One of the most commonly asked questions I receive is “What made you start knitting?” The simple answer is “I have no idea.” The reality is that I’ve always had some curiosity about knitting. I don’t know where that came from or why I decided to indulge it. I would like to think it has something to do with my “old soul”, a strong foundation in self sufficiency and some simple inquisitiveness.
Whatever the reason, in 2008 I was going through a heavy environmentalist period and thought that the more I could make myself, the better. I often crawled through freecycle.com and finally found the impetus for my knitting in the form of 3 trash bags full of yarn. I picked up “Son Of Stitch And Bitch” by Debbie Stoller and set out to make the Ski Beanie designed by Terra Jamieson. I went to JoAnn’s and picked up the suggested size 3 needles, gathered up some lace weight yarn from my new collection and sat down.
Now, I didn’t know at the time that the size of yarn is hugely critical to a finished product. I also didn’t know that trying to learn to knit from a book is something like trying to paint by listening to Bob Ross without the benefit of the TV. I had no idea what it was to knit flat or in the round, or that I would come to detest the former. Finally, I had no idea that bamboo needles would, in fact, be my most hated enemy in knitting. They’re great, I suppose, if you want to have to drag every last blessed stitch off the needles, but they drove me crazy.
As I clumsily figured out a messy cast on, it became apparent that this might not work, but I pressed on. I spent what must have been hours getting the cast on just right, only to rip it out again and again for some minor deficiency. When I finally accepted it for what it was, I attempted to knit the first row. I could not understand how knitters managed to get that second needle through those tight little stitches. I had, of course, cast on my yarn to the exact size of the needle, leaving no room to breath. The instructions didn’t tell me that a tightly cast on hat would constrict the blood flow to the brain, causing eventual death of the wearer. It also didn’t tell me that attempting a hat was, perhaps, not a good idea for a first project. No matter. I pressed on.
At least, I would like to imagine that I pressed on. I think I made it to 5 rows and gave up.
Some weeks later, on the advice of friends and my sister, I changed tactics. All of these girls were experienced knitters. They hadn’t crossed the bridge in to purling yet, but I decided to trust them none the less. Now I went out and picked up some big needles, dug out a few balls of big yarn from my bag and sat down to knit.
A scarf.
I was still too prideful to ask for help, but I found a new instruction sheet that made everything make sense. I understood how knitting worked now. My first scarf was a disaster to say the least, but I let the errors go and moved forward. The scarf is now worn by a dog- the only creature that would take it. The edges looked something like the banks of a river, easing in and out with the flow of yarn. Occasional holes and clumps of too many stitches look like boulders breaking the wool’s flow. No matter. The scarf was complete and I was hooked.
I knit five identical scarves before Christmas and gave one to each family member. Much to their delight, however, I figured out how to make them attractive instead of like mounds of yarn precariously held together by a few loops here and there.
It was a rough start for me, but I was hooked from the beginning and I’ve never looked back.
Knitting Man 