tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59548624119290882102024-03-18T15:49:35.596-07:00Leanne Dyck's blogOn this blog, neurodivergent (dyslexic) author Leanne (Willetts) Dyck ("dihck") shares When Gwen Knits--a journey to fame and fortune. Thank you for visiting and sharing this blog. Your support is greatly appreciated.Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comBlogger1058125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-89277984530593295712024-03-17T16:30:00.002-07:002024-03-17T17:02:43.534-07:00Interviews with Knitwear Designers by Leanne Dyck<p><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: medium;">What is it like to be a knitwear designer? What are the challenges? What are the rewards? How did they begin their career? Who taught them to knit?</span></p><p><br></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #6fa8dc; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoW3aOBcyMw0zBTzmwVfks9j-bqaWjJ_Z4Wnbag_qR_c1IOS87l_wz-2MRsCgwOxC-WjBJqbv_10dF386c737FS5hMX0TM2BAE2csHO8vp0ZJGTylvCj5bl9iOLKKMBz3CaA_efxWquXqYOF-0m-_yUyhuYLZ_qJb-A6G5aP4yOboZihfC8jw_NnN8ixc/s3264/sky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoW3aOBcyMw0zBTzmwVfks9j-bqaWjJ_Z4Wnbag_qR_c1IOS87l_wz-2MRsCgwOxC-WjBJqbv_10dF386c737FS5hMX0TM2BAE2csHO8vp0ZJGTylvCj5bl9iOLKKMBz3CaA_efxWquXqYOF-0m-_yUyhuYLZ_qJb-A6G5aP4yOboZihfC8jw_NnN8ixc/s320/sky.jpg" width="180"></a></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">photo by ldyck</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: medium;">From 2010 to 2012, for this blog, I interviewed a community of knitwear designers--for this blog. These interviews offer a unique insight into the career of knitwear design. </span>
</p><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><br></span></p>
<p align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Interviews with Knitwear Designers</span></p>
<p align="center" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> My
advise to knitters is to enjoy the process. You should allow yourself
to experience the pleasure of all that yarn running through your
fingers, how you feel about your accomplishments, learning new
things, and seeing what transpires as you manipulate your yarn and
needles. In the end, if you had to knit the same ball of yarn over
and over, it could still be a pleasure (well, for a while). We get
too focused on the price of the materials we are using and how long
it takes and we forget how much we get out of it. Not only do we
create things, we entertain ourselves, sooth ourselves, and it helps
us get through things we’d just rather not (kid’s sports, waiting
rooms, family visits, you name it!)</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.jillwolcottknits.com/" target="_blank">JillWolcott</a></span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Knitwear
Designer, Author</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Jill
Wolcott Knits</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Who
taught you to knit?</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">I was
taught to knit by my mother when I was five years old. I remember
carrying my knitting around the neighbourhood that summer while I was
working on my first project—a baby pink scarf. I don’t honestly
remember if I ever finished it but I do remember that several of the
rows were a dirty grey because I must have been knitting with grubby
hands. I also remember counting my stitches at the end of every row
and then running home to have my mum fix my dropped stitches.</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://holliyeoh.com/" target="_blank">Holli Yeoh</a></span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Knitwear
Designer, Author</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Where
is your favourite place to knit?</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Two
places: Sitting on the sofa in our basement, the dog snuggled
between me and my hubby, watching something good on TV, with a cup of
tea at hand. My second favourite place to knit is the streetcar: I
have a long commute to one of my regular teaching gigs, and I enjoy
very much getting a window seat, listening to music on my headphones,
knitting away and enjoying the view as the city goes
by. The first is comfier, but the second location has better light!</span></p>
<p align="right" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://kateatherley.com/" target="_blank">Kate Atherley</a></span></span></span></p>
<p align="right" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Knitwear
Designer, Author</span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">When
did you become a knitwear designer?</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">I’m
not sure, I think I always have been. I’ve worked professionally in
this business for two years (this interview was conducted in 2012)
but I am just now getting to the point where I feel okay to call
myself a “Knitwear Designer”. I honestly think people throw the
term ‘designer’ around way too much. Designers are those who work
tirelessly for their art. It’s like a home baker calling themselves
a Chef. There is a big difference!</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">How
did you become a knitwear designer?</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">WORK!!
Lots of work! I average about 100 hours a week. I wake at seven and
work until bedtime. That's the only way to make it in this business.
You have to be willing to put in the time.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://rohnstrong.com/" target="_blank">Rohn Strong</a></span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Knitwear
Designer, Author</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Crafting
a Handmade Home</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">How did
you become a knitwear designer?</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Like
many people, I started altering patterns, then I morphed into
designing my own patterns just for myself, then decided to start
developing patterns for public consumption.</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Stephanie
Tallent</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Knitwear
Designer, Author</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.sunsetcat.com/" target="_blank">SunsetCat Designs</a></span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>I've
always created. I majored in crafts (jewellery, ceramics and
textiles) in art college and received my degree in Fine Arts. I was
working as a jeweller, both teaching and designing, and was feeling
uninspired. We wanted to have a baby and I felt that the toxins I was
exposed to at the jewellery</span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>studio</span></span></span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif">
</span><span face="Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span>were
just too risky. Knitting was my passion though and it was consuming
all of my free time. I decided that it was time to apply my design
skills to knitting.</span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">It
didn't occur to me that I had no instruction or experience in
knitwear design. My art college education gave me a good grounding in
design in a general sense and I applied that and my common sense to
figuring out how to design knitting patterns. There were few
resources at the time although now there are many books on designing
your own knits.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="Holli Yeoh" target="_blank">Holli Yeoh</a></span></p>
<p align="right" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Knitwear
Designer, Author</span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Tell me
about your first pattern. Where was it first published?</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">About
ten years ago (2010), I was shopping at the Boulder Handweavers’
Guild annual sale and I saw a marvelous felted bag that I wanted to
buy. It was $75, and quite outside of my budget at the time. I was
with my mom at the sale and we decided we would try to figure out how
to make the bag ourselves, so we went to the local yarn shop, bought
some wool yarn and a book with some information on felting, and I
went home and started to play. I ended up with one of my favorite
bags of all time—I still use it today—and it also became my
published knitting design.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">My
first published design was in Family Circle Easy Knitting. I always
loved that magazine and was sad to see it go away!</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Donna
Druchunas</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Knitwear
Designer, Author</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://sheeptoshawl.com/" target="_blank">Sheep to Shawl</a></span></p>
<p align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">What is
the most rewarding aspect about being a knitwear designer? What’s
the most challenging?</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Creating
something that people love to knit is a fabulous feeling! I think
self doubt is the most challenging. Every time a design goes out,
it’s a part of me, and I’m hoping that I wasn’t fooling myself
into thinking it looks good!</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Rosemary
Hill</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Knitwear
Designer, Author</span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://designsbyromi.com/" target="_blank">Designs by Romi</a></span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">What
is the most rewarding aspect of being a knitwear designer? </span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">It's
exciting to see knitters' reactions to my designs to see if they
understand what I'm trying to communicate with them. Being able to
spend my days immersed in the knitting—both the physical knitting
and the planning and making it work part—are immensely rewarding.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Challenging?</span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br>
</span></p>
<p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Marketing
and paperwork are definitely challenging for me. I would love to be
able to just create and have someone else swoop in and spread the
word for me and do my books.</span></span></span></p>
<p align="right" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><a href="Holli Yeoh" target="_blank">Holli Yeoh</a></span></p>
<p align="right" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Knitwear
Designer, Author</span></span></span></p><p align="right" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br></span></span></span></p><p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br></span></span></span></p><p align="right" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br></span></span></span></p><p align="right" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Did you know...</b><span style="color: black;"></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Famous Dyslexic Authors...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://www.99bookscart.com/blog/view/6490968aaa0f3486e0b3113e/discover-the-intriguing-childhood-and-success-story-of-jeff-kinney" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: medium;">Jeff Kinney</span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br></div><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: red; font-size: medium;"><b>Next Sunday...</b></span></span></span><div><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><span></span></span></div><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/03/interviews-with-knitwear-designers-by.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-17493341116887513882024-03-10T16:32:00.000-07:002024-03-10T16:32:44.569-07:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (The End)<p style="text-align: center;"><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><br></div><span><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-large;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxw2bp9yPSTqprYKG5SIdGvCYK0oA1FSjdEHWFTkJ0fINAVOHsH7pMZcgX5forpdib_SyAWMiudPlVqFhyvFGZ7a1jE2cE18cQrHdXqpsBN6m7nldH67yPnq0hGwm1e_mBA1NpkMyZjC5bGTs7bErAGG5CnFrQZAYQyDTA2HNr1QVSFikLNt_HQzZ3i_g/s3264/spring.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxw2bp9yPSTqprYKG5SIdGvCYK0oA1FSjdEHWFTkJ0fINAVOHsH7pMZcgX5forpdib_SyAWMiudPlVqFhyvFGZ7a1jE2cE18cQrHdXqpsBN6m7nldH67yPnq0hGwm1e_mBA1NpkMyZjC5bGTs7bErAGG5CnFrQZAYQyDTA2HNr1QVSFikLNt_HQzZ3i_g/s320/spring.jpg" width="180"></a></span></div><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"spring" photo by ldyck</span></div></span></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b><br></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Eighteen (The End)</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> <span>“I kept designing, knitting and sharing my work.” I took a sip of tea. “Now my sweaters are sold in boutiques in North America and Europe. Now yarn shops around the world sell my hand knitting patterns. Now knitters line up to attend my workshops on the Norwegian purl. And it’s all because I dared to dream and continued to work to fulfill that dream. It’s all because of Auntie Ollie, Marta and Jaron.” Tale complete, I took my knitting out of the basket beside my chair.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“What are you knitting?” Kyla asked.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“I’m just playing.” Shorthand. This time it meant designing sweaters for Pall’s first grand-baby—due in a couple of months. Pall was the last of his brothers to work the family farm back in Manitoba. Soon he would retire and pass the farm down to the next generation.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“Time for lunch, ladies,” Jaron called up the stairs. “Or should I say gals or women or...” Giving himself time to think, he called, “Come eat, knitters.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiaTqIMYNPCIlf7cWJBwzk5MsL2SiKG2QfGCSUnBcjmcoJ7_odw5F8JQ0WaBzFhZhZkFe-MK3_61T_OmQV-kdbCnmFziku1Sc1VpVUWFj50Kxuh6TR7QYu9PZ5r2mPOv2oC2ZcD0smP6yBxTVD3YSMDi2eaUMawgvKYXILvdVj1yXfGR84VC4q9JIcWE/s3264/me%20short.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiaTqIMYNPCIlf7cWJBwzk5MsL2SiKG2QfGCSUnBcjmcoJ7_odw5F8JQ0WaBzFhZhZkFe-MK3_61T_OmQV-kdbCnmFziku1Sc1VpVUWFj50Kxuh6TR7QYu9PZ5r2mPOv2oC2ZcD0smP6yBxTVD3YSMDi2eaUMawgvKYXILvdVj1yXfGR84VC4q9JIcWE/s320/me%20short.jpg" width="180"></a></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is me </span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Photo by Glenda</span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">Thank you for reading </span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">When Gwen Knits</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">I enjoyed sharing this story with you.</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">The End...</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">of this story but there is always more.</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Re-reading? </span></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">When Gwen Knits</span></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/11/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-1.html" target="_blank">Chapter one </a></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Next Sunday...</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/03/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_10.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-9140308098135654332024-03-03T16:26:00.004-08:002024-03-10T16:36:56.480-07:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Chapter 17) <p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_25.html" target="_blank">Chapter Sixteen</a>: To celebrate their first Christmas as a couple, Gwen designs and knits a sweater for Jaron. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKeo6wqLWKqc1VktbRFMOuynxOUUuJpEDA6P1V6fpW72gMpccgoG7_0RZCJ8MustBgBWSZo3IW1Jsn9MoWTa6pRw8Ld7oBs0e00F0LzvuloDPCkKHh0viehm6dNFcizFR6fZ2dnLPbgleHvMag6Try0W8uoHpcaQVjUmU4EMWCePiYEyX9r5XZ9OQiqw/s2537/MI.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2537" data-original-width="1761" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKeo6wqLWKqc1VktbRFMOuynxOUUuJpEDA6P1V6fpW72gMpccgoG7_0RZCJ8MustBgBWSZo3IW1Jsn9MoWTa6pRw8Ld7oBs0e00F0LzvuloDPCkKHh0viehm6dNFcizFR6fZ2dnLPbgleHvMag6Try0W8uoHpcaQVjUmU4EMWCePiYEyX9r5XZ9OQiqw/s320/MI.jpg" width="222" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Seventeen</b></span></p><p align="center" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> One evening, Jaron dropped by
<i>Urban Knits</i>
to help me close—our friend Wen, the sous-chef at <i>The
Starving Artist, </i>was
starring in <i>Merrily We
Roll Along,</i> a play
presented by the United Players of Vancouver and staged in the
Jericho Arts Centre. The Centre was a
couple of blocks from the yarn shop.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> To be more accurate, I was closing
and Jaron was trying not to get in the way. He spun the revolving
stand displaying knitting magazines. Around and around the stand
spun, but then... “Have you sent your pattern for the..." He grinned. "<i>My </i>sweater to a
publisher yet?” He knew the answer; he really didn't need to ask.
“No, eh? Well, you should. You should send it to <i>Needles
and Yarn</i>.” He pulled
the magazine off the stand. The cover announced a contest for
wanna-be knitwear designers.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“But what if I don't win?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“But what if you do? Either way, it's just one step. You can't play
it safe all the time. Sometimes you have to take a risk. I believe in
you. Believe in yourself.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
With his support, I took the step.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Months later, I was sitting on the sofa, working on a new design
when I heard our apartment </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">door open.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “This came for you.” Jaron
handed me what appeared to be an ordinary white business-size
envelope. The top line of the return address read <i>Needles
and Yarn</i>.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“It's from them,” I told him.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Wait. Wait.” He poured us both a glass of wine.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
The envelope held the key to my future. The months of waiting had
painted it vividly: fame, fortune, and a sheep farm where I'd learn
to spin and dye. I took a sip of wine to steady my nerves. I unfolded
the letter knowing it alone could validate my existence.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Read it out loud,” Jaron instructed.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “Thank you for submitting to
<i>Needles and Yarn</i>,
but...” my voice wavered, “unfortunately, we cannot accept
your design for publication.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I heard them screaming at me: “Loser! Your design sucks. You
suck. You're not a designer. </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">You're a loser!” I tilted my head and drained the glass. All I
wanted was to drink. I poured myself another glass. But... I saw my
dad in his coffin. I pushed the wine bottle away.</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Jaron held me in his strong arms, and let me cry. Not all men can deal
with emotion but Jaron could, <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">can.</span></span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span>
“Just one step,” he reminded me. “They said no. That's their
loss. Remember how well your </span><span>patterns sell at </span><i>Urban
Knits</i><span>. Remember how many
complaints we received for your sweater. Let that success empower you, and fuel you. Send your design to another magazine
and another and another. Being an artist is hard work and you've got
to be brave. You've got to believe in yourself. And if you do, I
promise you. You will succeed.”</span></span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“What about you?”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Huh?”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Why don’t you send your manuscript to a publisher? I know it’s
good. You know it’s good. A publisher will know it’s good too.
All you have to do is find them.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“All, huh?” He said, but he also said, “Okay, it’s a deal
you send your pattern to a magazine and I’ll send my manuscript to
a publisher.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
When I was ready, when we were ready, we sent our work out—again
and again and again.
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/03/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_10.html" target="_blank">Read the final chapter of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/03/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_10.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1mOwy6NocSLEiaA3tVhZIVjL5TlfkCZoVZAStJrUoYMhHK16FNL3BYqQepgWDGqk7nKmZhhU3QRiVR21E9RLcU1DOetssCk9R8oMyqv9XDigIRjhyxIYiINeay3X3_uRdw01cNuClJWreFmHxGRhgR3pVWwPibE1pgBRup440qZB82vNwQN2kJ3ZhP4/s1951/me%20and%20Abby.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1951" data-original-width="1013" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1mOwy6NocSLEiaA3tVhZIVjL5TlfkCZoVZAStJrUoYMhHK16FNL3BYqQepgWDGqk7nKmZhhU3QRiVR21E9RLcU1DOetssCk9R8oMyqv9XDigIRjhyxIYiINeay3X3_uRdw01cNuClJWreFmHxGRhgR3pVWwPibE1pgBRup440qZB82vNwQN2kJ3ZhP4/s320/me%20and%20Abby.jpg" width="166" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Eleanor</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></span></span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-45116166545135969342024-02-25T16:28:00.007-08:002024-03-03T16:31:43.885-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 16) <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_18.html" target="_blank">Chapter Fifteen</a>: Jaron makes room for Gwen's yarn in his apartment and they move in together. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5YJt-qTRQU1627y1_BnW9HHLrP4Lf-1_AoLsgJP_1aaV2b-zoDZEQY90cHEAa0tJFRMGdNYzajXWW842-ff2HgfZ3uX0H3Rf-PduZhowN8yeX4rlINbz9I3rnbpe9Ci5UnxOIjB6TqYAljeMSkUIOk7lk1iPfTce3v1YCYIccU-BI7zPP-gL4k-smBs/s1385/ferry.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1385" data-original-width="1042" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG5YJt-qTRQU1627y1_BnW9HHLrP4Lf-1_AoLsgJP_1aaV2b-zoDZEQY90cHEAa0tJFRMGdNYzajXWW842-ff2HgfZ3uX0H3Rf-PduZhowN8yeX4rlINbz9I3rnbpe9Ci5UnxOIjB6TqYAljeMSkUIOk7lk1iPfTce3v1YCYIccU-BI7zPP-gL4k-smBs/s320/ferry.jpg" width="241"></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"> photo by ldyck</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Sixteen</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b><br></b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> To celebrate our first Christmas together, I was inspired to design
and knit Jaron a sweater—like a knitwear designer's love ballad.
Around the time I hatched that plan, a shipment of yarn arrived from a new supplier. Marta read the label before slicing open the first
box. She pulled out a plastic bag containing several skeins of yarn. “Alpaca is a beautiful yarn with
a luxurious, fine drape.” She tore open the bag and handed me a
skein. The label read Suri Alpaca. She sliced open another box. This
label read Huacaya. On another box, that label described the fibre
content as 50% wool/50 % alpaca.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I couldn't decide between a deep purple or a subtle grey. Then I
found the perfect shade of periwinkle—Jaron's favourite colour. I
did some mental calculations and scooped ten skeins into my arms—one
more than I thought I'd need.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
My knitting went quickly, and days before Christmas I sewed the
seams and wove in the ends. Love in each stitch, I couldn't wait to
see Jaron's reaction. I placed the sweater in the bottom of a gift
bag and stuffed the bag with tissue paper. On Christmas Day, tissue
paper flew.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">As he pulled out the sweater, Jaron sang, “Oh, Gwen, this is beautiful!” </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
He wore it all day and to every special occasion—New Year's
parties, book readings, and art openings.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“My girlfriend is a fibre artist. She designed and knit this
sweater,” he told everyone. “I know, she's very talented.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
He collected compliments like wildflowers and presented the bouquet
to me.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p>
</p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/03/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and.html" style="background-color: #cfe2f3;" target="_blank">Read chapter Seventeen of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/03/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and.html" style="background-color: #cfe2f3;" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7BI0qLaFHhxEUs2XDXzoLIa0v3K6LfM2qhXuTTyVkASjgPyFlGe90_bN-dbUXjmC7n7JgwDdSGHRsYAfZI968dqo3EEZjvr0ugh9AKykkj56k-vbHx1FZ4T4LMGLHdc-GUPsqD1Jeer8Tt9vvXX1y36zx-HiJkxxFIg6NSu-AD9j80psa1JriQBfEEF4/s1937/Billie%20and%20I.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1460" data-original-width="1937" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7BI0qLaFHhxEUs2XDXzoLIa0v3K6LfM2qhXuTTyVkASjgPyFlGe90_bN-dbUXjmC7n7JgwDdSGHRsYAfZI968dqo3EEZjvr0ugh9AKykkj56k-vbHx1FZ4T4LMGLHdc-GUPsqD1Jeer8Tt9vvXX1y36zx-HiJkxxFIg6NSu-AD9j80psa1JriQBfEEF4/s320/Billie%20and%20I.jpg" width="320"></a></span></span></span></span></span></strong></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Billie and me on Mayne Island's community bus" <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">photo by Leanne</span></span></div><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss chapter fifteen of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knit</span></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;">About the photo...</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: left;"><span></span></div><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_25.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-46173555720756990442024-02-18T16:31:00.005-08:002024-02-25T16:31:31.509-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 15) <p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_11.html" target="_blank">Chapter Fourteen:</a> Gwen meets with a website designer, and Jaron offers her the perfect name for her site--Sweaters by Gwen Bjarnson. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCf_b88cWRACD_1pyvEny31tKxj9trHr6NmblApcZ3lbUdJBAnjxBiwmrQeoRDRGu9tRr7f0OKP-GuEuN0XPi6QLcp3nsbtN2Xw2BrWlHvNBmIBh5bZQDpHhu5z0MLqh7ALsqkHbaZnJCsvBNeZQjf-0pYnHi6U0U6xAZwmPqj4K_l4QKbfRW8uuBzDg/s1773/promise.jpg" style="font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1574" data-original-width="1773" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKCf_b88cWRACD_1pyvEny31tKxj9trHr6NmblApcZ3lbUdJBAnjxBiwmrQeoRDRGu9tRr7f0OKP-GuEuN0XPi6QLcp3nsbtN2Xw2BrWlHvNBmIBh5bZQDpHhu5z0MLqh7ALsqkHbaZnJCsvBNeZQjf-0pYnHi6U0U6xAZwmPqj4K_l4QKbfRW8uuBzDg/s320/promise.jpg" width="320"></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span>photo by Leanne<br><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: bold;"><br></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Chapter Fifteen</span></b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> Jaron and I waited four months—until the BC Day long weekend—to move the
rest of my belongings into Jaron's one-bedroom apartment—on the top
floor of a quaint heritage house. Cruising down Arbutus Street with
Jaron cradling yarn in the passenger seat of the car-share, took
us 13 minutes. The last four boxes we unloaded were all labelled,
'Yarn'. I tore open each box and ran my hand over the yarn. “It's
okay. You're home.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“You're so cute. Do you name them?”</span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></strong><strong><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">“No
need. They come named.” I directed his attention to the yarn band.
“</span></span></strong><strong><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Don’t you remember your balls of yarn?”</span></span></strong></span></span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></strong><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">We
shared a smile as we r</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">ecalled</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
that day he’d walked into </span></span></span></span></span></span></strong><i>Urban
Knits </i>and into my life.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
Books occupied most of the square footage in his small apartment.
Stacks of unread and soon-to-be read were organized by title on a
bookshelf that filled one wall. A tower of three books stood by his
side of the bed. Some of the books he'd read—deemed too valuable to
lend, sell, or give away—became furniture. A short squat table was
constructed from four stacks of books and a rectangular piece of
Plexiglas. Under this makeshift table was a plastic storage box—home
to his writing projects. Two over-sized pillows serve as chairs.
Somehow amongst all his books, we found room for all my yarn.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
A Peruvian multi-coloured sweater was usually draped over the back
of the futon. His other clothes—pairs of black
and faded denim jeans; and bamboo/cotton blend shirts of crisp white,
prairie gold, deep purple, and indigo blue—occupied a few hangers
in the bedroom closet.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“You don't have any clothes,” I told him.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“Sure, I do.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“You need more sweaters.”</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“Absolutely.” He grinned.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_25.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Sixteen of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_25.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq9N92z_ubBBukjVTSogutx_3-ePtJcZN8RIE94FOWGQf8ljyY6o7MxK3FQd6CthPlBu-pAZfuGzYFuzqdxp9JllX757Qwx8ksfleA5dt8BbFFQYPataNePV_40z3h5ayF3LpZ-Qz_OoLXvZOHkFC95aQjoiArvYH3Wixdezf36c2VdEHRXXsZ2Q3bS4k/s2439/me%20and%20tea.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2439" data-original-width="1468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq9N92z_ubBBukjVTSogutx_3-ePtJcZN8RIE94FOWGQf8ljyY6o7MxK3FQd6CthPlBu-pAZfuGzYFuzqdxp9JllX757Qwx8ksfleA5dt8BbFFQYPataNePV_40z3h5ayF3LpZ-Qz_OoLXvZOHkFC95aQjoiArvYH3Wixdezf36c2VdEHRXXsZ2Q3bS4k/s320/me%20and%20tea.jpg" width="193"></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">photo by Susan</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">tea with friends at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/sunnymaynebakery/" target="_blank">Sunny Mayne Island Bakery</a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br><div><br></div><div><br></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Author reading on Mayne Island...</b></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><span></span></span></div><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_18.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-51117212673743821542024-02-11T16:31:00.003-08:002024-02-18T16:33:10.186-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 14) <p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and.html" target="_blank">Chapter Thirteen</a>: Gwen visits her boyfriend Jaron's work and meets some of his friends--including Lulu Bell. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rsohysj5qhPDK_unQQyHa4RC8Nv1GWPX2LT1kM3C6BInF_XLm9IZhZ3SYgKM8MY05oboxIKQJxD50YWawtKaX_CIr-RBqwyO6rRc3ZyPVjErn01h0FQuPeR0L8sIG2XAJXZO9rSlKWAJpXw3t856l3Ral4t9PUab-BIB7uWdDIOodnamLgURUx63Deg/s1840/dawn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1840" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rsohysj5qhPDK_unQQyHa4RC8Nv1GWPX2LT1kM3C6BInF_XLm9IZhZ3SYgKM8MY05oboxIKQJxD50YWawtKaX_CIr-RBqwyO6rRc3ZyPVjErn01h0FQuPeR0L8sIG2XAJXZO9rSlKWAJpXw3t856l3Ral4t9PUab-BIB7uWdDIOodnamLgURUx63Deg/s320/dawn.jpg" width="319"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"dawn" photo by ldyck</span></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"> <span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><b>Chapter Fourteen </b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><b><br></b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">I used the email address on the card and contacted Reginald, suggesting a quiet booth in <i>The Starving Artist</i>. He wrote back stating his preference for a room in our local library. I arrived five minutes early; he was waiting for me. Reginald Westman was polite, shy and reserved. He was Lulu Bell without the pizzazz, without the breasts. “Have you considered a name for your online boutique, Ms. Gwen?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“Yes, Gwen Knits.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span>“Sorry, no. I'm afraid that won't work. Any combination of 'Gwen' and 'knitting' is already taken</span>.” He mainly looked down at the floor or his hands—rubbing them together—as he spoke, a nervous tick. “You could try to buy the rights, but it's been my experience that doing so is cost-prohibited. Take your time, I know you'll come up with the perfect name, Ms. Gwen.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“How much do you charge?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">This was the first time I saw him become animated, he waved his hands. “Payment isn't necessary. Jaron is an old friend.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “But I have to give you something.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“I'm happy to barter, Ms. Gwen--a sweater for a website.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">That sounded like the perfect deal to me, so I readily agreed.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">All the way home, I tried to come up with a name for my website. Sweaters by Design—lame. Sweater Bliss—too plain. I even thought of using <i>prjona </i>(knitting in Icelandic). But rejected the idea when I considered how many potential customers could read, pronounce or remember it.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Jaron's nose was in a paperback when I walked into his apartment. I waited for him to flip a page and look up before asking for his help.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">“The Fibre Artist's Sweater Shop.” Popped out of his mouth and I thought, that's it, the perfect--. </span><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Except, "I think it may be too long."</span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">"What?"</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">"It's too long."</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">"Too long? Okay... How about Sweaters by Gwen Bjarnson."</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Sweaters by Gwen Bjarnson sounded like a website for a knitwear designer. It took me more than a few minutes to wrap my mind around the idea that was who I was. I took another step on the way to establishing my career.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_18.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Fifteen of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_18.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBHc5ClGD2RsEgMvFWCa6ptPO0fcAaqGxlzkd6aSJGrLtQwN6k9udhoHS50nnlpfoAVYD3yva0x3DplzFn4eNYuJ0-S3gxA3JvxwToBw0tgy1eK0CLqFVUNjvp8IVM45S96PZ-Tk8DG3aQ1fjlHxVJVHxSIVEOlvr0sd_OH33BcuF4Bz-LejqhKtYKAc/s1989/Me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1989" data-original-width="1088" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBHc5ClGD2RsEgMvFWCa6ptPO0fcAaqGxlzkd6aSJGrLtQwN6k9udhoHS50nnlpfoAVYD3yva0x3DplzFn4eNYuJ0-S3gxA3JvxwToBw0tgy1eK0CLqFVUNjvp8IVM45S96PZ-Tk8DG3aQ1fjlHxVJVHxSIVEOlvr0sd_OH33BcuF4Bz-LejqhKtYKAc/s320/Me.jpg" width="175"></a></div><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Dell</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This will be me</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;">Happy <a href="https://www.history.com/topics/holidays/chinese-new-year" target="_blank">Lunar New Year</a>!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;"><a href="https://people.com/year-of-the-dragon-2024-chinese-zodiac-everything-to-know-8558497" target="_blank">2024 is the year of the Dragon</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b>About the photo...</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><span></span></span></div><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_11.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-83422762434061352172024-02-04T16:40:00.112-08:002024-02-11T16:36:02.062-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 13) <p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_28.html" target="_blank">Chapter Twelve</a>: Gwen welcomes a handsome stranger into the yarn shop and into her life.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh_a7i23t7Ka9fRXgUIUNlPpRvpHDiPXbqXSxI4oT11kVb2S1odgnHNcjzdZ3wkPceCHU-XWdthqN3GQVna6SpJwi7hLnAH3QkLaFjno81MRVZY3uiR7dqscwvjIFsawHaTz1I-w0lJ5UN5s8C-OB5d3SVw5_K9gWPhF_R_Eox_dbfHDgdloOek67VUWg/s2500/driver.jpg" style="font-weight: bold; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2500" data-original-width="1529" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh_a7i23t7Ka9fRXgUIUNlPpRvpHDiPXbqXSxI4oT11kVb2S1odgnHNcjzdZ3wkPceCHU-XWdthqN3GQVna6SpJwi7hLnAH3QkLaFjno81MRVZY3uiR7dqscwvjIFsawHaTz1I-w0lJ5UN5s8C-OB5d3SVw5_K9gWPhF_R_Eox_dbfHDgdloOek67VUWg/s320/driver.jpg" width="196" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Thirteen</b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> On our first date, we planned to go to a theatre near <i>Urban
Knits</i>. Jaron altered these
plans with a text message explaining that he was working late and
requesting that we meet at a restaurant in Kitsilano—<i>The
Starving Artist</i>.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Servers swirled from table to table, accompanied by a classical
guitar played by a well-inked man in a skull cap. I leaned back against the deeply padded
leatherette bench. Framed on the wall facing me, a black-haired goddess lay on a milk-white bearskin rug. I couldn't help designing a
bikini to hide her excess exposed skin. Having already memorized the
menu, I flipped it over and read:</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: courier; font-size: large;">
The Five Sixteen Alder Artist Collective, established in 1967, offers
established and emerging artists an
opportunity to display their work at <i>The
Starving Artist</i>. The collective-owned cafe employs artists both in the kitchen and on
the floor. We extend an invitation to local artists to join us.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">The note was signed by Jaron Cardew. Jaron? Cardew? President? My Jaron Cardew?</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
A ball of hair—a short man with curly black hair on his head,
face, and arms and lurking elsewhere under his clothes—sprung at me.
“Your body.” He slid on the bench, closer and ever closer until
he penned me in the corner. “I paint you nude.” He kissed his
fingertips.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I felt a weight fall on the other side of the bench. “Thanks for
entertaining my friend Gwen while she waited for me, Nilos.” The
closer Jaron got to me, the farther Nilos moved away.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Ah, of course, Jaron. For you, anything.” Nilos left.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“He wanted to paint me—nude.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“I'm not surprised. Nilos has fine taste in women. Exhibit A.”
Jaron swung his hand indicating the painting.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I picked up the menu and turned it over to show him his signed note.
“You're the president?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “Take me to your leader. Don't
get too excited. Only of <i>The
Starving Artist</i>.”</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“You're an artist?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “I'm an indie author of a couple of novels. Does that count?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“A couple of novels?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Impressed?” He smiled like a schoolboy who'd just received a
gold star.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I took a sip of my espressos.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
The unmistakable sound of high-heels on hardwood. A flamboyant
Amazon was headed our way. Jaron stood and gave her a warm embrace.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“How've you been, Sugar?” She marked his cheek with two bright
pink lips. She coiled a handful of lengthy bright pink fingernails
and clawed the air. “Who's this cupcake?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Play nice, Lulu Bell. This is my friend, Gwen.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Lulu Bell joined us in the booth
and took a sip of Jaron's espressos. That was when I noticed <i>her</i> Adam's
apple.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“You better treat Jai-nie baby right, or you'll be hearing from
me, Cupcake.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “Lulu
Bell's vivid geometric paintings grace our walls,” Jaron proudly explained, “Each
with a hefty price.” And he added. “Which her admires are
overjoyed to pay and she has many admires.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Lulu Bell batted the air with an oh-shucks-gesture. “What do you
do, Cupcake?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Her name is G—.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“She has a voice, doesn't she?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“I knit.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “Like my granny. What do you knit—shawls, afghans, sweaters for
penguins, scarves for giraffes.”
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Gwen designed and knit the sweater she's wearing,” Jaron told
them.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Well, fault your stuff, Cupcake.” Lulu Bell grabbed me by the
wrist and pulled me out of the booth. “Spin.” She made a circle
in the air with their index finger. “That's glorious, Cupcake.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“And that's just one. She's got a closet full. And she's always
knitting more,” Jaron said.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Oh-la-la. Where do you sell them?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“She doesn't,” Jaron said.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Yes, I do. I sell them at <i>Urban Knits</i>.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“I haven’t heard of that boutique,” Lulu Bell said.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Well, it’s a yarn shop.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Oh, Cupcake, you can’t sell sweaters in a yarn shop.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “I've looked everywhere, but I can’t find a boutique that will
take my sweaters.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span> “Oh,
poor baby,” Lulu
Bell told me. “Don't
let that stop you. Don't you know: you create what you can't find</span>.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “What?
A boutique? I don't have that kind of
money.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Not just any old boutique. One that's open 24/7 to a global
market.” She dug in her purse and pulled out a business
card: Reginald Westman, Web Designer.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><b>Read more...</b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.cbc.ca/radio/thenextchapter/yarn-book-the-next-chapter-1.7093581" target="_blank">3 books about art crafting to weave into your life</a></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;">CBC Radio's Jana O'Connor</span></p><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_11.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Fourteen of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_11.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwO9dX8kpgL0DJ7GFbkaIUiZC_6RyeGxAU7tO_wnWp260OXq6Y7fjaS-U1Lsv3xrxP_1AXPIaFRy1cFv0b9XO3q5daGgmyyhFF71Qc1lxo8WTKfJp1RXxPp4hf8lRgg2eXnX2iaQr_DGWUfqKHV_PecSxmUwxeXrGpk9SF3FNqDv6Gja5ssihq5nZDQ3s/s2891/passenger.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2891" data-original-width="1809" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwO9dX8kpgL0DJ7GFbkaIUiZC_6RyeGxAU7tO_wnWp260OXq6Y7fjaS-U1Lsv3xrxP_1AXPIaFRy1cFv0b9XO3q5daGgmyyhFF71Qc1lxo8WTKfJp1RXxPp4hf8lRgg2eXnX2iaQr_DGWUfqKHV_PecSxmUwxeXrGpk9SF3FNqDv6Gja5ssihq5nZDQ3s/s320/passenger.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">photo by Byron</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-22442722478886181922024-01-28T16:27:00.001-08:002024-02-04T16:41:26.497-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 12) <p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_21.html" target="_blank">Chapter Eleven</a>: Gwen joins the Canadian Knitwear Designer Association and continues to work on establishing her knitwear design business. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVcPRhxVntndsdlNUQ3IYSPyqERYC4718CqLpdMWLNMakkwCAO4-YgGhhqohscOv-kKQ26nXk6dSTL7Y-DOkd1w-nfrPixPk6oFk0QlhNFLXycAXZrFGkBNWqmC_KbygCADCIEglkT5hHMZf6uGxSRiWKll7ALKCKAK1oKigLessQDxZpi42L3792YVAw/s3264/me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1836" data-original-width="3264" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVcPRhxVntndsdlNUQ3IYSPyqERYC4718CqLpdMWLNMakkwCAO4-YgGhhqohscOv-kKQ26nXk6dSTL7Y-DOkd1w-nfrPixPk6oFk0QlhNFLXycAXZrFGkBNWqmC_KbygCADCIEglkT5hHMZf6uGxSRiWKll7ALKCKAK1oKigLessQDxZpi42L3792YVAw/s320/me.jpg" width="320" /></a> </span></p><p style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Twelve</b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Some crafters are cold-weather friends—abandoning their knitting
needles in the Spring. One year, determined to encourage them to
remain faithful I concocted a plan. I collected cotton, bamboo and
linen in colours that popped and knit Summer weather wear. Once done,
I worked on a window display. It had my full attention until... I saw
him—a really cute guy skirting puddles. I started sending him
subliminal messages: Come inside the shop. Come inside.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span>
He walked past and was almost out of sight. But then... Then he
turned around. He opened the </span><span>shop door and walked in. He. Was. In. The. Shop.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Marta pulled the top I was holding out of my hands and all but threw
me at him. “Gwen will be happy to help you.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
His face lit up. “I need to buy...um...ah.” He quickly scanned
the shop and landed on a peg board full of knitting needles. “These.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
The electricity between us was so strong I could barely think. “What
size?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“I'm a medium,” he told me.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I smiled. “What size needle?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Hmm...well... I don't know.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“What size does the pattern say you need?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Pattern? Yeah, I need one of those too.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I guided him to our collection of patterns. “What would you like
to knit? A scarf? A hat?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“What do you like to knit?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Sweaters, mainly,” I told him.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
A customer—an attractive redhead—was in line to pay for a
pattern but she walked over to me and dived in. “Knitting a sweater
is time-consuming and the patterns are unreadable. Here knit these
socks.” Ms. Nosy took a sock pattern off the rack and handed it to
him.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“I want to buy a sweater pattern,” he told me.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Ms. Nosy rejoined the queue.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I showed him several very nice sweater patterns for men but he
pulled a woman's sweater pattern off the rack—it was one of my
designs. “It's a gift for a friend,” he told me. “Do you think
she'll like it?”</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
He was planning on knitting a sweater for his girlfriend. My heart
fell to my feet, but I bounced back the best I could. “I think so.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
He commissioned me to select the yarn. </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“The pattern states a
requirement of six balls of yarn, but I advise buying seven to be
safe.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Yarn, pattern, knitting needles, he carried it all to the checkout.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span>
“Make sure to knit a sample swatch to ensure that you have the
right size of knitting needles,” I </span><span>told him before I rang up the sale.</span></span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language, but said,
“Hmm...okay...sure.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Keep the receipt. If you need another pair of needles, we'll
exchange them with proof of purchase.” I handed him the bill of
sale.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“I'll guard this like gold.” He waved the bill and grinned.”Do
you always play it safe?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Can you
wrap it up fancy?”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
We didn't have much in the way of gift wrap. I found some tissue
paper and a brown paper bag.
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“I also need a gift card.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“We don’t carry any cards.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“A scrap piece of paper will do.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I slipped a piece of paper into the bag and handed it to him. “Have
a nice day.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“It's become one.” He offered me an adorable smile.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I watched him walk to the door, down the sidewalk and out of my
life.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
After he left the shop got even busier—someone was trying to
figure out how to make I-cord; someone else was having trouble
achieving even tension; someone else wanted to exchange a pair of
knitting needles; someone else wanted to buy yarn but we didn't have
enough in the colour she'd selected but I thought we had more in the
back. So I didn't notice when the handsome stranger returned until he
stood in front of me.
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
He pulled a folded note out of the brown paper bag and gave it to
me.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I unfolded it and read...</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="center" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Roses are red,</span></p>
<p align="center" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Some tulips are too,</span></p>
<p align="center" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
You're really cute,</span></p>
<p align="center" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I'd like to date you</span></p>
<p align="center" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
-Jaron Cardew</span></p><p align="center" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Thirteen of</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/02/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-jI24qsgRwwX9G4AWbNKDsNfN3B7P81kK18vKswo6C6QSgaQkkVdK5-SujibcDrd64jvm4hDa5WMBf8NZiUFWdv-wCp5PVAsRaFrr_PVprkbbDDmqaqN3H_qHZbplOrDMu-KVBFgK6E0-xWCngF4IFB6GoODCoZHCzWl8Ko5f0xqQKnPNPCrYkFhioc/s2145/Geddy's%20book.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2145" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN-jI24qsgRwwX9G4AWbNKDsNfN3B7P81kK18vKswo6C6QSgaQkkVdK5-SujibcDrd64jvm4hDa5WMBf8NZiUFWdv-wCp5PVAsRaFrr_PVprkbbDDmqaqN3H_qHZbplOrDMu-KVBFgK6E0-xWCngF4IFB6GoODCoZHCzWl8Ko5f0xqQKnPNPCrYkFhioc/s320/Geddy's%20book.jpg" width="274" /></a></div>photo by Byron<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-13820731455330384972024-01-21T16:35:00.002-08:002024-01-28T16:48:05.039-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 11)<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and.html" target="_blank">Chapter Ten</a>: Marta helps Gwen see the value of her designs and encourages her to connect with other knitwear designers.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XUmwc1z9Zmk4VxkH5o8LhKnvCB2uVs9le318BqRubaP9Zkix36T2heRdG2fRf8tOtHP8XLOYzMZSg3KWTgmXa4wkHMYu-WzpFyj8MlBAN6cV05rcOlZMrSz4Q7cpG73p9vI0l1qBxwzKlSv4i28n4TqEn3s0af3ZAe_t_1_9QxRWWCnbJ4xBTPIpOf0/s3264/snow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XUmwc1z9Zmk4VxkH5o8LhKnvCB2uVs9le318BqRubaP9Zkix36T2heRdG2fRf8tOtHP8XLOYzMZSg3KWTgmXa4wkHMYu-WzpFyj8MlBAN6cV05rcOlZMrSz4Q7cpG73p9vI0l1qBxwzKlSv4i28n4TqEn3s0af3ZAe_t_1_9QxRWWCnbJ4xBTPIpOf0/s320/snow.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: black; font-size: medium;">Just look what Mother Nature left on Mayne Island recently (1/17).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: black; font-size: medium;">Isn't it beautiful...?</div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXG6Cf4g-Myoho641AWp8wQI3kxdH0gc48zS5MMamhZkD6UVSThaplg1EWAkSeUONJDjJpd818R24ZZcTDqqACRUn4-2qH26qRxm5qi_frauyos17HKCOH3u5iw2ivDDBzc6SlKQPuJlB9za-vY4TvJD0bgIzEakP32soWOAHxLb6N-eejFc2PnKltAqA/s3264/snow%20day.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXG6Cf4g-Myoho641AWp8wQI3kxdH0gc48zS5MMamhZkD6UVSThaplg1EWAkSeUONJDjJpd818R24ZZcTDqqACRUn4-2qH26qRxm5qi_frauyos17HKCOH3u5iw2ivDDBzc6SlKQPuJlB9za-vY4TvJD0bgIzEakP32soWOAHxLb6N-eejFc2PnKltAqA/s320/snow%20day.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">photos by ldyck</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-large;"><br /></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-large;">Chapter Eleven</b></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> I graduated from High School and started working at <i>Urban Knits
</i>full-time. Living and working in the shop, I couldn't be happier.
I poured all my energy into growing my knitting career. I felt
unstoppable.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I was always on the lookout for venues in which to sell my sweaters.
A high-end clothing boutique
was a couple of blocks from <i>Urban Knits</i>.
Clothing was staged like works of art. I fantasized about
my sweaters being displayed so attractively. Of course, without
Mother's financing, I could no longer afford to buy anything. The
saleswoman probably thought I was just a lookie-loo.
She
didn't know I had a mission. It took me several visits to build up
enough confidence to discuss my work, but one day I did. </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“I'm a
knitwear designer.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
The imposing woman with purple highlights, dressed in black, pulled
her glasses off her face </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">and let them dangle on the gold chain around her neck. “Everyone's
a writer, a designer these days.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I began to unzip my jacket. “I'm wearing one of my sw—”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“We only carry European designers.” Her shoes beat a steady
tattoo as she charged off to tidy an already immaculate display.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I'd been dismissed.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I crawled home to my apartment in <i>Urban Knits,</i> where I consoled myself with daydreams of my
sweaters hanging in European boutiques—where they only carried
North American designers.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I joined the Canadian Knitwear Designer Association and took
solace in that community. Many grappled with the
same problems I had. They complained about knitters being unwilling
to pay for patterns, lack of payment for designs, lack of recognition for work completed, and closed doors
preventing further success.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Designers with more experience attempted to encourage us with
carefully crafted pep talks.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Believe in your work, and others will too.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“All the struggling will pay off. You will obtain success.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“A couple of years ago, I was where you are. Now look at me. I've
built a successful career. Believe me, if I can do it, so can you.”</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Religiously, I lurked, reading each post, taking comfort where possible.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_28.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Twelve of</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_28.html" target="_blank"> When Gwen Knits </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh29MV0opU0oQ-DRnVbR4He8lL6A1ZTjtx0s5LXhnccnPZ_VTzsozFeQC9uLF41AOVQxmuPnZU8sGWL9UWS0enz5D42fYK1yYFRiIaF_QW7I672do_Lg54X0MT7vNC5NJj6xRcnGKHvXKnz5P0S132Y8E1TzN1bDBMX5HOhnYqCwKchwZaRVvCVYJ2EhFk/s1713/Abby.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1713" data-original-width="1359" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh29MV0opU0oQ-DRnVbR4He8lL6A1ZTjtx0s5LXhnccnPZ_VTzsozFeQC9uLF41AOVQxmuPnZU8sGWL9UWS0enz5D42fYK1yYFRiIaF_QW7I672do_Lg54X0MT7vNC5NJj6xRcnGKHvXKnz5P0S132Y8E1TzN1bDBMX5HOhnYqCwKchwZaRVvCVYJ2EhFk/s320/Abby.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Leanne</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Are you looking for me?</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I'm right here...</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-26323797503232960252024-01-14T16:28:00.001-08:002024-01-21T16:37:54.217-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 10) <p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-9.html" target="_blank">Chapter Nine:</a> When her mother insists that she abandon her knitting needles, Gwen leaves home and moves to...?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyf6MwkjW-7_0fNTxufg8ebSmpFCx7_fEyDvKLy6uuY3e2SPFlvlxg3L_zzKKQu4db5ClfYBVKYgkwPGWJtGEyJVas4EFVkHPPpJYGbcUCvJ-14ro_OCkCNyS7uVWnAVbw9r8Hey7VzWEZJDvWTHa098_j5aEbe_wqhu3jXpSLZUWyQ3piHfq-kiIRKV0/s2541/snow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2541" data-original-width="1792" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyf6MwkjW-7_0fNTxufg8ebSmpFCx7_fEyDvKLy6uuY3e2SPFlvlxg3L_zzKKQu4db5ClfYBVKYgkwPGWJtGEyJVas4EFVkHPPpJYGbcUCvJ-14ro_OCkCNyS7uVWnAVbw9r8Hey7VzWEZJDvWTHa098_j5aEbe_wqhu3jXpSLZUWyQ3piHfq-kiIRKV0/s320/snow.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Snow...? On Mayne Island? Occassionally. So, quick, grab the camera.</div><div style="text-align: center;">A few hours of snow that lasted three days--so far.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Will it snow again? Stay tuned...</div> <p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Ten</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">I wandered the streets. No matter which direction I headed I always ended up at</span><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span><i style="color: #2b00fe;">Urban Knits</i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">I blew silver fog into the black night. No lights but one. It eliminated the display window</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">—a collection of tantalizing yarn spilling out of an apple basket</span><span style="color: #2b00fe;">. Little can stop BC wind from biting through layer after layer of clothing. I stamped my feet and checked the time on my cell phone—seven o'clock, two hours past closing. But I had nowhere else to go. Desperately, I knocked again. I removed a glove and knocked even louder. A rapid-fire series of knocks later, the lights flicked on.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> Marta </span><span style="color: #2b00fe;">held the door open. I wheeled my suitcase into the shop. </span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“Oh, <i>dorogy</i>.” Her words were full of empathy.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">She deserved an explanation. I gave her the condensed version. “Mother kicked me out.” </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">No questions, she just said, “This too is grief.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> I followed her to the back of the shop, up a flight of stairs I'd never used, through a hidden door, into a small sparsely furnished apartment—a futon against one wall, a desk against the other.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Files were open on the desk and the computer was on. “I will just finish here and then leave you to the place.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Mother had always stressed the importance of good posture. I flopped down on the futon. “Thank you so much, Marta.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“My pleasure, <i>dorogy</i>. This is a small apartment but there is a bathroom with a shower through that door. Kitchen...? There is only this microwave and that small fridge but I will bring you meals."</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">"No, I can't</span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: x-large;">—."</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Marta waved away my objection. "Hush," she said sternly. "Now I can take room and board from your salary.” She waited a beat and added. “I am joking.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">I needed that chuckle.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">I pulled my needles and yarn out of my backpack. </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“What are you knitting?” She asked.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“Oh, I’m just playing.” It was a shorthand she knew. This time it meant that I was “uninventing” a stitch pattern based on seed stitch. I recorded the results in my scrapbook and pinned the sample swatches to each corresponding page.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">I was working in multiples of 7–7 knit stitches followed by 7 purl stitches—when Marta turned </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">off the computer. She had to move my scrapbook to sit down beside me.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Unlike Mother, Marta asked permission before invading my privacy. She found my sweater sketches. “I like.” She flipped the page. “I like.” She kept flipping, uttering the same two words page after page. “You have the eye of a knitwear designer. You should email Patty Beacon, president of the Canadian Knitwear Designer Association.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Ms. Beacon's reply to my email listed a wealth of knitwear design books: <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Sweater-Design-English-Maggie-Righetti/dp/0312051646" target="_blank"><i>Sweater Design in Plain English </i>by Maggie Righetti</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Designing-Knitwear-Deborah-Newton/dp/1561582654/ref=sr_1_1?crid=78E94Z6C3Z15&keywords=Designing+Knitwear+by+Deborah+Newton&qid=1704139432&s=books&sprefix=designing+knitwear+by+deborah+newton%2Cstripbooks%2C146&sr=1-1" target="_blank"><i>Designing Knitwear </i>by Deborah Newton</a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Ethnic-Knitting-Discovery-Netherlands-Denmark/dp/0966828933" target="_blank">Ethnic Knitting: Discovery: The Netherlands, Denmark, Norway, and The Andes by Donna Druchuna</a>.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> I studied each book and took careful notes until… I felt inspired to write my first pattern. Research books spread out on the futon, knitting needles and yarn close at hand, I flipped to a page in my scrapbook. I was alone. Marta had left hours earlier. </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">But someone was there with me. Something… A physic connection… My Auntie Ollie was provinces away in Manitoba but it felt like she was sitting beside me on the futon.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Night after night, I worked. And night after night, I felt Auntie Ollie guiding me.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Several months later, I had five new sweaters and hand-written patterns for each. </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Marta was overjoyed when I showed them to her, but she suggested, "You need test knitters and pictures." </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Marta and her knitting group volunteered to knit the sweaters I designed. </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Once they were done, we all had fun taking pictures of them wearing their new sweaters. I used Marta's printer to produce my first pattern collection.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Proudly, Marta attractively displayed my patterns right beside the cash register. “Not every knitting shop can boast their own knitwear designer, <i>dorogy.”</i></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Knitter after knitter bought my patterns. </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_21.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Eleven of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and_21.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcegMGkrhOHtoil7bLyFU7RhzF0Payl6iCO9Ckc-iFQCLMr_c-aopVp-4dj_NWxLYKMA4In7fIU-trEj2DoFaiv4-v_W5d-sjTe_o4qWycaO4jxFh7uCXNu61uDQkW7kTr8z_5WjhnH7RXqbdR5rNbfVISp7qk0kqhpVmWJCaBPepYiaCFPcNWPF9Eo50/s2648/cellphone.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2648" data-original-width="1820" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcegMGkrhOHtoil7bLyFU7RhzF0Payl6iCO9Ckc-iFQCLMr_c-aopVp-4dj_NWxLYKMA4In7fIU-trEj2DoFaiv4-v_W5d-sjTe_o4qWycaO4jxFh7uCXNu61uDQkW7kTr8z_5WjhnH7RXqbdR5rNbfVISp7qk0kqhpVmWJCaBPepYiaCFPcNWPF9Eo50/s320/cellphone.jpg" width="220" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Jason</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me with my new friend</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">-a creation of Mayne Island craver Jason.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">My new friend is really cool and needs to be admired in person.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><div><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-76060622720662250122024-01-07T16:32:00.002-08:002024-01-14T16:29:55.075-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 9)<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-8.html" target="_blank">Chapter Eight: </a>At her dad's funeral, a grieving Gwen learns she can't go back "home"--to the family farm. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUYYyLDXyyj66aZf0g9qxYArm4Rcyfkjt8fz-b2Ew8E0aNzs8TMmuFDUbqqmrqbfSXr9fg6BP3EDzG5CrZdAejJCh4NPCN-FnsuqV8VXsAQnEEooODRjS9bQbrSbEr1tjC1nYObDYlqdioaF5yi7jWyhCscjQxgv6l6r0gDR_F6878TpaiEpkOG8ELSuc/s2471/Foggy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2471" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUYYyLDXyyj66aZf0g9qxYArm4Rcyfkjt8fz-b2Ew8E0aNzs8TMmuFDUbqqmrqbfSXr9fg6BP3EDzG5CrZdAejJCh4NPCN-FnsuqV8VXsAQnEEooODRjS9bQbrSbEr1tjC1nYObDYlqdioaF5yi7jWyhCscjQxgv6l6r0gDR_F6878TpaiEpkOG8ELSuc/s320/Foggy.jpg" width="238"></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">photo by ldyck</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Nine</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b><br></b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> My strained relationship with Mother became like an old pair of
panties. The shot piece of elastic that had once held us together had
no more pull. So I avoided her. I stayed away—night and day, only
returning when I thought she must be asleep or away from the house.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
One day, I watched her car drive away. I thought she was gone, but
she was waiting for me in the kitchen—she must have doubled back.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“I've got to go,” I told her.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Where?” The word was a challenge—stay if you're strong enough
and I refused to appear weak around her.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
We squared off—Mother at one end of the kitchen, me at the other.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“I've allowed you to muddle through to the eleventh grade, but
this is where the muddling ends. It's
time you consider your future. McNamaras
are university graduates.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “I'm
a Bjarnson, not a McNamara,”
I shot back. “I have a plan and it doesn't involve university.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“You can't mean... You can't mean knitting? Knitting is just a hobby.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“That's what you think.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“This is my house. The only thing that matters is what I think.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Well, I guess it's time for me to move then.”</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Bye.” She clenched her jaw.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> There was only one place for me to go—out. But beyond that? My
first thought was to run home to the farm, to Auntie Ollie. But she
had made it clear that I couldn't go back there. The blood that
bonded me to the Bjarnsons was diluted by McNamara
blood. Second thought... </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Ten of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-journey-to-fame-and.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcUVlBMUted4Lf58VL0MDrFe00nQEDz_sJgk6idGYhqdMoI7DxhStu0Wu2kvgUYGzRJt67eKdKg0eCiLI1L7bT6ekxHSl6PDlXH7lm0SCQ7wgN-TObBlCodfAK4AJBci34aLETzHxtt-EApgPOTqEjnPTA6ARrXj_GcEIxWTiRIa38XaaQwUFkGVTWcl4/s2617/hike.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2617" data-original-width="1263" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcUVlBMUted4Lf58VL0MDrFe00nQEDz_sJgk6idGYhqdMoI7DxhStu0Wu2kvgUYGzRJt67eKdKg0eCiLI1L7bT6ekxHSl6PDlXH7lm0SCQ7wgN-TObBlCodfAK4AJBci34aLETzHxtt-EApgPOTqEjnPTA6ARrXj_GcEIxWTiRIa38XaaQwUFkGVTWcl4/s320/hike.jpg" width="154"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"after our hike"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Byron</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Author reading on Mayne Island...</b><span></span></span></div><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-9.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-40939941592197787252023-12-31T16:33:00.003-08:002024-01-08T07:55:31.684-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 8)<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-7.html" target="_blank">Chapter Seven</a>: 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</span>.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq5mKRVJy6XneXgkvDHcxyWeqN7mTG7pFmoAPDU35ZTL5X4Z_5cfU1_yQP58OgehY_vEyV3H84uDwgXp4hL8AGPWMXGNBqKBEwZa42vBv9Q_cDl9KulQQoHtMNRthiN_PgMPEmIQh7CD4CN-ZA1E4-hiusK9E3LY0CxgJcznvr4AGxFB8wz2KrM2IJby8/s3264/tree%20and%20sky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq5mKRVJy6XneXgkvDHcxyWeqN7mTG7pFmoAPDU35ZTL5X4Z_5cfU1_yQP58OgehY_vEyV3H84uDwgXp4hL8AGPWMXGNBqKBEwZa42vBv9Q_cDl9KulQQoHtMNRthiN_PgMPEmIQh7CD4CN-ZA1E4-hiusK9E3LY0CxgJcznvr4AGxFB8wz2KrM2IJby8/s320/tree%20and%20sky.jpg" width="180"></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Eight</b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> 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?</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
My auntie comforted me the best she could. “Do you still knit,
Elskan?”
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “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.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“It's lovely. Where did you get the pattern?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“I didn't use one. It's all just Stockinette stitch.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“You're making your own patterns.” Her expression was like the
sun after two days of rain.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Can I go back home?” And to be clear, I added, “to the farm.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
All she said was, “Anna will need you, Elskan. You'll need each
other.”</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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?</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-9.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Nine of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2024/01/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-9.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiKkcRju5MRLmiNKWYNb9DqoAbDjxW85Qo36isomts2GmhVfNOVK9hgyGZuf70f4eD8DcmFTRFPSX0ka4w0ryni2MGsj4fWeGXdDhGiMEU6SBa9LsoO5tUDTEvmUojeZ7j40enzJU689hczh9mceIJYHDLgT8kvfxTuRffp_hXyOvGgiz_soMMi7DLtJM/s4032/Heoroes%20and%20Villians.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiKkcRju5MRLmiNKWYNb9DqoAbDjxW85Qo36isomts2GmhVfNOVK9hgyGZuf70f4eD8DcmFTRFPSX0ka4w0ryni2MGsj4fWeGXdDhGiMEU6SBa9LsoO5tUDTEvmUojeZ7j40enzJU689hczh9mceIJYHDLgT8kvfxTuRffp_hXyOvGgiz_soMMi7DLtJM/s320/Heoroes%20and%20Villians.jpg" width="320"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Byron</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me--at play, the best way to stay young.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b>When Gwen Knits</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWKeEeX4y8sAIdZZFBxn5sglvBHMRkYO88xASA_yyULzcdQ8Zst-bFOs_Vcxitr9eL2oNNyhttYR5t5py3eIQhvV7abKFjtKX0kJI-lasHgtF5WP1ZlEMr4W8lyojtfs7Sb5clZNbvmEEnZ5b4B5VyaJN0YpNDxfknYTAawvFtEmiG3YBxjo0dITo0pY/s1547/Underdogs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1546" data-original-width="1547" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVWKeEeX4y8sAIdZZFBxn5sglvBHMRkYO88xASA_yyULzcdQ8Zst-bFOs_Vcxitr9eL2oNNyhttYR5t5py3eIQhvV7abKFjtKX0kJI-lasHgtF5WP1ZlEMr4W8lyojtfs7Sb5clZNbvmEEnZ5b4B5VyaJN0YpNDxfknYTAawvFtEmiG3YBxjo0dITo0pY/s320/Underdogs.jpg" width="320"></a></div><span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-size: large;">In 2024, I'll be cheering for the Underdogs</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #9fc5e8; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.manitobaunderdogs.org/" target="_blank">Manitoba Underdogs Rescue</a><br></span><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><br></span></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br></span></div><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><b>The best of 2023 on this blog...</b></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span></span></p><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-8.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-42870996741718710922023-12-24T16:30:00.009-08:002024-01-08T07:51:14.610-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 7)<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-6.html" target="_blank">Chapter Six</a>: 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</span><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;">. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrqHRRqKv0Su2nWC6wJ6gXpOQxKQtxafLA8bTWnN7-r7CJvhOcq0Qi1J978Q5TfPyLXw2XIASRey62TqDqd8RgCoDKIrlcoYNz_aNAwtZ7UrSXAihYEcvplgBuZKB85B7lVAFNh8SkpDZy_mJgmNL29uVTOU_-KnTghyphenhyphenYalvA07vBMsnzZux4b4N1rSRo/s1646/my%20photo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1452" data-original-width="1646" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrqHRRqKv0Su2nWC6wJ6gXpOQxKQtxafLA8bTWnN7-r7CJvhOcq0Qi1J978Q5TfPyLXw2XIASRey62TqDqd8RgCoDKIrlcoYNz_aNAwtZ7UrSXAihYEcvplgBuZKB85B7lVAFNh8SkpDZy_mJgmNL29uVTOU_-KnTghyphenhyphenYalvA07vBMsnzZux4b4N1rSRo/s320/my%20photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Lights at the Japanese Gardens on Mayne Island" photo by ldyck</div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><b>Chapter Seven</b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> 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.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“Morning, Mr. McNamara,” the woman called in reply.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
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?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“About what?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
She thought she could just sit there and play dumb.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“Dad.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">
“If it upsets you this much, I will.” She watched me knit for
half a row. “Don't you have </span><span style="color: #2b00fe;">something more productive to do? Always with those needles, always
with that yarn...” She kept at me.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
Nothing I could say would make her stop. So I left for the privacy
of my bedroom.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> A
while later, I overheard my
parents in the kitchen.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“I'm going to hire a gardener,” Mother said.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
The rose bush was my dad's pride and joy. “Why? I don't mind
working out there. In fact, I love it.”</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“Seeing you working like that embarrasses our daughter."</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> I couldn’t believe that she was that clueless. I couldn’t believe she thought that was the reason I was upset.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“I thought
you were going to volunteer at the SPCA?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“I gave them my name and phone number."</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“I have a meeting..."</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“They said they'd phone, but it's been months.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">"At 2 p.m."</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
“When will you be home?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">“I don't know exactly. Sometime later.” The back door slammed shut. </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">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?"</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">All he said was, "I'm fine, Elskan." He'd always been strong and independent. He didn't know how to be vulnerable</span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">—</span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">especially to me. </span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">I couldn't watch him drown in alcohol. “I have to go to </span><i style="color: #2b00fe;">Urban
Knits</i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">.” I left him home alone with all his demons.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
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. </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-8.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Eight of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-8.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyxWrHICmP9GhK6EcngV9lR9bv9Mx4CpRsZPcicsHt4uj5OicsoNOrsZC1tVG8Trpbr8kX0dCiF65G4DxCplZ6y5tEL_wmgGlF1mFrdFQjkkzBWPDT-TC92AgwwoEIJ-bRWdCx9-NPk3AI-LlfTQAQv05WWVbPhbiTWBrQjFU75bZMPKAN22hWc6Iakg/s4032/me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyxWrHICmP9GhK6EcngV9lR9bv9Mx4CpRsZPcicsHt4uj5OicsoNOrsZC1tVG8Trpbr8kX0dCiF65G4DxCplZ6y5tEL_wmgGlF1mFrdFQjkkzBWPDT-TC92AgwwoEIJ-bRWdCx9-NPk3AI-LlfTQAQv05WWVbPhbiTWBrQjFU75bZMPKAN22hWc6Iakg/s320/me.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Byron</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">This is me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: medium;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: medium;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: medium;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: medium;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: medium;">More photos of the lights at the Japanese Gardens on Mayne Island</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: medium;">Photos by Byron Dyck</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlI_Kzcx1OwhR4RMXeCpSM-slhEIv5qiCZ4VgKZYLwdp3fBiyLeNt9ZyeQvE2ISvLDJvvAcAW1coSRiunmAZNVFwIumAbMPykLExBiqG94sUibFi5aBoXaua_95jSquLgMnXmLESXph0y7IBma4obviuBcWwfCmDmJWQkjRmLD-svP8C_jJhETb4QFhWw/s4032/first.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlI_Kzcx1OwhR4RMXeCpSM-slhEIv5qiCZ4VgKZYLwdp3fBiyLeNt9ZyeQvE2ISvLDJvvAcAW1coSRiunmAZNVFwIumAbMPykLExBiqG94sUibFi5aBoXaua_95jSquLgMnXmLESXph0y7IBma4obviuBcWwfCmDmJWQkjRmLD-svP8C_jJhETb4QFhWw/s320/first.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWqo0kb8YXVlXMxjiXmFan-ZZ3RWl5Ds4DOlrlp3hQ-ccMDPvTvBxwm_9SE98koVUb7NWgxlkZGQLH9DGEFWjAPwgFthQs1UH7X8dmQkZ8EEmVyoKPhmtcPD5Y5myWnVaOr_lsDlyjVtaK3d8U6WAqDqFFXX3fCGv-n1cSSUZE310pB0SAxhvvUi9p4N0/s4032/second.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWqo0kb8YXVlXMxjiXmFan-ZZ3RWl5Ds4DOlrlp3hQ-ccMDPvTvBxwm_9SE98koVUb7NWgxlkZGQLH9DGEFWjAPwgFthQs1UH7X8dmQkZ8EEmVyoKPhmtcPD5Y5myWnVaOr_lsDlyjVtaK3d8U6WAqDqFFXX3fCGv-n1cSSUZE310pB0SAxhvvUi9p4N0/s320/second.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijLqqA9uZgab2dMKd-_6Rd2xPZ1uh0_VuGbBnSmLGW2ZdHD_O5Qr2J85gnjeiNEdCEItCVaev09xDKzk1rMDCQNg5Zb5W9ZYyV0d-3zc9H18Ls6mymgMcAm_dMW7khuBIOcVnTLVRsCVOxa6UHDHbulafaFdu6j9wlAod8pFXMkh7hKxHLg9UGs-3cV7o/s4032/third.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDkiU5FjjtYLTDTjFxM1ODFTPHbyY3GjATi1fkVkBb35LmyItXiPctuTtowN3s7chLVqs9ou1aoUjEmBpVGp0tJD6y7nVrJHuh_gCexVKA2AD8GQvJJ6iu5KJquixSpdFiBi3ymkKoRcSHwkzYvdIvLIUXzseCSZMLAAgNzq-tJjCrLclhXA-vw84re4/s4032/sixth.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDkiU5FjjtYLTDTjFxM1ODFTPHbyY3GjATi1fkVkBb35LmyItXiPctuTtowN3s7chLVqs9ou1aoUjEmBpVGp0tJD6y7nVrJHuh_gCexVKA2AD8GQvJJ6iu5KJquixSpdFiBi3ymkKoRcSHwkzYvdIvLIUXzseCSZMLAAgNzq-tJjCrLclhXA-vw84re4/s320/sixth.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: red;"><b><span style="color: white; font-size: medium;">Peace. Joy. Love.</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: red;"><b><span style="color: white; font-size: medium;">Be yours</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: red;"><b><span style="color: white; font-size: medium;">on this night</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: red;"><b><span style="color: white; font-size: medium;">and</span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: red;"><b><span style="color: white; font-size: medium;">all through </span></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: red;"><b><span style="color: white; font-size: medium;">the coming year</span></b></span></div></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-59327552543296058802023-12-17T11:43:00.076-08:002024-01-08T07:54:38.736-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 6)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-5.html" target="_blank">Chapter Five</a>: 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.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMsKgHCerdkoK1E1XQ5ZU8osU19Vy6j8N3VuDKMjGm7TMfBkFvLW83hv5vcDzaSLl3haTpTRDf4rlx800OFH9a-BiQ2feur7IZncaTZ73CJYJNz1LdMZn8T4IjRni9_rKWUM6wHqKSQi-XrAAjBRciOcAMpQLkMfdO5-sjP7FOuptBqHH-yqLh-zwxn8/s2469/sky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2469" data-original-width="1822" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCMsKgHCerdkoK1E1XQ5ZU8osU19Vy6j8N3VuDKMjGm7TMfBkFvLW83hv5vcDzaSLl3haTpTRDf4rlx800OFH9a-BiQ2feur7IZncaTZ73CJYJNz1LdMZn8T4IjRni9_rKWUM6wHqKSQi-XrAAjBRciOcAMpQLkMfdO5-sjP7FOuptBqHH-yqLh-zwxn8/s320/sky.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Six</b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">“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.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> The house, all stainless steel and concrete,
wasn't a home—merely a building.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Somehow
in all that confusion, I noticed a white script scrawled across a
display window—<i>Urban </i><i>Knits</i>.
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. </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“It's so nice to see young ones take an interest in our craft.”
This one worked with double-pointed needles.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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?”
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “I
use the Continental cast on.” I selected a ball from the basket and
began to coil stitches
onto the needle.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“It's much better to knit your stitches on,” they told me.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Behind, in, over, out—the steps had become second nature, like
breathing.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“What is she doing?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“She's using the German method of knitting.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“She'll twist her stitches.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“You really should learn to throw your yarn, Hon.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Yes, all knitting books recommend it.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I reached the end of the row and began to purl.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“What is she doing now?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“It looks awkward, so awkward.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
They wanted to know. So I told them. “My Icelandic-Canadian aunt
taught me to knit. This is </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">the Norwegian purl.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Someone taught you knit like <i>that</i>?”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Well, I've been knitting for over forty years, and that is not an
acceptable way to knit.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“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, <i>dorogy</i>
(my dear)? Tell me about her.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I became such a permanent feature in <i>Urban Knits</i> 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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-7.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Seven of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-7.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9-JyVEffM4rEMaVdPNii6Mrvr7tYv2QZXHvcAZNhQIlYG5erLSpmU_N_pIRe5xRn6k0lGCjpDsjU8ZG32FbIIaP_LVF5h_YCas0SBDxe5znuOA05MqkVj5Zx0vplqhaYoAbGwAD917F5NeumhHMF_Z2GmPv4ra5fIU4XHmjvxTMzEVuln_mH6oeoJjQU/s1254/me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1254" data-original-width="730" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9-JyVEffM4rEMaVdPNii6Mrvr7tYv2QZXHvcAZNhQIlYG5erLSpmU_N_pIRe5xRn6k0lGCjpDsjU8ZG32FbIIaP_LVF5h_YCas0SBDxe5znuOA05MqkVj5Zx0vplqhaYoAbGwAD917F5NeumhHMF_Z2GmPv4ra5fIU4XHmjvxTMzEVuln_mH6oeoJjQU/s320/me.jpg" width="186" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Dell</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me doing <a href="https://www.nccih.nih.gov/health/tai-chi-what-you-need-to-know" target="_blank">Tia Chi</a>.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">My last class for 2023 will be on Monday, December 18th. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">New classes for beginners and experienced begin in 2024.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I highly recommend attending--</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Tia Chi is the best form of exercise </span></span><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">that I've found </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">and my instructor is caring and makes Tia Chi easy and fun to learn.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-87116424609003063442023-12-10T16:31:00.003-08:002024-01-08T07:53:51.141-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 5)<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-4.html" target="_blank">Chapter Four</a>: Gwen joins 4-H to develop her knitting skills and make friends with a group of knitters.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirPaTue2qIhlEP0tjtcrHUy_r743pHNyfu6gMId_N6C89-IjyrXYyJdktTEMaewXWVFAhod4fhxNbCe29nPT5HLDKLBa6KMCKCTNQjwqFktrRxx0gYFV7IkGIUM56yadK1cjsJe8OWwwwz03ssdjzks8gxg89ObL9zOf-TS4hl4uV1oImjx0773FBTxHY/s1695/foggy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1695" data-original-width="1584" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirPaTue2qIhlEP0tjtcrHUy_r743pHNyfu6gMId_N6C89-IjyrXYyJdktTEMaewXWVFAhod4fhxNbCe29nPT5HLDKLBa6KMCKCTNQjwqFktrRxx0gYFV7IkGIUM56yadK1cjsJe8OWwwwz03ssdjzks8gxg89ObL9zOf-TS4hl4uV1oImjx0773FBTxHY/s320/foggy.jpg" width="299"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Five</b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Mother's fame as a talented doctor grew. It got so I couldn't go
downtown without someone stopping me.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“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.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Is Doctor Anna McNamara at home?” They came to offer Mother a
position at their hospital in Winnipeg, Edmonton, Vancouver.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
The suit left. I went to bed and eavesdropped on my parents.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Oh, Kris, don't you see? I have to go. The offer is just too good
to pass up.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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
<i>Afi</i> (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.”</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> 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.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Not easily intimidated, Mother retorted, “And you think a woman's
place is in the kitchen, in bed, or under your feet.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“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.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Afi wanted a fight and Mother was happy to oblige. “Don't talk that
way to him. He respects me.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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!”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“You,” Afi spat at my dad, “take yours.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-6.html" style="background-color: #cfe2f3;" target="_blank">Read Chapter Six of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-6.html" style="background-color: #cfe2f3;" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiaTqIMYNPCIlf7cWJBwzk5MsL2SiKG2QfGCSUnBcjmcoJ7_odw5F8JQ0WaBzFhZhZkFe-MK3_61T_OmQV-kdbCnmFziku1Sc1VpVUWFj50Kxuh6TR7QYu9PZ5r2mPOv2oC2ZcD0smP6yBxTVD3YSMDi2eaUMawgvKYXILvdVj1yXfGR84VC4q9JIcWE/s3264/me%20short.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtiaTqIMYNPCIlf7cWJBwzk5MsL2SiKG2QfGCSUnBcjmcoJ7_odw5F8JQ0WaBzFhZhZkFe-MK3_61T_OmQV-kdbCnmFziku1Sc1VpVUWFj50Kxuh6TR7QYu9PZ5r2mPOv2oC2ZcD0smP6yBxTVD3YSMDi2eaUMawgvKYXILvdVj1yXfGR84VC4q9JIcWE/s320/me%20short.jpg" width="180"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxlAzT90rFIvxvzQ3ZQlGkQEaKdpjYh6vztRotz20y-hKT9jd2dDtATdQX67ynUhkdK7jG-bHb-xR49PsDNSHPk1125MDQPesFXdL5uknKi0GP2VBXIR-VJ_QdK50s-jlKe4bDXOUN-4_Ko7He4jQKLCoaRuBVgqwMLdPWEwS0lMigBRG5-LKYZxoUaws/s1815/me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1815" data-original-width="1741" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxlAzT90rFIvxvzQ3ZQlGkQEaKdpjYh6vztRotz20y-hKT9jd2dDtATdQX67ynUhkdK7jG-bHb-xR49PsDNSHPk1125MDQPesFXdL5uknKi0GP2VBXIR-VJ_QdK50s-jlKe4bDXOUN-4_Ko7He4jQKLCoaRuBVgqwMLdPWEwS0lMigBRG5-LKYZxoUaws/s320/me.jpg" width="307"></a></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Glenda of G.G.'s Salon & Art on Mayne Island</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">--hairdresser extraordinaire</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br></span></div><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: medium;">A hairy story...</span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span></span></p><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-5.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-27218576843900228472023-12-03T16:40:00.062-08:002024-01-08T07:53:16.285-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 4)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/11/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-3.html" target="_blank">Chapter Three</a>: Gwen struggles and wins her first knitted stitch--aided by her auntie Ollie.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjymCJis5lXog6Y5WCGKkM8CGI9zFMxHCR8Wy_eqNimDHxgsW0SmwxEDvD-R-8JqwoRGZpod7FY44IBRlim5O3E5kb-TzVMb0nM1sU23KK5B5DHWlcxMzjjHI7iTlVvH8-4hEMCNMp3IhgPA_ZPmtSknaNVL8WkoVvl0zD2-ty5FCNzrOpjx_gBFN-V9Fk/s2492/wres.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2492" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjymCJis5lXog6Y5WCGKkM8CGI9zFMxHCR8Wy_eqNimDHxgsW0SmwxEDvD-R-8JqwoRGZpod7FY44IBRlim5O3E5kb-TzVMb0nM1sU23KK5B5DHWlcxMzjjHI7iTlVvH8-4hEMCNMp3IhgPA_ZPmtSknaNVL8WkoVvl0zD2-ty5FCNzrOpjx_gBFN-V9Fk/s320/wres.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><b>Chapter Four</b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> 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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> Always
gregarious and interested in learning more about the craft I loved, I
quickly agreed with the plan.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> 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 —.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> “I
already know how to knit.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> “Prove
it.”</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> Prepared
for this challenge, I unwrapped my garter stitch scarf from my neck.
“I knit this.”
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> 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.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> Thankfully,
my auntie arrived before the gang could interrogate my friends.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> 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.
</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> 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.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> 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.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
Beside the garter stitch sample, I wrote:
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p><p align="left" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">
garter stitch stretches.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Beside
the 1 x 1 rib stitch sample, I wrote:</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"> 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.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Beside
the seed stitch sample, I wrote:</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">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.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Beside
the Stockinette stitch sample, I wrote:</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">“Rolling,
rolling, rolling keep that knitting rolling. Stockinette stitch.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">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. </span><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><br /></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-5.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Five of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-5.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtCUVNbt7HVuW6GPvo4rEwjbeIkcvG_7dBI-YMnlzSC2Z8KDB5pY6wa-MAl9Zg4YWoyUDWaR6IXN2YGBro1F94PiI2JpWIq-gYBX-ozAS09Ce96YkqVSiJugV2Ksb5atCWgHlO7Qw9-aMyRgGRKtcYH7vowGRBQTW6S7eAeqp3NID2Ww_al__8RGiXRk/s2280/me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2280" data-original-width="1646" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLtCUVNbt7HVuW6GPvo4rEwjbeIkcvG_7dBI-YMnlzSC2Z8KDB5pY6wa-MAl9Zg4YWoyUDWaR6IXN2YGBro1F94PiI2JpWIq-gYBX-ozAS09Ce96YkqVSiJugV2Ksb5atCWgHlO7Qw9-aMyRgGRKtcYH7vowGRBQTW6S7eAeqp3NID2Ww_al__8RGiXRk/s320/me.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Eleanor</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">on my way to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PfLzLwsLjPk" target="_blank">Gail Noonan's</a> concert at the church</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">on Mayne Island.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold; text-align: left;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></div>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-70013864310278560502023-11-26T16:22:00.005-08:002024-01-08T07:52:41.281-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 3)<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/11/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-2.html" target="_blank">Chapter Two</a>: Gwen's life began on her family's farm in the Manitoba agricultural community of Blondous. There her Aunty Ollie knit as Gwen's mother doctored.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjsqyzdgRuNGZNENWICDYRZTY1EMTO2MglkAHJPn_qqGPw8CWGI-T6VrZ_BosPF6EXfmyR9nmqPoa97lp_omjqXc5dL5Wnqg_djoqzshyphenhyphengVsVeZDpMzyIongh4ugHQdLLZ4Tr-iSyuMCHFyI_AOi7ngC58QhNjmZKPI4Z7KZC92wcnadU-xhPJA58JPso/s2897/sky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2897" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjsqyzdgRuNGZNENWICDYRZTY1EMTO2MglkAHJPn_qqGPw8CWGI-T6VrZ_BosPF6EXfmyR9nmqPoa97lp_omjqXc5dL5Wnqg_djoqzshyphenhyphengVsVeZDpMzyIongh4ugHQdLLZ4Tr-iSyuMCHFyI_AOi7ngC58QhNjmZKPI4Z7KZC92wcnadU-xhPJA58JPso/s320/sky.jpg" width="203" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Three</b></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> My dad worked hard from sun up to sun down—as is the farmer's lot. But
he took time to share the things he knew I would regard as special.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I recall one spring morning.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Gwen.” My dad called through my bedroom door.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I sprung out of bed and pulled a sweater and pants over my
Pajamas.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Outside, stars like pinpricks pierced the black sky. Over grass
stiff with frost, I followed him to the barn. In the sweet-smelling
straw, warm against its mother slept a newborn lamb.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“A miracle,” he called the new arrival. He was a man of few
words but they were enough to convey his feelings—if you listened
attentively. And I knew how pleased he was.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
The farm was a magical place for all except Mother. She used
adjectives like dirty and smelly.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Why had she elected to work in a rural hospital? Did she view
herself as a saviour, either due to her skills as a doctor or for her
beliefs as a feminist? Maybe she saw herself as a martyr who would
endure wretched conditions, sacrificing herself to save bodies and
minds. Or did she simply want to surround herself with people she
viewed as subordinate—to feed her swollen ego?</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Surprisingly,
Mother did allow my auntie to teach me to knit. I'm not sure why.
Perhaps, due to my amma's (grandma's) local fame as a crafter, she
thought it was my rightful inheritance. Or more likely she desired to
prepare my hands for the life of a surgeon.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> As I
watched my auntie cast on stitches, I noticed leftover yarn—on the wrong
side of the needles, she couldn't use it to knit the first row. I'd
always wondered why she did that so I asked. She explained as she
coiled the yarn into a figure eight and secured it with a knot. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">“This
is c</span><span style="color: #2b00fe;">alled
the tail. If the tail is too short stitches could fall off the
needle. I like to leave enough yarn so that I can use it to sew a
seam. And if I don't have a seam to sew, I still like long tails.”
Her needles clicked </span><span style="color: #2b00fe;">as she
worked a row. “After I'm done weaving in enough yarn to keep my
knitting safe, I cut off the tail” She grinned. “It doesn't hurt.
And add it to the bag. You've seen my bag of tails. It's like a
record of my knitting. Your amma did that too. You never know when a
piece of yarn can come in handy, Elskan. Waste not, want not.” She
mumbled some Icelandic words that I couldn't translate. Beyond a few
simple words, I know very little Icelandic. I wish I knew more; I
wish I'd listened better. But a fool is lost in wishes. </span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> My knitting lessons took place after school and before Mother came
home. I sat beside my auntie on the sofa—watching closely and listening carefully. I have
such clear memories of my first lesson. It seems like it took place yesterday.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Referring
to the knitting needle she’d used to cast on, my auntie said, “This
is the carrier needle.”
She picked up the other needle. “This is the worker. To knit, slip
the tip of the working needle</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span><span style="color: #2b00fe;">into
the loop between the yarn and the needle. Now wrap the yarn around
the working needle. Pull the yarn through the loop. You've made a
stitch. Each time you make a stitch with the worker pull a stitch off
the carrier. You should always have the same number of stitches as
you started with.” She kept making stitch after stitch until...</span></span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “Hey,
now the carrier needle has become the working needle and the working
needle has become the carrier.”</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “Good
eyes, Elskan. You're turn.” She handed the knitting to me.
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> My
auntie made knitting look effortless, but it wasn't effortless for
me. I attempted to spear the needle into the yarn—to no avail.
Frustration overtook me, I ceased the loop, pulled it forward and
forced the needle into the gap. I fought and won my first stitch.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> To
help me remember the steps involved in knitting, my auntie told me a
story about my youngest cousin. “One day, Pall was full of
mischief, he walked <i>behind</i>
the house.” She put the tip of the working needle behind the yarn.
“Came <i>in</i> the back
door.” She slipped the tip of the working needle into the loop.
“Danced <i>over </i>a
kitchen chair.” Brought the yarn over the tip of the working needle
between the two needles and slipped the new stitch onto the working
needle. “He hopped <i>out </i>the window and was gone.” A new stitch made, she pulled the old stitch
off the carrier needle.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“Behind. In. Over. Out,” I recited repeatedly as I knit.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
Progress was difficult, but I refused to fail, and eventually, my
determination was rewarded as <strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">performing
the steps became smoother.</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
My auntie presented my first knitting project—a garter-stitch
scarf—to Mother. “Gwen's stitches are well-formed. Her tension
even.” Sentences full of pride.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
All Mother offered was a forced smile.</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
A few days later, Mother handed me a wrapped box. Yarn? A pattern
book? Unwrapped, the box contained a sketchbook and drawing pencils.
The enclosed note read: Crafts are for common folk. Art is far more
worthy of your time and energy.
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
To appease her, I invested time sketching and showed some latent talent to Mother's delight. But drawing pencils didn't hold my
interest. Knitting needles did.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Auntie Ollie continued my lessons until I could cast on and off, and
knit without her supervision.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
When Loki, the Norse god of mischief, played with my stitches she
was there to impede his folly.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
“After every couple of rows, count your stitches,” she
cautioned.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
If the stitches were fewer in number, she'd say, “See the ladder
of holes, Elskan? I think a stitch hopped off your needle. Here, let
me catch him for you.” She used her crochet hook to collect the
stitch and carefully worked it, row-by-row, up to the needle.</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
If the stitches had grown in number, she marked the last perfect row
with a safety pin. Then instructed me to pull the stitches off the
needles and rip the rows back to the spot.
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
</span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">
I felt deflated—mourning the loss of all that time knitting, but
my auntie told me, “Re-knitting is as much a part of knitting as
working your stitches.” </span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjymCJis5lXog6Y5WCGKkM8CGI9zFMxHCR8Wy_eqNimDHxgsW0SmwxEDvD-R-8JqwoRGZpod7FY44IBRlim5O3E5kb-TzVMb0nM1sU23KK5B5DHWlcxMzjjHI7iTlVvH8-4hEMCNMp3IhgPA_ZPmtSknaNVL8WkoVvl0zD2-ty5FCNzrOpjx_gBFN-V9Fk/s2492/wres.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2492" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjymCJis5lXog6Y5WCGKkM8CGI9zFMxHCR8Wy_eqNimDHxgsW0SmwxEDvD-R-8JqwoRGZpod7FY44IBRlim5O3E5kb-TzVMb0nM1sU23KK5B5DHWlcxMzjjHI7iTlVvH8-4hEMCNMp3IhgPA_ZPmtSknaNVL8WkoVvl0zD2-ty5FCNzrOpjx_gBFN-V9Fk/s320/wres.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</div><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-4.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Four of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/12/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-4.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Who taught you to knit? </span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Are you in the mood for knitting humour...</span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2018/04/the-lure-of-yarn-short-story.html" target="_blank">The Lure of Yarn</a></span></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJp3o3SEgF28jFGNNlbsXj4rsEY34Aqt8E-Xr9bIDv2DW61iHhro10j7jLF-qvRUAv8vNA1F4qxcPqXMZHoUY6GMtl4uDZ_nf6G0LEKbUNYFSb4DXcoCMQMJ0BPip4Y-B11_tAuThK13cLKPiyWem_z2u_KcX8b2wr-840a88ouSMoLhh3dIgWhFMESTU/s1224/ne.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1224" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJp3o3SEgF28jFGNNlbsXj4rsEY34Aqt8E-Xr9bIDv2DW61iHhro10j7jLF-qvRUAv8vNA1F4qxcPqXMZHoUY6GMtl4uDZ_nf6G0LEKbUNYFSb4DXcoCMQMJ0BPip4Y-B11_tAuThK13cLKPiyWem_z2u_KcX8b2wr-840a88ouSMoLhh3dIgWhFMESTU/s320/ne.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Dell</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me doing <a href="https://www.nccih.nih.gov/health/tai-chi-what-you-need-to-know" target="_blank">Tia Chi</a>.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me and I'll ensure that you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-18902843636123408702023-11-19T16:32:00.006-08:002024-01-08T07:52:03.807-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 2)<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/11/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-1.html" target="_blank">Chapter One</a>: Knitwear designer Gwen Bjarnson invites would-be journalist Kyla into her design studio and prepares to recount the path she took to establish her career in knitting. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinECMUYNnwYYhBT3r1RiDVR8ePu7ZjQZgyt1y96tMmMzdzDzbQ1xTnqchfrxjZ2bnbuwCnDKJiEQb_dKg2zNjTOxo60nBUKtXgL-ASQUG_z0qvdKjnEy50DO7nj5Bj0_Shwf0CW3dsX54jauDgGMR4WpU291lnJhDRULiOHEFDoGYg_a16w24eJI3rG34/s2056/Autumn%20colours.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2056" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinECMUYNnwYYhBT3r1RiDVR8ePu7ZjQZgyt1y96tMmMzdzDzbQ1xTnqchfrxjZ2bnbuwCnDKJiEQb_dKg2zNjTOxo60nBUKtXgL-ASQUG_z0qvdKjnEy50DO7nj5Bj0_Shwf0CW3dsX54jauDgGMR4WpU291lnJhDRULiOHEFDoGYg_a16w24eJI3rG34/s320/Autumn%20colours.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Chapter Two</b></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Some
of my earliest memories are of my auntie Ollie knitting. Transfixed,
I watched her needles magically stitch yarn into a myriad of items:
sweaters, blankets, toques, and mittens.</span></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> As
she worked, she spun stories for me alone. “Gwen, Elskan (dear), I
had boy after boy, but then you came. Finally, our family was blessed
with an adorable baby girl. You looked like such a little angel in the
dress I made for you. Do you remember when I gave you that doll? You
take such good care of her.”</span></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Looking
down at the doll in my arms, I wrapped the </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">soft
wool </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">blanket
a little tighter. “I love her, </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">A</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">untie</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">."</span></strong></span></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I
was born in the agricultural community of Blondous, Manitoba. Some
maps include it—a dot between Lake Manitoba and Lake Winnipeg, in
an area known as the Interlake. In the 1800s, inclimate weather
forced half of the population of Iceland to immigrate. The Canadian
government </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">encouraged</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">them to
settle in central Manitoba, on the shore of Lake Winnipeg</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
The area was to become New Iceland. Under Blondous’ scrub trees,
among its rock-filled land, the new inhabitants longed for
Iceland. </span></strong></span></span></span>
</span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span> I
was born in the Erik Baldursson Memorial Hospital—the same hospital
where Mother doctored. Oh, those poor nurses. How taxing it must have
been tending to her when she was pregnant. </span></span></span>
</span></p><p>
</p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “Yes,
Doctor.”</span></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong>“<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Of
course, Doctor.”</span></span></span></strong></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “Right
away, Doctor.”</span></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> I’m
sure Mother kept them hoping.</span></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> All
farming communities are perpetually in need of doctors. Mother
remained busy morning, noon, and night. She was the only doctor in
the entire municipality.</span></span></span></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"> Returning
home, she’d strip me of the dress and the doll and replace them
with jeans and a toy truck, declaring, “My daughter will not be
repressed. She will not be marginalized.” It was her raging battle
cry.</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span> Mother’s
anthem: “I am woman, hear me roar.” She regarded my childhood as
some type of feminist, conscious-raising experiment. She preached,
“Beauty says nothing of the beautiful. Physical </span></span></span><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">attributes
are simply a blending of genes. It is the intellect which is the true
judge of a woman. You must </span></span></span></span></span></span></strong><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">invest
time in cultivating it. Be careful what you learn and from whom, for
it will mark you for the rest </span></span></span></span></span></span></strong><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">of
your life. And you don’t want to be marked by her. Your Aunt Olivia
is fit to cook your meals, make </span></span></span></span></span></span></strong><strong style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">your
bed, and do your laundry, but remember Gwen</span></strong><strong style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">dolyn,
she isn’t your equal. She is a poorly educated farmer’s wife.
McNamaras are doctors, lawyers, corporate executes.”</span></strong></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></strong></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjsqyzdgRuNGZNENWICDYRZTY1EMTO2MglkAHJPn_qqGPw8CWGI-T6VrZ_BosPF6EXfmyR9nmqPoa97lp_omjqXc5dL5Wnqg_djoqzshyphenhyphengVsVeZDpMzyIongh4ugHQdLLZ4Tr-iSyuMCHFyI_AOi7ngC58QhNjmZKPI4Z7KZC92wcnadU-xhPJA58JPso/s2897/sky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2897" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjsqyzdgRuNGZNENWICDYRZTY1EMTO2MglkAHJPn_qqGPw8CWGI-T6VrZ_BosPF6EXfmyR9nmqPoa97lp_omjqXc5dL5Wnqg_djoqzshyphenhyphengVsVeZDpMzyIongh4ugHQdLLZ4Tr-iSyuMCHFyI_AOi7ngC58QhNjmZKPI4Z7KZC92wcnadU-xhPJA58JPso/s320/sky.jpg" width="203" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</div><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: white; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/11/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-3.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Three of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: white; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/11/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-3.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBHc5ClGD2RsEgMvFWCa6ptPO0fcAaqGxlzkd6aSJGrLtQwN6k9udhoHS50nnlpfoAVYD3yva0x3DplzFn4eNYuJ0-S3gxA3JvxwToBw0tgy1eK0CLqFVUNjvp8IVM45S96PZ-Tk8DG3aQ1fjlHxVJVHxSIVEOlvr0sd_OH33BcuF4Bz-LejqhKtYKAc/s1989/Me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1989" data-original-width="1088" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNBHc5ClGD2RsEgMvFWCa6ptPO0fcAaqGxlzkd6aSJGrLtQwN6k9udhoHS50nnlpfoAVYD3yva0x3DplzFn4eNYuJ0-S3gxA3JvxwToBw0tgy1eK0CLqFVUNjvp8IVM45S96PZ-Tk8DG3aQ1fjlHxVJVHxSIVEOlvr0sd_OH33BcuF4Bz-LejqhKtYKAc/s320/Me.jpg" width="175" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Dell</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me at Tai Chi</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">every Monday in the Mayne Island community centre</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">Follow me to ensure you don't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><p lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold; text-align: left;"></span></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-24095089466366513842023-11-12T16:35:00.003-08:002024-01-08T07:48:16.572-08:00When Gwen Knits-a journey to fame and fortune by Leanne Dyck (Ch 1)<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;">Gwen Bjarnson recounts her journey to become a knitwear designer --the ups, the downs, the heartaches, the romance. This story was inspired by my eight-year career in knitwear design.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpb2gki9VgJg1v5u36UYPIuUiD7Uo7vWA9w_uGEJNzgy3eRGyk2FtraSftPyhCIu6o1bseSgBwPFYFDH55c38Z_0fHW_4O5X2QRZrekELkdSrciSgZJTeV0ISvTsp0e0dQCvGyqI2SM7ULMpONFh3n7vp7ATo45Iv-6PKxnWXL9Xhmg41K2FNt77lcx4/s2366/Foggy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2366" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpb2gki9VgJg1v5u36UYPIuUiD7Uo7vWA9w_uGEJNzgy3eRGyk2FtraSftPyhCIu6o1bseSgBwPFYFDH55c38Z_0fHW_4O5X2QRZrekELkdSrciSgZJTeV0ISvTsp0e0dQCvGyqI2SM7ULMpONFh3n7vp7ATo45Iv-6PKxnWXL9Xhmg41K2FNt77lcx4/s320/Foggy.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Fog" by ldyck</div><p></p>
<p align="center" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Chapter
One</span></span></span></p>
<p align="center" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br />
</span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I
lead my twenty-something visitor—wh</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">at
was her name... Oh, yes, Kyla. I lead Kyla u</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">p
the stairs and into my attic craft room. Shelves held wicker baskets
containing my yarn stash—organized by colour and fibre. </span></strong></span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Kyla
stopped in front of </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">the</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">bulletin
board. “It’s so cute!” She said of a collection of sketches </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">I’d
done for a</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">
baby sweater.</span></strong></span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> “Thank
you.” I left the hardwood floor, stepped onto the braided rug and
eased into one of the cozy knitting chairs by the window. Snowdrops,
crocus and a Yoshino cherry tree promised an early Spring. In the
distance, bleating </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">ewes
called </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">to
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">their
exploring </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">lambs</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
</span></strong></span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Under
the window was a basket full of yarn. My sketchbook was on the table
beside my chair.</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">
I picked up </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">the</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">
book</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> and </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">a
folded piece of paper tumbled out. Unfolded, it was a hard copy of
Kyla’s email requesting an interview—not an uncommon request. I
flipped to the notes I jotted down in preparation for the interview.
My memory wasn’t as sharp as it had once been. Hopefully, the notes
will help.</span></strong></span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “I
trust you had little trouble finding our farm.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Still
absorbed in the sketches, she answered without looking away. “No, I
mean yes. I mean, I didn’t have any trouble. Your directions helped
a lot. And thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mrs... Ms. Bar...
Ms. Bara...”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">My Icelandic surname rested awkwardly on some tongues. “B-jarn-son, but please
call me Gwen.” I lifted the hand-painted ceramic teapot off the
hotplate and poured myself a cup. “Would you like to join me in a
cup? It’s a Peppermint blend.”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">She
sank into the other knitting chair. “Oh, my favourite. Thank you,
Gwen.” She giggled, nervously and I wondered if she were star-struck as only a knitter could be. </span></strong></span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> I
poured her a cup. In hopes of helping her relax, I told her about the
twin lambs that had been born early one morning a couple of days ago.
We continued to chat until she said, “I’m trying to get </span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">into
the University. I want to take journalism. I want to work for a knitting magazine. You might not think that
that’s smart because... Well, who reads magazines anymore? But they’re not gone. They’re just all online. </span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">I’ve had a blog for years. I love
blogging and that’s why I thought—. Oh, I’m talking too much.
That’s because I’m nervous. Not of you. You’ve been
great—really trying to </span><strong style="color: #2b00fe;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">help
me stay calm. But I can’t help it. I mean you’re you. Anyway...
To get into university, into journalism... For my application, they
want me to interview one of my heroes. I’m a knitter that’s what I</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong><strong style="color: #2b00fe;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> love to do and well... Canadian knitwear designers are my heroes. And
I don’t think you guys get enough credit. I mean what you do day after day is amazing. I mean all those ideas... Weaving straw
into gold, like in the fairy tale. And of all the knitwear designers,
you’re my favourite. I’ve always wanted to meet you. I’ve knit every one of your patterns. This is yours.”</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span> That
surprised me. Her cardigan didn’t look familiar and I hoped that I
hadn’t forgotten it. </span></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> “</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">It’s
yours but I used a larger needle and added Stockinette stitch cuffs
and I didn’t put the I-cord around the neck. I rolled the cord to
make this button.” She </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">unbuttoned</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">and removed
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">her
cardigan so I could have a closer look. “And I even used your
hand-dyed worsted weight lamb’s wool yarn. I hope you don’t mind
me changing your pattern.”</span></strong></span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Of
course, I couldn’t tell her how relieved I was that I hadn’t had a
senior moment. So I said, “Mind? Not in the slightest. Your
cardigan is lovely.” I wanted to add that she should think about
knitwear design as a career, but I didn’t want her to begin to
doubt her plans. So instead I asked, “What’s your favourite
knitting magazine?”</span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> With
a trembling hand, she reached into the worn leather satchel that she'd set beside her on the chair and pulled
out an old copy of </span></strong><strong><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Needles
and Yarn. </span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">“I’ve
had this since I was a kid—ever since I knew that that’s where I
wanted to work. Way back, I wanted to see my name in </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">print,
on a page. But now, they’re online. So my name will be on a screen,
instead. Which is just as good. And I was thinking if I do a really
good job. I mean if this interview is so good that I get into
university then maybe I could send it to </span></strong><strong><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Needles
and Yarn</span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
You know let them know I’m coming.”</span></strong></span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> She
was so charming, so full of life, </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">that
I couldn’t help myself. I got that feeling older women sometimes
get when younger women request their assistance—perhaps it is kin to the mothering </span></strong></span></span></span></span><strong style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">instinct</span></span></span></span></strong><strong style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
Just like that her goal became mine. I was determined to help </span></span></span></span></strong><strong style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;">her
launch a career in journalism. “What questions would you like me to
address?”</span></span></span></span></strong></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> “Tell
me everything. Like who taught you to knit, how you beg</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">a</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">n
to design, what influenced you, key people in your life, like that.”</span></strong></span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"> And
so I began my tale...</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">Have you been interviewed? What was the topic?</span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/11/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-2.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Two of </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><span lang="en-CA"><span style="background-color: #f4cccc; color: red; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/11/when-gwen-knits-by-leanne-dyck-ch-2.html" target="_blank">When Gwen Knits </a></span></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><p style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p><p align="left" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"></span></span></span></span></span></strong></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixX0lH7IQWwiH244qcPto1v-mkb68GAcg_coKPq-en_2U_nz9xV2hL7DdGEpSwyzmAZxYBELAEyyfoQG2EX86NSZpVCytxiUdR57JdLgV1d11eFSzzXBh6QWRDIBzljLH4WV1B4Lm4zy6fG2nQqsQgNhYPQxFevUANgzLUlajhK9s12Gq1ytPF6r7_LBY/s1444/I'll%20over%20here.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1444" data-original-width="935" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixX0lH7IQWwiH244qcPto1v-mkb68GAcg_coKPq-en_2U_nz9xV2hL7DdGEpSwyzmAZxYBELAEyyfoQG2EX86NSZpVCytxiUdR57JdLgV1d11eFSzzXBh6QWRDIBzljLH4WV1B4Lm4zy6fG2nQqsQgNhYPQxFevUANgzLUlajhK9s12Gq1ytPF6r7_LBY/s320/I'll%20over%20here.jpg" width="207" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">photo by Manon</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This is me.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/in/leannedyck/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Linkedin</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://twitter.com/lustfulgraces" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">X (Twitter)</span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">If you follow me, I'll ensure that you won't miss a chapter of </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">When Gwen Knits</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large; font-weight: 700;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="en-CA"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span><p></p>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-91810784958407800472023-11-05T16:13:00.000-08:002023-11-05T16:13:51.698-08:00Book Review: Girlfriend on Mars by Deborah Willis (sci fi, romance, literary fiction)<p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Thirty-one years old and newly transplanted from Thunder Bay, Ontario to Vancouver, BC, Amber Kivinen and Kevin Watkins are in a fourteen-year committed relationship--together forever. Until... Without Kevin's knowledge, Amber applies to enter a contest to travel to Mars. Amber is selected for the contest, and Kevin stays home to grieve her loss.</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><i>Girlfriend on Mars </i>is about space, reality TV, climate change anxiety, infidelity, grow ops, travel...</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqwqP9-Uy3cTnM3sYXIC5mPYWo3C0Nn1SddArF-kBevQ3pCAuh5JgeUJsdcH-iImHg9Xy-K4OEx8I445VffNM7WtrZKxemYoCBbr5ZwxPAAbg4rixcVHnBWxLVh944U1PYhOr4D_gXEckTlfIUaa4BF2qFLIkPnBRxDVyEx46Ai4Oa3hSIY9PC9Pyu4ug/s2485/Girlfriend.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2485" data-original-width="1752" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqwqP9-Uy3cTnM3sYXIC5mPYWo3C0Nn1SddArF-kBevQ3pCAuh5JgeUJsdcH-iImHg9Xy-K4OEx8I445VffNM7WtrZKxemYoCBbr5ZwxPAAbg4rixcVHnBWxLVh944U1PYhOr4D_gXEckTlfIUaa4BF2qFLIkPnBRxDVyEx46Ai4Oa3hSIY9PC9Pyu4ug/s320/Girlfriend.jpg" width="226"></a></div><br><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/books/417561/girlfriend-on-mars-by-deborah-willis/9780670069583" target="_blank">Girlfriend on Mars</a></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.deborahwillis.ca/" target="_blank">Deborah Willis</a></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hamish Hamilton</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">an imprint of Penguin Canada</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">2023</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">356 pages</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://scotiabankgillerprize.ca/scotiabank-giller-prize-spotlight-deborah-willis/" target="_blank">longlisted for the Scotiabank Giller</a></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Science Fiction, Romance, Literary Fiction</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Amber and Kevin are polar opposites. Amber is an aggressive go-getter who lives life to the fullest. Kevin is a deep-thinking, deep-feeling observer of life. Raised by an ailing single mother, Kevin was taught from a young age to fear life and cling to one person. At first, this person was his mom and then Amber. Who will he cling to now that she's gone? </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Girlfriend on Mars is told in altering chapters of first and second person. The first-person chapters are narrated by Kevin. In the second-person chapters, we observe Amber--much as Kevin would. At one point, Kevin tells us, </span><span style="font-size: large;">"I realize that Amber is a planet, and I'm a moon to her orbit." <span style="color: #2b00fe;">I understand this to mean that he doesn't think that he's as important as Amber and</span></span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> I</span></span><span><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> disagree. <i>Girlfriend on Mars</i> is a balanced examination of both sides of a relationship.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">The short chapters help to make this book enjoyable--especially for those of us with reading challenges.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;">If you enjoy reading <i>Girlfriend on Mars</i> (which (I hope) I'm sure you will), you may also enjoy reading <a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2019/07/book-review-ocean-of-minutes-by-thea-lim.html" target="_blank">An Ocean of Minutes by Thea Lim</a>.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpb2gki9VgJg1v5u36UYPIuUiD7Uo7vWA9w_uGEJNzgy3eRGyk2FtraSftPyhCIu6o1bseSgBwPFYFDH55c38Z_0fHW_4O5X2QRZrekELkdSrciSgZJTeV0ISvTsp0e0dQCvGyqI2SM7ULMpONFh3n7vp7ATo45Iv-6PKxnWXL9Xhmg41K2FNt77lcx4/s2366/Foggy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2366" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpb2gki9VgJg1v5u36UYPIuUiD7Uo7vWA9w_uGEJNzgy3eRGyk2FtraSftPyhCIu6o1bseSgBwPFYFDH55c38Z_0fHW_4O5X2QRZrekELkdSrciSgZJTeV0ISvTsp0e0dQCvGyqI2SM7ULMpONFh3n7vp7ATo45Iv-6PKxnWXL9Xhmg41K2FNt77lcx4/s320/Foggy.jpg" width="248"></a></div><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"></span></p><p style="color: black; font-size: medium;"></p><p></p><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">"Fog" by ldyck</div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">It all starts next Sunday...</span></div><div style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span></span></div><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/11/book-review-girlfriend-on-mars-by.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-52697168250278251512023-10-29T16:29:00.002-07:002023-11-01T08:03:26.447-07:00Ghosted (short story) by Leanne Dyck<p><span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="color: #6fa8dc;">I believe in ghosts. Here's why...</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;"><span>"A Halloween ghost story that makes you feel warm."</span></span></blockquote><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">-<a href="https://www.facebook.com/leanne.dyck.52/posts/10222424141568389?comment_id=875135907054921&notif_id=1698632335706545&notif_t=feed_comment&ref=notif" target="_blank">Linda </a></span></p><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWqvmXUit4Rl1d3FnUh1lZGM52tkiSZsKCmpHhK5mPLW4kZtTx6aB1TKKCdLeMdd6b-wFGUQ2_P-J66mcEUn8o2YYArQA_SvjS1ssuSFrpuDCC0AFyIsDziEpw_GkL23Yf5TRp5rUWc5EnZijWdDbsRLfRU5MXcwUhRJPdMjCMH_fKl75WdnC8YQTzg8/s3264/Ghosted.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnWqvmXUit4Rl1d3FnUh1lZGM52tkiSZsKCmpHhK5mPLW4kZtTx6aB1TKKCdLeMdd6b-wFGUQ2_P-J66mcEUn8o2YYArQA_SvjS1ssuSFrpuDCC0AFyIsDziEpw_GkL23Yf5TRp5rUWc5EnZijWdDbsRLfRU5MXcwUhRJPdMjCMH_fKl75WdnC8YQTzg8/s320/Ghosted.jpg" width="180"></a></span></div><span><br><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Ghostly Mount Baker" photo by ldyck</span></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>Ghosted</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">In the mid-90s, when I was a newlywed, I decided to return to school while still working full-time. This decision meant I spent many hours alone in my study--slumped over textbooks. My studying was only occasionally interrupted by my husband.</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">One evening, as I was tangled up in a complex passage, I was surprised to feel a warm presence. My husband? I looked up and over at the door. He wasn't there. The presence remained.</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Back to the text...</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Something struck my eardrum. Listening closely, I heard, "Elsken..." My grandma Olafson? It couldn't be. She was three provinces away in a Manitoba nursing home. My mind was playing a trick on me.</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Back to my studying...</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">"Elsken." My grandma was standing right behind me. "Don't worry." I felt her hand on my shoulder. "Everything will be okay."</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">The phone rang from the kitchen. "I'm so sorry," My husband's voice drifted down the hall and into my study. "No, it's okay, I'll tell her."</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">I heard his footsteps. "Leanne?" He entered the room. "Leanne, I have some bad news."</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">I fought through my tears. "Grandma passed away."</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">"Yes, but how did you..."</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">"She was here. She said goodbye."</span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b>November on this blog...</b></span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpb2gki9VgJg1v5u36UYPIuUiD7Uo7vWA9w_uGEJNzgy3eRGyk2FtraSftPyhCIu6o1bseSgBwPFYFDH55c38Z_0fHW_4O5X2QRZrekELkdSrciSgZJTeV0ISvTsp0e0dQCvGyqI2SM7ULMpONFh3n7vp7ATo45Iv-6PKxnWXL9Xhmg41K2FNt77lcx4/s2366/Foggy.jpg" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2366" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRpb2gki9VgJg1v5u36UYPIuUiD7Uo7vWA9w_uGEJNzgy3eRGyk2FtraSftPyhCIu6o1bseSgBwPFYFDH55c38Z_0fHW_4O5X2QRZrekELkdSrciSgZJTeV0ISvTsp0e0dQCvGyqI2SM7ULMpONFh3n7vp7ATo45Iv-6PKxnWXL9Xhmg41K2FNt77lcx4/s320/Foggy.jpg" width="248"></a></span></p><p>photo by ldyck</p><p><span style="color: red; font-size: large;">November begins with a book review and continues with a serialized story. </span></p><p><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><span></span></span></p><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/10/ghosted-short-story-by-leanne-dyck.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-12307785795202731092023-10-22T16:20:00.000-07:002023-10-22T16:21:01.090-07:00Book Review: Rouge by Mona Awad (horror)<p><span style="font-size: large;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"No one knows what's inside grief." <span style="color: #2b00fe;">(p. 361)</span></span></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDm9bLBj5b6jsNWyCOulBMfxiouCrNuyPEZMWlxE1wkSgkVH4-PyR-Z8Op4UEEhN-zDPBOiZNcLYcGDSJb8k_UwOJcKAwWQQc3lCDQJmrg0dTAER4c5_-g7zEHp1pXIAi_jahvzQ97Q9ynmON0bbNaVjcIY2cYVFOvt5DPKABUzZFldsasO9sLUgkb4o/s2750/rouge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2750" data-original-width="1800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoDm9bLBj5b6jsNWyCOulBMfxiouCrNuyPEZMWlxE1wkSgkVH4-PyR-Z8Op4UEEhN-zDPBOiZNcLYcGDSJb8k_UwOJcKAwWQQc3lCDQJmrg0dTAER4c5_-g7zEHp1pXIAi_jahvzQ97Q9ynmON0bbNaVjcIY2cYVFOvt5DPKABUzZFldsasO9sLUgkb4o/s320/rouge.jpg" width="209"></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"> <p></p></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Born to an Egyptian father and a French-Canadian mother Mirabelle Nour was raised in Quebec, Canada. At fourteen, she joined her mother in California, USA. She grew up believing that her father's dark features had made her ugly while her mother's red hair and delicate features made her mother beautiful. </span></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">When Mirabelle's sixty-something mother Noelle Des Jardins unexpectedly dies, thirty-something Mirabelle must fly from her home in the Plateau area of Montreal to her mother's home in La Jolla, California and deal with her grief and her mother's legacy (all those many bottles and jars of beauty products).</span></p><blockquote><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Mirror, mirror, on the wall/Who in this land is fairest of all"</span></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://sites.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm053.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, Little Snow-White</span></a></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: large;">"'Beauty...is a mystery... Here one day, then poof. Gone. Smoke and mirrors.'"</span></blockquote><p></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mona Awad, Rouge</span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/books/670048/rouge-by-mona-awad/9780735241237" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Rouge</span></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://monaawadauthor.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Mona Awad</span></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">(literary fiction, fantasy, horror)</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/imprints/NJ/hamish-hamilton" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">Hamish Hamilton</span></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">an imprint of Penguin Canada</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">a division of Penguin Random House Canada</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">2023</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">369 pages</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><i>Rouge </i>by Mona Awad is a many-layered novel.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><i>Rouge </i>is literary fiction...</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">In <i>Rouge</i>, Mona Awad explains women's reliance on beauty products. To gain social status, women must meet society's standards for beauty. When a woman falls short of these standards, she must hide her flaws with beauty products. To maintain social status, aging women must rely on beauty products.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><i>Rouge </i>is horror...</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Did Noelle fall from the cliff to the beach below, or was she pushed? And if she was pushed by who and why? Did something, someone, take possession of her in those final hours? If so, is Mirabelle in danger?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><i>Rouge</i> has elements of magical realism...</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Mysterious shiny red shoes take control of those who wear them.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Giant red jellyfish that...</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Mirrors that... </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">No, I have to stop. There are no spoilers in this review. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><i>Rouge</i> is an attractive, captivating read--from the fairy-tale-like prologue to the enchanting last paragraph.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b>Reviews of other books by Mona Awad...</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2017/07/13-ways-of-looking-at-fat-girl-by-mona.html" target="_blank">13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl</a></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2019/09/bunny-novel-by-mona-awad-literary.html" target="_blank">Bunny</a></b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcqbcG8-b7upXMSAZNElNpol-3vNnUCC6HDYdrtUoydPiFgK3xJBpyuruX7cgtkeVeR-g9MhxXR8FcvbQxlsxIvJNNzLh_xPYMfQB3nUv6obJTGlyYHeFxOXRgtoAjAQfVcGhqakKuyBcRJYUCHEaOzPYLPJelmyYAzeOBmgdZegd5xepUJfj_GfgYUM/s1813/leaves%20turning.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1813" data-original-width="1397" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcqbcG8-b7upXMSAZNElNpol-3vNnUCC6HDYdrtUoydPiFgK3xJBpyuruX7cgtkeVeR-g9MhxXR8FcvbQxlsxIvJNNzLh_xPYMfQB3nUv6obJTGlyYHeFxOXRgtoAjAQfVcGhqakKuyBcRJYUCHEaOzPYLPJelmyYAzeOBmgdZegd5xepUJfj_GfgYUM/s320/leaves%20turning.jpg" width="247"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Autumn magic" photo by ldyck</div><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;"><br></span></span></span></p><p></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">On this Blog in October...</b></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><span></span></span></p><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/10/book-review-rouge-by-mona-awad-horror.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-17035906778674738762023-10-15T16:16:00.001-07:002023-10-16T15:55:11.067-07:00I'll Fly Away by Leanne Dyck (short story)<p><span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="color: #6fa8dc;">...because senior citizens deserve happy-ever-after endings too.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><br></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPM8PuEtDtVp8iV82qAJVyhn2D-fBcNsPvU7U9q_iZSebTGi5h6Y6fdJ1hrOvteP70vuxkf-Le_Ou5HcqmMO6erBR9P9lCq7tJB_WGp26w79HAfgGGQGDNiQxZLAuLWCO052tBv27KCFunPB-3mV8CS9nrJwlyFF-SGIk5RSCb04_risYYaBCzu_Lk1as/s1840/I'll%20Fly%20Away.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1840" data-original-width="1836" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPM8PuEtDtVp8iV82qAJVyhn2D-fBcNsPvU7U9q_iZSebTGi5h6Y6fdJ1hrOvteP70vuxkf-Le_Ou5HcqmMO6erBR9P9lCq7tJB_WGp26w79HAfgGGQGDNiQxZLAuLWCO052tBv27KCFunPB-3mV8CS9nrJwlyFF-SGIk5RSCb04_risYYaBCzu_Lk1as/s320/I'll%20Fly%20Away.jpg" width="319"></a></span></div><span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Forest tunnel" photo by ldyck</span></div><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: x-large;"><br></span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>I'll Fly Away</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Once upon a time, there was a woman who lived with her husband in his village in Manitoba.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">She admired her husband for being determined, capable, clever.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">He told her, "What is wrong with you?" and "Why can't you ever learn?" and "You make me so frustrated!" and "Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall!" and "You're so stu-pid!" Sometimes he would scream, "Stu-pid!"</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">At night, he would make room for her on his bed. When he required it, he expected her to please him. But when he was tired, he wanted to be left alone.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">He wanted her to cook his meals, clean his house, mind his children. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">If he needed a laugh, he laughed at her--all her many flaws. The time she burnt the roast. The many times she served supper late. How many times she'd lost her hairbrush, the car keys, her wallet. The appalling state she kept the house. How his poor children had to learn, too early, to fend for themselves because she wasn't capable. Oh how he would roar with laughter, "You're useless. I'm a saint for putting up with you all these years. Without me where would you be?"</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">And she knew where. She knew how much she needed him to do for her. And because she needed to she told herself that this reliance on him was love. She loved him. And he...? He kept her fed; he kept her clothed; he kept a roof over her head. This was a type of love. Wasn't it?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">She pretended she was loved. She pretended she was happy. Year after year after year.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Until...</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">He had a stroke. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">This was her chance for freedom. Other wives would have put him in assisted living. They would have walked away and no one would have blamed them. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">She dreamed about doing just that. She dreamed about it but those dreams always turned into nightmares.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">What would people think about her? What would people say?</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">She knew too well what they would say, "He put up with all her strange ways for years and now when he needs her, what does she do? She puts him into an institution."</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">That's what they would say and she couldn't have that. So she did what she always had done. She tried to live up to expectations. She tried to love him. And he... He was as demanding, as critical, as cruel, as he always had been. Nothing had changed. She continued to endure day after day. That was her life. It was the same life except that he wasn't nearly as clever or as capable as he had been. The stroke had robbed him, had left him dependent. It had left him dependent on her. She had to step up--for both their sakes. She had to step up but do it in a gentle, kind way. She couldn't, wouldn't make him feel small because she knew how that felt and she couldn't inflict that on anyone.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">They lived like that until...</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">He died.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">She was sad. She grieved. Of course, she did. All those years, she'd told herself she loved him and she had grown to believe it. And in his way, she knew he'd loved her too. Her life partner had died and part of her had died with him.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Now people told her, "You're seventy-years-old. Your life is over. They'll take care of you in the old folks home. That's where you belong."</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">But she knew they were wrong. She knew they were because she hadn't lived yet. And oh how she wanted to live. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">She'd carried a secret within her for many years. It buoyed her up when she was so low down that she was dragging her belly on the floor. She dreamed of flight. She dreamed of spreading her wings and flying away. She dreamed of leaving the icy cold existence she'd endured in this place... In this place where she'd always let what everyone thought rule her. She dreamed about flying off to somewhere so warm, somewhere so beautiful. "I'm moving to BC," she started telling people.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">But they told her, "Don't be silly. You can't do that. You'll be all alone. No one will know you there. Who will take care of you?"</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">But it was her dream and she wasn't going to let anyone take it from her. So at seventy years old, she did fly away. She flew all the way to BC. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Day by day, she learned what she could do by and for herself. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">The people she met in BC told her, "You're so kind" and "You're so caring" and "You're so creative" and "You're so determined" and "I admire your positivity." They gave her compassion, acceptance, understanding. They empowered her. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><span style="font-size: large;">And so she learned to love herself. And she lived happily ever after</span>.</span> </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br></p><p style="text-align: left;">*Written on September 27, 2023</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcqbcG8-b7upXMSAZNElNpol-3vNnUCC6HDYdrtUoydPiFgK3xJBpyuruX7cgtkeVeR-g9MhxXR8FcvbQxlsxIvJNNzLh_xPYMfQB3nUv6obJTGlyYHeFxOXRgtoAjAQfVcGhqakKuyBcRJYUCHEaOzPYLPJelmyYAzeOBmgdZegd5xepUJfj_GfgYUM/s1813/leaves%20turning.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1813" data-original-width="1397" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcqbcG8-b7upXMSAZNElNpol-3vNnUCC6HDYdrtUoydPiFgK3xJBpyuruX7cgtkeVeR-g9MhxXR8FcvbQxlsxIvJNNzLh_xPYMfQB3nUv6obJTGlyYHeFxOXRgtoAjAQfVcGhqakKuyBcRJYUCHEaOzPYLPJelmyYAzeOBmgdZegd5xepUJfj_GfgYUM/s320/leaves%20turning.jpg" width="247"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Autumn magic" photo by ldyck</div><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;"><br></span></span></span></p><p></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">On this Blog in October...</b></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><span></span></span></p><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/10/ill-fly-away-by-leanne-dyck-short-story.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-41947858458620464092023-10-08T16:20:00.008-07:002023-10-11T16:23:11.795-07:00Great Aunt Margaret's Knitting (short story) by Leanne Dyck<p><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Why did Great Aunt Margaret knit an ugly sweater?</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">Do you have an ugly sweater? Where did you get it? Did a knitter knit it for you?</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: #6fa8dc; font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjomKVSJaLFgEZpNBXkD1kFsLDjVXzmxLINa1wH68io-I29sjyi3h02zU9wD39eSit3AhxV4on5FJDIHZQOiCYThqEE1aODdXFMy2hYvNrT7yCkmbu5Xt6nJvf5TbuF1alXZCyhwHMBfINb-EPG5cK8nYHnuE0BKIMu3SIZuviqkP1i5XMY4bIiw-7RqaY/s2224/Margaret.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2224" data-original-width="1788" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjomKVSJaLFgEZpNBXkD1kFsLDjVXzmxLINa1wH68io-I29sjyi3h02zU9wD39eSit3AhxV4on5FJDIHZQOiCYThqEE1aODdXFMy2hYvNrT7yCkmbu5Xt6nJvf5TbuF1alXZCyhwHMBfINb-EPG5cK8nYHnuE0BKIMu3SIZuviqkP1i5XMY4bIiw-7RqaY/s320/Margaret.jpg" width="257"></a></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;">"A zucchini--weird?" photo by ldyck</span></span></p><span><br><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Great Aunt Margaret's Knitting</b></span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> And</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">rew</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">
was playing a first-person</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">sho</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">o</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">ter computer game in his bedroom before the knock on his door. After the knock, he permitted his mother</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> to enter and swivelled</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> in his chair </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">to
face her</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">. </span></strong></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> She
was carrying a sweater. And </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">oh
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">what a
sweater she was carrying. The arms were too long. The body is too short.
The neck is too wide. The stripes were knit in </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">eye-popping,
headache-inducing </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">colour
combinations</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">.
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">"I
found this in the charity box. Don't you want it?" </span></strong></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> “</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">That?
Hmm. Really, you have to ask?”</span></strong></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">"Do
you remember who knit it for you?"</span></strong></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">"Great Aunt
Margaret," they said together.</span></strong></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">Great
Aunt Margaret was legendary. She’d never married and </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">didn’t
have</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">
children. </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">R</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">etirement
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">had granted
her wings to fly around solving what she viewed as</span></strong><strong><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">
her</span></i></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">
family problems. </span></strong></span></span>
</span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">Great
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">Aunt
Margaret had appeared on their doorstep mere weeks after Andrew’s
dad had left them.</span></strong></span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> “I
didn’t exactly welcome her in our lives,” Andrew said. “I
didn’t think it was any of her business, but she thought it was.
She bulldozed her way in. Before I knew it she had me dusting walls,
beating rugs. She had me doing all that while she... While she knit
that sweater. And you... You made me wear it.”</span></strong></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br>
“</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">You
looked so cute in it.”</span></strong></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> “Sure...”</span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><a name="SPELLING_ERROR_1"></a>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> “It
made h</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">er so
happy to see you wearing it.”</span></strong></span></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br>
"Yeah,
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">I know. T</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">oo
happy. </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">I
think she knit that thing on purpose. I think it was all part of her
master plan,</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">"
</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">Andrew said
with a twinkle in his eye.</span></strong></span></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br>
They
burst out laughing.</span></strong></span></span></span></p>
<p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">Only
Great Aunt Margaret knew that they were all in on the joke. And she’d
taken that knowledge to her grave.</span></strong></span></span></p><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br></span></strong></span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"> </span><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">I wrote this <a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2010/12/knitting-themed-fiction-whacked-out.html" target="_blank">short story</a>. Then I read <a href="https://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2022/05/book-review-spoon-stealer-by-lesley.html" target="_blank">The Spoon Stealer</a>. Then I revised the story, and it became this... I think Great Aunt Margaret's Knitting is a much better story. What do you think?</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Happy Anniversary! On October 10, 2010, I created this blog. From those humble beginnings, good things grew--with your help. Thank you for reading and sharing my writing. I can't continue blogging without you.</span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcqbcG8-b7upXMSAZNElNpol-3vNnUCC6HDYdrtUoydPiFgK3xJBpyuruX7cgtkeVeR-g9MhxXR8FcvbQxlsxIvJNNzLh_xPYMfQB3nUv6obJTGlyYHeFxOXRgtoAjAQfVcGhqakKuyBcRJYUCHEaOzPYLPJelmyYAzeOBmgdZegd5xepUJfj_GfgYUM/s1813/leaves%20turning.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1813" data-original-width="1397" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcqbcG8-b7upXMSAZNElNpol-3vNnUCC6HDYdrtUoydPiFgK3xJBpyuruX7cgtkeVeR-g9MhxXR8FcvbQxlsxIvJNNzLh_xPYMfQB3nUv6obJTGlyYHeFxOXRgtoAjAQfVcGhqakKuyBcRJYUCHEaOzPYLPJelmyYAzeOBmgdZegd5xepUJfj_GfgYUM/s320/leaves%20turning.jpg" width="247"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Autumn magic" photo by ldyck</div><p align="left" lang="en-CA" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium;"><br></span></span></span></p><p></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">On this Blog in October...</b></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><span></span></span></p><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/10/great-aunt-margarets-knitting-short.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5954862411929088210.post-9747696723730395462023-10-01T16:09:00.006-07:002023-10-06T06:56:05.668-07:00An Ancient Tune (short story) by Leanne Dyck<p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How do you rise above adversity? Do you believe in happy endings?</span></p><p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuSQvmdZdJf8d0aE5X7RX_zD3t0WSMPMO4-KHDfK6NnCV2n8q-z7pLNrJqZfToKVo-UrORR4gds8ZrSmTNxBKwyumSYajYv1jPhHy5mWwmy4X_eOgA6MsSqp-gJRFvOGcW2sKkrBv0RdsClUxst7AVHGPaPUgQExAA9C4QhrCBt-9jLcWzvu4QjslLww/s1989/leaves%20on%20a%20tree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1989" data-original-width="1370" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuSQvmdZdJf8d0aE5X7RX_zD3t0WSMPMO4-KHDfK6NnCV2n8q-z7pLNrJqZfToKVo-UrORR4gds8ZrSmTNxBKwyumSYajYv1jPhHy5mWwmy4X_eOgA6MsSqp-gJRFvOGcW2sKkrBv0RdsClUxst7AVHGPaPUgQExAA9C4QhrCBt-9jLcWzvu4QjslLww/s320/leaves%20on%20a%20tree.jpg" width="220"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">photo by ldyck</div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span><p></p><p style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><b>An Ancient Tune</b></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span> </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span>A
benevolent royal family had reigned over the small island nation for
centuries but one night rebel forces stormed the castle. The next day
in Market Square, the horrified subjects watched as first their
beloved king and then the entire royal family were beheaded. Blood
stained the cobblestones.</span></span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Overcome
by fear, the people shrived in the dark as the oppressive dictator
drunk with power built shrines to his ego. They clung together
comforted by one hope. Rumour held that the royal family wasn't dead.
A child, the youngest son, had escaped sailing over the sea, safely,
to a foreign land.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> "Have
faith," the people whispered in the dark, "He will return
to us."</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> They
had shared this hope for over forty years.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">Yesterday,
word had quickly spread that the ailing dictator had finally died.
His regime was over.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> The
people gathered in Market Square under an ocean of blue sky. In the
centre of the square, a teenage girl placed her violin case on the
cobblestones. Feeling fearful, the dictator had treated entertainers
harshly—seeing them as a threat, she pulled her bow tentatively
over the strings, but she saw no soldiers rushing her, heard no
commands to stop, so she began to play an ancient tune her grandfather
had taught her. She was joined by another violinist and another and
another. Soon an orchestra of strings filled the square with music.
Nearby, an old man started to sing—accompanying the tune. It had
been so long since their lives had been filled with such joyful
sounds that the people stopped immediately to listen.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> In
a far corner of the square, a twenty-something woman in faded jeans
and a souvenir tee stepped onto a small wooden box.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br></span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">My dad worked hard. This I knew. This I could see.</span></span></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"> </span></p><p></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> A
few people listened—out of a sense of hospitality, rather than any
real interest. By her dress, they knew she was a tourist.</span></span></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> His
navy overalls had two black stains on the knees and I wondered, did
he kneel in dirt? His overalls smelled of rot. But he never slouched
or grunted like the other fathers. he always carried himself proudly,
with an air of nobility.</span></span></blockquote><p></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> More
people joined the small crowd that had gathered around her.</span></span></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Though
he had the long, slender fingers of a pianist, they were covered by
small cuts.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> After
work, he spent what seemed like hours scrubbing his hands. But when he
was done, it was time to play. He'd cross his legs and stick out a
foot. I'd climb on and he would bounce me up and down.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> "You
are a prince riding a coal-black stallion," he told me—in his
thick accent.</span></span></p></blockquote><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Where
there had been no more than ten people listening, there were now
twenty.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><br></span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> He
served me tea in little cups. "One cube of square or two, my
lady?" He'd ask.</span></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> At
bedtime, he'd spin yarns so grand about a little prince disguised in
rags.</span></span></p></blockquote><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> The
old man stopped singing and joined the crowd.</span></span></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Our
neighbours would cut through my dreams with their yelling, roaring
car engines, and loud music, but my bedtime stories were always about
the little prince.</span></span></blockquote><p></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Her
voice filled the square.</span></span></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> I
never dreamed my dad was reminiscing about his boyhood on this
beautiful island. I never dreamed that he was a member of your royal
family. But before he...</span></span></blockquote><p></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> Her
voice choked.</span></span></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> My
dad told me... It took all his strength, but he told me.</span></span></blockquote><p></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> She
straightened her back and held her head high.</span></span></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"></span></span></p><blockquote style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> I
am your queen.</span></span></blockquote><p></p><p align="center" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">And,
oh, how the people cheered.</span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br></span></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcqbcG8-b7upXMSAZNElNpol-3vNnUCC6HDYdrtUoydPiFgK3xJBpyuruX7cgtkeVeR-g9MhxXR8FcvbQxlsxIvJNNzLh_xPYMfQB3nUv6obJTGlyYHeFxOXRgtoAjAQfVcGhqakKuyBcRJYUCHEaOzPYLPJelmyYAzeOBmgdZegd5xepUJfj_GfgYUM/s1813/leaves%20turning.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1813" data-original-width="1397" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMcqbcG8-b7upXMSAZNElNpol-3vNnUCC6HDYdrtUoydPiFgK3xJBpyuruX7cgtkeVeR-g9MhxXR8FcvbQxlsxIvJNNzLh_xPYMfQB3nUv6obJTGlyYHeFxOXRgtoAjAQfVcGhqakKuyBcRJYUCHEaOzPYLPJelmyYAzeOBmgdZegd5xepUJfj_GfgYUM/s320/leaves%20turning.jpg" width="247"></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Autumn magic" photo by ldyck</div><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><br></span><p></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">On this Blog in October...</b></p><p align="left" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><span></span></span></p><a href="http://authorleannedyck.blogspot.com/2023/10/an-ancient-tune-short-story-by-leanne.html#more">Read more »</a>Author Leanne Dyckhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12886667518427660865noreply@blogger.com