The Pattern Lied

At last Thursday's knitting guild meeting JL reminded us that she asked for knitted items for the siblings of young cancer patients so when I was downstairs sorting yarn I dug around for any already made items that would work.  I found a felted purse and two hats that might do but I thought I'd like to make a couple more purses.  So this afternoon I tossed the yarn that I'd tossed into totes for swapping and came up with two bags of bulky and super bulky yarn with enough wool content to felt.  I cast on a Two-Hour Bag this afternoon and this is about two hours of knitting's worth.  Lying pattern.  I'm not even halfway.  *sigh*  I partly blame the fact that the yarn's not twisted (or plied) so it tends to split if I don't jab the needle into the stitch just right and partly the fact that I seem to be knitting much tighter than I have in the past so it takes a bit more work to weasel the needle into the stitches.  *double sigh*  Suddenly I want to knit ALL the things--and I have the yarn to do it.

But I will mow the lawn tomorrow morning.  Really, I will.  Cross my heart.  Then in the afternoon I'm signed up for an art history series at the ADRC.  Can't wait.  The lecturer is a priest at St. Norbert College who teaches art history and is energetic and knowledgeable.  I've gone to a previous series of his and really enjoyed it.  In the evening I'll meet KW at the Y pool for half an hour of pool walking.  Gotta get back on the move.  I did a half hour on a treadmill this morning and felt a lift.  Gonna do it again since feeling down is such a bore.



After lunch I cast on and knit the cuff of LC's second mitten, but then the thought of a fast bag lured me downstairs so I spent the rest of the day getting that far (see above).  I'll work on it again tomorrow then try some other yarn.  I've made these purses before and don't remember them taking too much longer than 4 hours per each.  That isn't bad.






23 September--Barbara Malcolm, Horizon. 

April

             Abel escorted me into the hotel lobby, his hand on the small of my back.  I stopped walking and gazed around the vast space.  The wall overlooking the bay was solid glass, giving the feeling that the birches and flowers were part of the room, and enhancing the Scandinavian look of the light woods and clean-lined furnishings.  The only discordant note was a lush, Persian rug woven in shades of blue, black and red.  The ornate pattern and bold colors seemed too busy for the spare Northern European décor.

            The pressure of Abel’s hand propelled me to the desk.

            “Gail?  What do you say?  One room or two?”

            “Oh, Abel, I don’t know.  One, I guess.  One.”

            I watched Abel turn to the desk clerk and arrange our room for the night.

            I looked out the windows at the water, not really seeing it.  My feet felt glued to the Persian rug.  On the ride up I had avoided thinking about whether I would agree to spend the night together.

 Last week when Abel had proposed this trip to Door County to show my paintings to his friend Gil, who owned an art gallery, I hadn’t considered the possibility of staying the night.  It was only a two-hour drive, after all.  I thought we’d leave Kingman early Saturday morning, visit the gallery, have lunch somewhere nice, and then drive home, arriving around dark.  Abel’s call the night before, suggesting I pack an overnight bag so we could take our time and visit more than Gil’s gallery, took me by surprise.  I debated with myself over whether I was ready to take that big step or not, but then realized that in wearing my “best” undies on each of our dates  I had already decided.  I packed my toiletries, my favorite of my unworn Victoria’s Secret nighties, a robe, and fresh clothes for Sunday in a small suitcase.

         The ride up the Door County peninsula was beautiful but quiet.  At first Abel tried to make conversation by commenting on the daffodils, but I had trouble answering.  I hoped he thought I was nervous about showing my paintings.  In reality, I could feel my little overnight bag pulsing in the back seat and the thought of spending the night with a man who wasn’t Bert, wasn’t my husband, was making my palms sweat and my throat tighten.

         What would people think?  What if the girls at Mavis’ found out?  What if my boys found out?  I had to start talking about something, anything, to keep from driving myself crazy.

         “So, Abel, how did you meet Gil?  It must be very interesting owning a gallery in such a popular vacation spot.”

        “We met about twenty-five years ago when Gil was first starting out.  Marcella wanted a painting for the living room so we went to Chicago for a weekend to walk the galleries.  Gil was the manager of the first one we visited and he was very helpful, asked all sorts of questions to help us figure out what we’d like, and walked us through the purchase.  Made a nice commission, too, I’ll wager.  Anyway, we liked him so much and he’d been so helpful we invited him to meet us at our hotel for a drink.  After that, every time we went to Chicago for a play or an exhibit we’d call him and have dinner.”

“He sounds like a very nice man.”

“He is; you’ll like him.  We even met them up in Door County for weekends a few times.”

“Is he married?”

“Uh, not married exactly.  Gil’s, um, life partner is Dennis.”

“Oh.” 

“I was a bit uncomfortable at first, but once we’d spent some time together it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.  Gil and Dennis are just like every other couple.  You’ll like them, you’ll see.”

“I’m sure I will.  I really appreciate you introducing us.  I guess it’s time I show someone other than my friends my paintings and I wouldn’t have known how to find a professional or who to call.  This is a real opportunity for me.”

“Don’t worry, Gail.”  He reached across and patted my hand.  “I’m sure he’ll like your work.  It’s the kind of thing that really sells in a vacation spot like this.”

It wasn’t a long drive to Gil’s gallery in another small bayside town, but it was plenty of time for the little nagging voice in my head to keep saying, you’re getting in over your head, Gail.

            “Gail, are you okay?”  Abel’s voice interrupted the defeatist chant.

            “Hmm?”  It took a real effort to turn to look at him, turning my eyes away from the early afternoon sun streaming in.

            He took his eyes off the road for a second to cast a worried look my way.  “You’ve been gripping the edge of the seat and staring out the window like I’m taking you to your execution.  I’ve been talking and talking and you haven’t said a word.  Are you okay?”

            I looked down at my white knuckles and consciously uncurled them.  “Oh, I’m okay, just nervous,” I said with a little laugh.  “I keep hearing this voice telling me that things are moving too fast and I’m in over my head.”

            “Well, do you want to go back to the motel?  I can call Gil and say you don’t feel well or something.”

            “No!  I mean, no.  I’m not letting some negative part of me scare me away.”  I turned to face him.  “Even if Gil says my paintings aren’t right for him, I won’t know unless I try.  Keep driving.”  I put my elbow on the seat back and leaned into the soft leather.  “I’ve spent most of my life being afraid of new things, different things, different people, and only this last year or so have I been brave enough to face those fears.”  I reached and touched his sleeve.  “I really appreciate you introducing me to Gil, Abel.  You’re a real friend.”

            A little red crept up from his collar and touched his ears.  “Well, thanks, Gail.  I’ve been having a lot of fun with you, too.  I know you’re going to be a hit up here.”  He slowed, turned on his signal, turned into a gravel lot, and parked.  “Here we are.”

It cooled off today but the humidity is still over the moon.  I just checked on my phone and it's 86% right now.  Isn't that nuts?  Fifty-nine degrees and 86% humidity on the first day of autumn.  Oh, happy autumnal equinox!  The best thought today is that in less than 2 weeks I'll be driving away to The Clearing for my annual writing retreat in the woods.  Can't wait.  Will it snow like it did last year?  Hope not because I like to sit outside and write some of the time.
--Barbara