The Yarn Whisperer

FOR CLARE

Published in 2013 by Stewart, Tabori & Chang
An imprint of
ABRAMS

Text copyright © 2013 Clara Parkes

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 978-1-61769-002-0

Editor: Melanie Falick
Designer: Mary Jane Callister
Production Manager: Tina Cameron

The text of this book was composed in Sentinel and Bryant.

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CONTENTS

PREFACE

ON FAKERY—AND CONFIDENCE

THE THING ABOUT BOBBLES

A GOOD STEEK

CHOREOGRAPHY OF STITCHES

NOBODY'S FOOL

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

PUBLIC/PRIVATE

STITCH TRAFFIC

OUTED

KITCHENERING

BRIOCHE

CASTING ON

LA BELLE FRANCE

CHANNELING JUNE CLEAVER

PABLO CASALS, GRANDPA, AND ME

THE DROPPED STITCH

BEATING THE BIAS

THE GREAT WHODUNIT

AUNT JUDY

COMING UNDONE

MAKING MARTHA'S SANDWICH

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PREFACE

BEING CALLED A
“knitting rock star” is like being voted the best Pakistani restaurant by the
Bangor Daily News.
It's an honor, but not the kind that'll get you a last-minute table at Le Bernardin or an order of chivalry from the Queen. No doorman has ever pulled aside the velvet cord for a famous knitter. And yet after more than a decade of hard work and persistent diligence, I find myself being labeled as such. I've been lucky.

And what does a knitting rock star look like, you ask? For starters, I intentionally reside in a town of 910, my bedtime rarely inches past 10 p.m., and my version of trashing a hotel room involves twice stealing the salt and pepper shakers from my room service tray—though, in my defense, I
did
give a generous tip.

I can swear like a sailor, but I'm a fiercely loyal friend and will do almost anything to avoid hurting
someone's feelings. I haven't had a “real” day job in twelve years. I miss direct deposit and paid time off, and—oh my—how I long for that posh health insurance policy.

Since turning my life over to yarn, I've lived easily a dozen lives. It's been at times thrilling, scary, and devastating. The road has had some stunning vistas, a few steep inclines, and its share of rim-bending potholes. My inner airbags have deployed more than once. But the path has always pulled me forward. I'm fortunate, and I'm grateful.

At the bottom of it all is one simple fact: I love yarn. Ever since I can remember, yarn has enchanted me. When I first asked my grandma—my mother's mother, who has figured prominently in my knitting life—to teach me how to knit, it wasn't to make anything in particular; I wanted to know
how you made yarn work.
I knew it had energy, that I could perform a series of actions with my hands that would bring it to life. To me, seeing those skeins of yarn was like finding a book written in a foreign language; I wanted to be able to read it.

Some need to knit to be happy. They churn through yard after yard of fabric, like lawn mowers, processing thoughts and worries as they go. Or they produce garment upon garment, careful, thorough masterpieces. I'm more sporadic in my progress, more interested in the journey than the destination. But I do need yarn. For me it represents the purest essence of what is good about knitting: possibility, an open road, limitless potential. Like the soil we work and the food we eat, yarn gives life.

Years ago, I was living in San Francisco and editing a technology magazine, the contents of which I didn't really
understand. I'd stumbled back into knitting after years of being away, and it was a welcome source of oxygen for my increasingly stifled mind. I discovered a yarn store not too far from my office; it was my lunchtime refuge.

My stash grew wildly by the week—yarn, needles, tools, patterns, and books. Many, many books. Most were how-to books and pattern collections. I remember one in particular called
Knitting in America.
It had patterns, but they were all far too ornate and sophisticated for my skills. What I loved about this book was that it featured people from around the country who had figured out how to do what they love. They made their living in yarn, in raising animals, in dyeing, in designing … the paths were different, but the destination was the same. I felt a kinship, as if I'd finally found my people.

Fast-forward a few years. I'd moved to Maine and was working as a freelancer, still in technology. My coworker and I were conjuring an editorial start-up of our own. It was going to be all about people who'd found their way, who were living with their grain instead of against it. I would be the writer.

My colleague fed me names and stories he thought suitable for the project. A man who'd left his family behind to sail around the world for a year. Another man who'd made a fortune in investments. A third man who raced cars.

I opened up my trusty copy of
Knitting in America
and found my own stories. I picked Margrit Lohrer and Albrecht Pichler, the founders of Morehouse Merino, successful urban dwellers who had managed to create a meaningful parallel life in the country just north of New York City. I wrote their story,
borrowing so heavily from
Knitting in America
that it teetered on the edge of plagiarism. The act of telling a story that resonated with me—the physical process of running those words through my mind and out my fingers onto a keyboard, screen, and eventually paper—energized me. It was so easy and fluent, as if I were finally speaking my native tongue after years of speaking someone else's. I was home.

When I shared the story with my colleague, he replied, “I get that you like the story, but really. Sheep?”

That was all I needed to hear. I politely backed out of the project, and, just four months later, sent out the first issue of
Knitter's Review.
Every week, I'd publish thoughtful, in-depth reviews of yarns, tools, books, and events that shaped the knitting experience. That was September 2000. It's safe to say that hundreds of yarns have flowed through my fingers since then; I've met thousands of people, written millions of words.

Stories are like buildings. You see them from the outside, you see their structure and potential, you see light in the windows and want to get inside. The writer's job is to find the right door. Once you do, the rest of the journey often comes easily. I'd found that door; my adventure was a gift. Today I open the pages of
Knitting in America
and realize that, quite by chance, many of its characters have since become personal friends. The leap from icon to friend is utterly surreal.

I remember meeting Meg Swansen in 1995, at my first Stitches West event. Already on yarn overload, I rounded a corner and came to a booth filled with books. A beautiful woman stood at the table. She turned to me and smiled that twinkly,
electric smile. Time stopped as my mind connected the dots and I realized Meg Swansen was standing before me—the famous teacher, designer, author, and daughter of Elizabeth Zimmermann. My heart leapt and my mouth fell open, but no words came out. Instead, I walked away as quickly as I could. Twelve years later, we were sitting together under a plum tree in Oregon after the first Sock Summit, knitting and talking. When I stripped aside all the baggage we tend to add to famous people, I was amazed to discover that I really liked Meg as a person—her wisdom, humor, vulnerability, all of it.