I forgot my knitting needles

I have a confession to make. (A completely unimportant, uninteresting, dull confession. In fact, it's not even really a confession as much as a statement. A rather dull and unimportant statement. But i thought it would probably be unwise to start out the post as "i have a dull and uninteresting statement to make." Of course, it's probably not very wise of me to be telling you this now, but i just couldn't bring myself to draw the wool over all ya'lls eyes, or whatever the colloquialism is. Where does that come from, anyway? Back to the statement. It does lead to not quite as dull and relatively interesting statements. Well, it tries to. Sorta. Kinda.) I buy my yarn at Walmart. Sometimes Michael's. I'm cheap. I knit often, but although i started a blanket once (it's about two feet long at the moment), i've never finished anything more complicated than a scarf that spirals. But it's a really cool scarf that spirals. So, here i am, stuck in this silly little "City" that has no Walmart, no Target, no Micheal's, or anything. Well, there is a tiny little IGA. The only place for knitting supplies is a small boutique across from one of the ferry lines. It's teal and green. There's a yard in front - fenced in, white picket. The stairs and the long handicap accessible ramp are also fenced in. Since the yard is tiny, it's already looking rather cluttered. Evidently not cluttered enough, as there are assorted shiny lawn ornaments everywhere. The ambiance is similar to that of Harry Potter's Professor Trelawney. Or that of a crow (or a jackdaw? the bird that is obsessed with "shiny!!"). Inside it looks even more like a bird's lair - a very colourful and expensive nest, and about as unorganized as such a nest would be. The insubstantial-looking proprietor greets me but she's on the phone, so I nod, smile, and duck into the first side room. There is barely room for me to turn around - yarn is piled everywhere - but with the window it is bright enough. She comes by and asks me if i knit or crochet. I say i'm a knitter, though not a very good one. She looks pleased and says she doesn't know how to crochet either. I browse, and pick up a book on crocheting. It's in poor condition, but it looks useful. She gives me approximately 45 seconds before checking up on me again. "I thought you said you didn't know how to crochet?" She sounds startled, almost betrayed. I just say that i would like to learn, and stick my nose back in the book. She won't leave. I return to the main room, and wander around. She stands by the register, staring at me. The next side room is just as small as the first, and without the window. She follows me in and starts dusting, careful to keep an eye on me through the small mirror on the wall. This behavior starts to amuse me. I really am interested in crocheting, so i decide to see if i can find any crochet hooks, and move back into the main room. She decides she has finished dusting a few seconds later and returns to the register. In fact, she never lets me out of her sight again. I had been in there for a total of 20 minutes when i left - which is, in a yarn store, like no time at all. My appearance is far from intimidating. Tell me - why??

The Day I Met Jane Austen

UPDATE: Welcome, AustenBloggers. Thanks very much for coming. I have read a lot of literature, from many time periods, genres, cultures, and so forth. One of my favourite authors remains Jane Austen. As with most such opinions, i am not entirely sure why. As a little child (oh, be quiet, boys - just because i'm shorter than you doesn't mean i can't still beat you up!), i used to hate going to bed. This is now incomprehensible to me, but so it was. My brothers and i would camp in the doorways of our rooms and whisper to each other across the hall, inching as far out of our rooms as we dared, so our parents could trip over on their way up to bed. I always felt especially pathetic when i knew they were watching a movie, or having a party.* I remember at least one time when i tried to stay awake all night, to convince my parents that it was cruel of them to keep me up in my room while they were having fun, since i wouldn't sleep anyways. I used any excuse to get up and join the fun. One night, my parents decided to host a murder. By the purest stroke of luck, i fell off the couch and hit my head on the table. That doesn't sound like much, but when mom found blood on her fingers, they had to take me to the emergency room to get my head stapled. I've still got a scar, under my hair (cool, eh?), and left some authentic blood on the carpet (a clue!). Once it stopped hurting, i thought it was pretty fun. I got to drink lemonade and sit at the table with them. (Where is Jane Austen, in all this mess, you ask? To be quite frank, i'm not absolutely sure, but in the next paragraph or so, i promise.) As i got older, i came up with what i thought of as a very clever plan for movie nights. i would wait, dozing, for half an hour or so for them to get settled. Then i would be thirsty. I would dawdle in the background and eventually, or so i thought, they would forget about me. Depending on the movie, and on whether it was a school night, my parents would put up with this, as i soon fell asleep anyway. I was probably about eight when i used this tactic to watch the last half of Pride and Prejudice. The BBC, Colin Firth and Jennefer Ehle, 6 hour version. Much to the bemusement of my parents, i loved it. They re-rented the first half, and i watched that too. The elegant language, the elaborate hair and dress styles, beautiful houses, and gorgeous soundtrack... In the same way i watched the last half of Emma, and then the first. This was how i learned about hypochondria, noblesse oblige, prejudice, premarital intercourse (i remember the first time my dad explained to me exactly what it was that Lydia had done, and what threatened Georgiana), inheritances, et cetera. We lived in Sicily at the time, perhaps the book wasn't available. My dad printed it off of the internet for me and put it in a black three ring binder. I didn't think it was completely perfect - how could Lydia be the tallest? That didn't even make sense. And Mr. Bingley seemed somewhat of a fool. I simply couldn't like him. It wasn't until we got back stateside that i learned of Northanger Abbey, Sense and Sensibility, Persuasion (my father's favourite), and Mansfield Park. I read them all, but Pride and Prejudice was, i decided, my favourite. I did not understand Mansfield Park at all. Eventually, although i will always have fond memories of Pride and Prejudice, i began to value the quirkiness of Emma above Pride and Prejudice. Emma was made much more aware of her faults than Lizzie, who only suffers through the actions of Lydia and Wickham. I gave Mansfield Park another try - dad seemed to pick up a copy everytime he went on cruise, so there were several copies laying around the house. It began to grow on me. The theatre scene, which for many people is completely ridiculous, was one i could completely identify with. I hated talking to people - still do. Fanny's fear and shyness, and her strength in spite of these, is something i perfectly understand. And while the impropriety of a private theatre seems incomprehensible today, with my own father often gone i could understand the evils of spending my father's money on activities he would not approve of and which would put considerable strain on already tenuous relationships. Other books are cute or amusing or probing or intellectual or adventursome or romantic or realistic. These books contain aspects of all of these, but mostly they are about Life. Her bit of ivory was nonetheless beautiful for being small. These are people one could meet (and indeed, i believe i have met) walking down the street anytime, and anywhere. Reading these books, i get the same feeling of delight as when i was a little girl and allowed to stay up past my bedtime (though without the headache). I get to catch a glimpse of a life other than my own, yet very like it - a "grown up" world, foreign and familiar, in which (in spite of appearances) I might just fit. ...... *a small clarification, as one must be careful - my dad was the pastor of a church at the time, so these parties were hardly raucous. the only alcohol was the caffeine in coffee, and the rowdiest game played was How to Host a Murder.

To Knit...

I have a confession to make. You scare me. Actually, it’s not so much you who scare me as the prospect of having to converse with you – or worse, be called upon to speak up in class. It wasn’t until high school that I had a conversation with a teacher. I’m not sure what, precisely, we spoke about, but afterwards it was if a sun had risen in the darkness, for what dawned on me in that instant was the truth that teachers are simply people. Until that time, teachers were AUTHORITIES – representatives of a divine power that was waiting to catch me in a moment of weakness and publish abroad my humiliation. To be sure, teachers were still authorities. The realization that adults were neither demi-gods nor demi-gorgon, however, but merely human beings with all the pluses and minuses that entails was a liberating concept. This revelation was indeed timely, for my brothers were both in after-school band. That may seem safe enough, but my father was deployed and my mother worked, so it meant that twice each week I had to stay at school an interminable two hours after the last bell. The shear, inescapable boredom of it at length drove me to take my life into my own hands. The PE teacher, Mrs. Rook, was in her office. I loathe PE. Indeed, it was difficult for me to believe that anyone who enjoyed it enough to teach it could be wholly human. Even so, she seemed harmless enough. But what if this was diabolical duplicity intended to lull us into insensibility before she struck? I walked into the room with bated breath… and walked out of it rejoicing in the prospect of learning to knit in just a few more days. I envisioned all the beautiful blankets and soft scarves I would soon be making. There was nothing I couldn’t do and no one I wouldn’t talk to – except, perhaps, the principal. Well, and maybe the janitor. And the guy’s PE teacher …. My first scarf was made with a size seven needle (unbelievably small, as I later discovered). The yarn had a cream base, but had a sort of autumnal mottle effect going on. I was shocked at the simplicity of the thing once I got started – a series of loops, nothing more. In fact, after a while, I didn’t even have to watch what I was doing. I could simply feel the pattern. I began to take my knitting with me everywhere. I would knit during movies, during lunch break, during class, in the car – everywhere. It was something practical, useful, and aesthetically pleasing. I was absurdly proud of the scarf, showing it off to the most unsuspecting persons. Oddly enough, I found that it caught on. People admired my ability to do this simple thing and even wanted to emulate me. Complete strangers would come up and talk to me about it. People who could already knit came out of the closet; the click of needles was everywhere. My Latin Class talked our teacher into taking a day off so we could all learn knitting. I taught them. A little startled and definitely more than a little scared, yet I did it. In fact, the entire wrestling team started to knit. The trend lasted the rest of the year, though the wrestling coach asked his team to stop bringing their knitting to meets. I was forced to put this newly won confidence to the test when I moved the next year. The gorgons and gods reappeared in new form, like ghosts that reclaimed their material form. This time, however, I had a new weapon. I knit at them. And they knew they were beaten. It allowed me to strike up a conversation without having to say anything. I merely pulled out the needles and then others would talk to me and I could respond in kind – or not. The interesting thing about it was that people simply assumed I was listening when I knit. I became a confidante, a counselor to the very beasts that had so frightened me, and all I had to do was knit while they spoke. There were other knitters here, too, I found – a community of woolly sages into which I was readily accepted. The art teacher caught me at it after I had finished a required project and, in addition to offering me some pointers, asked me to join her with a group of other students in teaching some of the un-knitting faculty. The idea of me aspiring to instruct the instructors, was still terrifying. To merely converse with them seemed easy in comparison. The flattery of the invitation, however, overcame my fear. To paraphrase Caesar, “Veni, trexi, vici” – I came, I knit, I conquered. You still scare me. Pretty much everybody does. Sometimes life itself frightens me. But that’s okay – I can knit.