I’ve had a thing about yarn since I was a little girl.
Sure, I know most of the fibre-arty brigade claim their passion with their craft emerged alongside their ventures with play dough, and bug catchers and eating fairy bread. Or even earlier…..
In utero knitting. I have encountered a couple of knitters over the years, so totally absorbed with their craft, their needles and yarn so tightly wrapped around their very being, that the concept , strange for sure, yet seems not entirely our of the question. I could imagine them, kicking back in there, whipping up their own little matinee jacket with matching bloomers, swapping their u cord for some i cord …..
A bit bizarre.
Delivery might be eye-widening. Babies, however big are at least do not arrive brandishing sharp pointy sticks. Thankfully.
My first encounters with yarn were not so much awesome in their creativity or virtuosity but rather more approaching the ridiculous.
Summer holiday for our family involved travelling 4 or so hours up the highway to a little sun -caressed, beachy bliss called Bargara. As an only child, my bestie from primary school would tag along for the holiday to keep me company and out of my mother’s hair.
Weeks of swimming and fishing, watching for turtle hatchlings, catching crabs and inadvertently releasing them in the unit, golfing and goofing around, mango strings stuck between teeth and watermelon fights with the boys downstairs…..all just waiting for us…..with about 400 kilometres of dull grey bitumen between us and kiddie heaven.
Boredom breeds temporary insanity. The first trip….the first ball of yarn we used must have been quietly extracted from my mother’s knitting bag. I don’t remember a furore afterward.
First just feeding it a little way out, then a little more. See it through the back window, then down over the boot, onto the road and then it was on! Dad’s old green Toyota motoring along, sporting a yarny epilogue, metres and metres behind. Inevitably, another car would materialise in the distance and the real fun could begin as the yarn was hauled in with desperate haste, and much hilarity. The backseat would be covered like someone had had a colourful attack of crafty carsickness.
It was like you would expect from a bucketload of kittens in your favourite Koigu or maybe when your beloved unicorn tail skein has a close encounter with a ball winder from the dark side.
Then when the coast was clear, out it would go again.
Not long after, my mother decided I was to learn to knit and crochet……..