Grandma Knitty Home
Knitty: little purls of wisdom
what's the editor up to lately?feature articlesKnitty's generous selection of patternsKnittyspin³archive of previous issuesMeet other Knitty readers and chat in our coffeeshop!sign up for the free Knitty newsletterLooking for an ad fromone of our advertisers? Click here!Our tiny, perfect online shopping mallGet yourself a little Knitty treat!read the behind-the-scenes news at Knitty

Find exactly what you're looking for

The answer to your question about Knitty is probably here!

Take home something Knitty today

Advertise with Knitty

Get your cool stuff reviewed in Knitty

Full information about how  to get published in Knitty

Read exactly what FREE PATTERNS really means...respect our designers and authors rights [and thank you]

Knitty is produced in a pro-rabbit environment

© Knitty 2002-2006. All rights reserved. Unauthorized reproduction prohibited. This means you.


< click for more!

We speak us all the words of love - with our lips, with our tongues, with our wit. I shall speak with my hands and craft with them the shape and texture of what I cannot say.

When I meet the man I love, I shall say to him, "Lover, I leave thee hence for a fortnight and hie me away to the mountains by the sea." And I shall go from him and drive north for hours. The road will wend through forests that smell of rainy winters and give way to wet mountains that glisten from the light reflected off the sea. North and north I shall go, through cities that glow at night like sunlight through dew-drenched cobwebs on the shore. Go and go I shall until, in the evening of the next day, I pull into a long, dirt drive where a rambling farmhouse lies at the foot of the mountains.

There I shall embrace the sister of my mother, press my face to her plump shoulder and smell the rain and dirt in her graying hair. Together, we shall sit by the hearth and laugh at old times until the evening fades. As the moon rises in the east, I shall tell her that I have met the man I love, and she will smile a secret smile and say to me, "Tomorrow we shall shear the sheep."

In the light of dawn rising over the mountain, I shall follow my mother’s sister across the yard into the fenced enclosure. We shall walk amongst the gentle bleating of the sheep until she finds a small, gray ram lying in the straw; its horns spiraled close about its head. I shall hold him as my mother’s sister shears the ram, its coat falling away in pieces under the buzzing of the electric razor. Together, we shall collect its fleece and on the kitchen table separate out the pieces, bellies, crutchings, and locks until there is only greasy fleece under our fingertips. My mother’s sister shall comb the locks and I shall wash them in boiling, soapy water until the liquid rinses clear. We shall lay the wool to dry on racks and bake scones in the afternoon as if I were a girl again and she my caretaker. My mother’s sister shall ask me of you, and I shall tell her of your brown eyes and freckled grin and strong hands. When the wool dries, my mother’s sister shall tease the yarn and I shall card the wool into fluffy balls of roving. We will leave these by the banked fire and drive west to the sea and sit on a pier drinking clear glasses of champagne in a small, smoky restaurant.

Through the mornings and evenings, I shall sit at the spinning wheel with my spindle and pump the treadle under my feet. From the balls of roving, I shall pull and twist threads of yarn, and my mother’s sister will wind them into off-white skeins, stacking them carefully into a cardboard box. When I finish, she shall kiss me on my cheek and embrace me again, bidding me to return like the sun rises in the morning. She shall take the box of yarn and place it into my car, waving to me as I leave her rambling farmhouse at the foot of the mountains where they meet the sea.

I shall drive south and south and south until I leave the mountains and rainy forests and enter into the embrace of dry, rolling hills. I shall return in the evening of the next day to our little house on a quiet street in a city with red tile roofs and shady arches. You will embrace me as I walk into our door, and you will inhale the smell of rain and dirt in my hair and say to me, "Lover, I am glad you have returned." I shall smile and take your hand in mine.

In the night, while you sleep between cool, cotton sheets, I shall reach over and measure the span of your bare, tan shoulders, my hands lingering on your warm skin. I shall, when you turn away, inspect your clothes and take the measure of your things. And while you are at work, I shall linger in front of my computer, perusing pages of sweater patterns, and I shall knit up the skeins of yarn in my cardboard box. As I knit, I shall pluck from my head hairs as black as ink. These I shall knit in amongst the soft white wool - tiny coal strands, visible only from the inside of the sweater. Everyday, when I hear your car pull into the drive, I shall fold my knitting into the box and put it away. You will embrace me when you enter the kitchen and I shall laugh.

Fall will turn to winter and your breath will be plumes of white in the air. I shall finish knitting the white wool into a sweater, put it into a box, and leave it on the bed. You will find it when you come home and wear it that evening when you kiss me, and time shall turn with the rising and setting of the sun. You will one day remark that there are many dark strands of hair knitted into the sweater, especially around your heart. I shall tell you a tale told me by the graying crone who taught me to knit. I shall say to you that the hair of she who gives the gift, so long as it stays in the knitting, shall bind to her the heart of the recipient.

You will be quiet for long moments and I shall look at you curiously in the slanting light of afternoon. Then you will embrace me and kiss my temple, and you will say, "Lover, you are my Crane Wife, and I promise I shall never look upon your spinning."

The heavens will weep as the rain comes down in the winter night and together we will lie twined beneath the rising moon.



Lan is currently a graduate student who likes to knit while listening to music instead of doing her homework. She wears pink kitty pajamas and eats dried figs while she watches TV. When not in school, she draws comic strips, eats cottage cheese with strawberry jam, and watches cartoons.

Lan hopes one day to publish young adult novels and live in a rambling farmhouse by the foot of the mountains where they meet the sea.