Free-Range Knitter by Stephanie Pearl–McPhee Page A

sort of the whole her) that almost kept me from liking her in the first place.
    When I met Denny we were both attending a spinning class. (It was spinning on a spinning wheel, not the other sort of spinning class that involves a stationary bike. I assure you, neither of us would be caught there unless there was a hefty bribe.) I’d just gotten a wheel and couldn’t seem to make anything on itbesides knots and alarming wads of wool that could have been sold as artificial bird’s nests, so I was there to learn something that resembled a skill. Denny, well, I’m still not sure why she was there. She was already perfectly competent at the wheel, the loom—everything to do with fiber was already something she was good at, but somehow, and I hope Denny knows what I mean when I say this, I couldn’t tell that.
    The teacher was a serious sort, and that was fine with me because I was there to learn. The room contained a few other students, looms of all sorts, spinning wheels of all types, drum carders, hand cards, distaffs, and odd piles of fiber, and sitting there, in the middle of all of this incomprehensible stuff, was Denny. Denny is not supermodel material, which is not to say that she isn’t beautiful in a surprising way. She’s a little short, average weight, plain brown hair, even her age would be hard to pin down. She’s not old, nor young; she’s right in the middle, and she’d be hell to describe to a police sketch artist. There’s nothing remarkable about her—except, somehow, all of her. She was dressed, as she almost always is, in an outfit that defies description. Denny is one of those people who can wear whatever she wants and look grand. Denny can put on striped tights, a plaid skirt, a handknit sweater in a color that is not present in the stripes or the plaid, top it with a red velvet jacket and a white lace scarf, toss on German shoes, and look inspired. It’s a gift. If I put on the same outfit I would look crazy, or homeless, or both. I can spend forty-five minutes picking out my clothes,and I will still look like I grabbed my outfit out of the dryer in the dark, but when Denny wears it, she looks artistic and creative and original. I’m standing in this class, dead serious and a little nervous, and here she comes, wearing I don’t know what, laughing, gesturing, making tea (when there was a huge “no food or drink” sign), breaking every rule that there was about everything, and I was taken aback. I didn’t know what to do with her. She was much too much for me, and that’s saying something, since I’m often accused of the same thing.
    She was odd as fish, that lady, and my unease went on for weeks, and for a while there, if I’m being really honest, I can tell you that not only did I distrust Denny because she was an unknown quantity, but I think I actually disliked her for breaking the rules and getting away with it. Actually, not just getting away with it, but making the most of it, rising above it … thriving on it. Denny had more individuality in her little finger than I had in my whole body, and I was a little resentful. I wanted to be like that, so firmly me that I didn’t let anything stand in my way, and with that thought I caught the magic, and whether I wanted to or not, I started to admire her, and then to like her (quietly, and while she wasn’t looking), and then to genuinely love her and take her as a friend.
    The magic was this: Denny is so uniquely, profoundly, and unapologetically herself that something crazy happens when you see her. Usually, when you meet someone remarkable like that, you are so awestruck by the wonder that is them that you feel a little bit like you want to be like them. You start to thinkhighly of them, look up to them. And Denny’s not like that. You don’t look up to Denny, and she wouldn’t be capable of looking down on anyone. She looks across at you, and somehow you’re inspired by her not to be more like her but to be more like yourself,