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kninja Never in my life have I been the sort of boy or man who wears a scarf. In Alaska there was never a need for it; my neck was snugly protected from the biting elements by the tall collars of my stuffed coats, by the long tail of my mugger’s ski mask. One thing tucked into another, that was how we did it then. So now, in my decidedly adult years, I face scarf-wearing with a small amount of trepidation. How does one wear a scarf? What does it say about one when one wears a scarf — at all, or perhaps when worn awkwardly? Felicia has knitted many things for me that I love to wear, yet have lamentably few opportunities to do so. It is moderately cold in California now, and I drive around with the Jeep’s canvas top fastened shut, which means I do not necessarily need a hat to tug over my ears, or a scarf to snuggle my neck, or gloves to warm my hands. I am considering putting that top down just so I can revel in the enjoyment of these fine fiber goods that my lady has made for me. One of the things I love most about living with a knitter and a yarn-spinner is the peripheral benefits: there will always be new things in our home, things made with love and wild curiosity and tongue-out-determination. Some of those things spill over onto me, made for me; sometimes I have to wait a very long time for them — knitters are a flurry of projects-in-progress — but the wait is part of the joy and it is always very worth having endured. An unexpected discovery I made as I was getting to know Felicia, and accompanying her to the dozen or so yarn shops and institutions that she frequents, is that yarn is a designer’s greatest color wheel. At yarn shops, while Felicia fondles the cashmeres and merinos and alpacas, I take this skein and that skein and pair them together, intrigued by the color pairings. I introduce a third, sometimes a fourth, and then I generally get the very strong urge to design a web site. Felicia’s craft room in our house is a library of fiber — there are enormous Rubbermaid storage bins crammed full of yarn that is yet unused, but one day will be recruited for some just-right project; there is a shoe-storage device that has been converted into yarn storage; there are great bags full of unprocessed alpaca shearings; there are loops and knots of wild colors waiting to be spun alone or plied together into something new and magical. In the corner of her room — which also holds her bright green childhood desk, and a bookcase, and a micro entertainment center, and a disturbingly un-daylight-like lamp which is supposed to emulate natural light — is a beautiful hand-crafted rocking chair that she gave me a few days after I proposed to her. This is my chair, and though there are bags of new fiber purchases all around its base, and the bookcase beside it is festooned with knitting paraphernalia, there is never anything on the seat of the chair, which waits patiently for me to settle in with a book to read aloud to my ferocious little yarn queen, who herself is perched in her spinning chair, feet working the pedals of a wheel, fingers dextrously feeding a line of fiber. Among her many projects are a pair of colorful socks that I will wear to keep my feet warm around the house. She’s knitting a lovely vest right now, and from time to time works on a blanket made from colors that suit me. And one day there will emerge from her needles a scarf, perhaps a brick-colored one that matches my rather muted personal palette of browns and oranges, and that’s the day when I’ll need to learn, really learn, how to wear a scarf. I suspect then it won’t be such a difficult endeavor. There’s just something about knowing that a thing was made specifically for you, with all of the love and attention that a woman can give, that makes the wearing of the thing quite effortless.
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