The Sheep called. They said they would make more.

Your response, Gentle Readers, to the news of my sweater loss has been truly astounding.  Gobsmacking, actually.  I knew I had many great knitting friends, but the outpouring of love that has washed over me from you all has completely blown my mind.

Everyone who contacted me said they felt my loss as their own, and unbelievably, offered over and over to help.  Help to search E-bay and Craig's List for me.  Help to re-knit all the sweaters.  Help to come over and paper my neighborhood with signs.  And most importantly, help keeping my spirits up.  Friends have called to check in on me.  Made sure I wasn't hiding under a pile of acrylic yarn.  Offered to bring over snacks.  Even sent replacement birthday presents for Lindsay. 

Knitters can do anything, and when they close ranks around one of their own, there is no safer or more loved place in the world. 

So I have spent the last week licking my wounds, thanking God for my loving and talented supporters, and reminding myself that my problems are blessedly those of the First World.

Worst Things I Did Last Week:

1.    Cry in the police station.  Really hard.  With snot bubbles.
2.    Visit pawn shops, where I was informed that no information could be given to me because they have to "protect the privacy" of their clients (I wondered who was protecting my privacy).
3.    Tell my little girl her birthday presents were stolen and she would have to wait till I could replace them.
4.    Wake up in the middle of every night remembering that the sweaters are gone and try to imagine ways of finding them.
5.    Kick myself for thinking the locked trunk of my car, in my own driveway would be a safe place to store my life's work.

Best Things I Did Last Week:

1.    Read a note of encouragement from a law enforcement veteran who has become a knitter.
2.    Visit pawn shops, where I saw things people have parted with, either willingly or not, under duress.  Belongings are just things.  It's people we can never replace.
3.    Drive my 76-year-old mom to the shoe store, where she insisted on replacing Lindsay's stolen birthday Danskos.
4.    Remind myself in the middle of the night that there is a reason for my loss.  Maybe God decided it was time to remind me how loved I am.
5.    Laugh my ass off when Tina asked me to imagine all the hobos in Portland dressed in Mary Scott Huff sweaters.  Style points at the Rescue Mission would be off the charts.
6.    Be hugged by Phillip, Lindsay and Campbell.  All at the same time.

Gentle Readers, your selflessly kind offers to undertake a massive reknitting project have completely floored me.  If, after a couple more weeks, the samples haven't found their way home. I will be contacting everyone who volunteered to help in that way.  The yarn companies will have to be contacted first, and then there will need to be some sort of organization,  of which I still can't quite conceive.  But I will.

And in the meantime, there are still (thankfully) deadlines for me to meet, and knitting to knit, and ideas to have.  And Blessings to Count.  Thank you, thank you, both old friends and new.  You lot are more than I ever dreamed of, and more than I deserve. 

And thanks especially to whomever called the sheep.


 

Letter to a Thief

Dear Sir or Madam,

The things you stole from me yesterday are valuable, which you know, or I would still have them.  The suitcase you took is full of things with this web address on them.  On the chance that you have internet access, and that your curiosity compels you to visit here, I would like to beg you for mercy.

We both know how it happened, and so do the police.  What you may not know is that some of those things were my little girl's 12th birthday presents.  And when I went to retrieve them in order to wrap them up in ribbons for her, that was when I understood what you had done to us.

I can forgive you.  Those items, though I worked hard for them, are replaceable.  And I know times are hard, and you're desperate.  You might even have children, too.

But last night I stayed awake all night, thinking about what I would tell you about the suitcase, if I ever had the chance.  I know.  It's full of sweaters.  And mittens. And hats.  And legwarmers.  I bet you've never seen anything like it.

My guess is that you've never heard of someone who makes their living by knitting.  Well, they can, and do, and although we are few in number, we consider ourselves some of the most blessed people in the world.

How I do it is this:  I make up a knitting design out of my own head, and then I knit the garment, the old-fashioned way, with yarn and needles and my hands.  I do it differently every time, a whole bunch of times, and then those items are all photographed and published into a book.  Then other people can buy the book and make sweaters just like mine.  To sell books, I have to take the suitcase of sweaters all over the world, showing them to knitters, and teaching them how to make their own.  That's my job, and it's pretty special.

The sweaters you now have are the most important way I have of earning a living.  They are my artwork, my portfolio, and my resume. They are also uninsurable, because each one is the only one of its kind.

They are so important and irreplaceable that when they had to be sent away for photos, I couldn't bear to trust them to the mail.  Instead, I bought them a plane ticket and flew them to the photo shoot and back.  It took 6 months to knit them all, one at a time.  Those may have been the hardest 6 months of my life, and my family suffered and sacrificed, too, during that time, so that I could succeed.  The sweaters have never been checked into baggage on a plane.  I can't afford to risk losing them.

To tell you the truth, if I thought you might put the sweaters on and keep warm in the cold dark rain, I would be happy for you to keep them all.  But I don't think you will.  I don't think you could possibly know how precious they are to me, or that there can never be another set.  You probably don't even know that they are different from sweaters people can buy in stores.

There are groups of people organized right now, who are planning to come and see me where I travel next, just to see these sweaters.  And unless you can help me out, I will have to tell them that my knitting now belongs to you.

Please, Sir or Madam, if you happen to be wondering what kind of person has a whole suitcase full of unusual-looking knitwear; Know this about me:  I really can forgive you.  I would like to have had the chance to help you, and if you had asked me, I believe I would have.  But you didn't give me that opportunity, and now I have some very big problems that only you can solve.

I really need the sweaters back.  My family needs them back.  There aren't any others I can replace them with, and they are totally useless to you.  I promise if you come to me I won't ask any questions.  I promise if you help me that I will pray for your well-being.  I promise if you show me mercy, that the Universe will repay you in ways you cannot imagine.

Dear dear Sir or Madam, you are a child of God, and as such deserve my love and care.  Not vengeance or hatred.  Only please help me by giving back what I cannot replace.

Sincerely,

Mary Scott Huff
Hand Knitter
 

SongBird

You might not believe this, but it's been suggested (more than once, actually, and sort of loudly) that I should Tweet. 

Before I succumb to such a flight of fancy, I'd like you, Gentle Readers, to weigh in.  See, my fear is that I will become one of those innocuous blatherers of insignificant non-news whom we all loathe and fear (like the members of Congress).  "Buying shoes!" is just not newsworthy to anyone but the person selling me Danskos, no matter what the Twitter people would like us all to believe. 

If I should agree to such madness (lesser ideas have gained me much, such as "why don't you start a blog?" and "you should write a book!"so I'm open to the possibilities), I'd like to know if any of you are interested in hearing from me in the short and sudden format?  The good side is that however unimportant, my missives are guaranteed to be short.  Kindly weigh in, dear friends.  Would you enjoy the odd update, between posts?

Chirp Chirp.