone waste their time reading fiction, you know?\” when someone brought up how much they liked their book club. She said it in a tone that said, \”I am trying to make this sound like many of you will agree with me, but secretly I know that you will all instead really be feeling stupid for reading Little House on the Prairie and Harry Potter, and I will be the intellectual superior. Round one: me.\” She\’s a hipster!

I mentioned to another friend once that I enjoyed my church and she not only tsk tsk\’d the idea, but gave me a Dark Ages lecture on the church followed by a very long story about how Christianity rose out of eastern Europe with the Zoroastrians and didn\’t I know how convoluted, yet quaint it all was? It was sooooo manmade. She is one who pulls out very specific information on classes from college that she knows you have not taken and talks louder and faster over you until you stop trying to respond and sit silently. She sits back, thinking she has outdone you. Round two? The hipster.

These thoughts all flew through my mind as I talked to Nicole that fateful day of sterilization in the dental office. How freeing. I used the word at least 6 times that day, thinking of sketch comedy from Portlandia that now had even funnier content. I wanted to run home and rewatch every episode. I thought of example after example in my own life…and how these people have been around for some time.

They are not usually the true nerdy folks (though they are certainly not exempt from the temptation to rule the world, or at least the conversation), no. The true hipsters are the ones who simply proclaim they are nerdy and oh, so proud of it. In short, they talk the talk, but don\’t walk the nerdy walk. Really, they are the overeducated–even if on the asinine–the socially too-aware and perhaps even the intellectually vain among us who seek to overpower others with information that makes no sense or that most of us do not use.

So the next time I am tempted to announce to my friends that I got a scalene triangle tattoo because equilateral triangle tattoos are simply not chaotic enough, I will think twice. About getting the tattoo in the first place.

Everyone knows that isosceles are the way to go. Two equal angles with only one odd man out are just enough chaos to maintain singularity. That makes me more ironic.

Doesn\’t it?

My father used to call me a \”frustrated perfectionist.\” He would say this as he watched me practicing my piano lessons and trying so hard to make each piece right–no mistakes. I was motivated  by a desire to jump on to harder things. I thought that the harder pieces would sound better and more like \”real\” music than scales, arpeggios and simple tunes.

It is definitely hard as a beginner to hear others so much more practiced–so much more talented, maybe, too–than you are and know it is going to take a very long while to reach your lofty goals, if you ever do. So instead of playing where others will hear you, you keep your music to yourself, working on your own until such a time as you feel you might be \”worthy\” to be heard by others. In knitting, there is a similar feeling sometimes among beginners: they feel shy about their skills and don\’t feel worthy of knitting with more experienced people or giving knitted gifts.

We get down on ourselves. We do things like compare knitted retail items to what we could make, for example, and tell ourselves it isn\’t worth it to make an inferior product that will surely cost us more in yarn and time than the store bought knitwear. Maybe we also think about the things we are good at, and feel like knitting, too, should be at the level of our other talents before we share it. After all, only kids can get away with being beginners, right? Adult women and men should have learned those skills long ago, right? Wrong.

A friend of mine emailed me a story out of the December 2011 issue of Guideposts Magazine about this very thing.

In the very short story on page 16 of the issue, a woman tells of not only her novice knitting skills, but of how she has never really improved them. As she says, \”I only know one stitch.\” \”Know.\” Present tense. And I must assume she means garter stitch since there is no mention of others.

This woman wanted to make scarves for Christmas for 22 people. 22! That is daunting for anyone. I would have to start in spring to finish a goal like that by Christmas. She goes on to say that since she can only knit in \”one stitch,\” she understands that there will be no variation in the scarves. They will all be garter.

Her idea was this: she very carefully considered every person on her list. Were they artistic? She bought them more avant garde colors, and bolder combinations than most might wear. One friend was a cook at a camp. Colors of veggies for her. Another was someone she admired for her insight and wisdom. That friend received a scarf reflecting those personal qualitied in jewel tones and richness of color.

This list of painstaking detail goes on 22 times. The knitter was poetic, insightful and showed that she really, truly knew her friends. It was not on her mind that the scarves would be the same, or people might feel like she \”cheaped\” out making a beginner\’s pattern. Rather, she poured her heart into every gift, and I see no way they could have been received with anything but astonished gratitude.

So to you knitters who feel you little or nothing to offer your family and friends (myself included in that), you are wrong. A little love and attention to detail can go a long way. A really long way.

Are you secretly asking yourself what this woman must have done with all the left over yarn?

She knitted herself a scarf, matching in stitch, with every single color she used for her friends. That way, every time she wears it, she thinks of each of them.

How\’s that for a Merry Christmas?

Want to create that feeling with your own friends? Here is a quick, loosely retold guide to a \”friendship scarf,\” borrowwed from \”Knit it Together\” by Suzyn Jackson.

Gather several friends and be sure you have a nice block of time, say 3 hours.

Each person brings a new skein of yarn to the party in matching size/approx gauge. Bulky might be good for speed.

The yarn is to share and each participant uses their own needles.

Sit in a circle and begin knitting a scarf, any pattern, any width. Just keep in mind that you will want to have a scarf when you are done, so maybe not too complicated.

Begin with your own yarn and knit away (try garter!) until a signal occurs. This is agreed upon before the game begins–we have one gal who likes to mention her cats, for example, this might be a signal. When the signal occurs, cut your yarn and pass it to your left.

Do this until the alloted time has passed, then everyone has essentially the same scarf, but different, too!

The holidays.

How many heartwarming, heartwrenching or simply corny stories have been told about them? How many times have we all read about the trials and tribulations of shoppers, hostesses and planners everywhere? How many times have we wanted to scream or barf at the redundancy of these writings–or just recycled them on sight with no thought at all? And yet, here we all are: Time marches and on we must wade through one more season of Christmas in our shared tribulations. 

Don\’t misunderstand me. I adore the Christmas season. I really do believe that, no matter how old one becomes, there is magic and wonder to be found. I even work diligently to perpetuate this idea in my children. But something seems to be happening to me as I age. 

Time truly does march on, but it marches faster and faster as more of it passes. It is as though I am part of a vast hourglass, and, like any hourglass, the fewer sands there are, the faster they seem to fall. (For you Wizard of Oz fans, you may now imagine the Wicked Witch cackling as the sands run dangerously to their end).

I can remember what my Christmas season was like as a much younger woman working at a local retail store–Fred Meyer, for those of you familiar with the western half of the United States. I keenly recall the start of it all: Black Friday.

We would prepare from July to November, receiving boxes and boxes of special sale freight just for that day. All us girls in the Ready-to-Wear department had to wear nylons and skirts while we whiled away the hours cutting cardboard, sorting product and labeling it all. Just so it could be destroyed by the crazed early morning shoppers insanely wild about getting a 50% off deal on socks–socks that we knew had about a 300% markup in the first place.

On \”BF\” (not to be confused with today\’s acronym \”BFF\”), all was ready. We store employees would dress way up, wearing suits and dresses, and stand back–WAY back–to watch the shoppers enter the store at o\’dark thirty.

I ran the \”Domestics\” department, which included pillows, bedding, towels, curtains, lamps and crafts. The department was in the back of the store, but we weren\’t completely hidden from the world. There was one very long aisle that led from outside the building and all the way back to Domestics.

I had a special BF vantage point that included this entire aisle, and enjoyed watching the variety of customers entering the store and heading my way. Some would be reserved, almost as though they were there to people-watch, too, while others were like some women who would burst through the door right at 7am, dragging still-pj-clad toddlers all the way down the long aisle to the towels. Some took it a bit further and even pressed through the ever-growing crowd all the way to the bowels of Domestics until they reached the ceiling displays.

These were boxes displayed over rows and rows of towels stacked on glass shelves. The four boxes in my towel section each contained a form shaped to hold a single towel, while giving the illusion of several towels stacked in a shelf, like you might see in your perfectly imagined linen closet. The most desperate of shoppers would occasionally climb the glass shelving and try to tear down the \”multiple\” towels in the display boxes very high up on the walls, just to get what they thought were those last few towels to complete their mauve set of eight.

We had to rescue many a shopper from potentially shattered glass and certain disappointment.

Those were the days. The long, long days.

Following BF was what seemed an eternity stretching out before the actual day of Christmas. Every day I would enter the store with Christmas music playing, more stock for putting out, cleaning, and selling. I loved helping the customers–especially the crafters who started their special holiday work in July.

We had special sales just for them, year-round. I couldn\’t believe their foresight, dedication and…paranoia. Why did these people start so early? As an early twenty something, I marveled. There was so much time, even time after Thanksgiving! Were they really so worried about being ready for December 25th that they headed out shopping in July?

This puzzlement has given way to understanding over these past 20 years. I have 6 children to prepare for, a college degree complete with matching profession, a husband, home, church membership and oh, so many more responsibilities. I have also slowly added interests one at a time: cooking, gardening, cross-stitch, sewing, scrap booking, photography….and now knitting. And I simply cannot bring myself to leave any of them behind. I love them all so dearly.

Perhaps I have always assumed that this was what all people did. Maybe I am right. Is this is one of the things driving the time crunch that seems to go with age? Maybe so.

In addition to learning new skills, I really find myself wanting to use them in making things for people: calendars complete with photos of my kids taken by me; slippers and mittens and hats; felted clog slippers (I have 3 done, need 2 more!); home-sewn jammies for Christmas morning; loving decorations in our home that mean something from year to year for my family.

As another December goes hurtling by at an even faster rate, I am, in spite of my industry, aching for time to enjoy it. I love going to mass on Christmas, participating in the drives for warm things for the homeless, helping fill our church food bank, even in a small way. But it feels impossible to do those things effectively, contemplatively, if I wait till after Thanksgiving to start making gifts.

Now I understand: those July crafters may have been getting it right. Perhaps they have discovered the secret to enjoying Christmas: Enjoy it year-round by doing secret thoughtful things for others all the time, only to reveal them at Christmas.

I might never get back that feeling of the vastness of time I had years ago, but perhaps I can make the time that I have richer than ever.

           I am a dental hygienist. It\’s a wonderful profession and I enjoy it immensely.Yes, I may be a secret Sneak Knitter, a Lucille Ball-esque wife, a wannabe knitwear designer and many other things, but when I am not moonlighting as a pseudo-sock-developer and writer-in-training, I am helping to take care of people\’s oral health as an RDH.

Notwithstanding some of the sillier stereotypes you may find yourself calling to mind upon hearing this acronym, such as the RDH portrayed on \”The Office\” as a short-term love interest for Dwight, the alpha male beet farmer, you may be wondering right now if you like me anymore. You might be thinking, \”Hey! Isn\’t she the chick who yells at me about flossing everytime I visit the dentist?\” Then you might snort to yourself–the sort of involuntary sound that leaves one\’s throat, via the nose, in disgust–that you must now decide whether or not to read on.

Well, dear reader, this story will not be about tooth flossing today, per se, so you can relax. (Though you really should consider the habit. New Year\’s fast approaches. And oral bacteria sleeps for no man.)

I work in a wonderful dental office. We have a terrific staff and are fortunate to have doctors who regularly implement the latest research and technology into the practice. Consquently, we have pretty high tech equipment and we all try our hardest to pass on the latest health research to our patients in order to best serve them. Yet, while 3-D panoramic xrays and cutting edge restorative materials may really help to improve patient care, some of the standard equipment still seem irreplacable. Like good ol\’ dental floss.

Floss, it could be argued, is one of the most important things we use in our homecare instruction, and we generally spend a lot of time and energy teaching people how to use it correctly. And usually it is in the promotion of the health of their gums.

A while back, I was working very early. It was one of a few days in the week where we all arrive at 6:45a.m. and begin seeing patients at 7:10 a.m. Anyone who has ever worked that early knows that everyone, including the patients/customers/students (depending on the setting), feel a little reserved, mellow, at that time of day. In a phrase, all is quiet.

On that very early morning, one of my favorite patients was coming in. She is a knitting friend and a super all-around person. Needless to say, I was pretty excited to see her. I knew she would set a positive, energetic tone for my whole day.

Enter Dory, one of the coolest, spriteliest (did I just make that word up?), red-headed, tiny women to ever walk the earth. She bubbled into my operatory, smiling and generally exuding sparkly energy all around her. Time of day has no effect on her and she instantly livened the atmosphere in our little space together, even if the rest of the world seemed sleepy.

Dory was a beginning knitter at the time–and let\’s face it, so was I. It was hard for us to get down to dental business when we had so many stitches, patterns and ideas to discuss. We excitement to share in our newly-discovered lifestyle–er, hobby. We enjoyed helping each other and there was trouble shooting to do.

We went through most of the hour resisting the urge to break out into a full knitting discussion. We updated all of her dental care, did her cleaning through short, frequent breaks to add one sentence pieces to our ongoing knitting conversation and before we knew it, we had happily completed our dental necessities–our real reason for being there. We agreed that we really needed to get together sometime to have a full on help-each-other session in knitting. While we waited for her exam with the doctor, Dory mentioned to me, \”You know, I just can\’t get that purl stitch down.\”

I gave a rough beginner\’s explanation of how to purl. But there is something that happens when one is a beginner. You might know yourself how to do a new task, but have a hard time explaining it to another. You don\’t have mastery yourself, so you simply cannot use terms that mean anything to anyone, let alone another learner. I struggled to explain where to place the right needle in terms that made sense and the counterclockwise direction of the yarn needed for wrapping said needle for the new stitch was lost in my words.

Dory looked at me. I knew I was the blind leading the blind. Now we were both confused. There was a little silence. Then, as is often the case with people who are excited to share a new skill before they are really ready, I decided I needed a visual presentation. Right then.

I did not have yarn. I had floss, though. Miles of it. And I had no needles. I looked at my hands. Fingers would not do. How about…pencils? I had heard of children using them to learn on. I had none. I had pens. Two of them in the pocket of my white coat. One red and one black. I pulled them out. They were both covered in the poplular non-slip rubbery coating so often seen on office pens.

I held them in my left hand and pulled out a length of waxed floss with my right. As I attempted to explain what I was doing, I made a slip knot and tried–out of context–to cast on. That was even lost on me for a moment. I faltered. Then I got it. I put a few challenging, sticky waxed stitches onto the even stickier red pen. They looked really uneven. I mentally flashed back to a 1979 summer recreation class for kids and really bad macrame.

Dory was trying to watch what I was doing as though I were some sort of expert. At this point, I think she thought that I knew what I was talking about and that she was just not understanding.  I kept the truth to myself as I struggled with the black pen and tried to decide how I was going to even slide the makeshift \”yarn\” along the \”needle.\”

I poked the black pen towards myself through the first loop on the red one, wrapped the floss around the black pen and attempted to make a stich.

It took me about 3 minutes to get 3 stitches transfered from left pen to right pen. I held them up as I used more and more words, trying to get the right description, explaining not only the actual stitches and how they should be executed, but also how they were looking different in this waxey format.

My friend looked puzzled. I think she was catching on. I caught a pity smile. She even tried to imitate my jerky purl motions on the pens.

After a long pause, she said, \”Oh, I\’ll get it! I\’ll try it at home. Don\’t worry about it!\” Now she laughed as though to laugh with me (and it was pretty convincing), \”There\’s always Youtube!\”

Just then, the very patient dentist I work for came into the room. He smiled. \”Did you get any cleaning done in here?\” More pity smiles? Maybe I imagined those. Maybe not.

Two things are certain. First, there will unlikely be any classes on knitting with waxed floss offered anywhere anytime soon. Second, I now have a knitting basket in my room at work.

You never know.

\”Grandmother, I am almost grown now. How shall I live my life?\”  Nala was almost 13 years old. She had been thinking about her impending adulthood. Now she stood before Grandmother with questions in her eyes.

Grandmother was taken aback by the sudden approach. She had been sitting with her knitting needles and a ball of good wool–her old friends these 45 years at least–when her Little One approached her. She put them, along with her hands, on her faded calico apron that covered an even more faded green and gold paisley skirt and quietly turned to the child and looked into her young, green eyes. Grandmother thought that Nala\’a gaze was that of a much older girl, one trying on the airs of a woman.

\”Little One,\” she said in a gentle tone, \”Why do you ask this question? You have many years yet to prepare for the challenges that certainly come in to every life.\” She waited.

Nala straightened her spine. If she looked taller, she thought, she might be taken more seriously. \”I am growing bigger all the time, Grandmother,\” said she, standing even straighter as if to show proof, \”and before I know it, I will be a woman.\”

Grandmother looked at the tiny woman-to-be, with the knock knees and skinny arms and legs. She knew this time came for all girls. The time when they felt they could no longer wait to grow up, the time when they wished that time would move faster. Little did they know… but then, who could change the way things had always been? She sighed, wished that childhood would last just a little bit longer in the hearts of girls, and then she reached for Nala\’s hands.

Nala recognized the gesture and held them out from long, thin arms, palms up. Grandmother\’s hands, thick from many years of hard work and much bigger than the child\’s, came up under Nala\’s. She pushed Nala\’s hands up to force a bend at the elbows, making her fingers point at the ceiling. Nala noticed that Grandmother\’s hands were much stronger than they looked, with very soft, crepe paper skin to cover them.

Leaving Nala\’s fingers pointing up, Grandmother reached silently for her wool and began.

She tied a loop at one end and placed it on Nala\’s pinky finger. Nala thought the wool was rough.

\”First, Little One, you must begin with a foundation, solid and firm.\” She began weaving the yarn back and forth in a figure eight around the child\’s small, soft fingers. \”The foundation is the beginning and if it is sound, you can always return to it if you lose your way.\”

Nala was puzzled. She had come for answers. \”Grandmoth–\” she tried, but Grandmother continued weaving the yarn slowly, deliberately back and forth.

\”Along the way, you will encounter many choices,\” she began to pull the second row of yarn over the first, creating little circlets,\” and you will have to make decisions. Keep following your foundation and you will make fewer mistakes.\”

Grandmother continued weaving back and forth, back and forth, then pulling the yarn over each finger one at a time. Nala decided to be silent for a moment. After a few more times around, Grandmother took Nala\’s hand and, without words, showed her how to weave back and forth, too. There was a chain forming at Nala\’s knuckles. She became fascinated by the intricacy of the quickly growing fabric formed by the simple wool yarn.

Nala struggled as she tried to mimic the movements Grandmother made, but Grandmother guided her hand. \”Remember not to only rely on yourself on your journey, Little One, do not be afraid to ask for help from those you trust.\”

Back and forth, back and forth Grandmother worked.

\”What if I make a mistake when I am alone?\” Nala worried, \”Will my chain unravel?\”

Grandmother smiled, \”You can make some mistakes and your chain will still stay strong. It might even become more interesting.\”

The slow, even weaving process resumed, and Grandmother looked down once more, helping Nala\’s fingers do the work.

\”Grandmother, will I be able to do this on my own?\”

\”Your hands will eventually remember the motions. When you make the correct motions from the start, you might be slow at first, but you will form good habits and you will do this more and more with ease. Your skill will become strong.\”

Grandmother had not addressed the idea of an unraveling chain. Nala was a bit unnerved by this. \”Grandmother, what if I make a mistake that does not hold strong?\”

\”Your chain will unravel. Sometimes all the way.\” Grandmother was unmoved by her own statement. She just continued weaving slowly, laboriously. Nala could not understand this.

\”If it unravels all the way, what would I do?\” Nala searched Grandmother\’s eyes.

\”If your foundation is strong, you can always start over.\” Patiently Grandmother continued back and forth, back and forth.

That sounded like a lot of trouble to the child. Nala was impatient, as children often are. To work for so long only to have something come completely undone! How could Grandmother be so calm?

\”How do I do it right in the first place? I mean, Grandmother, it does not sound good to have to begin again!\” Nala was becoming irritated. \”I do not wish to have to reweave my chain!\”

Grandmother stopped weaving for a moment and firmly held Nala\’s hands in hers. The wool scratched Nala\’s hands. Grandmother looked once more into Nala\’s eyes. So young. They had gone from confident to uncertain. Grandmother firmed her lips, then she smiled.

\”Sometimes that is when we learn the most and the best, Little One.\”

Grandmother loosened her grasp on Nala\’s hands. Together, they continued the task of weaving the wool into a chain. It was getting very long.

At length, Nala asked Grandmother one last thing: \”Grandmother?\”

Grandmother stopped.. \”Yes, Little One?\”

\”What do I do when my chain is finished?\”

Grandmother did not even hesitate. \”Use it to show another the way.\”