There You Have It!
By Dani Gruber
In a strategic master move, I used the holiday to tie up two particularly incorrigible members of my family: my daughter, Heidi and my mother. The strategy involved busying all four of their hands, corrupting their eyeballs, and leaving them too sore to move. Merry Christmas! Here's a mitten-knitting book, scads of yarn and needles. Hooray! Now, go knit! That was how it worked on paper anyway.
In practice, the scam worked wonders with Heidi, who promptly disappeared into a glazed-over, knitting zombie trance and barely ate, drank or slept for the entire holiday. I underestimated the wily nature of my mother, who promptly handed back said yarn, needles and book and gave some lame-but-politically-correct excuse. She blamed arthritis, blindness, age, initiative, global warming, the inhumane defleecing of sheep, all of which we knew was a bunch of bunk. The woman could run a marathon in the dead of winter chasing cows, all while baking a pie one-handed, but mittens? No way. She was not falling for it. So, there I stood, mouth agape, with an arm full of yarn and a book of Norwegian mitten patterns. How hard could this be?
My mother, slave trader that she once was, made me knit wash rags when I was a child. She paid me a quarter to avoid prosecution. They were tedious, but not difficult. Truly, I thought knitting a pair of mittens would be a cake walk, and a good use for winter indoor captivity. To my credit, the knitting pattern book even said that little Norwegian girls knitted a pair of mittens on the way to the market and were often done with the project by their return home. Little did I know that little Norwegian girls traveled across the globe to market, apparently on foot, because I cannot fathom how they could get a pair of mittens done any sooner than two years.
Furthermore, the book continues, the Norwegians had a wedding tradition that brides knitted pair of mittens for every man who attended her wedding. It said that such brides often knitted over a hundred pairs of mittens before betrothal. Hmph. No wonder living together is such a rage in Norway. So, this book bolstered my confidence in whipping up a pair of mittens. Easy, I smirked to Mom.
Heidi warned, “Mama, you ought to start with one color,” but I ignored her. I delved deep into the book and found a gorgeous pair of four-color mittens that had curled, twisted, blooming, entwined yarn in what, with hindsight, was probably the work of some insane Norway knitter who had completely lost her mind. Yes, that was the pattern I innocently decided to attempt. How hard could it be? I asked. Mom shrugged and said, “Oh, I'm sure you can do it, Dani.” She hastily turned and her shoulders shook, as she broke into a full fit of laughter. Yes, she liked this Christmas gift. Best one ever!
Knitters are an evil bunch of people. Their sole remedy for life's wrongs is to “tear it out.” They do this with a smile—a glee—that defies the treacherous nature of wiping out days, weeks, and months of hard, physical labor. Inches, no feet, of knitting was wiped out for the mere existence of misplaced “holes.” I spaced some holes randomly to ensure the wearer of my mittens would not get too hot. Sophisticated knitters like myself call this aeration. Knitters call those “mistakes.” For those considering such a project, just know: knitters have no sense of humor. Such ingenuity on my part was met with defiance on the part of knowledgeable knitters everywhere. They yanked out my needles and a purring of unraveling stitches ensued.
I have built a home, and I never cried. I have delivered children and I did not cry. I have been bucked off of horses and never cried. I have knitted the same mitten cuff 4,013 times and I have now been crying for the last two-and-a-half weeks. Bullies, these knitting people. Evil, scoundrels. I am suspicious that knitting is even possible. I think mittens are a cruel fabrication of a twisted mind. No wonder the three kittens cried when they lost their mittens!
I calmly suggested Heidi knit the left mitten and I would knit the right mitten and we could negotiate custody. I get to wear them over Christmas and she gets them for Thanksgiving. She lost her enthusiasm after hearing the $10,000 fine for losing one. She also was concerned about soiling them, understandably, as capital punishment would be inadequate.
So, I sit here in the depth of Colorado winter in mitten hell. Norwegian girls?yeah, right. Mythical creatures, say I. Easy? Yeah, right. Compared to human flight. Merry Christmas? Yeah right. Someone should tell my mother that it is an unforgivable sin to return a gift to the giver. The honorable thing would have been for her to knit these mittens and then give them to me when she was done. Stupid mittens. Hey, look, no air holes this time. Maybe there is hope.
