An open letter to the person who stole my shawl

On Friday morning before the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival was officially open, you happened to be next to the Brooks Farm Yarn booth as they were finishing setting up. The booth was full of yarns and samples, but for some reason your eye fell on the Optic Waves Shawl, which Sherry Brooks was carefully putting on a hanger for display. I had loaned it to her expressly for this occasion.

Suddenly, you were overcome with the desire to have this shawl. Not by making it, which is what knitters do, but by taking it. A minute later, pulse racing, you made your move. You snatched the shawl off its hanger, stuffed it in your bag, and left.

Did you hear the announcement over the PA system minutes later? Were you there when the police came? Did you see just how upset Sherry Brooks was? Were you there when I arrived and she agonized over how to break the news to me? Did you see the anger and the tears?

I don't know. By then, the deed was done and the police were on alert. There was no easy way to undo the damage.

I'm guessing you've discovered by now that having this shawl in your possession doesn't make you feel as good as you thought it would. In fact, it carries a heavy weight of sadness from all the people whose hearts you've broken. This is not yours, nor was it made for you.

The Howard County Sheriff's Department has circulated color images of this shawl, and the knitting community is on high alert. The shawl has several distinct features that make it completely unique and easy to identify as the stolen item—which means that you'll never comfortably be able to wear it out and about.

In your heart of hearts, I know you know you did something very wrong.

And it's only going to get worse.

So I ask you do to the right thing. When you're ready, put that shawl in a USPS box and send it back to me, COD. There will be no questions asked, and I know—as I think you know—that you'll feel much better as soon as you've done this.

You can send the shawl to:

Knitter's Review
P.O. Box 1617
Blue Hill, ME 04614

Thank you.
posted by Clara at Wednesday, May 07, 2008

Ending Hibernation



It's April 17th and time to come out of hibernation. While the crocuses have yet to show their faces at home, they're out in full force down in Portland, and that's enough for me.

Those of you in warmer climates may not quite understand the significance of the crocuses. Imagine every time you looked out your window, you saw this.



It's nice for a few weeks, a few months even. But for FIVE MONTHS, and without respite? It can be a bit much.

I had extra super-duper insulation added when I renovated my house, and I even upgraded to super-duper insulating double-pane windows and all sorts of other things, but there really was no reckoning with the cost of heating fuel this winter. And it meant that my indoor-outdoor thermometer usually read something like this:


If you don't have your glasses on, that says it's 8 degrees outside and 55 degrees inside. See the little unhappy face next to the indoor temperature? That's called my "comfort indicator." And that little guy rarely smiled this wintah.

Nor did this guy.

Indoors, I had a lot of these. I went through two cords of wood and enjoyed every log of it.


Casey tended to do this a lot.

(That's another failed handknitted sweater from the '90s that he has since claimed.)

In early January I visited Laurie at Sticks 'n' Strings in Scarsdale, New York, for a lovely weekend of book signing and talking and playing with yarn. People were very polite and didn't comment on my bronchitis. Now I wonder if they just thought I always sounded like Kathleen Turner?

A week later I flew west for TNNA, enjoying perhaps this country's only outdoor luggage carousel located at the Long Beach Airport.


And when not signing books or doing sometimes stressful TNNA things, I blew off steam by playing a few dozen rounds of skee-ball.


I came back home and spent an entire weekend making a dozen of these:

Recipe courtesy of Julia Child. Time stood still with each and every bite, and I was genuinely amazed to discover it is possible to make a decent croissant. It just takes a lot of time. Likewise, it takes time to recover from eating four croissant in one sitting. (Don't try this at home.)

A quick jaunt to the Pacific Northwest gave me a week on this island surrounded by an inspiring group of people.

And then not too soon after that I drove down the coast to Halcyon Yarn to teach a group of intrepid knitters all about yarn. While I brought my mobile petting zoo, alas, I forgot the camera. But a good time was had by all.

And then I hopped a flight for Philly where I finally got to experience Loop. I warned Craig that his stock of Alchemy was not safe, and ended up with a bulging suitcase packed with fluffy goodness.

And that pretty much brings us up to date, at least on the "external" physicalities of this winter. Internally, it really has been a bit of a hibernation.

It'll be ten years this summer since I left San Francisco and moved to Maine. My goal was to slow down the pace of my life, which felt like it was careening out of control.

Since then, I have found my footing in ways I didn't even dream of back in California. I now work in a field I love, and I am deeply creatively fulfilled. But there's no overlooking the fact that I have also - irony of ironies - re-created the very same frenzied work pace that caused me to cut and run 10 years ago. Or is it perhaps that the fast pace from which I escaped has caught up with my once-sacred knitting world?

Regardless, that's where I am today as I emerge from my long winter hibernation, pondering if it's possible to slow down the pace once again.



And how are you?
posted by Clara at Thursday, April 17, 2008

What better way to break one's blog silence than by participating in this year's Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading?

Morning

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best--
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso--

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins--
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows--
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning

Billy Collins
from Sailing Alone Around the Room

Mind you at the moment, the idea of throwing off light covers and touching my feet to the floor isn't all that appealing since it's 14 degrees out and my furnace is struggling to keep the house at 62. But besides appreciating the notion of a fresh new day and of a typewriter and atlas awaiting their adventure, the poem reminds me of summer mornings at my grandparents' house. I'd come downstairs to the smell of toasted English muffins and familiar NPR voices coming from the small radio on the breakfast table. Even within the framework of my teenage angst, I loved the momentary feeling of safety and comfort and continuity that those mornings gave me.

Happy Groundhog Day.
posted by Clara at Saturday, February 02, 2008

Well folks, I've decided that there is hope for humanity after all. (Warning: You'll find no yarn in the following story.)

Last Thursday I went down to Boston for a business meeting. I took the bus, which is every Mainer's friend when going to Boston. The trip down was smooth and uneventful. I had my meeting, met my brother for a nice lunch, and then...wham. Snow arrived. By the time I made it back to South Station, the city had shut down and there was a mass exodus out of town. I stood in line waiting to board the 2:15 bus. And then the ticket guy came out and said, "I have room for four more." I counted ahead of me... one... two... three... four... and then me.

Fifth in line. So I stood as the 2:15 left and waited for the 3:15, not wanting to abandon my prime spot in line. Around us, chaos reigned. All buses heading south were canceled. Angry New York-bound passengers steamed to and fro, yelling, huffing, puffing, and generally Not Helping Things. But the line of folks headed to Maine stayed calm and philosophical. "These things happen," said the guy behind me, smiling.

So the 3:15 arrived. Joy! We boarded. We got comfortable. I took out my iPod and settled in. And then the driver climbed on board and announced that they'd had an emergency at Logan and needed the bus. "You'll have to disembark and wait for the next bus, which should be here in about 30 minutes." We all got off and massed back inside -- my pristine spot in line lost forever. Not something to be fought, I told myself. I just want to get home. It's ok.

Finally the next bus finally arrived. I prepared for a jostle, and I hoped for a seat this time around. And then the crowd ahead of me parted. People looked back in the crowd until they spotted me, and then someone said, "That's her -- she's been waiting here the longest, she should board first." The others agreed and parted so that I could walk up front.

Quite frankly, this blew my mind. And this simple act of human kindness kept my heart warm and hopeful even as we proceeded to get caught in the most astounding Boston gridlock I've ever experienced. The streets were a snowy chaos, cars in every direction, no lanes, nobody paying any attention to the traffic signals, and nobody moving.

We watched our first movie.

We watched our second movie.

I napped as they started to replay the first movie again.

And during this time we barely reached the outskirts of Boston. (The same town from which we'd left, if I need remind you.)

We were all together in this bus with nothing to do but be together. Nobody was fighting it. I listened to people tell their life stories to one another. I listened to them offer advice, jokes, laughter, compassion. I listened to people call home and say goodnight to their children. And as we pulled into the Portland bus station SEVEN hours after we'd left (it's a two-hour ride normally), we all applauded the driver. If our butts hadn't fused with our seats by that point I'm sure we would've given him a standing ovation.

Did I mention I hadn't brought any knitting with me? As I said, there's no yarn in this post.
posted by Clara at Monday, December 17, 2007

The allure of a "room of one's own" seems to be timeless and universal. My heartfelt thanks to everybody for your well-wishes as I begin moving into my room of my own.

So far I've made just two significant discoveries about my space.

First discovery: There's a reason they sell double-paned windows.
When it's 12 degrees outside and the wind is blowing at 35 miles per hour, a sparkly winter wonderland spreads across all my windows. I knew there'd be insulation issues with the single-paned windows but was not in a position to fork out four times the cost for the fancier double-paned ones. So, well, this is the result. (Note to self: Keep towels handy on warmer days. All that water has to go somewhere.)

Second discovery: Despite these single-paned windows, the space is snug as a bug in a rug. The heater heats both floors like nobody's business, and it's warm enough for this little scene to play itself out on my windowsill.
See? She's wearing a skirt, that's how warm it is.

And third (ok I've made three discoveries about the space): My most prized knitterly possession has nowhere to go.
It's a cherry umbrella swift I purchased years ago. I love this swift. I use this swift. It needs a place to go. The place where it was supposed to go is too thick. Ken will be summonsed.

In the meantime, I'm loving spending time in this new space and simply looking out the windows. Every 10 minutes the view changes. The light shifts, the clouds move, the pond freezes and thaws and freezes. And, for the last two days, the snow has fallen.

Maine's yearly cycle has, for me, two magic moments: The first time you hear the peepers in the spring, and the first snowfall. It is exquisite, pure, and beautiful.
posted by Clara at Tuesday, December 04, 2007

The problem with posting so infrequently is that it magnifies the significance of every post I do make. (Maybe not to you, dear reader, but to me.) It's a vicious circle from which there is no easy escape except biting the bullet and jumping back in. Which I'm doing now.

Am I the only one who composes endless brilliant blog entries in her mind? I even take great pictures and write pithy captions. But something about the actual execution...it just never happens.

Anyway, here we are at the end of November. I usually fight the arrival of fall tooth and nail. Each leaf that turns brown and falls is cause for grief as I know the long period of bleakness that follows. But the whirlwind of this year has been so intense that I welcome a little bit of silence and solace right now so I can regroup, reground, and refocus my life.

I'm as prepared for winter as you can be in these parts. The onions are in, the wood has been piled, the screens are off and the windows have been washed, the snow tires are on, the water and batteries and lamp oil and extra food have been stashed, the basket of scarves and hats and mittens has returned to the front entry.

And just as the last leaf fell, the last coat of polyurethane was drying on my new workspace. I'm calling it the Knitter's Review International Inc. West Campus. Otherwise known as the Place for Things to Accumulate.

It's located inside the barn that is attached to my house. The only real way to describe the magic transformation of this space is through pictures, because words alone just won't do it. A solitary craftsman named Ken did all the work. While others rolled their eyes and doubted the project had any aesthetic or functional merit whatsoever, Ken got it. We began scheming almost three years ago. He finally tore out the first old rotten board in August. What you see here was completed by one person in three months.



This is the beginnings of the space. Years ago it used to house a cow who, I'm assuming, lived a pretty unhappy life. I felt I owed it to the spirit of that cow to create a place of beauty.








The next step was simple: Put down a new floor and remove the so-called "ceiling" between the cow's unhappy home and the upstairs loft.

Presto, double the space!

The goal was to create a two-storied space with many windows and built-in bookcases upstairs. The barn has three more bays that I didn't touch, so there's still plenty of room for the lawnmower and potting table and snow tires and other stuff that tends to accumulate in barns here in Maine.




Next came the openings for the windows, which was part of the whole reason for creating this space. I love, love, love having windows.





In my infinite enthusiasm, however, I forgot that the windows would need priming and two coats of paint before they could actually be put in.

A firm believer in sweat equity, I grabbed the brushes and began my work.



Ten windows in all. Don't look too closely. My mantra was, "I'm doing the best I can." The razor blade was my friend.

One day in August I was outside painting the windows and a tourist stopped to ask for directions. She glanced at the windows, and at the construction mess in the barn, and asked me, "So... do you make windows?"

It was such a baffling question that I couldn't really answer. So she repeated the question louder and more slowly, "Dooo youuu make winnndows?"

Of course I had all sorts of smart comebacks but only 10 minutes after she'd pulled away. I mean really...

ANYWAY, finally the windows were done and set in their masterful frames. Then came the downstairs ceiling, and then the insulation, and then the wall panels and the upstairs ceiling, and then the actual stairs, and then the trim, and then the built-in bookcases upstairs, and endless calls to the electrician and the heating guy and the painter (I gave up and had someone else seal the floors and wals), but before I knew it, and exactly three months after the first board was removed, the space was done.



Remember that initial view of our sad, lonely cow's old home? Well, here's a new picture from almost the same exact spot.

There are three tall windows on each floor, concealed here by the stairs.










And upstairs, facing away from the tall windows, you have BOOKSHELVES in all their spacious, organized glory. Capped with three little south-facing windows that shall keep my overwintered geraniums happy and healthy until next summer.

After hearing me say, "I really need more shelves" one too many times, Ken had the brilliant idea to surround the staircase opening not with your standard banister or low wall, but with even more bookcases. It's pure heaven.

So this is my new writing home. I'm only sharing pictures of the blank slate -- far more interesting than a space filled with my personal garbage -- but I trust you'll be able to fill it with your own imaginary books and yarns and dreams.

In May I'll be handing over the keys to my old store / warehouse space and moving everything back home. I feel in many ways like I've gone full circle from the early days of filling orders at my kitchen table to needing a separate space away from home to do work and maintain my own life, to finally reaching a happy compromise with a space that's at home but that has a door that I can firmly close at the end of the day. When making your passion your profession, I think it's even more crucial to maintain those boundaries. Otherwise it's too easy and tempting to let your passion overtake your life. Which is fine for a time, but not forever.
posted by Clara at Monday, November 26, 2007

Well, it's finally here.

After at least two years and - oh who am I kidding - a lifetime of dreams, my book is on the shelves. I feel as if I've grown and learned and aged significantly as I've walked through this whole experience. I made light of it in KR, but really, it's been astoundingly profound. Probably as close as I'll ever get to the experience of childbirth and parenthood combined. Intensely personal stuff that just doesn't belong in a blog. A blend of excitement, clarity, strength, joy, passion, anticipation, doubt, grief, exhaustion, and a nearly perpetual terror that I somehow wouldn't see this day, all those feelings kept me almost constant company.

And yet here we are. I just wonder when it'll actually feel real.

But where does Bob's Big Boy come into all of this? Well, for the first year I called this my big boy, because it was initially supposed to be called the Big Book of Yarn. About nine months after I submitted the manuscript, the greatest minds in publishing got together and decreed that the book wasn't physically big enough to be called "big." Suddenly my big boy was just...boy. After a brief period of actually thinking I'd let them change the name to the Knitter's Little Big Book of Yarn, we settled on the final title, my dearly beloved Knitter's Book of Yarn. Big boy became kboy.

But I have not forgotten.

Last week, when I was driving back down the Michigan peninsula from SOAR I spotted a real in-the-flesh Bob's Big Boy. I felt I had somehow come full circle, so I stopped to honor this unwitting landmark of my literary career.

But here's what the book really looks like now, in its ideal native habitat, courtesy of the lovely and thoughtful Jane.



What Jane didn't know was that, at the precise moment she was taking this picture in her own bookstore, I was furtively pulling out my cellphone to snap a picture of the book in my favorite bookstore, where I'd just spotted one precious copy on the shelf. (I plan on visiting that copy every day until it finds a home.)

I guess I need to explain that the bookstore, as an institution, has always been my most sacred place. When I was little, my father would take me there and we'd walk the aisles, him pulling out a book here, another book there, telling me all about it as we started a pile that I'd take home and devour. After my parents divorced, those bookstore visits grew less frequent, but I cherished each visit even more. To this day, no holiday or birthday is complete in my family without the gift of a book.

So, with this background, perhaps you'll understand how profoundly moving it was to enter a bookstore -- actually the same bookstore where I took my father when he last visited -- and find my own work on the shelf. The Pulitzer Prize committee may not have a category for knitting books, and the wider literary audience may snort at the subject, but for me it's very real, and very special.

Thank you for sharing this moment with me.
posted by Clara at Tuesday, October 16, 2007