The Sweater Curse Ch 5 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Four: She didn't mourn. She moved on.

photo by ldyck

(the rock art was still standing after this photo was taken.)

 Chapter Five

In 2002, after I completed the eighth grade, Mother moved us from Manitoba to BC.

Our new home was a gated community. We, the advantaged, were protected behind tall walls. Except for ours, they were all male-led households. The men were doctors, lawyers, corporate executives, and engineers. They were all successful professionals whose occupations allowed them the privilege of minimal family involvement. Domestics minded the mundane so those left at home could indulge. The abandoned wives amused themselves by painting their nails, sunbathing, and engaging in extramarital affairs. The neglected children experimented with fast cars, narcotics, and sex.

I divorced my family and squeezed myself into other households. Sometimes I stayed in a guest bedroom with its colour TV and walk-in closet. Others offered their pool house. I never stayed longer than three weeks. There was no need; I was constantly offered invitations.

“You can do what you want to do. Say what you want to say. Go wherever you want to go. You’re so cool.” My peers admired my independence.

Their mothers took me under their wings. They taught me how to walk in high heels, apply makeup, mix a martini, and seduce a man. “Remember, dear, don’t give in too quickly. Make him fight for it, and he’ll be putty in your hands. Keep him interested by giving him a little taste of what he’ll want more of. Make him drool long and dream of you.”

 As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles—like a two-year-old drags a blankie or a Catholic carries rosary beads. This was a tumultuous time, and the local yarn shop became my oasis. I stepped over the threshold and entered a world of directed meditation. I was drawn to shades and hues of every description—lipstick lava, Chinatown apple, gothic rose, potting soil, grape jelly, porcelain green, sea foam, tea rose, pumpkin, lullaby purple, maple sugar, lemon peel, cinder, birch, baton rouge. I cradled the skeins in my hands, and their textures—from coarse to fuzzy to silky—seduced me.

Yes, I built my stash, but I didn’t purchase a single pattern. Why would I follow someone else’s rules? I was a rebel.

I knit wool sweaters in the winter, cotton tops in the summer. I used novelty yarn to accent the collar and cuffs of one design and created a Chanel-inspired cardigan. It received compliments each time I wore it. I gained notoriety as a fashionista.

“Your sweaters are so beautiful, dear. I would like you to knit me one,” a middle-aged woman, one of the mothers, requested. She grinned as if she were doing me a favour.

 “Ah, no. I only knit for myself,” I informed her and everyone who inquired.

“Could you teach me to knit?” one of my classmates asked.

“You? If you think you can learn, I’ll teach you.” Using bulky yarn and size ten needles, I cast on twelve stitches. “This is one of the two basic stitch patterns,” I explained.

“Two stitch patterns? Just two?”

“Knit and purl. This is the knit, or garter, stitch. Watch closely.” I worked one row very slowly.

“Ah, that's easy.”

“It is easy. If you learn it and the purl stitch, you’ll be able to make anything you want,” I promised.

I began to knit faster and faster; the yarn flew.

“When can I try?”

“How about now?” I finished the row and handed her the needles.

 “What do I do?”

“Weren’t you watching?” I asked sternly. “Put the needle in your right hand into the loop, wrap the yarn around, and then pull the old stitch off. Not like that. What’s wrong? I thought you said it looked easy.”

“It did look easy when you were doing it, but it’s not easy for me. I can’t seem to… I’m having trouble… This is impossible.”

“Fine, then don’t learn. It doesn’t matter to me.”

 "No, I'll try harder,” she promised, but the yarn was soon a tangled mess.

I had very little patience with ineptitude and soon abandoned her. Still the requests kept coming. Teach me to knit… Teach me to knit… It was nauseating.

Anyway...

After my dad died, my official address remained unchanged. My school and other governing bodies believed I still cohabited with Mother. They didn’t know about our severed relationship. Periodically, I would visit my old residence when I knew she wasn’t there. I didn’t break in. I had a key. An envelope waited for me there on the kitchen table. It held a lump of bills and a note. I rolled the unread note into a joint. It relaxed me to see “Love, Mother” go up in flames as I puffed. I would suck in Mary Jane’s sweet breath and poke it out on Mother’s curtains, walls, and rugs. Just one of the many ways I would let her know I still cared.

During a clandestine visit, Mother and Grandpapa trapped me. It still hurts to think those two were able to outsmart me.

They had a message, which Mother delivered as Grandpapa glared. “We’ve allowed you to muddle through to the eleventh grade, but this is where the muddling ends.”

I don’t know what they were worried about. I was going to school—at least twice a week. I was late—but there.

“We’re going to talk some sense into you.”

Sense? Those two wouldn’t know sense, even if it bit them on the ass.

“We’re not going to allow you to waste your life. McNamaras are university graduates. Pillars of society.”

 I’m a Bjarnson, not a McNamara! I wanted to scream, but didn’t. Why light a fire? They were already boiling.

“Improve your grades and enroll in university.”

What could I do? I needed Mother’s cash donations. I matriculated, but not into med school. I wasted a few years wandering from program to program seeking fun. I found cute guys and wild parties. Inevitably, I dropped out.

Mother and Grandpapa were ecstatic. She celebrated by moving and not giving me her new address. He stopped leaving curt voicemail messages. In fact, I never heard from him again. I periodically heard about him when I watched the news. Former doctor, now affluent businessman, supported this charity or was honoured and given this award. I was tempted to phone or send a note of congratulations. Yeah, right, just as soon as I stopped buying yarn.

Sunday, November 23, at approximately 4:40 PM PT

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Six

I was finally on my own. Yahoo! I could finally claim the career path to which students with my eclectic education were entitled...

November 17

The Giller prize winner announced

This year's shortlist...

We Love You, Bunny by Mona Awad, published by Scribner Canada

The Tiger and the Cosmonaut by Eddy Boudel Tan, published by Viking Canada

The Paris Express by Emma Donoghue, published by Harper Avenue

The Life Cycle of the Common Octopus by Emma Knight, published by Viking Canada

Pick a Colour by Souvankham Thammavongsa, published by Knopf Canada

Learn about the Finalists

November 19

CBC Poetry Prize winner announced

shortlist

Last Sunday (November 9th), my husband took me on Mayne Island's studio tour. A highlight was our visit to Ravendale Farm, where I found this beautiful display of knitting...

photo by ldyck

Who won?...

The Sweater Curse Ch 4 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter Three: Is reuniting with Mother the task I must perform?

photo by ldyck

Chapter Four

    I examine my surroundings and realize I’m in a lecture hall. All the students are draped over their desks as if they want to get as close as possible to the lecturer. Who has captured their attention?

    Though time has changed her, I would recognize her anywhere. Mother.

    Blah, blah, blah. On she drones, but the young minds sucked it up like sweet honey.

    Now she’s at the bedside of an elderly woman. Starry-eyed, her patient rests easy in her care.

    Accompanying her from one adoring patient to another is a small clutch of students. They hang on her every word.

    I follow Mother down a long corridor to her sterile office. There waiting for her is a pile of paperwork. She attacks the mound—document after document.

    I didn’t notice it before, but there’s a ring on her finger. How did I overlook it? The diamond is enormous. I guess she’s remarried.

    I scan the room and am immediately drawn to a group of photographs decorating a feature wall. There’s one of Mother and her latest victim on their wedding day. It’s a garden shot. The ancient bride and groom have turned to face each other. He towers over her. They look like a couple of sideshow freaks. I wonder if it’s just for the camera, or if they truly mean all they are saying with their eyes.

    The other pictures feature three women as they graduate from university, then marry. The final photo is larger than the rest and includes the entire family. The subjects range in age from toddler to senior. Everyone is carefully arranged on a large wooden deck of a summer cabin. Front and center are Mother and the poor old guy. Clearly Mother is now reaping the benefit of another mother’s devotion.

    Someone knocks.

    “Yes,” Mother calls without looking up from her paperwork.

    The door opens a crack, and a youngish woman fills the gap. “Excuse me, Ms. McNamara. I don’t know if you remember me, but—” 

    Mother beams at the woman. “Of course, I do. Well, hello…”

    “I was one of your students,” the woman supplies. “Joy—” 

    “Of course, Joyce Givings.”

    “Bridgeweight.”

    “Of course, Joyce Bridgeweight.”

    “Well, Lam now.”

    “Class of ’99.”

    “2007,” Joyce corrects yet again.

    It’s clear Mother doesn’t remember this woman.

    “Joyce. Please, do come in.”

    Firmly, in one hand, Joyce grips a baby carrier.

    Mother peeks in. “Who’s this?”

    “This is Hannah.”

    Mother pats a chubby little hand. “Well, hello, Hannah.”

    Baby Hannah responds with a yawn. Apparently, Mother’s charms do have their limits.

    “I named her after you.”

    “Well, I’m… I’m honoured.”

    My visit isn’t over. Mother slips into the leather driver seat of a red convertible Mustang. It’s a cloudless autumn day; she drives with the top down. The car turns onto a long driveway. At the end of this tree-lined lane stands an architect’s masterpiece. The house—should I call it a mansion—dominates the land.

    Young elementary-aged children—three boys and four girls—run all over the manicured lawn. The appearance of the car gives their running direction. “Grandma Hannah,” they cheer.

    Car parked and vacated, she bends to greet the children, and they run into her arms. There's much smiling and even giggling. 

    Merrily, the group parades into the house.

    “Grandma’s home, Grandma’s home,” the children sing to a gaggle of adults.

    One of the adults—the poor, old guy, her new husband—is the first to greet her. “Welcome home, darling. I missed you.” He wears a buttoned-down, baby-blue shirt and beige trousers. His hair is snow-white, and he sports a well-groomed mustache. He draws her close, and they share a kiss.

    “Oh, you two are such lovebirds,” one of the younger women coos.

    Oh, look! She’s pregnant.

    Mother rubs the swollen tummy. “How are you feeling, dear?”

    “Oh, much better. Thank you for your advice.”

    They share a smile.

    Oh, how sweet. I’ve seen enough.

    Mother appears to have changed. She’s mellowed, retracted her claws, and no longer sharpens her fangs by gnawing on young flesh. Her life is full, happy, successful. Well, hurray for her. It makes me sick.

    There isn’t a scrap of evidence of Dad’s and my existence. No pictures in her office or anywhere in her house. I wonder if she’s ever even uttered our names. Does she even think about us? She didn’t mourn. She moved on.

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Five

As I drifted from household to household, I brought my knitting needles...

November 

11 Remembrance Day

13 Atwood Gibson Writers' Trust Fiction Prize

World Kindness Day: "Spread the warmth..."

My week...

New on Mayne Island—at least to me.

While walking with my dog down Dalton Bay Road on Mayne Island, I found...

Scroll down for a closer look...

The Sweater Curse Ch 3 by Leanne Dyck

 WARNING: This story contains adult content

WARNING: Chapter One, Three and Fourteen contains themes of suicide that may be triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Resources

Befrienders Worldwide

International Association for Suicide Prevention

TherapyRoute.com

Chapter Two: Surprisingly, Mother did allow my aunt to teach me to knit. 

photo by ldyck

Chapter Three

    For many generations, my dad’s ancestors worked the soil of Blondous. The Bjarnsons were one of the pioneer families. Dad was expected to claim his inheritance. When Afi—Grandpa—retired, the deed to the farm was to slip from his hands to his sons’. Steini and Kris would devote their lives to working the Bjarnson’s homestead. They would ensure it survived and prospered.

    However, Afi couldn’t foresee the future. He hadn’t factored in Mother. Like a cobra, she wrapped herself around Kris. She seduced him, gave birth to me and claimed him. To Mother, my dad wasn’t a farmer, merely a beautiful toy she had to have.

    Kris Bjarnson became a devoted father. No matter how hard he worked, he always found time for me. When Mother worked late, which was frequent, I curled up onto his lap, and he would regale me with stories. He always began the same way…

    ”In the land of here and now and right away, lived a little girl named Gwen, or was it Amy?

    “Her hair was golden blonde or black. Does it matter?

    “She was your age? Or was she older? Or a little younger? Oh, you know, it doesn’t really matter.

    “She lived a humdrum life, in a ho-hum way, but one day, one day…”

    He transformed my daily life into a captivating adventure. My dad was a magnificent storyteller. He had a gift for taking the mundane and making it magical. There in his lap, snuggled up close to his flannel shirt, I was rocked to sleep by his words. Soap and water couldn’t hide his farmer’s cologne—a heady blend of sheep, hay, and soil.

    Mother’s fame as a talented doctor grew. It got so I couldn’t go downtown without someone stopping me. “I came too close to losing this finger. Without your mother, it would be gone. She’s a skilled doctor. You should be very proud.” The story was always the same, only the body part varied.

    Soon black limousines drove down our lane. The car parked and a faceless man in an expensive suit knocked on our door. “Is Doctor McNamara at home?” He came to offer Mother a position at his hospital in Winnipeg, Calgary, Edmonton, and eventually, Vancouver.

    I think Grandpapa McNamara’s hand was at work there. The Honourable Doctor Alexander McNamara was all-powerful. Tons of people existed only to grant him favours. He pulled strings to get his darling daughter into med school. He would have moved mountains to bring her home to BC.

   For all I know, Mother could have written him sob stories begging him to rescues her. After all, she did hate the farm.

   We three sat as a family in our living room as the man in the suit informed us, “St. Paul’s in downtown Vancouver is an acute care, teaching and research hospital. Excuse me for saying so, but here your talent is largely wasted. There you’ll be a highly-respected member of our world-class team.”

    The suit left. I sent to bed and eavesdropped as my parents continued to talk.

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

    I know what Afi would have told her. “You are my woman. Your place is here on this farm with me.”

    What did my dad say?

    “Of course, honey, I understand. Wherever you go, I will follow. I love you too much not to.” And so, we left.

    Well, not quite. First we had to say a few good-byes. Most were tearful and heartwarming.

    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.

    She glowed, her ego swelled, but she didn’t care.

    Tears were shed, hugs were given, but Afi’s eyes were dry. His arms folded in front of his chest. His face was an angry shade of red, and steam came out of his ears. “I knew you were bad news the minute I met you. You have no respect for tradition, for our ways,” he roared.

    Mother roared back. “And you think a woman’s place is in the kitchen, in bed, or under your feet.”

    “Kris, be a man. Control your woman.”

    My dad’s face was white; he gulped, but didn’t say a word. This battle was between Mother and Afi.

    “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.”

    My dad said nothing in his defence, but Mother tried. “Don’t talk that way to him. He respects me.”

    Afi ignored her, didn’t even look at her, simply continued his tirade. “You’ve turned your back on family history, on our way of life, and you’ve endangered the survival of the family farm.” He turned and glared at Mother. “If our ways aren’t good enough for you, then you aren’t good enough for us. Get off my land. Leave. Now!”

    All families operated by a code. Taboos were made clear, if not by words, then by their lack. Afi made the family rules. We’d broken them.

    If we were Mennonite or Hutterites, we would have had a word for it. We would have called it shunned, but Afi was Icelandic-Canadian. We read our fate on his bitter face and quickly left.

    Mother single-handedly destroyed my family, crushed Afi, and callously ripped my dad from the land he loved.

    My dad, the master of animal husbandry, had no avenue for his calling. We didn’t even have a cat, because he couldn’t stand the idea of confining the poor animal. Yet he endured the prison himself.

    In our new home, my dad stood out like a piece of straw on a lace tablecloth. He was a little too friendly, a little too open, and a little too down-homey. He unnerved our neighbours. His attempts to make friends were ridiculously unsuccessful, as was his tendency to just drop by uninvited.

    Soon, he discovered an old solution to his new problem. He turned to the bottle.

    He could have sought professional help. Meet with a therapist, joined Alcoholics Anonymous, but he didn’t. He just couldn’t. Those solutions were too foreign to him. He was raised to rely solely on his family. The only family my dad had was Mother and me.

    “Oh, we are so much happier in this place! We eat out anytime we want to, go to the theatre, go shopping. This is the good life. Don’t you agree, Kris?” Mother asked—it was a rhetorical question. She didn’t need to hear him and she didn’t. “I’ve taken us out of the pig sty into the castle.”

    Mother was in love with our new life. She didn’t see how her success emasculated him. Our neighbours called him “Mr. McNamara”, and Mother never corrected them.

    She spent all her spare time plotting and planning with Grandpapa McNamara. They would stop at nothing to reach their common goal to establish Mother’s dominance in the Canadian health care system.

    And me, I was a self-centered teenager. I only saw how my dad’s behaviour affected me, and I promptly abandoned him for my peers.

    Dad woke up dry and passed out plastered. He became a suburban joke—the tired, old alcoholic. By his actions, he was crying out. Month after month, no one heard. He finally drank himself into an early grave. A neighbour found him behind the steering wheel, the car wrapped around a telephone pole. That was the rumour. I was sheltered from the harsh reality of his demise. What was hidden from me, I created. I was haunted by horrific images night after night. My grief was a subject no one wanted to address.

    Why did he leave me?

    After his funeral, I searched for the answer I hoped I would find. In the attic, I opened an old trunk and dug through its contents. There, hidden away from Mother’s prying eyes, was my dad’s handwritten manuscript, secretly recorded and privately kept. His words comforted me. Not even death silenced his voice.

    The memoir was a prayer of yearning for the life he once knew—long summer days, hayfield hearty lunches, lambing. His stories reawakened my senses to the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of the farm. He had died of a broken heart. Mother had killed him. And I hated her for it.

    Driven to action by rage, I wrote a carefully crafted note in which I called her a greedy, selfish, old cow and thereby, severed our relationship forever.

    Is reuniting with Mother the task I must perform? Has she been pining away for me all these years, living blinded by a veil of tears? If I go to her, mend her broken heart, will I be free?

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Four

She didn't mourn. She moved on.

Wednesday, November 5 7 PM PT

965 Kings Road Victoria, Vancouver Island, BC

Meet the DC Reid Poetry Finalists

Thursday, November 6

Governor General's Literary Award (GG Books) winner announced

About my week...

The Sweater Curse Ch 2 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

Chapter One: I must examine my life to discover the momentary lapse. The wrong I've committed. The task I've neglected. It's my only means of escape. 

photo by ldyck

Chapter Two

The earliest impressions my mind retains are a patchwork of senses: the smell of bread baking, the wet tongue of a farm dog, and the crunch of autumn leaves. These memories are seductive. I could get lost in them. 

I must focus on cold hard facts.

Place of birth: Blondous, Manitoba.

Date of birth: April 14th, 1988.

I was born into a world of big hair, padded shoulders, and disco. Freaky.

Two years after my birth, we entered a new decade, the 90s. At twelve, we were in a new century—the twenty-first.

Dead at the age of twenty-five.

Blondous is a dot on some maps. Other maps don’t even bother. It’s located in the centre of the province between Lake Winnipeg and Lake Manitoba, in an area known as the Interlake. Blondous was named and settled by Icelandic immigrants. They were forced to leave Iceland, because the land they loved could no longer sustain them. In naming their new community, they attempted to bring their culture with them. In these scrub trees among the rock-filled land, they dreamed of Iceland.

I was born in the W. C. Baldursson Memorial Hospital. It was the same rural hospital where Mother doctored. Oh, those poor nurses. How taxing it must have been tending to her when she was pregnant.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Of course, Doctor.”

“Right away, Doctor.”

I’m sure Mother kept them hopping.

All farming communities are perpetually in need of doctors. Mother remained busy morning, noon, and night. She was the only doctor for the entire municipality, so if she couldn’t heal you, you were out of luck.

When Mother flew off to save the day like some kind of superhero, it was my Auntie Oli who folded me into her brood.

“I had boy after boy, but then you came. Finally, our family was blessed by an adorable baby girl,” my aunt’s words cradled me in love. “You looked like such a little angel in the dress I made for you. Do you remember the doll I gave you? You took such good care of it.”

Life was good, until Mother came home. She'd strip me of the dress and the doll and replaced 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.

    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 attributes are simply a blending of genes. It is intellect which is the true judge of a woman. You must invest time in cultivating it. Be careful what you learn and from whom, for it will mark you for the rest of your life. And you don’t want to be marked by them. Oh, how I hate this farm! It’s so dirty, smelly; it’s disgusting.”

    I wondered why she worked in a rural hospital. Did she view herself as a savior, 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 self to save bodies and minds.

    “I was born, raised, and educated in Shaughnessy Heights, British Columbia. The McNamaras are a prestigious family. Your grandpapa, Doctor Alexander McNamara, is well-respected among his peers.” Even though she directed this message at me, she ensured others heard. “She’s" The bitterness in her voice revealed her animosity for my aunt. "fit to cook your meals, make your bed, do your laundry, take care of you, but remember, dear, she isn’t your equal. I don’t wish her to mark you. She is a poorly educated farmer’s wife. Your future is far brighter.”

    Why so much hate? Was it jealous? 

    My love for my was undeniable. She created a home for me, something Mother could have never done.

    Surprisingly, Mother did allow my aunt to teach me to knit. I’m not sure why.

    Perhaps, due to my amma’s—my 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.

    Even though she granted this concession, she still maintained, “Crafts are for the common folk. Art is far more worthy of your time and energies.”

    I indulged her by spending some of my time drawing. To her delight, I developed some talent, but drawing didn’t hold my interest. Knitting did.

    Some of my earliest memories are of my aunt engaged in the craft. I stood transfixed as her needles magically coiled the yarn into a myriad of items: sweaters, blankets, toques, and mittens. She picked up her knitting, and it slipped on her hand like a glove, the yarn wrapping around the grove on her right index finger.

    Days before my sixth birthday, I heard the steady pounding of my uncle’s hammer issuing forth from the barn. What is he making? The question buzzed in my brain like a mosquito, but I didn’t investigate. Instead, I waited patiently. Soon my uncle emerged holding a board of nails.

“Happy birthday.” He grinned and handed me my gift.

Uncle Steini wasn’t a finish carpenter. He was a farmer. The things he made didn’t look fancy, but they worked.

I held something, but what it was intrigued me. I lay the board down on the table beside my aunt. “They look like telephone poles,” I observed, tapping the flat top of each nail with my finger.

“Good eye, elskan min, (my dear),” Auntie Oli said. “This is a knitting loom. Here, watch. I’ll show you how to use it.”

    She coiled yarn around each nail. Then she took a knitting needle and began to knit stitches from the loom. She pushed her red plastic needle between the loop and the nail, slipped yarn into the gap, folded the loop over the yarn, and a stitch was formed. Her dance was slow at first, but increased in speed with each row.

    Her tenth row completed, she gave me the needle. “Your turn, elskan min.”

    I grasped the needle as she had, like a pencil. My aunt had worked the needle into the loop effortlessly. Well, it wasn’t effortless for me. Finally, out of frustration, I ceased the loop, pulled it forward, and slipped the needle into it. I fought and won my first stitch. Progress was difficult, but I refused to fail, and eventually my determination was rewarded as performing the steps became smoother.

    Only a few rows later, I mastered the technique.

    The loom was a simple gift, but it introduced me to my life-long passion. I quickly moved from the loom to knitting needles.

    Mastering the craft was easy and fun. For, you see, not only did I have a natural aptitude, but also an experienced teacher.

    “When we begin a row, one of the needles has loops of yarn, or stitches, around it. The other needle is bare. We will call the needle with the stitches the carrier. The other needle we will call the worker. To knit, put the tip of the working needle into the centre of the stitch.” I closely watched my aunt. “Now wrap the yarn around the working needle. Pull the yarn through the loop. When you have a stitch on the working needle, pull one stitch off the carrier needle. Continue until the carrier needle is bare.” She transferred the loops from one needle to the other. “This stitch is called knit. If you do a lot of them all together, the stitch pattern is called garter.”

(How to work garter stitch)

    “Hey, now the carrier needle has become the working needle, and the working needle has become the carrier.”

    “You are an observant one, elskan min.” She beamed.

    The first item I knitted was a garter-stitch scarf. My aunt cast on twenty-five stitches and handed me the needles. When I finished knitting, I gave it to her to cast off.

    After examining my work, she declared, “Your stitches are well-formed. Your tension perfect.”

    I was so proud. “Now what?” I asked, eagerly.

    “Now, I will teach you the purl stitch,” she said, demonstrating.

    “It looks so tricky.”

    “At first, it does seem hard, but it will get easier. I know. I’ll tell you a little story about Pall.” Pall was my youngest cousin. “It will help you remember the steps. One day, Pall was full of Loki’s mischief, he walked around the garden.” My aunt put the tip of the working needle behind the yarn. “Came in the back door.” She thrust the tip of the working needle into the loop. “Danced around the kitchen.” Brought the yarn over the tip of the working needle, between the two needles. The working needle formed the new stitch. “Finally, he hopped out the window.” She pulled the old stitch off the carrier needle.

    She worked a few more rows, and then it was my turn. Once again I practiced, and eventually, used both the knit and purl stitches to make a hat for my doll.

    "To shape the hat, you will need to learn how to decrease."

    I wrinkled my nose.

    "Decreasing only sounds difficult. All you do is knit two stitches together."

    My education continued until I could cast on and off, knit, purl with ease. Occasionally, I would make mistakes. My aunt was the first to spot the disappearing and reappearing stitches.

    “Ah, Loki’s mischief.” She chuckled. “After every couple of rows, you should count your stitches. You want the number to remain the same.”

    Following her advice, I was disappointed to discover I’d lost a stitch and wondered aloud at what could have caused that catastrophe.

    “See the ladder of holes, elskan min? I think a stitch has hopped off. 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.

    She noticed the unwanted increases as well. “Look, your scarf is growing wide, elskan min. I think you may have knit into one stitch twice, or you may have mistaken the front loop for a stitch.”

    “Can you fix it?”

    “What we must to do is rip all the stitches back.”

    “All of them?” Disappointment filled my question.

    “Yes, unfortunately, but just think of how much more knitting fun you will have.” She used a safety pin to mark the last perfect row. “Rip.” She handed me my knitting. It became a game. I slipped all the stitches off the needle, and as I pulled the yarn, the stitches disappeared. 

    “You worked magic. All the rows have vanished.” She collected all the stitches and carefully placed them stitch by stitch back on the needle. Then I re-knit them.

    Knitting wove us together.

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Three 

Is reuniting with Mother the task I must perform?

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The Sweater Curse Ch 1 by Leanne Dyck

WARNING: This story contains adult content

WARNING: Chapters One, Three and Fourteen contain themes of suicide that may be triggering for some readers. Reader discretion is advised.

Resources

Befrienders Worldwide

International Association for Suicide Prevention

TherapyRoute.com

     Aspiring knitwear designer Gwen Bjarnon is stuck in Purgatory. To escape, she must re-examine her life, journey through her past and right a wrong.

    But which wrong?

    Young and in love, she works to establish her career, except fate has different plans. One rash act and she looses everything. Never resting, always seeking and yearning for what she can no longer have,     Gwen faces the truth: if she remains, others are destined to die.

    How will she solve the mystery before it is too late?

photo by ldyck

Chapter One

     This isn’t Heaven. It isn’t Hell. And I’m not alive.

    Picture this: a bus stop, tons of people packed into the same small space, all waiting to continue their journey. Many buses stop here. Some passengers get off, others get on. Young children with sickly white complexions huddle together in the shelter. Teenagers with rope burns around their necks get off the bus. Old men with bullet holes climb on.

    Throughout this confusion, the only constant is me. I remain alone.

    Why?

    I must find the reason. I must examine my life to discover the momentary lapse. The wrong I’ve committed. The task I’ve neglected. It’s my only means of escape.

The Sweater Curse

Chapter Two

Surprisingly, Mother did allow my aunt to teach me to knit. 

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Governor General's Literary Award (GG books) Finalist Announced October 21