made from my Blackberry Wine hand spun
I taught myself how to knit as an undergrad in college. It's a long story, but part of my trek to class every day involved circumventing a building complex that contained a coffee shop, a flower shop, a wine shop, the district library, and a yarn shop. A very potent combination.
I visited the yarn shop often, but as a non-knitter I was completely baffled by the projects on display. Surely the sweaters and mittens, even the hats, were way beyond my skill level. No one in my life knit, a few distant and dusty aunts might have crocheted. But no one was talking about that.
The yarn drew me in. At first I didn't touch, then I did touch, but only with one finger. Soon I was fondling the skeins and I guess I'm lucky the shop owner was a generous, understanding woman, because she showed no shock when one day on the spur of the moment (a week after I'd broken up with my first college boyfriend) I purchased a half mile of fine Shetland wool the color of the sunset.
She wound the skeins into tidy cylinders (my dad's a farmer, they reminded me of big hay bales) and the yarn sat on my night stand for another month. Then I bought a beginner's book on knitting (and more yarn, of course) and taught myself how to cast on.
Initially, my stitches were all inside out (if that makes sense.) But isn't that the way life goes? My beginner's luck still hasn't worn off.
No comments:
Post a Comment