The book Knitting Yarns: Writers on Knitting by Ann Hood was added to my wishlist as soon as it popped up on one of my Amazon searches. Thankfully, my Godmother checks my wishlist every year before Christmas and this little gem found it’s way into my home.
Knitting Yarns has about 25 short stories that detail the author’s memories or connections with knitting. As with most short story formats, the book is extremely digestible. Most of the writers focused on how or why they learned to knit, or a time when knitting helped them through a personal crisis. I finished the book in about three days of leisurely reading and I would highly recommend this book for anyone who enjoys knitting and reading.
Knitting Yarns also had me thinking back on the very first time I learned to knit. I remember it quite vividly. I was in college, sitting on the floor of my dorm room with the yarn in my lap and the printout “Learn to Knit 101” instructions on the ground in front of me. I sat cross-legged, bent over my needles, and squinted to decipher the drawings representing how a knit stitch should be properly executed. My hands were starting to sweat, not out of nerves or frustration, but rather the fact that my university kept the dorm room at a temperature mirroring the weather of the Hawaiian tropics instead of the northern Pennsylvania climate where we were located.
About 30 minutes in, my roommate had given up and moved to her desk to do homework or peruse Facebook. I still remained on the hard, concrete floor, determined to make progress on my first row. I gave it another 20 minutes, and I was suddenly overcome with an extreme amount of rage and I hurled my purple aluminum knitting needles across the room. What happened next is proof enough for me that the universe certainly does have a sense of humor.
A male friend of mine, Carl, was walking by my dorm room when I broke into my fit of rage. Since the door was hanging open, he stopped to ask me if everything was all right and if there was anything he could do to help. I explained that I was trying to learn how to knit, but after 50 minutes of determination, I had gotten very skilled at casting on, but I couldn’t seem to make the jump to knitting. Carl smiled and said, “Oh. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that the first row is always the hardest?” He picked up my needles and handed them to me and said, “Cast on however many stitches you want, and I’ll do your first row. You can watch me.”
I took the needles out of his hand and cast on 20 stitches of red and black yarn. I then watched Carl knit my first row with extreme ease and grace. He handed the needles to me and said, “Here you go. It’s your turn.” I took the needles from him and clumsily knit the next row. Despite my fumbling, awkward handiwork, I was enchanted and encouraged by my skill. After I completed the second row by myself, Carl headed out to go to a party. The training wheels were off and I was on my own. Over the course of the next week, I knit every chance I got. I added stitches, I decreased stitches, I dropped stitches, but I kept going. After one week, I had my very first scarf which I proceeded to wear everywhere I went.
I just found my first scarf the other week when I was cleaning out my knitting stash. I pulled it out and looked at the wonky size and the holes that the dropped stitches created. Then I looked down at the handmade sweater I was wearing. It was remarkable how far I had come in 8 years. I refolded the scarf and tucked it into a basket. Now, when I’m working on a project that is complicated and I’m ready to throw my needles across the room, I will pull out that first scarf and remember the improvement I know I am capable of.