I Made the English Teacher Choose

Okay, I'll admit it:  I'm totally overwhelmed.  Your contest entries were touching, profound, hilarious and heartbreaking.  They knocked my (handknit) socks off.  I laughed, I cried, I marveled at your genius.  I am totally unqualified to pick a winner from the 85 perfect slices of knitting pie that you posted. 

And thank goodness, I don't have to.

See, at my house, when there is a job that I just CAN'T do (pickle jar opening, toxic chemical management, disposal of anything the cat has dismembered) I call in the benchwarmer:  Rough, Tough, Mr. Huff.  And this time, he's actually more qualified for the job than I, having been licensed by the state we live in to teach writing to people.  Well, to teenagers, who I'm told are similar to people.  So without further ado, I'm handing the mike over to Phillip, the blog's reluctant hero:

"Hello...is this thing on? Testing one, two, three."

Let me first thank you all for your submissions. They truly are a joy to read, and provide a welcome respite from 180 "The Lottery" essays I've been reading (If I cause any Middle/High School flashbacks by mentioning Shirley Jackson's creepy "The Lottery", well, it's just one more service this English teacher provides).

My main criteria for determining the winner was a vivid story.  As you all now know, compressing the beginning, middle and end into six words is no mean feat, and everybody did a fantastic job.  I worked my way down to ten, and then re-read.  Drank whiskey.  Re-read some more.  Then I made my choice.

If it were up to me, I'd give all of you prizes, but The Mrs. says there is only one prize to award, no matter how many times I ask her (See how I put it all back on her?  It's a skill).

This memoir tells the most vivid story:  "Pattern chewed to poop. Dog lived." By Chris.

The image of that bad dog and his plight really resonated with me, which may or may not have been influenced by a certain husband who accidentally threw out some wool fleece a little while back.

I really enjoyed this opportunity to share all of your knitting memoirs.  And in the spirit of the contest, here's mine:

Six words speak volumes.  Thank you.

From Mary:  Congratulations to Chris, and to all of you who took the time to distill and share your pivotal experiences.  Gentle Readers, as ever, I am humble in your company.
 

Can't Make Me

It happens every time I start to get overloaded with deadlines:  If I'm supposed to be knitting, then all I want to do is spin.  If I'm supposed to be writing, then all I want to do is knit.  If I'm supposed to be taking down the Christmas tree, then all I can think about is weaving.  I know how this works: The minute authority has been established, usually in the form of a time limit, I start to rebel.  Against my own strictures.  Can't help it - just do.

So there are 3 big things to knit on at the moment, and about 10 other small things.  And I'm writing a book.  And there are new classes to create.  And there are designs to pitch for the future, in order to keep having work to do.  About all of which I care deeply.  So deeply, in fact, that I am living in a constant state of near-panic.  But all I really want to think about are looms.

I am not a weaver.  I have drawn a line around my fiber obsession which I dare not cross.  There simply has to be a limit.  Time, Space, and Finance all clearly demarcate the stopping point.  I used to refuse to spin, for the same reasons.  And then some mean mean friend of mine made me pet the fluff, and hold the spindle, and the next thing I know I'm doing 25 rounds with Phillip about how much a spinning wheel doesn't cost.  See, it's a slippery slope.  One minute I'm "just trying" out some crappy garage sale homemade loom my friend is trying to rehabilitate (Me: "What could possibly go wrong?  I know I won't like this because this loom is an inferior tool, with which I know I will not be successful."  Fiber Gods: "Bwwaaah Ha Ha Ha Haaaaaa...."), and the next thing I know I have 27 new bookmarks in my web browser.

I blame my so-called friends.  I was really devoted to minding my own knitting business when Certain People *cough-Lisa-cough* had to go around setting up looms in Certain Other People's *cough-KT-cough* dining rooms, and now here I am: a potentially helpless slave to yet another fiber craft.  I blame these hooligans personally, and I'm warning them:  I know where you people live, and you have to sleep sometime.

But I'm bigger than that.  I don't have to succumb, just because looms are so juicy and delicious.  I don't have to buckle, just because weaving is the next natural step in my fiber journey.  I don't have to love that there are so many ways to play with string, and I don't need to know about them all, just because it's my personal quest, and my hard-won profession.  Sure, there are bound to be months moments when I doubt my own resolve.  I just need reminding that there are many good reasons not to cave in.  Herewith; a list of spine-stiffeners I have come up with, for just such emergencies:

10 Reasons Why I Should Not Become A Weaver

10.   Children keep "borrowing" loom savings to trade for "entrees".

9.    Husband insists that hanging a rigid heddle loom from dining room chandelier between uses is not a feasible storage solution.

8.    People who say I will use up all my excess yarn stash are lying.  Everybody knows weavers are the worst string-hoarders in the world.  Ever notice that weaving yarn is sold by the POUND?

7.    Non-Fiber Personnel in my life likely to remind me that scarves are easily obtained from stores.  I've only just broken them of saying that about socks.

6.    Accumulated layers of handmade clothing on my body increase likelihood of being taken for a hobo.

5.    Invitations of "Won't you sit down?" to guests answered by "Where?".

4.    Trunk of car unsatisfactory weaving studio.

3.    Ditto Powder Room, though embarrassingly plausible.

2.    Closing skills loop between spinning, knitting, sewing and weaving further endangers my motivation to leave house.  I'm only 6 or 7 cats away from full-on Wierdy status as it is.

1.    Only remaining fiber skill left to declare off-limits is Macrame.

Campbell Spins A Yarn

We like to tell stories at our house.  At the end of a dark winter day, when night turns cold, the smallies and I have been known to snuggle up together under something cozy and tell each other stories.  Campbell made one up recently, especially for me: 

There once was a Sheep named Elmer, whose fleece was black and fluffy,  and he lived on a farm in the country.

One day the news said that a Twister was coming!  All the farm animals were very afraid, but Elmer decided that he would stop the tornado by catching it.  The storm came closer and closer to Elmer, and he bravely stuck out his front hoof to catch it by the tip of its funnel cloud.

Unfortunately, the pointy end of the funnel bounced off of Elmer's shiny hoof, and instead landed squarely on Elmer's fluffy butt, where it began to twist in his curly black fleece.

Tighter and tighter the twister wound Elmer's fleece, until his wool began miraculously to draft!  The funnel cloud pulled away from Elmer, drawing out a long strand of yarn.  Tighter and tighter the yarn twisted, and  longer and longer the strand grew.  His hind legs left the ground as the tornado pulled hard against him.  Elmer held tight to the earth by chomping down hard on a sturdy tuft of grass.  Finally, the long strand of yarn broke free from Elmer's butt, and went swirling up into the sky inside the twister.

Safely on the ground, Elmer watched as the long strand of yarn wound around and around inside the tornado, until it formed a perfect ball of yarn.  When the storm finally blew away, the perfect ball of yarn fell back to earth, where it was picked up by Elmer's shepherd, who was very glad to find it.  The shepherd (who had thumbs) knitted a sweater from Elmer's ball of yarn, and gave it to his wife.  She loved the sweater very much, and wore it every day.  

The End.