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.”

Me:  “Funny.”

He:  “You don’t even have to crochet with it. It’s already a scarf.”

Me:  “Seriously!?”

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