be knit, not to be knit with any degree of quality, and his stunning ability to avoid becoming a sweater through passive aggressive behavior that earned him the playful nickname “total piece of crap.”
Despite several interventions, treatments, re-knits, and pattern adjustments, Cabled Grey eventually succumbed to the terrible pattern he had contracted. One desperate final surgery was attempted, but the craftspeople present during this ill-fated procedure all supported the diagnosis of the original knitter, which was that Cabled should be helped to the great big cedar chest in the sky, and never attempted again. Cabled entered palliative care in the hall closet, until the 14th of November, when he received his final visit from neighborhood knitters during a “stash tidy.” Knitters at the visitation were welcome to spend a few final moments with Grey, and every single one agreed wholeheartedly that it truly was best that this struggle end, as the knitter looked sort of desperate and frantic when Grey was taken from the bag, and it was clear that Cabled had an inoperable series of obviously miscrossed cables that were causing both him and his knitter a great deal of intractable pain. Knitters surrounded Cabled at this time, and disconnected him from knit-support as they withdrew the needles. Shortly thereafter Cabled Grey came to the end of his repeat, and the knitters departed, sadly acknowledging that he was indeed hopelessly ugly and unfortunately ill-fitting, and had a really, really bad pattern. Services, as brief as they were, consisted of dumping the sweater into the Goodwill bin, while quaffing red wine and declaring “Life’s too short for bad knits,” “Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out,” and the profound, “Holy cow, I can’t believe I spent that much time and money on that sweater; man, I’m just pissed.”
Cabled Grey, or rather the idea of what Cabled Grey could have been, will be sadly missed by his knitter, the needles he so persistently occupied, and the pattern that was his ultimate undoing. Cabled Grey is survived by his daughter, Leftover Grey Yarn, who is thinking about becoming a hat to honor her father. Blue Mohair, who occupied the space next to Cabled Grey on the shelf for many years, will miss him tremendously, although seems rather fond of the cute hand-dyed laceweight who’s moved in. As usual, the sock yarns have no idea what is going on.
The departure of Cabled Grey was immediately followed by the casting on of Alpaca Lace Shawl, who shall be knit in his memory. In lieu of flowers, patterns without errors and yarn with good attitude may be sent to Stephanie’s Stash, although truthfully, she’s pretty much over it.
KNIT JUNKIE
e walk down the street together, my family and I, three blocks through the busy city from our front door to a little restaurant that we love, and as I take my seat and shrug off my cardigan, I reach down to my bag sitting by my feet. My hand goes in, and as it does there is more air in that bag than I expect, and my heart skips a beat. No knitting? I pull up the bag to my lap and open it, trying to understand what is going on. No knitting? I never have no knitting. I don’t leave the house without knitting like other women don’t leave the house without lipstick or a bra—neither of which I am wearing, but that’s not the point. I always have knitting. It’s one of the things I take with me each and every time I leave the house. Wallet, keys, phone, and a sock-in-progress. Hell, I usually have two kinds of knitting with me if I go to the kitchen, never mind a restaurant. I start pulling out things from my bag. No knitting. I look on the floor. Did I drop it? Maybe it’s still with me? No knitting. That’s it. I have no knitting with me. I pick up the menu and try to focus, but I am instantly and completely uncomfortable. I’m a creature of habit and my habit is more or less continuous knitting, and that’s been true for decades,
Despite several interventions, treatments, re-knits, and pattern adjustments, Cabled Grey eventually succumbed to the terrible pattern he had contracted. One desperate final surgery was attempted, but the craftspeople present during this ill-fated procedure all supported the diagnosis of the original knitter, which was that Cabled should be helped to the great big cedar chest in the sky, and never attempted again. Cabled entered palliative care in the hall closet, until the 14th of November, when he received his final visit from neighborhood knitters during a “stash tidy.” Knitters at the visitation were welcome to spend a few final moments with Grey, and every single one agreed wholeheartedly that it truly was best that this struggle end, as the knitter looked sort of desperate and frantic when Grey was taken from the bag, and it was clear that Cabled had an inoperable series of obviously miscrossed cables that were causing both him and his knitter a great deal of intractable pain. Knitters surrounded Cabled at this time, and disconnected him from knit-support as they withdrew the needles. Shortly thereafter Cabled Grey came to the end of his repeat, and the knitters departed, sadly acknowledging that he was indeed hopelessly ugly and unfortunately ill-fitting, and had a really, really bad pattern. Services, as brief as they were, consisted of dumping the sweater into the Goodwill bin, while quaffing red wine and declaring “Life’s too short for bad knits,” “Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out,” and the profound, “Holy cow, I can’t believe I spent that much time and money on that sweater; man, I’m just pissed.”
Cabled Grey, or rather the idea of what Cabled Grey could have been, will be sadly missed by his knitter, the needles he so persistently occupied, and the pattern that was his ultimate undoing. Cabled Grey is survived by his daughter, Leftover Grey Yarn, who is thinking about becoming a hat to honor her father. Blue Mohair, who occupied the space next to Cabled Grey on the shelf for many years, will miss him tremendously, although seems rather fond of the cute hand-dyed laceweight who’s moved in. As usual, the sock yarns have no idea what is going on.
The departure of Cabled Grey was immediately followed by the casting on of Alpaca Lace Shawl, who shall be knit in his memory. In lieu of flowers, patterns without errors and yarn with good attitude may be sent to Stephanie’s Stash, although truthfully, she’s pretty much over it.
KNIT JUNKIE
e walk down the street together, my family and I, three blocks through the busy city from our front door to a little restaurant that we love, and as I take my seat and shrug off my cardigan, I reach down to my bag sitting by my feet. My hand goes in, and as it does there is more air in that bag than I expect, and my heart skips a beat. No knitting? I pull up the bag to my lap and open it, trying to understand what is going on. No knitting? I never have no knitting. I don’t leave the house without knitting like other women don’t leave the house without lipstick or a bra—neither of which I am wearing, but that’s not the point. I always have knitting. It’s one of the things I take with me each and every time I leave the house. Wallet, keys, phone, and a sock-in-progress. Hell, I usually have two kinds of knitting with me if I go to the kitchen, never mind a restaurant. I start pulling out things from my bag. No knitting. I look on the floor. Did I drop it? Maybe it’s still with me? No knitting. That’s it. I have no knitting with me. I pick up the menu and try to focus, but I am instantly and completely uncomfortable. I’m a creature of habit and my habit is more or less continuous knitting, and that’s been true for decades,
Similar Books
