Knit one, purl two ... or was it the other way around?

Or was that the other way around? And when you ‘yarn over,” do you wrap it counter-clockwise? I mean, if the needle is vertical, which direction is clockwise anyway? And what's a slip stitch, dang it?

These are the questions that fill my head late at night when I am knitting alone, or were asked out loud as I was trying to show my mother how to knit during my visit to North Carolina. I can now honestly say that I taught her a thing or two, since she is the one that taught me how to do most everything else (except cooking and how to use a computer). For a near two weeks straight, we sat in her living room at night and watched British comedies from Netflix, and tried to figure out new and more complex knitting patterns—or just finish a measly little scarf.

This usually involved a three step process: 1. A period of silence as we casted on the yarn and managed the first three rows, then 2. Several whispered expletives and the clanking of needles as one of us realized we had made an irreparable error, then, 3. The sound of stitches being pulled apart and a snicker from the person who did not make the error. We are a bit competitive in my family. Then it dawned on us. It was easier to knit, though much less fun, if we avoided an after dinner Cordial. To put it bluntly: Don't drink and knit. As my knitting instructor, Shelley, said, " It ain't rocket science!" But it does require a heap of focus, especially for a newcomer, so your mind must be clean and sharp—just like your needles. And while it may not be rocket science per se, it sure as heck isn't as simple as decorative napkin folding. This stuff is hard, and I guarantee you that Martha Stewart pays to have her sweaters knitted, and I double guarantee you that the shawl she wore leaving prison was crocheted ... not knitted.NOTE: What's the difference between crocheting and knitting, you ask? Well ... I really don't know, except that crocheting involves one needle, usually plastic or metal, with a hook on the end. (Might as well get dental work.) Whereas knitting uses two needles for the most part with a whole host of styles and types, many of which are made from bamboo or shaped to suit a specific purpose like cabling sweaters or are rounded to make big projects like afghans. Some knitting snob I know explained it like this: knitting is estate-bottled wine, while crocheting is White Zinfandel in a box. Not really, but as an emerging knitting snob, I caught her drift.And it just so happens that, believe it or not, (well, if you truly know me, you believe it), knitting is one of the top three items on my bucket list, so I am taking the opportunity while living in Vermont to learn the art. Knitting is big here, and I suspect the weather has something to do with it. But, I doubt there are many others who have listed knitting as something they simply must do before they die, but honestly, I don't care. It is a beautiful craft, steeped in tradition that was born out of a basic need to keep warm, but evolved so that a good knitter can make one beautiful at the same time. I find fewer activities more important than that.

My love of knitting all started thanks to an Austrian exchange student we hosted named Claudia (pronounced Cloud-ee-h) who once made me a colorful sweater in a single afternoon. I was much smaller then. She was a master of the traditional "Trachtenmode" German-style knitting patterns that included intricate designs, such as flower adornments and the addition of silver buttons. But it was the way she sat, gracefully and near motionless, save her delicate fingers that held needles moving like parts of a tiny, well-oiled machines, that intrigued me. In the course of a few hours, she produced some of the most delightful products I have ever seen—or touched—because knitted products are more than visually appealing. They have incredible texture that can range from kitten soft to deliciously nubby. She left an indelible print on my soul much the way she stitched an Edelweiss to a sweater—neither would ever wear off. Ever since then, I knew I wanted to be a knitter. I wanted to be like Claudia.So, while visiting Woodstock, Vermont, one day, I happened by the Whipple Tree Yarn shop. They were offering free knitting lessons the following weekend, and I signed up faster than you can slip a stitch (see, I know what that means, now). I joined a small group of other wannabe knitters including a part-time Woodstock resident from San Diego, an Endocrinologist at Dartmouth-Hitchcock who surprisingly said she had nervous energy to burn and thought knitting was just the trick, and a 6th grader who had been ordered to learn the family hobby as her older siblings had done before her. When I first arrived, I was directed to select a cheap skein of light-colored yarn (so I could see my mistakes) and given a set of size 7 needles. The instructor, a woman with silver hair cut shorter than a marine, hurried me along as she assured me that the yarn didn't matter much since whatever I produced the first few months would be completely unwearable. She never smiled, and if I am to be completely honest, she scared the living bejeezus out of me. I half expected her to yell, "Drop and give me 50, Maggot!" every time I made a mistake. But, I soon learned that if I made nice with her labrador retriever, Logan, the most beautiful dog on the planet, that I would get on her good side.

I don't really remember much else except that after 30 minutes, I was overwhelmed. My fingers cramped, I got hungry and I made one of the ugliest patches of knit work you could ever see. But thanks to my rampant perfectionism and love of the craft, I persisted. Since then, I have made a beautiful scarf for my mother-in-law—the ultimate critic of handicrafts. She even wore it proudly when we visited her last and said that it was quite likely the most beautiful scarf she ever owned. I had arrived.

I also made one scarf that ended up in the waste basket, but am now on my way to completing a gorgeous plum-colored organic cotton shawl. I can't wait for it to be done so I can start the next project. And I have since discovered an incredible yarn store in my home town called Northern Nights Yarn Shop. (Now, tell me that doesn't sound deliciously warm and appropriate.) I see lots of flannel-clad nights with hot chocolate and lit fireplaces in my future while I make Hanukkah and Christmas gifts for me family. Northern Nights has an endless selection of yarns, to the point that I get confused and want to just buy everything and play. But thankfully it is run by a reasonable “librarianish” woman who is eager to help reign me in with one or two manageable projects. She leads me through the store in a spinster-style black skirt and crisp blouse buttoned-up and pinned at the neck by a broach. She peers at the bins over thick black spectacles with her blonde hair in a tight French twist. And once she has found the perfect skein, she hands it to me and says in her Bostonian accent, “This is what you need.”
I also admire her business savvy and uncanny sense of customer wants and needs. For example, she told me last time that although she hates black and white yarns mixed together, she still carries them for her New York clients who knit while vacationing in Vermont. "Here they come to the country to see all this green, only to pick out nothing but black and white," she said. “I suspect it is what goes with their Manhattan apartment decor.” She also knows a lot about the complexities of international trade. No small feat, I realize even in the yarn industry. Once when I went to purchase my second skein of particularly colorful Scottish wool, she said, gravely, "You better buy it while you can. They just lost their US distributorship and I am trying to work something out to get their yarns directly from the owner’s son." Then she looked at me the way my junior high librarian did when we were making too much noise and said, "I don't fear the Federalies!" She is one cool cucumber.