junior and three doors down from me in the dorm, showed up with a sock in her hand. A knitted sock, on four DPNs, whose heel she was in the process of turning.
She was carrying it out in the open where everyone could see. There was no self-consciousness or even self-awareness about it. She was just turning a heel.
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, âI knit, too!â Our mutual friend Hilair chimed in, âIâm working on an embroidered pillowcase right now.â
âWhat are you guys talking about?â asked Jenny, my oldest and dearest friend at Mills, who lived a few doors up in the opposite direction.
âCrafty stuff,â Hilair smiled.
âEmily Jane is making a sock,â I said, watching Jenâs face closely for signs of shock or disapproval.
âCool!â she said. âI canât knit but I do crochet. Iâve been making an afghan for my Nana.â
Wait, what?
And so, quite suddenly and without warning, we were all out in the open, discoveringâmuch too lateâthat we each shared a quiet passion for making or adorning fabric by hand.
You know what they say, out one day, marching in a parade the next. Naturally, we needed to proselytize. But how?
We all worked as receptionists for our dorm. Most of us didnât have bigger plans on Saturday nights, so weâd usually go down to the lobby and keep whoever was working company. We decided to use this time for the Saturday Night Crafters, dragging our projects out of hiding, plunking ourselves on the mustard-colored couches in the dorm living room, and proudly stitching away. I was quite the sight with my bad perm and baggy sweatpants.
âDonât mind us,â weâd volunteer to passersby, âWeâre just over here
crafting
. Weâll be churning butter by the fire later if youâd like to stick around.â We wanted people to react more than they ever actually did.
At the time, it felt liberating. We werenât mocking our passion. We wanted to grab those legacy stereotypes and thwack them with a big sign that read, âNo more.â After all those Take Back the Night marches, we were taking back the craft.
All too soon we graduated and the Saturday Night Crafters disbanded forever. Emily Jane still knits, and I hope Hilair still embroiders. My Jenny died tragically in a car accident in 2004, so Iâll never know if she finished that afghan for her Nana or not.
I still havenât finished that blue sweater. It sits in the same plastic bag as it did in college. Time has marched on, fashions have changed, my skills have improved. I like keeping those blue stitches in suspended animation as a sort of tribute to the past, and to my friend Jenny whose own stitches were bound off far too soon.
KITCHENERING
YOUâVE HEARD ABOUT the knitterâs handshake? Two hands go in for the grab-and-shake, but at the last minute, they veer to the closest sleeve or band and grab it instead, while we ask, âDid you knit this?â Our eyes immediately scan the fabric for seams and joins, cast-on edges and edgings. We canât help it, weâre wired to look for imperfections. A proper seam garners respect and admiration, even envy. Hastily worked, jagged, or lumpy lines are like scarsâwe know itâs impolite to ask how they got there, but we canât stop staring.
My history with seams hasnât been particularly good. All my jeans used to be hemmed with tape, staples, or awkward steel safety pins that were always popping open and digging into my ankles. I avoided seams in knitting for years, instead churning out miles of garter-stitch scrolls disguised asscarves. Inevitably, I grew bored and wanted to make something substantial. I started my first sweater in 1988; its pieces are all done and still waiting for me to assemble them. The first sweater I actually
finished
was a fuzzy brushed mohair affair that had so many other problems, the sloppy seams just
She was carrying it out in the open where everyone could see. There was no self-consciousness or even self-awareness about it. She was just turning a heel.
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, âI knit, too!â Our mutual friend Hilair chimed in, âIâm working on an embroidered pillowcase right now.â
âWhat are you guys talking about?â asked Jenny, my oldest and dearest friend at Mills, who lived a few doors up in the opposite direction.
âCrafty stuff,â Hilair smiled.
âEmily Jane is making a sock,â I said, watching Jenâs face closely for signs of shock or disapproval.
âCool!â she said. âI canât knit but I do crochet. Iâve been making an afghan for my Nana.â
Wait, what?
And so, quite suddenly and without warning, we were all out in the open, discoveringâmuch too lateâthat we each shared a quiet passion for making or adorning fabric by hand.
You know what they say, out one day, marching in a parade the next. Naturally, we needed to proselytize. But how?
We all worked as receptionists for our dorm. Most of us didnât have bigger plans on Saturday nights, so weâd usually go down to the lobby and keep whoever was working company. We decided to use this time for the Saturday Night Crafters, dragging our projects out of hiding, plunking ourselves on the mustard-colored couches in the dorm living room, and proudly stitching away. I was quite the sight with my bad perm and baggy sweatpants.
âDonât mind us,â weâd volunteer to passersby, âWeâre just over here
crafting
. Weâll be churning butter by the fire later if youâd like to stick around.â We wanted people to react more than they ever actually did.
At the time, it felt liberating. We werenât mocking our passion. We wanted to grab those legacy stereotypes and thwack them with a big sign that read, âNo more.â After all those Take Back the Night marches, we were taking back the craft.
All too soon we graduated and the Saturday Night Crafters disbanded forever. Emily Jane still knits, and I hope Hilair still embroiders. My Jenny died tragically in a car accident in 2004, so Iâll never know if she finished that afghan for her Nana or not.
I still havenât finished that blue sweater. It sits in the same plastic bag as it did in college. Time has marched on, fashions have changed, my skills have improved. I like keeping those blue stitches in suspended animation as a sort of tribute to the past, and to my friend Jenny whose own stitches were bound off far too soon.
KITCHENERING
YOUâVE HEARD ABOUT the knitterâs handshake? Two hands go in for the grab-and-shake, but at the last minute, they veer to the closest sleeve or band and grab it instead, while we ask, âDid you knit this?â Our eyes immediately scan the fabric for seams and joins, cast-on edges and edgings. We canât help it, weâre wired to look for imperfections. A proper seam garners respect and admiration, even envy. Hastily worked, jagged, or lumpy lines are like scarsâwe know itâs impolite to ask how they got there, but we canât stop staring.
My history with seams hasnât been particularly good. All my jeans used to be hemmed with tape, staples, or awkward steel safety pins that were always popping open and digging into my ankles. I avoided seams in knitting for years, instead churning out miles of garter-stitch scrolls disguised asscarves. Inevitably, I grew bored and wanted to make something substantial. I started my first sweater in 1988; its pieces are all done and still waiting for me to assemble them. The first sweater I actually
finished
was a fuzzy brushed mohair affair that had so many other problems, the sloppy seams just
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