In the Steps of Jane Gaugain Kate Davies
the quiet restraint of the Regency buildings that line Edinburgh’s
George Street, you would never guess that a century and a half ago,
this was the scene of a knitting revolution. Read More
Gold and Silver Stitches Rosemary Hill
Swatch It! Clara Parks
Picking Up the Hook: the Path to Crochet
At my local knitting group, a shift seems to have happened, or maybe it is more of a convergence. Three years ago, when I had just arrived, I was somewhat of a novelty as someone who crocheted much more often than I knit. Quietly, slowly, more new members who crocheted arrived and knitters found reasons to pick up hooks. One night Lisa asked me to teach her how to make granny squares. Emily and Heidi joined the group around the same time. They switched effortlessly between hook and needle and would wow us with their crocheted inventions. Hannah learned to crochet a scarf at a charity event. Last winter when even Jennifer couldn’t resist the urge any longer and made a crocheted hat, I knew that change was in full swing.
Everything was arrayed on a table in the elementary school cafeteria, ready as could be. I stood, tuft of orange fiber in one hand, doing something I've been doing most of my life, as children started filing in. They seated themselves at the cafeteria tables, murmuring to each other: “What is she doing?” A light dawned in one girl's eyes. “She's making YARN! From stuff that isn't yarn! With that stick thingy! She is! She's making yarn!” I grinned.
Taking Good Care
There is a day in August that I yearn for: when crickets begin to chorus, when the light shifts and the nights go cool. There it is, the turn of summer, and with it the urge to make ready once again for the next season. As surely as Monarch butterflies are once more migrating to Mexico and my neighbor repeats his annual stacking of a third cord of firewood, I lift the lid of my cedar chest and breathe in the scent of wool.
The cedar chest is a memory cave. In a moment akin to meeting dear friends after a long separation, I peer in and fondly survey a collection of scarves, sweaters, and mittens dutifully folded away at the first heat of summer. At least eight weeks have passed without wearing wool! My impatience with late July’s heat and humidity fade. In that heap of color and texture is the promise that sweater weather is imminent. Here begins my autumnal ritual of renewing my acquaintance with my three-season companions. I’m caught up in the joy of reunion and, on closer observation, practicality. What? Missing buttons? Spaghetti sauce on the elbow of my best pullover? Holes in my cashmere scarf?