CHRISTMAS GIFT EXTRAORDINAIRE

Now I've gone and done it.  I will now have to write a novel!

I had finally gotten tired of giving Cathy presents like garlic presses and Belgian Waffle makers and hunting knives and cocktail shakers and conga drums for Christmas.  For the Christmas of a couple of weeks back I wanted to be totally original.  Hence the novel.  She didn't get a complete novel, mind you, just Chapter One.  What I plan to do is present one chapter to Cathy at every future birthday and Christmas Day.  I figure in 15 years, or so, the novel will be finished.  At that point I'll have the completed novel published and I'll sell millions of copies and Cathy will finally be able to retire.  Hurrah!

The novel is untitled for now.  So here, for your reading pleasure, is Cathy's literary Christmas present.

                                                             CHAPTER ONE

        Where Ursula and Beatrice discuss the naming of their soon-to-be-opened yarn store.

     “Beatrice,” said the elder of the two sisters, “As I am plunking down fifty-five percent of our starting capital, I have decided that I shall bear the responsibility of naming the yarn store.”

     “Now, now, Ursula,” said Beatrice.  “Do not revert to your former self.”

     Ursula paused a moment as she contemplated on whether or not she had been insulted.  “What exactly do you mean by that, little sister?” she asked.

     “Ursula, it is a well known fact, and Archibald will confirm it if asked, that you were a tyrant during our childhood years.  Everything had to be done your way.  All games had to be played by your rules.”

     Ursula maintained her composure, though not without some difficulty.  “Well, Beatrice,” she said.  “If I was a childhood despot it was only because you were obviously Father’s favorite and Archibald was, without question, the apple of Mother’s eye.  Nothing would have gone my way if I had not asserted myself every now and then.”

     Beatrice calmly took a bite of her sandwich.  “This bacon is delicious, Ursula.  Where did you purchase it?  And the mayonnaise you’ve chosen to accompany it is superb.  May I ask what brand it is?  The lettuce is obviously Romaine and the tomatoes are quaintly organic, but the bread, does it contain oats?  I could be mistaken, but I believe I detect a subtle hint of oats in its flavor.  Also, what name did you have in mind for our soon-to-be-opened yarn store?”

     Again, Ursula paused as she could not remember where exactly the bacon had come from.  “I will answer the last of your questions first, Beatrice,” Ursula finally replied.  “What is your opinion of ‘Ye Olde Yarne Shoppe’?”

     Beatrice finished the last bite of her sandwich and had a sip of milk before she said, “Two percent?”

     “Beg pardon?” said Ursula.

     Beatrice clarified her remark.  “The milk.  Two percent?

     Ursula answered, “It is whole milk.”

     “You may not believe me, big sister, but I believe that the recent loss of my four wisdom teeth has negatively affected my taste buds.  There was a time when I could easily tell you what type of milk I was drinking, or if a slice of bread contained oats or not.  Sadly, those days are gone.  As gone as my cherished wisdom teeth.  And it’s a bit old-fashioned, wouldn’t you say?  This whole “Ye Olde” approach.  The wording just reeks of antiquity.  Are we not striving to open a modern and exciting new yarn store?  Cutting edge and all that?  And how exactly might you be spelling these moldy words that practically drip dust? ”

     “First, teeth have nothing to do with one’s ability to distinguish flavors,” said Ursula matter-of-factly.  “And as for the spelling, Old and Yarn would have E’s at the end and a P and an E would be added to the word Shop.  Ye Olde Yarne Shoppe.”

     “Is this how they would have spelled it in days of bore, I'm sorry, I mean days of yore?” Beatrice asked.

     “I do not know,” answered Ursula.  “But the spelling is distinctive.  It will stick in people’s minds and they will never forget the existence of our soon-to-be-opened store.”

     Beatrice leaned back in her chair with her hands clasped behind her head.  She stared at the ceiling as she spoke.  “I was thinking of something a bit more Chekhovian.”

     “Chekhovian?” asked a startled Ursula.

     “Chekhovian.  As in Anton Chekhov,” Beatrice replied

     “I am aware that Chekhovian refers to the Russian writer, Beatrice Peary.  But what exactly are you referring to when you throw such an unexpected term into the middle of our argument?”

     Beatrice continued her intense study of the ceiling.  “Argument?  Business colloquy is a more apt term.  What say you to Three Sisters Yarn?” asked Beatrice.

     Ursula took a quick glance at the ceiling to see if she was missing something.  Finding nothing of interest, her gaze returned to her younger sister.  “If you’re going to lean towards  Chekhov, why not Cherry Orchard Yarns or even Uncle Vanya’s Yarns?” retorted Ursula.

     “Ha-HA!” exclaimed Beatrice.  “I have missed your verbal bite these last three years.  It is better than most people’s.  No one can say that your sweet, sophisticated sarcasm was not missed.  But just for the record, we have no uncle named Vanya, nor do we have any connection with any orchard that produces cherries.”

     “And did you also happen to notice that we are but two.  Unless Archibald is considering some life-changing surgery, there is no third sister.”

     “Poetic license,” said Beatrice calmly.  “And you cannot deny that Three Sisters Yarn is far superior to Ye Olde Yarne Shoppe.  Three Sisters Yarn is a conversation starter.  Customers would ask about our other sister and we would tell them fanciful tales that would intrigue them to no end.  Their curiosity would compel them to buy more yarn than the amount they had originally planned.”

     “Fanciful tales?” asked Ursula suspiciously.

     Beatrice leaned over the table to get as close to Ursula as she could.  “We will invent a third sister.  We will make her whatever we want her to be.  A silent partner who no one will ever see.”

     “Of course no one will ever see her.  She doesn’t exist,” Ursula retorted.

     Beatrice ignored the obvious logic and continued.  “She could be the sister who became a nun and who does missionary work in Mozambique.  Or she could be the sister who repairs motorcycles in Albania.  Or perhaps the sister who traveled to the Himalayas to unionize the Sherpas.  Or even the sister who is a volunteer firefighter in Tierra del Fuego.  So many possibilities.”

     Now it was Ursula’s turn to lean over the table.  The two sisters’ faces were inches apart.  “Beatrice,”

     “Yes, Ursula?”

     “Do you remember how I used to incessantly claim that Pierre was the craziest human being on the face of the earth?”

     “A most delightful Frenchman, your ex-husband.  No nicer man ever came from Nice.  But yes, he is a little bit touched.”

     “Well, dear younger sister, the craziest human title is now yours.”

     Beatrice leaned back and finished the last of her milk.  “What do you have in the way of dessert, Ursula?”

     “There is almost half a blueberry pie in the icebox,” answered the elder sister.

     “Dear, dear Ursula.  Icebox?  Whatever will I do with you?  This is the twenty first century.  You can start saying refrigerator like the rest of the planet.”

     Ursula contemplated her sister's empty milk glass.  “I like the term icebox,” she stated.  “It is quaint and full of charm.  Just like Ye Olde Yarne Shoppe.”

     “May I have a piece of that blueberry pie and may I also offer you a slice?” asked Beatrice.

     “You are my sister, Beatrice.  With the exception of my Cashmere sweaters, you are welcome to whatever is in my house.  And yes, I will have a slice.  Blueberry pie would certainly hit the spot right about now.  And while you're fetching the pie, please also bring the milk”

     Beatrice rose and proceeded to take out the pie and milk.  She put the remaining three slices on plates and brought the three plates, along with three forks and the gallon jug of milk to the table.  She was about to sit down but suddenly stood up straight.  “Do you have any ice cream?”

     “Do forgive, Beatrice.  The last of the Butter Pecan was finished last night.  Though if you explore the deepest corners of the top part of the icebox, you might find an old carton of plain vanilla.  However, I would taste it first, if I were you.  No use ruining a delicious slice of blueberry pie.

     “I will eat the blueberry pie plain,” stated Beatrice.  She sat down, ate a forkful of the pie, poured herself a half glass of the milk and had a sip.
     Ursula did likewise and after audibly swallowing a large bite of the pie, she said, “Beatrice, I could not help but notice that there is a third piece of pie resting comfortably between us.  What plans do you have for this slice?”

     “That is Archibald’s,” replied Beatrice.

     “Archibald?” a perplexed Ursula asked, “Why are you saving a slice for our brother?”

     “After I finish this pie, I intend to call Archibald.  I will ask him to come over.  He adores blueberry pie.  Perhaps even more than you and me.”

     “I would not argue that,” said Ursula.  “Archibald has always been a connoisseur of fine desserts.”    

     “Yes, he got that gift from Mother.  Also, he is as wise as Solomon,” added Beatrice.

     “Are you referring to Judge Solomon of the State Supreme Court?” asked Ursula.

     Beatrice smiled.  “What a saucy smart-aleck you are, dear elder sister.  You know perfectly well that I am referring to the Biblical Solomon.”

     “Ahh,” exclaimed Ursula.  “The baby splitter.”

     “The baby was never split.  You know that as well as I, Ursula.  And here are some more facts that you might be aware of.  Our yarn store will open in approximately two months.  We do not yet have a name for this sisterly business endeavor of ours.  We will need one soon.  Apparently, we are unable to reach an agreement on what name our soon-to-be-opened yarn store shall have.  Archibald has successfully arbitrated many of our past disputes.  In that respect he has been a good brother.  Would you agree to abide by whatever decision he makes as far as the naming of the business?”

     Ursula slid the fork under another bit of her pie.  She chewed it slowly and carefully.  Finally, she said, “Perhaps we could also get Archibald to eat the last of that old carton of vanilla ice cream that has been gestating in my icebox for who-knows-how-long.  I do so hate to throw out food.”

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One chapter down, about twenty nine more to go.   In my head I already have the next three chapters mapped out.  Chapter Two - Where Archibald advises his sisters on a name for the store,  Chapter Three - Where Janet receives knitting tips from Ursula,  and Chapter Four - Where a most bizarre first customer inaugurates the store.  Now all I have to do is write them.  Jumping Jiminy!  What have I gotten myself into?

YARN OSCARS

The word "Oscars" is, of course, already taken, so the first order of business is to find a cute and memorable name for these annual end-of-the-year awards.  "Yarnies" is too obvious.  "Woolies" has a pre-existing negative connotation, as in, "That ugly haircut he just got gives me the woolies."  (or is that "willies"?)  Someone in my family, who shall remain nameless, suggested "The Itchies".  The gentleman in me precludes me from revealing what I said in response.  These are serious awards, ladies and gentlemen.  Levity is frowned upon.  If anybody has a suggestion for a proper award name, I am very willing to hear it.

There are only two criteria for being eligible for these as-yet-unnamed awards.  First, they have to have been carried as merchandise at Montoya Fiber Studio during the year 2012.  Second, the aesthetic quality of the yarn color's name must jump out at you and the quality of the yarn has to match its vibrant name.  Companies that name their yarn colors blue or red or green have no chance to win.  Where is the imagination that titillates a customer into purchasing something simply because of a fascinating name given to an extraordinary yarn?  Now if blue, red, or green had instead been respectively named, Hold Your Breath, Beet Juice, or Iago's Envy, well then, that's a different story.

The winners are listed in no particular order except for the Ultimate Award for best yarn color of the year which, of course, shall be revealed at the very end.  The winners' details are revealed in the following order:  1.) Color name   2.) Company name   3.) Yarn name 

Ladies and Gentlemen. I present to you the winners of the 2012 (name of award here).


BEST YARN NAMED FOR AN ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE
Sangria  (Dream in Color - Everlasting)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A RODGERS AND HAMMERSTEIN MUSICAL
South Pacific  (Universal - Bamboo Handpaints)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A TYPE OF PANCAKE
Buckwheat   (Berroco - Ultra Alpaca)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A MEDICAL SYMPTOM
Feeling Blue  (Jojoland - Rhythm)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A CHARACTER IN PETER PAN
Tiger Lily  (Lamb's Pride - Bulky)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A TASTY TREAT
S'mores  (Crystal Palace - Party)

BEST YARN NAMED FOR A RADIOACTIVE ELEMENT
Uranium  (Manos del Uruguay - Wool Classica)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER A RUSSIAN FLOWER
Siberian Iris  (Misti - Pima Silk)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER A WINNIE THE POOH CHARACTER
Piglet  (Sublime - Cash Silk Merino)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER A GEORGE GERSHWIN SONG
Summertime  (Mountain Colors - Mohair)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER A COUNTRY THAT NO LONGER EXISTS
Zanzibar  (Misti - Baby me Boo)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER A CITIZEN KANE REFERENCE
Rosebud  (Universal - Sensational)

BEST YARN NAMED AFTER AN OLD TV WESTERN
Gunsmoke  (Wildefoote)

BEST YARN WITH A FRENCH NAME
Douceur et Soie  (Knit One Crochet Too)

BEST YARN WITH A SPANISH NAME
Zarzamora  (Malabrigo - Rios)

BEST YARN COLOR OF THE YEAR
Orange You Glad  (Lamb's Pride - Bulky)


The other four finalists for Best Yarn Color of the Year deserve a mention.  Zane Grey by Wildefoote, Grassy Knoll by Lamb's Pride, Ripe Lychee by Jojoland and Partly Cloudy by Universal.  Those of you who don't get the brilliance of the name Orange You Glad, need to travel back to your childhood and remember every knock-knock joke you ever heard.

Should your curiosity compel you to do so, feel free to ask to see these award-winning yarns.  Just make sure that Cathy is in the store and not just me as I have a terrible time remembering where particular yarns are shelved.

THE DREADED ZEROS

The other day, at the store, I was doing some inventory work with the knitting  needles and I noticed the same size zero needles that were always hanging there.  They've been there for as long as I've paid attention to such matters.  I asked Cathy if she ever actually ever sold one of those skinny little monsters.  She replied that she did remember selling some size zero circular needles but she didn't recall ever selling a pair of straight needles of that particular size.

It doesn't take much analysis to figure out why these underfed sticks don't move.  What sane person would tackle the prodigious projects that ask for a #0 needle.  They must be absolute hell to knit with.  We're talking lace yarn, of course.  The thinnest commercial yarn there is.  The kind of yarn used for heirloom shawls or other similar time-consuming projects.  I won't deny the fact that these projects are undoubtedly beautiful when you actually finish one.  But how many people actually finish one of these demanding works of art.  For someone of my limited skills, I figure one row (150 to 200 stitches) is going to take me around an hour.  Why so long?  Well, the first obvious reason is that these are itsy-bitsy stitches being knit on teensy-weensy needles.  Unlike rows of four stitches per row on #35 needles, these baby stitches take time.  But the second reason is the really frightening one - the fear of making mistakes.  No one wants to rip out rows with lace yarn.  Just the thought of that makes me shiver.  Or even if you spot a mistake on the actual row you're working on, retracing your steps with #0 needles and lace yarn could easily drive you crazy.  So if I'm knitting with these tiny tools of torture, I'm going to proceed very slowly just to make sure there are no mistakes.  That's one hour per row with probably a million rows in a big shawl.  We're talking a long, long, long time.

So, it should come as no surprise to anyone if I admit that I am more than a ligttle frightened of these needles.  It's almost as if everytime I look at a a pair of #0's, the needles speak to me and say, "Keep on walking little boy.  I'm meant for serious knitters.  Certainly not for the likes of you." 

Demoralizing?  You bet.  But 2013 is going to be different.  I will face my fears and grab a pair of these intimidating needles and I will knit with them.  No, I'm not going to tackle one of those shawls that would take me the rest of my life.  But as the official window dresser of Montoya Fiber Studio, I can devise projects that will allow me to work with the zeros in something of a more reasonable nature.  I've been thinking of possibly purchasing a Barbie and a Ken doll and knitting some appropriate garb for their beyond-perfect bodies.  Even with size zeros, how hard can such a project be?  So once the new year arrives, keep your eyes open whenever you walk by the store window.  I'll show those needles a thing or two.  I'll show them who's a serious knitter!  And who knows?  Maybe I'll even buy a Midge.  Why should Barbie have all the fun wearing my original haute couture designs?    

GRIMM TALE DISCOVERED .... MAYBE

Everyone is familiar with the folk tales collected by the Brothers Grimm.  What instantly separates them from your standard fairy tale is the cruel darkness that pervades all of the Grimm's twisted little stories - the hungry witch in Hansel and Gretel, the egomaniacal Rumpelstitskin, the conniving Wolf from Little Red Riding Hood, Cinderella's selfish step-mother and step-sisters, the evil Queen so jealous of Snow White's beauty.  These are are all deeply scarred individuals who are in serious need of psycho-therapy.  Well, maybe not the wolf, as he is only doing what wolves naturally do.  (Though his affinity for nightwear worn by grandmotherly types is rather suspicious.)  But in each of the over 200 published Brothers Grimm tales, there is always someone who is rather sadistic in nature.  And while these villains usually get their comeuppance, one must question the intent of the famous brothers for having put such hideous behavior into what are, after all, children's stories.

So a couple of weeks ago, Halloween night to be exact, Cathy sends me up to the attic to search for some yarn that she says is stored in an old cedar chest.  She claims that the yarn and the chest belonged to her grandmother, a rather eccentric German-born lady whom I had the pleasure of knowing for a few years before she passed away.  "It is time to sell all that ancient yarn," Cathy declared.  "Maybe we can get a dollar a ball."  So candle in hand, I went up to the attic and proceeded to search for the old, dilapidated chest.  Imagine my surprise when after finding it and after emptying it of its woolly contents, I found a secret compartment in one of the side panels.  It didn't take long to figure out how to open it.  And what did I find?  A few sheets of paper, browned with age.  They were handwritten in German and had the following intriguing title on the first page - Ungeschickt Clara und die Magischen Stricknadeln.  My German is limited to the following words:  Kartoffelsalat (Potato salad) and Gesundheit (Gesundheit), so, of course, I had no idea what the title or the content of the few pages were about.  But I did recognize the signatures at the bottom of the last page.  Jacob Grimm and Wilhelm Grimm.  "Gott im Himmel!" I exclaimed.  The very next day I took it to my good friend, Hans Hotterdenhell, the best knackwurst maker in the greater Chicagoland area.  He quickly translated the pages.  My next step is to have the papers authenticated to see if this truly is a lost Brothers Grimm tale.  I will have to travel to Germany.  In the meantime, I'd like my faithful blog followers to be among the first to read this very interesting folk tale.  So I now present to you the English translation of:

                                 CLUMSY CLARA AND THE MAGIC KNITTING NEEDLES

     In a small village, close to what is now called Dusseldorf, there lived a teenaged girl named Clara.  She lived with her mother, a very disciplined woman who was acknowledged by all her neighbors as being the best knitter in the village, if not the whole kingdom.  All the townspeople proudly wore sweaters and hats and scarves and mittens that had been knitted for them by Clara's mother.  There came a time when it was decided that Clara would have to learn how to knit.  A most severe form of arthritis had struck Clara's mother, rendering her hands practically useless.  Alas, Clara was most inept when it came to knitting.  She was quite good at milking cows but totally useless when it came to any kind of handiwork.  Try as she might, Clara could not pick up the essential elements of that most glorious of crafts.  She would be instructed to cast on 24 stitches and ended up with 87 crooked little knots on her knitting needle.  Then, she could not grasp the difference between a knit stitch and a purl stitch.  Two simple rows of 2 by 2 ribbing turned into an adventure in advanced mathematics.  Clara's mother tried desperately to fulfill her orders for new knitwear but her arthritic pain was too great.  "Worthless child!" she screamed at Clara.  "We will starve to death unless you pay attention and learn these simple steps."
     Little by little, the orders for knitwear began to dwindle.  Clara and her mother lived on nothing but the milk provided by the solitary cow they owned.  Soon, Clara's mother went into a deep funk, the type of depression that left her unable to get out of bed in the morning.  Twice a day, at the time for milking, Clara would confide in her cow.  "Oh Snooki (she was a purebred Jersey cow), what am I going to do?  Mother cannot make any money due to her crippling arthritis and I am as clumsy as can be when it comes to knitting.  A total klutz."
     Snooki the Cow responded with nothing but an empathetic, "Moo".  A donkey, the only other animal in the barn, let out a comical, "Hee-Haw!" as if laughing at Clara's dilemma
     And then one day, the King's Herald came to town. He was going from village to village announcing the marriage of the King's only daughter.  A major award would be given to the person who made the princess the most beautiful gown.  When questioned as to what the major award consisted of, the Herald merely smiled and said,  "A major award.  That is all I will say."
     Clara cried all day, even when she milked Snooki the cow.  During the late afternoon milking, the cow asked, "Why do you weep, Clara?" 
     Clara wiped her eyes and replied.  "Oh Snooki, there is a royal contest that I know my mother would win, but alas, she is unable to ---  But what is this?  Snooki!  You can speak?
     "I am a Jersey cow blessed with many gifts, Clara.  But please.  Continue your story."  Though totally dumbfounded, Clara explained the whole situation to Snooki the Cow.  "Arthritis," said Snooki.  "A most debilitating and unforgiving disease.  But Clara, perhaps you are not as clumsy as you think you are." 
     "Hee-Haw," brayed the donkey in obvious contradiction.
     "Quiet, you!" snapped Snooki at her rude barnmate.
     "Oh, but I am clumsy," said Clara.  I cannot cast on properly.  I cannot differentiate a knit stitch from a purl.  When I attempt yarnovers, the yarn slips off the needle entirely.  My cables turn out looking like the hair on Medusa's head.  I am nothing short of a disaster whenever I have knitting needles in my hands."  The donkey hee-hawed numerous times, as if  agreeing with Clara's self-evaluation.
     "Perhaps you are using the wrong needles." suggested Snooki.
     No, no, no," replied Clara.  "The needles are not the problem.  The problem is me.  Mother is right.  I am stupid.  I am incompetent.  I am useless ... except when it comes to milking a cow.  And I am clumsy.  That is who I am and who I shall forever be.  Clumsy Clara."  Another derisive Hee-Haw from the donkey.
     "Clara," said Snooki.  Tomorrow, when you wake up, just before coming to milk me, I'd like you to look under your pillow."
     The next morning, after having barely slept a wink, Clara awoke with a start.  She lifted her pillow and was shocked to see a complete set of knitting needles from a size 0 to a size 35.  There was even the always bizarre size 10.5.  Clara ran to her mother's room.  "Mother, Mother!  Look!
     Her catatonic mother looked absent-mindedly at the set of needles.  "Ivory," she mumbled.  "Quite rare.  Even has that goofy 10.5.  Hmm.  Clara, fetch some yarn."  Clara quickly brought her mother a basket overflowing with yarns of varying types and colors.  "Clara, take the red silk yarn and the size 5 needles.  Cast on 28 stitches."  In less than a minute, Clara had cast on 28 very, very even stitches.  "Very good, Clara.  Now knit one row and then purl one row."  Again, Clara had no difficulty whatsoever with her mother's instructions.  The black cloud that had been hovering over Clara's mother's head, ever so slowly began to vanish.  "Excellent," commented Clara's mother as she inspected her daughter's work.  "Not too tight, not too lose.  Now increase the next row to 35 stitches."
     Clara did some quick calculations in her head and said to her mother, "I will add a stitch after each set of four stitches. Do you prefer a yarnover or should I knit an extra stitch in the back of every fourth stitch?"
     Clara's mother beamed.  You choose, dear."
     It should surprise no one that Clara went on to knit a most elegant multi-colored silk gown for the Princess.  She was the clear winner of the contest.  Her major award consisted of nothing less than being asked to marry the Princess's younger brother, Prince Fritz.  At their wedding, they feasted on roast donkey, the very same donkey that had so unwisely ridiculed Clumsy Clara.  After the wedding, Clara, her mother and Snooki the Cow moved into the King's castle where they lived happily ever after.

                                                           THE END



         
    

HALLOWOOLEEN

Every now and then the public should consider grabbing hold of a tradition and shaking it up a bit.  Take, for example, the great Broadway musical  ¨Fiddler on the Roof¨.  It´s main theme is the destruction of tradtion. The Jews of early twentieth century Russia are forced to change habits that have served them well for years and years, but they slowly learn to adjust to these cataclysmic changes in their lives.  Then there is Baseball.  In one of the two Leagues, the designated hitter rule radically altered the game by not having the usually weak-hitting pitcher hit.  Do I personally like that this rule exists?  Not really.  But has it destroyed the game of baseball?  Of course not.  It has created a brand new tradition that many people enjoy.  I myself cannot deny that some games have multiplied their level of excitement by having that extra strong bat in the lineup.  I could cite further examples of how the altering or even the destruction of certain traditions have made certain aspects of life a little more interesting.  But it is time to talk of one well respected tradition that I would like to vary just a little bit.  Halloween.

There is argument about the exact origins of Halloween.  Some scholars cite ancient pagan traditions while others specify a definite Christian beginning.  But no matter how it started, the term ¨trick or treat¨ certainly doesn´t carry the impact it used to have.  The ¨trick¨ part is pretty much an idle threat nowadays.  On second thought, I would bet that the amount of eggs and shaving cream purchased on the 30th and 31st of October is probably a little higher than normal.  But anyway, the concept of - If you don´t give me a treat, I might do some serious damage to your property. - is pretty much history.  But what if we were to offer a brand new alternative to the word ¨trick¨?  Something that is certainly less offensive, having no element of danger whatsoever.  A word that will offer an interesting choice for the typical costumed trick-or-treater.  What about the word ¨Knits¨?  Knits or Treats.  Yes, I like the sound of that.

Here´s how it would work.  Like always, kids dressed up in silly costumes would come to a door, ring the bell  and yell out ¨Knits or Treats¨ to the home owner.  The home owner might then say, ¨Well, Mr. Frankenstein, you look like a lad who could use a little bit of knitting in his life.  So here´s a nice ball of 50% wool and 50% silk for you to play with.  Now you be sure to have your mom or dad take you to your local knit store tomorrow so that you can purchase a pair of knitting needles.  I´d recommend a 12 inch long, size 8 for this particular ball of yarn.  And you be sure to knit a small square so you can get a proper gauge before you actually commit to a project.¨  Soon, children all over America would take up knitting and every 1st of November there would be a run on knitting needles. 

There is one small problem with this tradition-busting concept of mine.  The Candy Industry.  They would not be pleased.  If this idea of mine took hold, their October sales figures, which undoubtedly are in the billions, would plummet drastically.  And what if my unorthodox idea went even further and instead of  ¨trick or treat¨, we would have ¨tricks or knits¨?  I would be a marked man.  The Candy Industry would put out a contract on my life.  I would have to go into seclusion.  But it would be worth it as Cathy´s business would be absolutely crazy in the month of October and I´d finally be able to buy myself that double extra-large vicuña sweater I´ve always longed for. 

YARN SAVES EARTH FROM MARTIANS!

There are two things that come to mind when I think about H.G.Wells classic science fiction novel, “The War Of The Worlds”.  First is the famous 1938 radio broadcast by Orson Welles.  Now there was one slick fellow.  Welles, not Wells.  He wasn't called an enfant terrible for nothing.   He had dramatized the novel in the form of a newscast so when people who hadn’t heard the introduction of the show tuned into it, they actually thought the Earth was really being invaded by Martians.  Quite a number of people freaked out.  The second thing I remember is that the ending in the book had such an unexpected twist to it.  In the story, the Martians were a far superior race than the people of Earth.  Their weaponry was way more  sophisticated so they had little trouble in conquering the Earth.  But an unexpected ally came to the rescue.  Microbes.  The Martians had no natural defenses for microbes.  For earthlings these were the type of bacteria that would give us a common cold or perhaps an allergy of some sort.  But for the Martians, these basically invisible creatures were totally devastating.  Even though they had humiliated the people of Earth and were clearly in control of the planet, it wasn’t long before the Martians started dropping like flies.  While Earth  did emerge victorious, it was left to clean up a huge mess and it was forced to face the fact that it wasn’t the King of the Hill it thought it was.

I have great respect for H.G. Wells.  He wasn’t what I’d call a riveting writer, but the fact that his imagination came up with such a wild tale way back in the nineteenth century when space travel was barely a dream, well, you do have to tip your hat to him.  But had I been around back in the late 1800's and had I had the pleasure of knowing Mr. Wells, I might have given him the following unsolicited literary advice.

“Herbert, it’s a damn good story but it is drier than the Mojave Desert.  You need to inject a little humor into this massively depressing tale.  What about this?  We throw out the microbe ending.  Let’s have the Martians die of something else.  Something really unexpected.  Now earlier in the book you’ll have to develop the idea that the Martians had a keen sense of fashion.  You would go into great detail how first, their fighting armor and then, their everyday clothes were more original in design and in materials than anything the earthlings had ever come up with.  You would have a chapter detailing how, even though the Martians had little respect for anything made by man, especially their insignificant weaponry, they would have been quite smitten with the concept of knitwear.  You know, sweaters, vests, scarves, hats, the whole works.  It turns out that Martians have no equivalent of wool back home in Mars so they were terrifically fascinated by the whole knitting industry.  Once their invasion was pretty much under control, the Martians would have quickly learned how to knit and how to make pretty things for themselves.  But here comes the kicker, Herbert.  There would be something in sheep’s wool that would be absolutely deadly to the Martians.  It would be so itchy that all the Martians would be unable to stop scratching, even after they took off the offending garment.  Yes, Herbert, they would scratch themselves to death.  Yarn would have saved the day.”

Now H.G. Wells might have liked that suggestion or he might not have.  But one should never underestimate the hidden power of yarn.  Years from now, when the first astronauts finally land on Mars, if I were NASA, I’d have them take a ball or two of really itchy wool yarn, just in case.      

STASH

Knute’s International Knitting Dictionary defines the word “stash” as follows:  Unused yarn which is discreetly stored in a house, apartment, garage or any other space with storage capabilities.  It goes further and states that there are three types of stashes. The first is described as yarn that is specifically earmarked for a future project.  The second is defined as yarn that is left over from a finished project.  The third type is bluntly described in the following manner:  Yarn that was bought while suffering from temporary insanity, without a specific project in mind, and that will most likely never be used.  These definitions demand further analysis.

The word “discreetly” intrigues me.  I myself have only been knitting for a little over a year so I have not had the opportunity to amass what could be considered a MONSTER STASH.  Indeed, I am a little ashamed to say that my stash consists of two bags of yarn.  Is my stash stored in a discreet manner?  You bet.  With such a miniscule amount, how could it not be?  But what of people who have copious amounts of unused yarn?  “Discreetly” suggests that this extra yarn is stored in such a way as to be visually unobtrusive.  I’m curious as to whether or not this is true for all knitters.  The only stash I’ve seen is Cathy’s and that doesn’t really count because yarn store owners don’t really have stashes.  Every ball of yarn they have, even if it’s stored at home, could technically be called inventory.  But I really would love to see how people store their excess yarn.  No doubt, there are those that are super-organized in their yarn storing process.  And no doubt, there are those that do their storing in a more relaxed and possibly haphazard manner.  In ten years, when my stash has multiplied in a manner similar to rabbits, I suspect I will be in the latter camp.  But no matter how sloppy it may look to an outsider, if you were to ask me in ten years, “Fred where is that half a ball of pink angora you had leftover from Cathy’s Christmas present from 2015?, I will know exactly where that half a ball is.

Though the size of my stash is small, I can state that I do have the three types of stashes defined in the aforementioned reference book.  One of my two bags has yarn that will be soon be transformed into a blanket.  Not this year, but definitely in 2013.  The other bag has odds and ends left over from already finished projects.  And it also holds one ball of that third type that was so curiously defined.  I should say now that whoever the lexicographer is for the esteemed tome, Knute’s International Knitting Dictionary, he has a twisted sense of humor.  Temporary insanity?   I’m sure there are some of us who at least one time in our lives bought a ball of yarn or maybe two where we later might say, “Yikes!  Why in heaven’s name did I ever buy this monstrosity?”  I caught myself saying this just the other day while I was re-organizing my small stash.

The few times I’ve visited other yarn stores I always make it a point to buy at least one thing.  I might purchase an appealing yarn that Cathy doesn’t carry or perhaps something interesting in the sale bin.  But there was one yarn store in another state where the yarn that appealed to me was stuff that Cathy already carried.  And there was nothing in the sale bin that pleased my eye.  But I had already told myself that I would buy one thing.  Well, I finally made a rather rash decision.  I bought a ball of really ugly novelty yarn.  Why?  I don’t know.  I have no desire to knit with it.  It is truly hideous.  It sits in the bottom of my tiny stash waiting for its moment to shine.  It’s going to have a long wait.  But I insist I wasn’t temporarily crazy when I bought it.  Honest.  I’m proud of my stash.  Even that one mistake of a ball that is better left undescribed.  I suppose I will use it one day.  It would make a lovely wash cloth with which to clean a dirty lawnmower or something.