I remember one day, when I was very little, my mother took me out for a walk. We lived in a good neighborhood—and like most good neighborhoods, this one hid a shameful secret in its core.
We had not gotten far from home when I saw a woman approaching us on the sidewalk. It was summer, but she was wearing a wool hat with pom-poms, a thick cabled scarf, and several lace shawls over a fair island sweater. She wore a skirt of granny squares over her cargo shorts, and a pair of thin flip-flops over her hand-knit socks–one pink and lacy, one patterned in leaves and stretching up past her knee.
My mother pulled me closer as the woman neared us. She was hunched slightly, muttering over something in her hands. When she was nearly even with us, I could hear that she was saying, “It won’t break. Won’t break. Why won’t it break?” The object in her hands was a scrap of red yarn. She kept tugging feebly on the ends, but the yarn didn’t break.
“Why did she want her yarn to break, Mommy?” I asked once she had passed us. “Isn’t that bad?”
“She’s a bad lady,” my mother said shortly, pulling at my hand, but I stayed where I was. The woman had turned onto the front walkway of Mrs. Morrison’s house. She looked up from the bit of yarn long enough to knock on the doorbell–one, two, three, pause, one-two, pause, one–then returned to her muttering. I watched, fascinated, as the door opened only an inch or two. I could see the light reflecting off of Mrs. Morrison’s glasses through the small crack.
“Password?” Mrs. Morrison demanded.
“Intarsia,” said the woman. The door opened just wide enough to allow the woman to slip inside.
“Come along, Tabitha,” my mother insisted. I was too small to keep her from dragging me down the street, but I kept looking over my shoulder as she towed me off. Who was that woman? And what was going on in Mrs. Morrison’s house? I was determined to find out…
That was supposed to be an amusing description of a yarn addict as a prelude to the rest of the post, but naturally it ran away with itself. It would seem I’ve been reading too many Agent K stories…the last thing I need is another project and another character (Ursula, I swear I haven’t abandoned you! Or that novel that I’m majorly behind on…), but Tabitha took on a life of her own, and I’m really curious to find out what’s behind Mrs. Morrison’s door….
Sigh. I’m going through major withdrawal here, people. All I have that isn’t acrylic (ptooie!) is this blankety-blank cotton in this blankety-blank pale yellow and THERE ARE NO WORDS IN ANY LANGUAGE TO DESCRIBE HOW MUCH I HATE IT. Not even in Greek, which is really saying something.
Not that it matters given how much my left hand still hurts, but still. I may have to put a moratorium on visits to Ravelry, because all the pretty pictures and patterns and yarns are making me even crazier. At least I have a couple of new sock books from the library…
If you have any sympathy for a knitter in need, you can find me on Ravelry here. And if you haven’t, go read the Agent K stories. They’re brilliant. By the same author, and even more brilliant, in my opinion, is this.