Chapter Ten
I wandered the streets. No matter which direction I headed I always ended up at Urban Knits.
I blew silver fog into the black night. No lights but one. It eliminated the display window—a collection of tantalizing yarn spilling out of an apple basket. 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.
Marta held the door open. I wheeled my suitcase into the shop.
“Oh, dorogy.” Her words were full of empathy.
She deserved an explanation. I gave her the condensed version. “Mother kicked me out.”
No questions, she just said, “This too is grief.”
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.
Files were open on the desk and the computer was on. “I will just finish here and then leave you to the place.”
Mother had always stressed the importance of good posture. I flopped down on the futon. “Thank you so much, Marta.”
“My pleasure, dorogy. 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."
"No, I can't—."
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.”
I needed that chuckle.
I pulled my needles and yarn out of my backpack.
“What are you knitting?” She asked.
“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.
I was working in multiples of 7–7 knit stitches followed by 7 purl stitches—when Marta turned off the computer. She had to move my scrapbook to sit down beside me.
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.”
Ms. Beacon's reply to my email listed a wealth of knitwear design books: Sweater Design in Plain English by Maggie Righetti, Designing Knitwear by Deborah Newton and Ethnic Knitting: Discovery: The Netherlands, Denmark, Norway, and The Andes by Donna Druchuna.
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. 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.
Night after night, I worked. And night after night, I felt Auntie Ollie guiding me.
Several months later, I had five new sweaters and hand-written patterns for each.
Marta was overjoyed when I showed them to her, but she suggested, "You need test knitters and pictures."
Marta and her knitting group volunteered to knit the sweaters I designed. 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.
Proudly, Marta attractively displayed my patterns right beside the cash register. “Not every knitting shop can boast their own knitwear designer, dorogy.”
Knitter after knitter bought my patterns.
