In my ongoing reporting of my Lucy moments (I would be remiss if I didn’t mention lucy bakes a cake or exit dancing or i see london, i see france among others), a few things are clear. Attempting to be always-graceful, trying to balance all the balls I’m juggling, and doing my best to avoid the self-made mischief that follows me — all these are pretty much lost causes.
In that spirit, a little anecdote about one of my latest scenarios — one which I believe would make La Redhead proud.
Earlier this summer, B. and I headed up to Hood River, Oregon, a wonderful small town on the Columbia River Gorge in the shadow of Mount Hood. (If you had told me years ago that I — a former New York City girl — would love being out in nature, hiking around, and enjoying the hell out of myself, I would have told you that you were nuts. But living out here can change a person. So there.)
We’d been to Hood River before, but this time I was intent on finding one of the area’s alpaca farms. I mean, llamas are hot right now, so why not alpacas? We found a farm where we took a tour and got an education about these sweet and adorable beasts.
The alpacas we saw had just been shorn and looked nothing like miniature versions of llamas, as I had been expecting. They looked like cartoon characters — fluffy heads, skinny arms and legs, total cuteness.
And of course, like every good tour, this one ended up at the farm’s gift shop. Being a dabbler in needle arts, I was eager to check out alpaca wool. (I should digress here to explain that when I say “dabble,” I mean “I can make a scarf.” Yes, I have drawers full of crocheted scarves. Not much use for someone who lives in LA. But I love being immersed in and creating with colors. What can I say?)
So, there I was, in front of a huge assortment of alpaca yarn, skeins twined in a rainbow of varying shades, one more beautiful than the next. I finally made my choice (B. deserves combat pay for his patience) and off we went.
Just recently, I sat down to start my millionth scarf project, this one à la alpaca. And here’s where this blonde became that redhead.
Because, unlike any other skein I’ve worked with, this one had no real beginning or end. I tried to wind the wool into a ball but with the opposite of success. The twisted skein could not be untwisted logically; it wound around itself impossibly and then it wound around me mercilessly. Strands were knotted together, ends were splitting, it was ugly. I ended up wearing the skein — and I swore it was mocking me.
At one point, B. looked up from the TV, glanced at me, and did a double-take.
He: “Nice wool.”
He: “You don’t even have to crochet with it. It’s already a scarf.”
He: “You’re right. It’s not just a scarf. It looks like you’re wearing a scarf and gloves.”
Me: “Don’t get me started.”
He: “I hear they’re holding auditions for a new version of The Mummy. You could –”
Me: “If I ever get out of this, I’ll hurt you.”
He: “Got an ETA on that?”
Eventually I did get untangled but, alas, the skein suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune — it lost. Sort of like the fate of those chocolates in the chocolate factory, the grapes in the wine-making vat, or the overly yeasted bread in the oven. All not meant to be. But all props in a very funny experience — an amusing yarn, if you will.
No skein, no pain.
ⓒ 2019 Claudia Grossman