Making Things, take 2

Making Things, take 2

I learned a lot in the course of getting ready for the fiber show in November.

For one thing, why handmade articles generally cost so much: R&D, or rather in my case, trial and error. I blithely thought that I would retool felted sweaters into all sorts of attractive articles. Wrong. I made several pairs of mittens from recycled sweaters that worked out, and a scarf that I have deep doubts about. But I froze (sensibly, I think) when it came to slashing sweaters and recreating jackets. I didn’t want to wreck them.

Christmas is almost upon us, and my zeal for hand-makery is redoubled. I am making hand-warmers filled with porcelain pie weights that you microwave and keep in pockets against the cold. I am making cookies, pistachio brittle and chutneys for giving. Such is my Yuletide optimism that I am even knitting socks.

My sock history is a sad one. My first pair, I made for myself and wore white-water rafting. They were wool, and even wet were fairly warm, but after immersion drooped so around my ankles that people regarded me pityingly and asked if I had made them myself.

The second pair, I made for my younger son, the only family member who was gracious about the first pair. The instep seemed so enormous that I chickened out halfway along the foot, so that although plenty wide, they looked like they’d fit only a bound foot. I thought they’d stretch.

The third pair I made, or rather started, for my dear husband, who didn’t want loud colors that would excite and motivate the knitter. He wanted something he could wear. I dragged through the first sock, a morbid self-striping back and gray, despairing of ever getting it done. I finally finished it on the ferry from Boston to Provincetown, and was so encouraged that I started the second, and positively whipped through it. BUT: I couldn’t find the first sock. Did it go overboard? Had I stashed it in some uber-clever place? I looked everywhere, several times. Nothing. Finally I was so disgusted, I unraveled it and gave the wool to our local thrift store, vowing never to have my heart broken by socks again. Then, eight months later, I found where I’d stashed the first. I saved it for a pet Christmas stocking, figuring the pets are color-blind anyway.

When a young friend came to stay, wearing sandals, in November, with no socks, my resolve melted. I raced out and bought very exciting red self-striping wool and pipette-sized needles to embark on my fourth pair of socks. I am a third of the way through the first one, knitting in markers so I can tell when I’ve done my requisite 2”. I am trying to get into a Zen knitting space. Failing that, I engage family members in long conversations, which do not require lots of eye contact. There is even a book on tape in the wings.

The thing is, I make things out of curiosity. I want to find out how the thing will look, how the colors will play against each other, how the thing will feel, or in the kitchen, taste. Call it arrogance, but with socks, I pretty much know the answers to all these questions. With socks, for me, there are no happy surprises, just drooping, misshapen, oddball articles I can only give away because people are so nice around Christmas.

To what do we attribute this (as the wag said of second marriages) triumph of hope over experience?

Maybe the spirit of Christmas itself. This time, I’ll get it right. Haven’t I learned the hard way about gauge? This time, the socks will work. The recipient will be glad and warm, to say nothing of stylish, even trend-setting.

Or maybe we’ll just have to settle for glad and warm.