Posted on July 25, 2004 at 12:00 pm
We schlepp up to the north woods. I dispatch the kids to their first day of activities, wave gleefully at them as they disappear through the trees with teenager in tow, and settle into my knitting chair with a cup of coffee and an old Supertramp album on the player. Walter reads the paper to me. He would prefer just about anything to the Supertramp album, so he reads really loudly.
I pick up the Koigu and start in on the Caryl’s Kerchief pattern. Once I establish the first row and then mind meld with the pattern, I love it. It sails along.
A day later. I get up to pee. It’s time to cast off. I look for the beads. I don’t find them.
We go on a hike and I walk it off. It is an hour drive into Marquette. I note that they are expecting a visit from Mr. Bush. I have falafel for lunch at the Sweetwater Cafe on Third street, Marquette’s answer to Madison Avenue. I drop into Uncommon Threads, fondle everything, discuss the scarf business with the proprietress, buy beads, patterns, sock yarn, and some odd bits, and drive back to the woods. I cast off according to the instructions, incorporating the beads as I go. It takes a long time. I have dinner. I put kids to bed. I sit down to knit some more. I get to the end of the yarn.
As you can see, I have not left myself enough yarn to make the final ten stitches. I decide it must be a tension problem. I frog back to the beginning of the row. I fail to make any changes in my tension and end the cast off row with similar results. It is 12:30 a.m. I go to bed.
I send kids off again into the woods, trusting that they will return eventually since the teenager has an extra-sensory ability that allows her to always find her way back to her mascara. I decide to take a photo so that I can tell a funny story about my despair when I get back to my blog. I trip over a log returning from where I found a picturesque background for my knitting and pull the needle out of the remaining stitches and loose about five rows worth of stitches on the offending corner. I frog back, and in an effort of concentration so deep that Walter has to physically shake me to remind me that there’s lunch to be eaten, I finish the scarf. I block it, and everybody admires it at dinner, pinned to a beach towel stretched out in what I assume is an out-of-the-way corner in the laundry room. Will only walks on it twice as it dries over the next day. I find a dropped stitch when I take it off the board. I sew it shut almost invisibly with three of the four inches of yarn I have left over. I’m not telling you where it is.
Voila! A finished object.
Isn’t knitting fun?