Sunday, December 31, 2023

When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 8)

Chapter Seven: Moving from the family farm in Manitoba to the city of Vancouver, BC, tore Gwen's family apart. It turned her against her mother and drove her father to an early grave.


photo by ldyck


Chapter Eight

 Beside a freshly dug grave, I clung to my Auntie Ollie. She and her husband my uncle Steini were the only ones to come from the farm—probably against Afi's wishes, although they never said. In a black dress, Mother stood a distance away from us. She dabbed her dry eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief as the coffin was lowered. What an actress, what a show. And I wondered, had she ever loved him?

My auntie comforted me the best she could. “Do you still knit, Elskan?”

“I was knitting this for Dad,” I said of the sweater I was wearing. The wool was from the farm. I thought it would help my dad, but I hadn't knit fast enough. I bite down hard on my tongue, attempting to control my flood of tears. When I could I added, “I was finished the sleeves and starting the back when he...” I pushed on. “So I did some frogging and cast on fewer stitches and made it for myself.”

“It's lovely. Where did you get the pattern?”

“I didn't use one. It's all just Stockinette stitch.”

“You're making your own patterns.” Her expression was like the sun after two days of rain.

“Can I go back home?” And to be clear, I added, “to the farm.”

All she said was, “Anna will need you, Elskan. You'll need each other.”

Maybe if I told her what Mother had done she would have welcomed me back to the farm, but I never told her. How could I?


Read Chapter Nine of 

When Gwen Knits 




photo by Byron

This is me--at play, the best way to stay young.


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In 2024, I'll be cheering for the Underdogs


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Sunday, December 24, 2023

When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 7)

Chapter Six: Seeking an oasis of calm in a tumultuous time, Gwen finds Urban Knits yarn shop. Surrounded by luxurious yarn, she begins to play with sweater design 


"Lights at the Japanese Gardens on Mayne Island" photo by ldyck

Chapter Seven

 One July morning, Mother and I were sharing the patio table. A bamboo cotton blend was wrapped around my needles. Mother sipped coffee while she skim-read files.

My dad stopped trimming the rose bush to greet a group of Lyra-glad neighbourhood women walking down the street like a herd of deer.

“Morning, Mr. McNamara,” the woman called in reply.

My dad returned to his work. Maybe he thought correcting them would be rude. I waited for Mother to say something. All she did was smile. Did my dad's emasculation bring her pleasure? As calmly as I could, I asked, “Aren't you going to say something?”

“About what?”

She thought she could just sit there and play dumb.

“Dad.”

“If it upsets you this much, I will.” She watched me knit for half a row. “Don't you have something more productive to do? Always with those needles, always with that yarn...” She kept at me.

Nothing I could say would make her stop. So I left for the privacy of my bedroom.

A while later, I overheard my parents in the kitchen.

“I'm going to hire a gardener,” Mother said.

The rose bush was my dad's pride and joy. “Why? I don't mind working out there. In fact, I love it.”

“Seeing you working like that embarrasses our daughter."

 I couldn’t believe that she was that clueless. I couldn’t believe she thought that was the reason I was upset.

“I thought you were going to volunteer at the SPCA?”

“I gave them my name and phone number."

“I have a meeting..."

“They said they'd phone, but it's been months.”

"At 2 p.m."

“When will you be home?”

“I don't know exactly. Sometime later.” The back door slammed shut.   

When I went downstairs, a full glass and three empty bottles of wine sat before my deflated balloon father. What could I say to him? Maybe I tried something like, "How are you?" or "What's wrong?"

All he said was, "I'm fine, Elskan." He'd always been strong and independent. He didn't know how to be vulnerableespecially to me. 

I couldn't watch him drown in alcohol. “I have to go to Urban Knits.” I left him home alone with all his demons.

I told myself that he could join Alcoholics Anonymous or see a therapist. But I knew he wouldn't. He just couldn't. He'd been raised to share his problems only with his family. He couldn't bring himself to share them with me. And Mother? She just didn't care. And so he drowned in a glass of alcohol. Neighbours rushed him to the hospital but he died in the ambulance. Officially, the cause of death was a damaged liver, but I blamed Mother—her neglect had killed him.  


Read Chapter Eight of 

When Gwen Knits 



photo by Byron

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More photos of the lights at the Japanese Gardens on Mayne Island
Photos by Byron Dyck






Peace. Joy. Love.
Be yours
on this night
and
all through 
the coming year



Sunday, December 17, 2023

When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 6)

Chapter Five: Gwen's mother's prowess as a doctor leads to her being offered a position at a prestigious hospital. And so Gwen is forced to leave the family farm and her Auntie Ollie.


photo by ldyck

Chapter Six

“It's so good to be back home in BC. Oh, Kris, we'll be so much happier here,” Mother sang. “We can eat out anytime we want, go to the theatre, shop. This is the good life. I've taken us out of that pig sty and into this castle.”

The house, all stainless steel and concrete, wasn't a home—merely a building.

Mother worked long hours at St. Paul's hospital. My dad was far more adaptable than I'd given him credit for, he offered his considerable animal husbandry skills to the BC SPCA Vancouver Branch. And me? A speck a drift in a mass of people with no place to land—not in my overcrowded school, not in our sterile house. I continued to drift. On the farm, being outside had always calmed me, cleared my mind. Here? I felt like a freak that everyone stared at. No peace, no calm. Cars, trucks, buses—only a city full of noise.

Somehow in all that confusion, I noticed a white script scrawled across a display window—Urban Knits. Looking through that window was like watching TV. White-haired knitters were gathered around a large wood table admiring a basket full of yarn and flipping through pattern books. I pushed the door open to shelves of yarn in a tapestry of colours—lipstick lava, China-town apple, Gothic rose, potting soil, grape jelly, porcelain green, sea foam, tea rose, pumpkin, lullaby purple, maple sugar, lemon peel, cinder, birch, baton rouge.  

 “May I help you?” Words favoured by a thick Russian accent. Under snow-white hair, her face was soft and friendly. Her name tag read Marta Petrov—and as she alone had a name tag I assumed that she was the proprietor. Marta led me to the basket of yarn, into the community of senior knitters.

One of the whiteheads, working with a circular needle, thought she knew me. “Another knitting novice,” she muttered. But she didn't know how many 4-H blue ribbons I'd won.

“It's so nice to see young ones take an interest in our craft.” This one worked with double-pointed needles.

Three knitters dug through their knitting bags simultaneously. One produced a pair of needles that were too short; another pair was too long; another was just right. I accepted that pair and the knitter asked, “Do you know how to cast on, Hon?”

“I use the Continental cast on.” I selected a ball from the basket and began to coil stitches onto the needle.

“It's much better to knit your stitches on,” they told me.

 Behind, in, over, out—the steps had become second nature, like breathing.

“What is she doing?”

“She's using the German method of knitting.”

“She'll twist her stitches.”

“You really should learn to throw your yarn, Hon.”

“Yes, all knitting books recommend it.”

I reached the end of the row and began to purl.

“What is she doing now?”

“It looks awkward, so awkward.”

They wanted to know. So I told them. “My Icelandic-Canadian aunt taught me to knit. This is the Norwegian purl.”

“Someone taught you knit like that?”

“Well, I've been knitting for over forty years, and that is not an acceptable way to knit.”

“Her stitches are well formed.” A Russian voice sang out above the rest. “Her tension consistent.” Marta sent them a look and they returned to their own knitting. “So your aunt taught you, dorogy (my dear)? Tell me about her.”

“My aunt Olavia—that's the Icelandic version of Olivia—was more like my mom than an aunt. My mother is a doctor and is always very busy elsewhere. Aunt Olavia taught half of the community of Blondous to knit. Blondous, Manitoba is where I'm from. She was a 4-H leader for more years than I’ve been alive....” I began and didn't stop.

I became such a permanent feature in Urban Knits that Marta hired me to knit sample sweaters. She paid me in yarn. In that shop, surrounded by all that tantalizing yarn and inspired by all those patterns my mind began to buzz with ideas—what would this sweater look like in this stitch pattern? With these sleeves? This neckline? My ideas filled page after page in my scrapbook.


Read Chapter Seven of 

When Gwen Knits 



photo by Dell

This is me doing Tia Chi.

My last class for 2023 will be on Monday, December 18th. 
New classes for beginners and experienced begin in 2024.
I highly recommend attending--
Tia Chi is the best form of exercise that I've found 
and my instructor is caring and makes Tia Chi easy and fun to learn.


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Sunday, December 10, 2023

When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 5)

Chapter Four: Gwen joins 4-H to develop her knitting skills and make friends with a group of knitters.

photo by ldyck


Chapter Five

 Mother's fame as a talented doctor grew. It got so I couldn't go downtown without someone stopping me.

“I came too close to losing these fingers. Without your mother, they'd be gone. She's a skilled doctor. You should be very proud.” The story was always the same, only the body parts varied.

Soon black limousines drove down our lane. The car parked and outclimbed salon-styled hair in a European tailored suit—they were all the same.

“Is Doctor Anna McNamara at home?” They came to offer Mother a position at their hospital in Winnipeg, Edmonton, Vancouver.

Mother held court in the living room. My dad and I were silent witnesses to the suit's attempts to seduce her. “St. Paul's in downtown Vancouver is an acute care, teaching, and research hospital. Excuse me for saying so, but here your talent is largely wasted. There you'll be a highly respected member of our world-class team.”

The suit left. I went to bed and eavesdropped on my parents.

“Oh, Kris, don't you see? I have to go. The offer is just too good to pass up.”

My dad didn't tell Mother that the farm was our home. He didn't tell her how many generations had worked the soil. He didn't tell her that Afi (Grandpa) was relying on him and his brother to take over the farm, to ensure its future. He didn't tell her that he was a farmer, that leaving would crush him. All he said was, “Of course, I understand. Wherever you go, I will follow. I love you too much not to.”

Mother gave her notice at the hospital. Nurses, staff and patients organized a potluck dinner to send her off in rural style. They shook her hand and wished her luck—some even hugged her. She glowed, her ego swelled, but she didn't really care about them.

 Back on the farm, Afi's eyes were dry, his arms crossed over his chest. “I knew you were bad news the minute I met you. You have no respect for our farm, for our ways.”

Not easily intimidated, Mother retorted, “And you think a woman's place is in the kitchen, in bed, or under your feet.”

“Kris, be a man. Control your woman.” Afi's attempt to enlist support fell on deaf ears but he kept trying. “I knew you wouldn't act to defend our ways. You've never had a backbone. Your mother coddled you, and now look at you, you're not a man. You're a mouse. You let this woman walk all over you. You let her rob you of all you have. You don't stand up to her or teach her to mind.”

 Afi wanted a fight and Mother was happy to oblige. “Don't talk that way to him. He respects me.”

Afi ignored her, didn't even look at her. He directed the full force of his fiery at my dad, at his son. “You've turned your back on family history, on our way of life, and you've endangered the survival of the family farm. If you don't care about us, why should we care about you? Get the hell off my land. Leave. Now!”

I clung to the only woman who'd ever nurtured me. I clung to my Auntie Ollie. At fifteen, I couldn't imagine my life without her.

“You,” Afi spat at my dad, “take yours.”

Mother pulled me out of my auntie's arms and dragged me to our new life—a wealthy neighbourhood in Vancouver's west end: Point Grey.


Read Chapter Six of 

When Gwen Knits 




photo by Glenda of G.G.'s Salon & Art on Mayne Island
--hairdresser extraordinaire

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A hairy story...

Sunday, December 3, 2023

When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 4)

Chapter Three: Gwen struggles and wins her first knitted stitch--aided by her auntie Ollie.

photo by ldyck


Chapter Four

 I was still in Elementary school—grade six if I remember correctly—when my auntie encouraged me to join 4-H. “Just think how many knitting friends you'll make, Elskan,” she told me.

Always gregarious and interested in learning more about the craft I loved, I quickly agreed with the plan.

On orientation day, our school rooms were utilized for new purposes. A note on the door of the grade seven room read 'knitting'. Two friends who I'd recently taught some knitting basics accompanied me. A gang of teenagers already occupied the room. One of them walked up to me like a security guard in a bank. “What are you doing here?” She looked down her nose at me. “You’re too young to learn to —.”

“I already know how to knit.”

“Prove it.”

Prepared for this challenge, I unwrapped my garter stitch scarf from my neck. “I knit this.”

She pulled it off my shoulders and showed it to the gang. They didn't say anything—they didn't have to, I could see it on their faces. That scarf earned me a place of respect in the group.

Thankfully, my auntie arrived before the gang could interrogate my friends.

From then on, every Monday after school, we group of girls meet with my auntie. She taught us to cast on and off, to knit and purl, and to increase and decrease. She taught us the language of knitting—CO, k2tog, p2, STst. She transformed us from strangers to a circle of knitters.

The year concluded with Achievement Day. I was proud to find a blue first-prize ribbon beside my knitting. Some of the parents cried nepotism—claiming my relationship with my auntie, not my ability, had earned me that ribbon. Declining to debate, next year, my auntie invited the parents to judge our work—blind. Nothing that identified the knitter was allowed on the table until after the judging. Year after year, the outcome never changed. And all were forced to agree that I won those ribbons fairly.

 The Christmas my auntie Ollie gifted me with a scrapbook, I filled it with everything I was learning about knitting. I filled pages with my auntie’s knitting tips. I worked sample swatches of each of the basic stitch patterns and pinned them into my scrapbook.


Beside the garter stitch sample, I wrote:

garter stitch stretches.

Beside the 1 x 1 rib stitch sample, I wrote:

To determine the number of stitches in a row, count the ladder rungs from left to right. Count the rungs from bottom to top to determine the number of rows.

Rib stitch is like an accordion. This is why rib stitch is often used on cuffs and the waist of a sweater. The more knit and purl stitches in the stitch pattern the more the knitting will be compressed.

Beside the seed stitch sample, I wrote:

In seed stitch, the knit stitch looks like hills, the purl stitch like valleys. To determine the number of stitches in a row, count the hills from left to right. Count the hills from bottom to top to determine the number of rows.

Beside the Stockinette stitch sample, I wrote:

“Rolling, rolling, rolling keep that knitting rolling. Stockinette stitch.”

Stockinette stitch rolls. Stop it from rolling by weighing it down with a 2 inch [5cm] broader of a non-rolling stitch pattern, like garter or seed or rib stitch.  


Read Chapter Five of 

When Gwen Knits 




photo by Eleanor

This is me
on my way to Gail Noonan's concert at the church
on Mayne Island.


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