The story of Three Irish Girls… a fairy tale
Thursday, January 29, 2009 at 4:22AM Once upon a time, there was a twelve year old girl who lived with her family in the cold, cold North. She was gangly and awkward and wore glasses much too big for her face. She loved to make things, and often checked out craft books from the nearby library.
The library had a whole section of books that was off limits to her -- not because she wasn't allowed to read them, but because they were about knitting, and she didn't know how.
Both of her grandmothers loved to knit, but neither would teach her how. One declared that trying to teach the gangly girl would make her too nervous -- she didn't have enough patience to teach someone to knit. The other had poor vision and could no longer see well enough to be a helpful teacher.
There were a few yarn shops in the city where the girl lived -- one that was particularly intriguing had beautiful sweaters and scarves draped in the window. A few times she'd gone into the shop to look at the sweaters -- they would be just the thing with her black leggings, scrunch socks, and ankle boots. Disappointed to find the sweaters very expensive, she wondered if she could make a sweater herself.
A deep spruce-colored wool caught her eye. What could she make with it? she wondered. Nothing, she told herself. You don't know how to knit. You can't even use it to make macrame planters -- it's not thick enough.
On her way out of the shop, she noticed a sign in the window. A sign for a beginner's knitting class. Everyone welcome, it said. She asked her mother if she could sign up for the class, which was scheduled to meet three times for two hours each. The class was $25, plus the cost of materials.
Intimidated but fascinated at the prospect of making herself a beautiful sweater, the girl signed up for the class, and eagerly awaited the first session.
On the night of the class, she styled her bangs with a curling iron, spritzing them with large quantities of hairspray so they would pouf perfectly, complementing her large plastic glasses. She bundled up in her many layers of clothing, and boarded the bus to the yarn shop, sure that she was just hours away from beginning a beautiful sweater.
Once outside the shop, she took a deep breath, nervous that she would be the only young girl there. Everyone welcome, she reminded herself.
Shyly, she pushed open the door, and the owner of the shop emerged from the depths of the shelving.
"Hello. Is there anything I can help you with?" the shop owner asked.
"I'm here for the knitting class," the twelve year old replied.
"Oh? What is your name?" the owner asked, referencing a sheet behind the counter.
Satisfied that the girl was indeed a paid student, the shop owner ushered her to the seating area. Eight older women turned to stare silently. There was no one young there. Everyone is at least as old as my mom, if not older, the girl thought.
Feeling the heat rise in her face, the gangly girl sat down in the nearest folding chair and stared at the ground, hoping the women would stop staring and go back to their conversation. The shop owner told the group that they were going make a dishcloth, and that by the end of the night, they'd be the proud owners of a new kitchen accessory.
She brought out the balls of appropriate cotton yarn and gave each student a chance at selecting a color. The gangly girl didn't like any of them -- she knew none of them would go with her mother's carefully chosen kitchen decor. She picked the closest match she could find -- a dusty light blue.
Armed with the size 7 needles the owner told her she must have, the girl tried in vain to follow along with the instructions on how to cast on. The yarn kept getting hopelessly twisted and didn't even remotely resemble the owner's example.
The other women chattered about their jobs and their babies and their husbands. Several broke out a bottle of wine. The girl felt completely lost and completely out of place. She couldn't cast on. She couldn't hold the needles. The other women got it right away, it seemed. She wanted to cry. I shouldn't have come, she thought. This isn't for me.
She watched the other women learn the knit stitch, unable to follow along because she couldn't even cast on. Tears began to form.
Finally, the owner came to her aid, did the cast on for her, and began to show her how to make the knit stitch. The girl found herself knitting a lumpy, lopsided, holey garter stitch dishcloth for the remaining twenty minutes of the class.
Disheartened, the girl took her needles, her ball of yarn, her Learn to Knit booklet, and her 16 pounds of winter wear out of the shop. She trudged down the stairs and through the building that housed the yarn shop, putting on her three scarves, two winter coats, four hats, two sets of long underwear, and six mittens on each hand before daring to open the door to the outside world.
There was her mother, waiting in a warm car in the parking lot. "How was it?" her mother asked enthusiastically.
"Fine," the girl replied, afraid to reveal her failure.
"Let me see what you made!"
"No, that's OK. I'll show you later," the girl said.
Her mother drove them home, past the big lake and up the small hill to the old house where they lived.
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Your comments are pretty informed and helpful. Have you considered writing professionally? Like a periodical or something?
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