Yarn Harlot (17 page)

I would never do this. I cannot tell you the aversion I had to this idea. I was happy knitting my sweaters in pieces, not cutting them into pieces. I was willing to keep my dirty little secret. I was chicken. I was a knitter … not a Knitter.

I was happy with my nonsteeking position until one day while surfing the net, I came across a reference and a picture of a sweater somebody was knitting. The pattern was called St. Moritz, by Dale of Norway. “Sucker,” I thought. I couldn’t imagine a sweater that’s worth it. It’s a very lovely sweater, but it embodied the very things that scared me to death. I forwarded the picture to a friend, with a note that said, “Isn’t this beautiful? How long do you think it took to knit?”

I was not going to knit this sweater. No way. Okay, it piqued my interest, but it had steeks. It was clearly Knitting, not knitting, and despite my growing obsession with it, I knew I was not that sort of knitter. Secure in my self-knowledge, I felt that I could safely wander by the Dale of Norway Web site for a better look.

There it was again, St. Moritz. This sweater was seemingly made for me. I loved it. I wasn’t going to knit it though. There was a link to “The St. Moritz Sweater Story,” but I refused to read it. There’s only one thing I liked better than a good sweater, and that’s a good sweater story. If the St. Moritz story was interesting, it was only going to feed the obsession, and since I was
not
going to knit this sweater … I left the site before I got sucked in.

I heaved a sigh of regret and eyed my knitting. It all seemed so monochrome and pale … I’ve tried colorwork and I don’t like it. It didn’t go well. I started reasoning it out a little. The last time I tried was years ago. I knew more now, I was a better knitter, and I did colorwork on small things all the time. Maybe I should take the plunge? This was a big decision. St. Moritz was priced like the lovely classic it was, and if I was going to be spending that kind of money on a sweater, I didn’t want to rush into it. I caught myself considering my Visa card and realized that I was thinking about knitting this sweater. I jumped back from the edge.

Later, I checked my e-mail. The friend to whom I sent the picture of St. Moritz had answered. She wrote, “You need this sweater.” While I liked her attitude (the obsession was developing here) I was still resisting. To ice the cake, she had thoughtfully visited the Dale site, and had cut and pasted the St. Moritz story into her e-mail. I read it, and I was enchanted.

Did I say that I liked a good story? Did I mention that I also loved symbolism? St. Moritz was rife with it. The sweater was named for St. Moritz, Switzerland, where the sun shines 322 days a year. Every element of the sweater represented something. The four languages of the country, the horns of the mountain
goat, Swiss chalets, edelweiss flowers, mountains, the sun … It was like visiting the Alps. (I’ve always wanted to visit the Alps.) I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the charms of this sweater. It was still winter here in Toronto, and all you’d have to do to cast a spell on me is talk about 322 days of sunshine.

Even the steeks were starting to seem reasonable to me. Other knitters do them all the time, right? Stranded colorwork is hugely popular. Why was I out in the cold? I wanted to be a chic stranded-colorwork Knitter … I wanted to carry a color in each hand and produce magic. Dale of Norway wasn’t just the be-all and end-all; it was just the beginning! There were hundreds of designers out there, all producing beauty like this. That’s right! I was getting on the colorwork train and St. Moritz was the first stop. My destiny was clear. This sweater just kept turning up. I was meant to knit it. You betcha … here I go, no stopping me now.

I took a deep breath and got a grip. I remembered that I didn’t actually know how to do all those things, and that I was about to spend a lot of money on good wool and a decent pattern, which I was promptly going to turn into crap. The fear returned. I turned my back on St. Moritz and Norwegian sweaters and I returned to my e-mail. There is no such thing as destiny.

There was another e-mail from my friend (who, I was beginning to suspect, might not have my best interests in mind when she sent these things). She had spent a little more time investigating the Dale of Norway site and had learned that each of the different colorways available for St. Moritz represents a different element of the Norwegian ski team. Cross-country, downhill, slalom …

The one I adored, the one with the natural gray paired with various blues and white—that one is for freestyle.

That was it. I couldn’t take anymore. Freestyle is my approach to life. This was a sign.

I decided I would knit St. Moritz, and after that there would be nothing that I could not do. I would carry colors in both hands; I would use those stitch marker thingies; I would organize my charts and mark off completed rows. I would knit a traditional Norwegian sweater, and then I would steek it. When people saw me wearing this sweater they would stop me in the streets and offer me money for it. They would scarcely believe that this sweater was not a dream, never mind that I made it with my own two hands. It would go with my jeans, it would make me look ten years younger. It would be Knitting with a capital K.

It took me 166 days to knit St. Moritz.

Day 1.
The book says to cast on 278 stitches, join, and work in the round. I enthusiastically cast on 268 stitches and knit for some ways before noticing. I ripped it back and cast on again, still enthusiastically. I cast on 278 stitches, noting that the pattern doesn’t say, “Join, being careful not to twist.” Clearly Dale of Norway respects my intelligence. Twenty minutes later it becomes clear that I don’t deserve their respect. I curse loudly at the twist in my knitting and rip it back. Third time’s the charm. I put my work down triumphantly, with two rounds to show for six hours of knitting.

Day 3.
I have finished the hem facing. This is absolutely going to work out. I love this yarn and these colors. This is brilliant. Why didn’t I try a Dale sooner?

Day 16.
Why didn’t I try a Dale sooner? Twelve inches of fine-gauge plain knitting for the body, that’s why. I’m starting to understand the psychology of this thing. By the time I get to the scary charts I’m going to actually be grateful for the change. I am no longer concerned with the idea that the charts are going to rob me of my sanity. I know now that intellectually speaking, I will only be “knitting with one needle” (if you know what I mean) when I get there.

Day 25.
I have been sucked into the black hole of knitting. I don’t understand how this happened but there seems to be a rift in the time-space continuum centered right over this sweater. I knit and knit and knit, round after round after round, and make no progress. This morning the sweater measured eleven inches. I swear that I have knit at least two hundred rounds and the sweater still measures eleven inches.

Day 31.
I have ignored the sweater for five days. It is now twelve inches. I don’t even begin to understand how that can be possible but I am grateful. Now I start the charts!

Day 45.
I made a mistake. I used the wrong blue for two whole rounds. I only noticed when I got to the part with the symbol
for the right blue. The thought of ripping this back makes me want to sell my children to raise the cash for a flight to Tahiti.

Day 50.
I have decided that I am knitting an “interpretation” of St. Moritz. I’m not ripping back the wrong blue. I am going to make the same mistake on the sleeves so that it looks right.

Day 60.
There is no way that anyone can be this stupid. I’ve knit past the center motif on every row. I get into the rhythm of the pattern and then I just breeze on by the star in the center, then have to tink back, one stitch at a time, and then re knit it with the star in place. I wonder if I would be finished with this sweater by now if every stitch I knit counted.

Day 72.
I’m starting to be concerned that all the partying I did in the eighties did more damage than I thought. Very, very carefully, with a great deal of diagramming and math, I have managed to center the back neck shaping of the sweater exactly over the back motif, and the front neck shaping precisely over the right armhole.

Day 75.
I have cast off the body. It’s pretty impressive. The stranding lies flat. You would never know that my interpretive dance with the colors wasn’t intentional. There really are no arm-holes though.

Day 84.
The first sleeve is done, I had to rip it back when I forgot to use the wrong blue to make it match the body.

Day 87.
Half of the second sleeve is done.

Day 95.
Half of the second sleeve is still done.

Day 121.
Half of the second sleeve has been accomplished.

Day 142.
Since I can think of no other way to write that I’ve made no progress on this sweater in fifty-five days it is time to admit that I may be avoiding knitting the second sleeve in an attempt to avoid the steeks. I’m really uncomfortable with the idea of cutting this sweater, but I don’t want to openly admit that I’m the kind of chicken knitter who would avoid steeks, so instead I’m avoiding the sleeve. On what planet is it more honorable to avoid the sleeve?

Day 145.
I’m working on the sleeve. It seems to be taking a lot longer than the last one, but it’s likely because I hear the tolling of the steeks in the background.

Day 151.
All hail the mighty knitter!!! I have finished all the pieces. They are lying snugly upstairs drying from blocking. They look wonderful, I love them. I love the colors. I love my knitting. I love how nicely I wove in the ends. I feel like Wonderknitter. When they are done drying, all I have to do is to sew up the shoulders, measure the depth of the sleeves, mark that onto the body, get a pair of sharp scissors and cut up my masterpiece. Am I the only one to whom this plan seems odd? I remain suspicious that this is a cruel Norwegian joke.

Day 153.
I am a raving idiot. It’s a wonder that I haven’t hurt myself. I very carefully measured the sleeve depth, then marked that depth on the body, then with the focus of a diamond cutter sewed 2 rows of machine stitching around the steeks, picked up my scissors, took a deep breath, and looked at the cutting line, blades raised. It was at this precise moment that I looked at the big picture and thought, Wow. Those armholes are deep.
Really deep.
I then did something that was most unlike me. I stopped what I was doing and double-checked my work.

I hold the finished sleeve up to the body. Looks right. On an impulse I hold the other sleeve to the body. A wave of shock passes over me. I hold the two sleeves up against each other to confirm my suspicion. The two sleeves are completely different lengths and widths. Not by a little; by a lot. While I sit on the floor clutching the sleeves and waiting for the blackness around the edges of my vision to go away, I start trying to piece together what must have happened. I know I cast on the right number, so it can’t be that I knit two different sizes. The change of length is in the plain part of the sleeve. I lie on the floor with the instructions. Slowly I realize that I’ve made a bizarre error with the number of increases. Instead of a total of 23 increases, I’ve apparently made 32, or something like that. I thought that the second sleeve was taking a lot longer than the first one. I’m searching for my perfectly hidden ends so that I can rip this sleeve back, when the enormity of what almost happened hits me. A steeker’s worst nightmare: Cutting the steek inches too long. There’s no coming back from that one.

Day 157.
I ripped back the sleeve and had a do-over. I was feeling pretty good about it until I realized that I was going to have to unpick the machine stitching that I put in. Note: should you ever have to unpick a double row of machine stitches from a hand knit … set aside seventeen hours and twenty-three minutes to perform the task. A decent bottle of merlot takes the edge off of the hostility, but does nothing to improve accuracy.

Day 158.
I have measured, remeasured, invited independent measurers to oversee my work, and sought help from Internet steekers. I have checked, double-checked, and obsessed about the stitching. I have had a shot of scotch to fortify my steeking will, and I am ready. With God as my witness I swear that I am going to pick up the scissors and cut up this sweater. Tomorrow, or maybe Thursday.

Day 159.
I decide that this is a war cry thing, like a sports slogan, “Just steek it.” I realize that I may be overobsessing just a little when I overhear my fourteen-year-old daughter tell a friend, “Yeah, I gotta go. My mom’s supposed to cut up this sweater, but she’s pretty freaked out.”

Day 161.
I did it. It worked. The sweater didn’t unravel, nothing bad happened. It wasn’t a cruel sweater-destroying Norwegian joke after all. Armholes, I got them. Now that I think about it, it’s a pretty clever way to make a sweater. Maybe I’ll start doing all my sweaters like this.

Day 164.
Sleeves (of the same size) sewn in. Sewn into the steeks. The steeks I cut. Did I mention that I cut some steeks in this sweater? There has to be someone else to show this to.

Day 165.
Picking up stitches for the neck. So close to the finish line … this will be the second time I’ve done the neck. I’m going to contemplate a tattoo that says “Heads are bigger than you think.” I’m always picking up too few stitches for necks. (I suppose I
could
try not ignoring the instructions.)

Day 166.
It’s done. I’m alone in the house. I show the sweater to the cat. The cat does not give me the kind of reaction that I’m looking for. I put it on, but the cat is still not as impressed as I think she should be. I feel like there should be a parade. Cheering, phone calls from other accomplished knitters welcoming me to the club, gifts, certificates of accomplishment. Some kind of plaque to hang on the wall. I knit a Dale of Norway. I followed charts, I knit with two hands. I broke the barrier standing between me and real Knitters.