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The above statement is probably not news to anyone who knows me. Or maybe in this case, I mean, I'm more of a realist. I grew up in a small town, but in a lot of ways it was more urban than rural. Nobody gave nobody nothing and if they did...well they didn't. A wave was a middle finger salute. No one ever made eye contact.
I live...in a very different, very rural, very Southern place now. In some ways, I like it less. At least before I knew that people didn't give a shit. In some ways that blunt not-giving-a-damn is less stressful than the people who are super nice to my face, but talk vicious gossip behind my back. This post, however, is not about that.
It's about today when I was in the chiropractor's office waiting for someone and working on my latest knitting project. I dropped a stitch and didn't realize until a couple of rows later. There are multiple problems here. One I'm not really sure how to re-catch the stitch and two, I really blow at "ripping" out on knitting. It's a skill in and of itself. Destruction is usually easy. Controlled destruction...not so much.
So I call Mom mildly freaking out because, well, this project had not been going my way and this whole damn thing was set to unravel. Literally.
She tells me to go to this yarn shop that I'd seen before but never been in. I...don't normally do things like that, but I was desperate. So I go...in a hurry, cause I'm trying to squeeze this in between some other appointment that I'm chauffeuring someone too. The shop looks really crappy from the outside. White concrete block, with the paint chipping away, a faded yellow-green sign, advertising basically a junk shop, and only a tiny sign mentioning yarn. My heart...well, it hasn't risen enough to sink, but if it had...it would have.
I dart on inside, dragging my knitting with me and see...no one. It smells faintly musty. Worse, I see no yarn. Then I go a little further and there it is. Yarn. Tons of it. Shelves and shelves. Gorgeous and ex-pen-sive. I know expensive. I'm good at picking it out - and lusting - and putting it back down. It's a skill. Anyway.
All the way in the back, three ladies are sitting around a big oval table. Two have knitting in their hands. The oldest, a white haired woman is reading a large print book. Of the other two, one is clearly the shop owner, the second has long salt-n-pepper hair and is covered in tattoos.
I am already, immediately, telling my story of woe and the shop owner gets up to take a look. I'm a bit worried, because they haven't said much.
Before I know it though the shop owner has me in a chair, then she's darting off to take care of a delivery man while the long-haired woman is looking at my knitting. By some strange coincidence, we were working the same pattern today. I show her my problem. She hums and twists and turns. Then starts undoing, and tugging, and the shop owner comes back with a crochet hook. At one point it falls out and my heart stops. A loop almost falls off the end. Good thing my heart was still not beating. She does...something that I still can't quite fathom or figure out what the fuck she was doing. Then she...took the loops that she'd had half on one stuck, undoing, and re-knitted them onto the other stick? I'll be honest, that was way above my fucking paygrade too.
Long story short, these three ladies made me feel comfortable, saved my ass, and made me feel welcome at their table, their circle, and told me to come back whenever. And they asked nothing for it.
I could say it was nothing really, but it was time and skilled labor. It wasn't sentiment; it was nothing personal, and they got nothing from it. I still don't even know their names. Though I did almost hug them. I don't know. It felt old-fashioned, and old-timey, like something that's rare and doesn't happen anymore. People caring about other people and helping, just because they can, not because it will better them or help them in some way.
It was nice. And I'll be going back there to make some really nice yarn purchase in the future. Just as soon as I figure out a project worthy of their yarn.
I live...in a very different, very rural, very Southern place now. In some ways, I like it less. At least before I knew that people didn't give a shit. In some ways that blunt not-giving-a-damn is less stressful than the people who are super nice to my face, but talk vicious gossip behind my back. This post, however, is not about that.
It's about today when I was in the chiropractor's office waiting for someone and working on my latest knitting project. I dropped a stitch and didn't realize until a couple of rows later. There are multiple problems here. One I'm not really sure how to re-catch the stitch and two, I really blow at "ripping" out on knitting. It's a skill in and of itself. Destruction is usually easy. Controlled destruction...not so much.
So I call Mom mildly freaking out because, well, this project had not been going my way and this whole damn thing was set to unravel. Literally.
She tells me to go to this yarn shop that I'd seen before but never been in. I...don't normally do things like that, but I was desperate. So I go...in a hurry, cause I'm trying to squeeze this in between some other appointment that I'm chauffeuring someone too. The shop looks really crappy from the outside. White concrete block, with the paint chipping away, a faded yellow-green sign, advertising basically a junk shop, and only a tiny sign mentioning yarn. My heart...well, it hasn't risen enough to sink, but if it had...it would have.
I dart on inside, dragging my knitting with me and see...no one. It smells faintly musty. Worse, I see no yarn. Then I go a little further and there it is. Yarn. Tons of it. Shelves and shelves. Gorgeous and ex-pen-sive. I know expensive. I'm good at picking it out - and lusting - and putting it back down. It's a skill. Anyway.
All the way in the back, three ladies are sitting around a big oval table. Two have knitting in their hands. The oldest, a white haired woman is reading a large print book. Of the other two, one is clearly the shop owner, the second has long salt-n-pepper hair and is covered in tattoos.
I am already, immediately, telling my story of woe and the shop owner gets up to take a look. I'm a bit worried, because they haven't said much.
Before I know it though the shop owner has me in a chair, then she's darting off to take care of a delivery man while the long-haired woman is looking at my knitting. By some strange coincidence, we were working the same pattern today. I show her my problem. She hums and twists and turns. Then starts undoing, and tugging, and the shop owner comes back with a crochet hook. At one point it falls out and my heart stops. A loop almost falls off the end. Good thing my heart was still not beating. She does...something that I still can't quite fathom or figure out what the fuck she was doing. Then she...took the loops that she'd had half on one stuck, undoing, and re-knitted them onto the other stick? I'll be honest, that was way above my fucking paygrade too.
Long story short, these three ladies made me feel comfortable, saved my ass, and made me feel welcome at their table, their circle, and told me to come back whenever. And they asked nothing for it.
I could say it was nothing really, but it was time and skilled labor. It wasn't sentiment; it was nothing personal, and they got nothing from it. I still don't even know their names. Though I did almost hug them. I don't know. It felt old-fashioned, and old-timey, like something that's rare and doesn't happen anymore. People caring about other people and helping, just because they can, not because it will better them or help them in some way.
It was nice. And I'll be going back there to make some really nice yarn purchase in the future. Just as soon as I figure out a project worthy of their yarn.