I learn about wool — the hard way
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Good morning.
I got to thinking in the shower this morning about working in wool and how careful you have to be with it. That information comes from personal experience.
Growing up, I was told that I should get a “college degree so that if, god forbid, anything happens to your husband you can get a job. ” So I was dutiful and went to college. I learned history and English literature, how to write interesting sentences and a host of other really wonderful things. I finally graduated about 6 years later, with over 300 hours and with a BA in English literature and minors in general social science and writing. I also learned that if you washed colored items with underware the underware often took on the color of the colored things. I learned to cook: Two casseroles. I learned to drink coffee that was horribly black and thick. But I had my degree and I was ready to get married.
I found the man of my dreams. He loved William Faulkner as much as I did. So with all these plusses in my world, we did the natural thing and got married.
We had not been married long when my husband walked into the living room. I was on the sofa reading something by William Faulkner. He (the husband not William Faulkner) had a black sock on his left hand with the index finger sticking out a hole in the toe.
“Look at this.” He announced.
I looked at the finger sticking out from the sock toe, and said, “OK. What do you want me to do about it?”
“I want you to darn it.”
My response was, rather predictably, “Darn. Darn. Darn. Darn.”
We did not speak for a couple of weeks. And this was after I had discovered that he would not eat either of the two things I knew how to cook.
Obviously, my education to prepare myself for taking care of myself if something should happen to my husband was not yet needed. But the education of taking care of the husband until the above mentioned time had been missed somewhere along the line.
We struggled on until our son was born. That was pretty rough, but by the time our son was about 4 months old I had figured out how to get all the bottles clean and sanitized and refilled AND get a dinner on the table.
At this time, my husband had a beautiful Aran knit sweater in 100 per cent wool (probably Aran wool, now that I think about it ). He had put the sweater into the dirty clothes. I had figured out that the sweater had to go to the cleaners. Several weeks passed and I would find the sweater in the dirty clothes and would take it out, fold it neatly and put it on the shelf of the closet. The next morning it would be in the dirty clothes again.
One morning I found the sweater in the dirty clothes basket yet another time. I was getting ready to wash a load of baby clothes. I looked at the sweater and figured that with the gentle cycle and only warm water I could get it washed. So into the washer it went.
Then I got busy sterilizing bottles — and forgot about the sweater. An hour or so later, I started to move the baby’s things into the dryer and pulled out a very small off-white sweater. I knew the baby did not have a sweater like that so I did the only reasonable thing and put it back into the washer. I emptied all the baby things into the dryer and the felted, off-white sweater materialized again. I could not figure out where it had come from. I stared at it for several minutes and finally remembered. It was my husband’s Aran sweater.
I placed a rather hysterical phone call to a friend asking how one could unshrink a shrunk sweater. She said I was doomed. The sweater could not be unshrunk.
So I did the, again, only reasonable thing. I hid the sweater under a pile of old newspapers. And promptly forgot about it because the baby was announcing he needed changed or fed or something.
About 6 months later, we were getting ready to move to a larger house and my husband picked me up from work and looked, calmly, at me and said in a very quiet voice, ” Did you think that when the baby got bigger that I would quit buying him clothes?”
I choked as I suddenly remembered the secret of the stack of newspapers in the laundry room. I could feel my shoulders draw up toward my ears and then he laughed. So I laughed too. From then on until I started working on my caps, I stayed away from any fiber that I could not toss into the washer and dryer and have it come out looking, more or less, like it did when I put it in, only cleaner.
Have a good day. Happy knitting. Granny LJ