Chapter Three
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.
I recall one spring morning.
“Gwen.” My dad called through my bedroom door.
I sprung out of bed and pulled a sweater and pants over my Pajamas.
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.
“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.
The farm was a magical place for all except Mother. She used adjectives like dirty and smelly.
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?
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.
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. “This is called 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 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.
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.
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 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...
“Hey, now the carrier needle has become the working needle and the working needle has become the carrier.”
“Good eyes, Elskan. You're turn.” She handed the knitting to me.
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.
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 behind the house.” She put the tip of the working needle behind the yarn. “Came in the back door.” She slipped the tip of the working needle into the loop. “Danced over 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 out the window and was gone.” A new stitch made, she pulled the old stitch off the carrier needle.
“Behind. In. Over. Out,” I recited repeatedly as I knit.
Progress was difficult, but I refused to fail, and eventually, my determination was rewarded as performing the steps became smoother.
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.
All Mother offered was a forced smile.
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.
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.
Auntie Ollie continued my lessons until I could cast on and off, and knit without her supervision.
When Loki, the Norse god of mischief, played with my stitches she was there to impede his folly.
“After every couple of rows, count your stitches,” she cautioned.
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.
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.
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.”
Who taught you to knit?
Are you in the mood for knitting humour...
