It’s Ironic, Don’tcha Think?

As the Maharajah has an all-day professional thing to do today, I have the whole day to myself. Plenty of good intentions for the day. 

I got up before 8:00 (unusual for me), got M up and on his way. I ground & brewed a pot of coffee and as a small loaf of banana bread baked in the air fryer, I wound up another skein of reddish yarn for the cardigan I am making for M. 

I then got to thinking about the ribbing and cuffs for that sweater and thought how i might want to do them in black. I hesitated for a moment thinking of using the black souvenir yarn I bought in Amsterdam—and then remembered (yet another) top down sweater in my WIP bucket, which was in black wool of the same weight (thereabouts) as the cardigan. 

As I set about trying to find my ends (I weave on as ai go to minimize that pesky task at the end of a project), and started frogging. 

With some starts and stops I frogged as much as the sweater would allow me, and now have a bit of black to do the bottom ribbing and maybe the button band. 

As I pulled out each carefully hooked row, I thought for a moment on the carefree moments this was hooked at a weekly “sit and knit” and then thought how much I miss those get togethers, and miss the two friends with whom I used to hang out. 

I thought about how this sweater accompanied me on the train to NYC for countless medical appointments, and how hooking it distracted me while sitting in over crowded waiting rooms. 

I thought about how this black sweater, like most of my sweaters, wouldn’t get worn or loved, as I loved hooking it, thinking of the recipient in mind. (To date there is only one, of the roughly 30 sweaters I have made, to ever have been worn and loved—that distinction goes to “Tare-Bear,” whose bubbe’s compliment still rings in my ears.)

And lastly, I think how ironic it is, that I am frogging a sweater that would no doubt have gone unworn (and unloved, into a trash heap or to Good Will) to he used in yet another sweater that will no doubt ho unworn. 

The pandemic has got me thinking more about death—not to harp on it, but I am traumatized by how my mom died, so being fearful of death and dying alone and scared is something I think about a lot these days, and I can’t seem to shake it.

I think of all these sweaters i have made, and how on my head I think of them as warm hugs I am giving to the recipients. 

I fantasize about my funeral. I want people to wear my sweaters to my funeral. I think of this flash mob from almost a decade ago—where Truien van Loes knit or crocheted over 500 sweaters which sat in storage for decades and how her community surprised her with a flashmob. https://youtu.be/Pul1Ja8gWBg

With the exception of Tare-Bear and maybe M’s cousin, and my niece who was forced to do so, I haven’t seen any of my sweaters worn.  Maybe with some luck they’ll be worn at my funeral, just like I remembered to wear purple (mom’s favorite color) at my mom’s funeral. 

Anyway, enough ruminating! I have cotton masks to iron, Christmas gifts to wrap, crocheting to do, and a hot bath to take. 

To those reading, stay safe & happy hooking.