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Yesterday
I wore Pansy. Not a pansy,
but Pansy, the Icelandic ewe. I wore the vest I knit from the yarn I spun
from her wool. In the sheep world, Pansy is what’s known as a badger face:
her black legs, belly, and chest peek out from under a golden tan fleece that
covers her back like an elegant evening coat. The chic black coloring around
her eyes, ears, and chin accents her classy lady image. Pansy lives on the
Hudson Valley sheep farm where I work whenever I can. I have stood with
Jimmie and Mike, the shepherds, in the pasture under a chilly spring drizzle
and watched Pansy lamb out her twins. I have strained to hold Pansy in line
for Gwen, the shearer. I have fenced the pastures where Pansy grazes in the
summer, and I have chased her down when she’s jumped the fence to reach the
grass on the other side where she knows it’s greener. I have driven to
Kenny’s down the road to load up her hay for the winter. Pansy, Jimmie, Mike,
Kenny and Gwen are present every time I wear this vest. There is nothing
anonymous about this piece of clothing.
Two hundred
years ago there were
enough Pansies in Dutchess County to supply woolen cloth for all 6,097
households. Women working at home spun the wool into yarn. Local weavers wove
it into cloth. The clothes you put on each morning were produced by those you
knew by name; they came from the fields that surrounded your home.
The labels
on my sweaters tell a
different tale. My drawer is filled with the sweat and dreams of men, women,
and probably children whose names I will never know. A grey merino cable knit
made in Scotland. An iridescent silk and woolen pullover with fraying yarn
from Nepal. A bright bulky cardigan hand knit in Ecuador. The sheep sheared
for these sweaters might have grazed on pastures in Australia, South Africa,
China, or even central Asia. A Queensland drover on horseback at an outlying
sheep station would have moved the Australian merino from pasture to pasture.
A Zulu shepherd in South Africa might have wormed the sheep that gave the
wool for my blue crewneck that’s labeled Made in Thailand. Sheared, then
packed into 400 pound bales, some of the wool went to mills in the sheep’s
home country. The rest of the wool was loaded onto trains, trucks, and ships
and transported to mills in Asia where factory workers from China and
Bangladesh dyed it and spun it into yarn. Huge cargo containers loaded with
the yarn crossed oceans to Thailand, China, and even Scotland, where the yarn
was knit, either by machine or hand, into the sweaters I wear all winter.
And so I knit.
With every stitch I
lodge a protest against the anonymity of the sweaters in my drawer. Every row
I finish—knit, purl, knit, purl—reminds me that clothing is made by people
who have names, hug their children, and worry about money. Sweaters do not
magically materialize in the cavernous dark of the semi-tractor trailer just
before it pulls up to the loading dock. Knitting keeps me connected to the
invisible laborers of our commodity driven world.
I knit to
stay connected to those I
love. The small projects I take on—the pair of socks, the hat, the scarf—are
each chosen with someone in mind. What color yarn matches tiny newborn Jane’s
complexion? What texture suits Ron’s disposition? A nubby seed stitch?
Stretchy ribbing? Elegant cables? Thoughts of the future hat-wearer come and
go while I connect the soft loops of yarn. It’s a quiet, almost unconscious,
meditation.
How old was
I when I learned to knit?
I’m not sure. I was spending the day in my mother’s bed, covered with
measles. It was the era before vaccines for measles and mumps were available.
Every child could expect to spend some extended sick time in bed, first
feverish and then, eventually, very bored. I was now feeling better, tired of
listening to the Lone Ranger on the radio but still too splotchy to be
allowed out of bed. In desperation, my mother taught me to knit. I created a misshapen
square in tan—grimy and germ infested from my efforts to control two sticks
and a piece of yarn. When I knit, I am connected to my mother.
I knit to
dream. Knitting dreams are
always bigger than reality. Unfinished projects spill out of my drawer,
projects I was lured into by seductive siren songs. As I walk into the yarn
shop, soft mohair nuzzles my neck and whispers in my ear. Metallic yarns
sparkle with flashy dance music. Pastel merino croons a sweet milky lullaby.
Resistance is futile. I have finally learned to confine myself to projects
only slightly larger than scarves for hamsters—hats and socks, and sweaters
for very small children. The occasional vest. My completion rate has improved
considerably.
My knitting
is often with me wherever
I go. A long car trip. A tedious meeting. The waiting room. The middle of the
night when I can’t sleep. Day in and day out the yarn runs through my
fingers. The tiny dust particles from my sofa where I read the morning paper,
the perspiration on my fingers as I anxiously wait for the doctor, the
microscopic crumbs of the toast I grab as I hurry out the door to work, are
all strands of my life that twist together with the strands of my yarn, back
and forth, row after row
The ancient Greeks believed our lives
are shaped by the Three Fates. Clotho spins us into being, Lachesis measures
the thread of our days, and, with the snip of her scissors, Atropos brings
our lives to a close. Surely there is a Fate missing. Between the measurer
and the snipper, there must be a knitter. There must be a Fate who creates
the sweater, knits the hat, weaves the scarf that is the pattern of our
lives.
Yarn Shops
in the AboutTown
Area
A partial list. Many also offer
knitting classes.
Stickle’s, E. Market St,
Rhinebeck, 876-3206
Yarn Swift!, Poughkeepsie Plaza,
454-7444
www.yarnswift.com
Hudson Valley Sheep and Wool
Co., Yantz Rd, Red Hook
758-3130
Sheep’s Clothing, Jct.
Rts. 199 and 308, 758-3710
www.morehousefarm.com/SheepsClothing/Directions/
Woodstock Wool Company, Tinker
Street, Woodstock
679-0400, www.woodstockwoolcompany.com/
Rock City Yarn, Rock City Rd,
Woodstock, 679-9600
www.rockcityyarn.com/index-GOB.htm
CountryWool, Hudson, NY, 518
828-4554
www.countrywool.com/
Amazing Threads, Rt. 9W, Lake
Katrine, 336-5322
amazingthreads.com/Woodstock
Mail-order for Rowan yarn in
Rhinecliff
www.richesseonline.com (Rhinecliff
residents are the
models!)
Fleeces for
handspinners:
Dancing Lamb Farm,
Earlton, NY, (518) 634-2196
Mike Kelley, shepherd
Icelandic lamb fleeces in white,
moorit, gray, and black
Elihu Farm, Mary Pratt, shepherd,
Valley Falls, NY, (518)
753-7838, Email: m.pratt@netheaven.com
Romney and Romney crosses in
white and natural colors
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