Salvaged

Six years ago a friend convinced me to take a knitting course with her at Knitwear Architects in Yaletown. The evening classes were taught in a converted warehouse by a heterosexual black volleyball player named Steve. Cotton, silk and linen yarns of every colour lined the brick walls. It was very pleasant.

I took a second course a few months later, and selected a sand-coloured cotton yarn with which to knit a sweater for Saskia. The store didn't have enough of the yarn in stock, but sold me what they had and told me to return in a few weeks to pick up the remainder.

After completing the back of the sweater, a fairly complicated pattern with cables and baubles, I returned for the rest of the yarn, only to discover that Knitwear Architects had gone out of business in the interim. Many desperate phone calls and emails later, I was no closer to obtaining a matching yarn to complete the garment.

And so, every time I rummage through my stash of knitting sundries, I come across this:

Sweater_3

The sight of this piece of fabric ignites all sorts of emotions that run counter to the spirit of knitting, deeply negative feelings, including the urge to inflict injury with a knitting needle. I can't complete the sweater without the exact match of yarn, and I won't unravel all those baubles and cables. So each time I seethe, refold it, and pack it away until the next encounter.

The other day Saskia caught sight of it and exclaimed reverently, "Whoa! That's the best doll blanket ever!" And so I unraveled the waistband, crocheted an edging on it, and gave it to her.

I feel a little less rage when I see the piece of knitting in its new context:

Blanket