WARNING: This story contains adult content
Chapter Eleven: Surrounded by creativity, I longed to stake my claim as an artist.
photo by ldyck
The Sweater Curse
Chapter Twelve
Dora and I finished working a late shift at the café. We’d been talking about this and that and everything, and then as she was zipping up her jacket, she asked. “Hey, Gwen. Would you like a website to showcase your sweaters?” She just asked like her offer was nothing, like it won’t change my life.
I didn’t hesitate. “Of course I would.”
“I’ve been taking this cool course on web design at UBC. Yours would be the first website I built. My prof says the first thing you need is a good name.”
“Gwen’s Knitting.”
“I was hoping you’d say yes, so I already looked up some possible names. Any combination of ‘Gwen’ and ‘knitting’ is already gone. Take your time, and I know you’ll come up with the perfect name.”
Perfect—um, no pressure. “How will I pay you for your work?”
“I love your sweaters. We could barter a sweater for a website.”
That sounded like a great deal to me, so I readily agreed.
All the way home, I tried to come up with a name. Sweater Bliss—lame. Sweater Designs—too plain. Jay and I worked together to find a name, but every suggestion was immediately rejected.
The next day, Dora greeted me with, “Have you found your name yet?”
“Not even close.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll come up with something.”
On my day off, I thought maybe if I sorted through all my sweaters, a name would come to me. I tried, but I couldn’t shake the image of my Auntie Oli and the day long ago when she taught me to knit. I remembered how she broke down my lessons into manageable steps. She made learning to knit fun—not boring or overly challenging. I felt her warm presence. Elsken, you designed all of those. I heard her so clearly. I heard the pride in her voice.
“Hello, Gwen. You here?” Jay called. He sounded urgent, excited. “I just found this in our mailbox.” He held an envelope. “It’s from Blondous.”
“Blondous? But who would—? Why? Who’s it from?”
“There’s no name on the envelope.”
“What do you mean?” He handed it to me. “Blondous, Manitoba. R0C 0W0,” I read. There was no further identification. I tore open the envelope. Inside was a clipping from our local newspaper, the Interlake Spectator.
“‘Long-time Blondous resident, Olavia Bjarnson (née Jonnasson), passed away…’” I stopped reading and handed the clipping to Jay. “Please… I need you to…” I fought back tears.
He held me as he read. “‘Passed away suddenly on Monday, September 7th, 2012, on the family farm. She is survived by father-in-law Gisli; husband Steini; and sons Jon (Gudrun), Valdi (Birta), Oskar (Helga), Baldur (Lilja), Arni, and Pall; grandchildren Erik, Jason, Luke, James, Kris, Liam, Jordan, Christopher, Jonathan, Olin, Emily, and Annali. Predeceased by parents Olafur and Anna Jonnasson, sister Svava Story, mother-in-law Lara Bjarnson, and brother-in-law Kris Bjarnson.
“‘Oli’s favourite pastime was knitting. For many years, she volunteered as a 4-H leader. Her fine hand knitting won many ribbons at the Blondous Annual Fall Fair. Her funeral will be held on Saturday, September 26th, at 1:30 PM. Memorial donations may be made to the Heart & Stroke Foundation or to a charity of your choice.’”
“No, not… Auntie Oli. She can’t…she can’t…be…dead! She can’t,” I sobbed. I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Even though we hadn’t talked for years, just thinking about her in Blondous had always comforted me. But now… I felt like I was alone in the middle of a stormy sea.
The next morning, I didn’t have the strength to climb out of bed. Jay sat beside me and gently stroked my hair. “You need time. Don’t go to work today. Stay in bed. I’ll explain. They’ll understand.” I pulled the covers over my head and tried to sleep.
Jay woke me I don’t know how many hours later.
“I just wish I’d told her how much she meant to me, how much I loved her.”
“She knew,” he told me—softly.
“If I’d only been able to say good-bye, to pay my respects.”
“It’s not too late. You can write her a letter. We’ll go to the park with a bottle of wine, your note, matches, and a saucer. You can burn your note, and we’ll scatter the ashes under the tall maple tree.” And that’s what we did.
Day after day, I grew stronger, and I realized that I needed to continue living. I needed to go back to work.
The next time Dora and I worked together, I couldn’t wait to share my news. “I’ve named my business.”
“Cool! What?”
“Olavia’s Hand-Knitting Patterns.”
“Olivia’s?”
“No, Olavia. It’s Icelandic. Olavia was my aunt’s name. I want to honour her memory.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, but—but will people be able to spell or even pronounce Ola...?”
“Olavia.”
“I think you might lose knitters to a site named Olivia’s. What about… What about… Yeah! 0knitting.”
And I had a name.
Sunday, January 11, at approximately 4:40 PM PT
The Sweater Curse
Chapter Thirteen
When she came in that day, I remember being glad we weren’t busy. She wasn’t the class of diner we wanted to attract.
