Why I’m pretty sure the world is ending.


A couple of posts back, I wrote about Barbara and her paying me slave wages (basically $3 a week, as it turns out) to knit for her.  To reiterate, this is not basic winter hat type knitting. These are complicated, cabled afghans.  While my embroidery skills, as I have admitted, are not top- notch, I was proud of the way the latest effort turned out:


Looked pretty good.  Looked better than the pattern picture, I thought.  Here’s a close up:

The offending cable remained, and there were certainly some embroidery spots that were less than spectacular. But overall it was lovely.

And yet, I didn’t want to deliver it.  I was not ready to have sweet Barbara hand me another kit and say, “Take a year, it doesn’t matter!” after having spent 8 months on this one, hauling it to hockey games and hotels, watching endless episodes of “Bones” while inching toward the finish line.

But I couldn’t keep it.

So on our way to finish shopping for school supplies, my three kids and I swung by Barbara’s house.  She answered the door. She was delighted to see me. She adored the blanket. She asked after me, she asked after the kids and our summer and how everyone was feeling about getting back to school, and then she handed me . . . nothing. I got out of there with no new project. I stepped out of the door and my kids, seeing me empty-handed, began fist-pumping out of the open car windows. It was a great, great moment.

I have one more commissioned project to finish, a baby hat, that will take three days and earn me 20% of what the blanket did. I’m still not quite sure she’s not bringing me something. I’m waiting for it to appear on my porch, but as each day passes, I’m breathing easier. Get me to mid-September, and I’ll feel real good.



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