The Yarn Whisperer (18 page)

When they began to dig where Bobby had said it was, they found nothing. They kept digging and digging, until suddenly they hit something hard. It didn't make a metallic bang but more of a dense, tomblike thud. The sound of hitting concrete.

I don't know how she did it, but my perfectly eccentric Great-Aunt Kay had managed to install an entirely new septic system in her back field without anyone in my town of 910 taking notice. I call it the Miracle of the Septic Tank, and to this day I give thanks to what I can only assume was the work of a benevolent Saint Septius. It was like discovering a stash of pristine leftover yarn, not only in the same color but the very same
dye lot
we needed. Our sweater could now be finished, trim and button bands, porch and septic alike.

The week before a family reunion was to take place in my town, and where I was to preview our nearly finished masterpiece, I got a call. There had been a fire. Everything was done—the heat, the insulation, the walls, the windows, the roof—and we were in the home stretch, refinishing the wide pine floor boards. The refinisher had left his debris in a black plastic bag in the corner of a sunny bay window. The heat of the sun caused the materials in the bag to combust, smoldering through two layers
of floor and into the basement. When our foreman arrived, unusually early and totally by chance, the fire had just burned through to the outside wall, where the added oxygen would have surely brought the whole house down in a matter of minutes. He hooked up a garden hose and sprayed until the volunteer fire department, led by our neighbor three houses up, could arrive.

It had never occurred to either of us that we'd lose the house before ever getting to live in it. But after the initial shock, we both realized that we felt strangely okay about the whole thing, like losing our dream wasn't the end of the journey at all.

Finally, on a brisk October day, the very minute it was deemed ready, we moved in, sweeping out the last of the workers and locking the door behind us. Every wall, door, and linear foot of trim still needed painting, but no matter. We were finally wearing the sweater of our dreams, and life was good.

I'll admit it now, we could've done a better job preserving the original yarn. Our neighbor Wayne, a robust eighty-nine at the time, presented us with a housewarming gift: a box of perfectly cut kindling made from the discarded laths that had been heaped out front. I cannot bear to burn these pieces of wood, they are such a beauty—as if Wayne had taken the very fibers from the moth-eaten parts I'd rejected and patiently respun them into tidy little skeins for darning. They sit in their box, which he'd covered with recycled Christmas paper, as reminders to us both to look twice before discarding anything.

I love my farmhouse. It is the closest thing to “home” I've managed to create for myself. I know its smells and sounds, I can navigate it in the dark. Walls and trim that were brand new
with the renovation now have cracks and dings and smudges all their own. The tender pink bricks of the newly laid fireplace are now well-seasoned from years of quiet, contented evenings gazing at the embers. Far from “done,” it remains a work in progress, rather like life itself.

Everyone thought we'd moved to the middle of nowhere, but that's the irony. I'm surrounded by people. They're quirky, a little rough around the edges, but also kind, clever, and resourceful. They're welcoming and accepting without any sense of self-awareness. A few travel back and forth by private jet, building their own outdoor elevators so they can reach their yachts without having to climb stairs. But when asked, they also used their money to buy the local market when it risked closing, running it at a financial loss and with immeasurable benefit to the community.

My other neighbors (the ones without the jets) are always busy. They're cutting firewood in the winter, setting out their lobster traps, planting seedlings, shooting deer. They tend to their children, grandchildren, and gardens, their kitchens always steaming with canning activity every August. They also socialize. They gather at the market. They hold protest signs, bring casseroles to the hungry, and sing together on Sunday.

Ask almost anyone in my little town, and they'll agree that it's as close to paradise as you can get. But you know what? Given the opportunity, almost everybody who can afford it leaves for a little while. Especially in the winter.

Helen and Scott Nearing were once neighbors. These famous homesteaders and organic farmers proudly lived off
the land. But they, too, would quietly slip away to sunnier climates in the dead of winter. As I write this, the Nearings' protégée Eliot Coleman and his wife, Barbara Damrosch, are sunning themselves at an eco-tourism resort in Argentina.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I certainly appreciate my little town more after I've been away. The closer we get to home, the more alert and excited I become, like a dog who knows he's going to his favorite beach. My nose perks up. I open the windows so I can smell the fresh air. The road gets narrower and bumpier and windier, the sights more familiar until, finally, I'm on roads I could travel in my sleep. We pull into our driveway, stop the engine, and sit still for a minute to take it all in. The silence unfolds around us, then the other sounds: the far-off bell buoy in the harbor, the flickering of leaves, the hermit thrush singing from deep in the woods. In the spring, the sudden intensity of peepers.

My little corner of Maine is where I feel closest to God—the creator, benevolent spirit, whatever you'd like to call it—and for this I gave up a prosperous career in the most beautiful city in the world, a place where roses grow year-round, jobs are plentiful, and public transportation is easy and abundant. I gave it all up, and my life has been unimaginably richer for it.

But it's not perfectly rosy. We haven't yet figured out how to make a living selling blueberries by the side of the road, so we still spend part of each week several hours away from our beloved farmhouse in the not-so-grand metropolis of Portland. Clare goes there to work, I go there to be in the world.

It's taken me a while to accept the fact that my dream
sweater isn't enough. It turns out I also need people, energy, vibrancy, and community, more than my town of 910 can provide. I crave variety, that grain of sand in my oyster, the daily walk through Mr. Rogers's busy little neighborhood. I like to greet the tattooed man with his tiny dog, pass the elderly couple waiting for the bus, smile to the guy who's always standing in front of the gay bar, morning cigarette in one hand, coffee mug in the other, who tells me the doctor told him to stop but what the hell, he'll die happy. I love to be greeted by name at my coffee place and presented with a cappuccino with a perfectly formed heart in its foam.

It turns out, “happily ever after” is a moving target. No matter how perfect any one sweater may be, it's only human to crave another. And another, and another.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing a book is a lot like knitting a sweater. To the casual observer, it looks like just one person wiggling fingers over needles or a keyboard. This can go on for months, years even, before the end result is proudly worn into the world, the maker's name squarely on the cover. What looks like a solitary endeavor is, in fact, supported at every step by a broad foundation of people.

“Do you like this stitch?” or “Is this dreadfully boring?” we ask a trusted few, those we know will encourage the good and warn us away from the unflattering. I am grateful to my friends and trusted readers, especially to Jane, Jen, and Cat, for helping me sort through all the swatches and find the right stitch, gauge, and pattern for this book.

The writer, like the wool in our yarn, is the product of generations upon generations of breeding, prudent upbringing, and careful finishing. Here I must thank my family, both past and present, for existing exactly as they were and are, and for allowing me to tell my side of our collective stories here. I come from good stock, creative, bright, and occasionally eccentric people who all share common traits of large foreheads and a penchant for puns.

The agent acts as a compass for our lone writer as she navigates that sea of stitches. Elizabeth Kaplan served as my
advocate, negotiator, idea-bouncer-offer, and respected compatriot. There was not a moment when I didn't feel she had my back.

Not that she needed to, because I was in good hands. Melanie Falick is the writer's editor, the kind I thought only existed at places like
The New Yorker
. To be able to conceive of this book and bring it to fruition in her partnership has been a gift.

Then there's the long-suffering partner. Clare lived most intimately with this project. She has endured hours of conversation about something that, let's be honest, wasn't always that interesting. Writing is a solitary act, and the writer mid-book can be dreadful company. Before the chapters came together as a whole, before any sign of a sweater was there, Clare nodded and smiled, read those lousy first drafts, brought mug after mug of tea, and never faltered in saying, “You can do it.” I can't possibly put my gratitude into words, I can only repay the debt with a lifetime supply of fresh-baked biscuits and the promise that I'll do all the Christmas shopping, wrapping, and shipping from now to eternity.

And you, my dear reader? I wrote this book for you. I wasn't able to take your measurements or ask, “Would you prefer red or blue?” But I worked each stitch with a mental picture of you. I carried you with me, and you were fine company. You laughed at the funny parts, shook your head when I strayed. I used my favorite yarn and took care to darn in the ends so they wouldn't come loose on you. But I have a confession: All the while, I lived with the quiet, underlying fear that you might not actually show up, that this sweater would remain empty.

I'm so glad you did. I hope you like it.