The Case of the Mysterious Disappearing Sock Yarn.

It all began with a challenge from the Peachtree Handspinners Guild: Knit a pair of socks for your Secret Sock Buddy. At a meeting several months in the future, the names of the buddies would be revealed and the socks exchanged.
Being ME, I took this to the extreme and felt that I was duty-bound to not only knit the socks, but to also dye the wool the exact colors my Secret Sock Buddy had declared were her favorites, then spin the yarn as well.
Not being an expert sock knitter, I sought out the advice of several of my fellow Stitching for Sanity knitters who were experts. They suggested a two ounce skein for each sock.
Easy-peasy, I thought to myself. Each bobbin holds approximately two ounces, so if I weigh out a little over four ounces of roving, dye it all up in one batch, split it in half, I will have enough to fill two bobbins. Simple enough.
From the beginning, this project was tainted. First I couldn’t get the dye to “take” on the wool. Who ever heard of stain-resistant wool??? So, I had to choose different wool and use a different dye. This time the colors came out muddy.
“Third time’s the charm,” I muttered to myself after tossing aside the pond-scum colored mess.
Yes, indeed, the third time was the charm. The wool came out in vivid hues of emerald, violet and garnet red. I waited, pacing like an expectant father, for the wool to dry so I could start spinning.
After about a year…okay, it was about eight hours in the warm spring sun, the wool was dry. I sat down at my spinning wheel, pulled off a chunk of roving, split it, drafted out a few feet and started to spin. Ahh, bliss.
It wasn’t long before my little Ashford Kiwi wheel and I had created a bobbin of glorious tricolor singles. The second bobbin took no longer than the first and soon I had my singles wound into balls. Within a few days I had two balls of two-ply yarn for my Secret Sock Buddy socks.
Every week I carried the yarn and needles with the embryonic sock attached to my knitting group. The first week, it was suggested I use smaller needles as there were great gaping holes and the wearer might not like the feel of them against the skin. The second week I’d cast on the cuffs so tight there was no give at all. The third week I finally got it right and actually began knitting the blasted thing.
Then came The Great Turning of the Heel. (for you non-knitters, think of turning a corner…it’s not easy knitting a tubular corner.) I’d never knit a pair of cuff-down socks before and I needed H-E-L-P. That help came in the form of St.Janice. She held my hand and showed me patiently what a gusset was and why it was necessary. She assured me that short rows really DO work.
Before I knew it, I had turned a heel.
The foot of the sock wasn’t any big deal, but the toe was another thing that scared the life out of me.
It was time to Kitchner.
Also for you non-knitters, Kitchner stitch is probably best described as sewing a wound together so you don’t leave a scar. It takes practice, but once you know how to do it, the results are more than worth it.
Once again, St. Janice answered my prayers and came to my rescue. I can proudly say that I am now a member of the Secret Society of Kitchner Stitchers.
Okay, One sock down, one to go. And timewise, I was right on schedule--about two thirds of the way in the countdown to the Secret Sock Exchange day.
I reached into my bag, felt around and…where’s the other ball of yarn? I peered down into the bag. No yarn. I told myself not to panic, I’ve changed bags so it’s conceivable that it could still be in the other bag. I went up to my bedroom and looked. No yarn.
My heart began to beat a little faster.
I searched through my stash thinking it’s possible that I set the ball down somewhere without thinking about it. I’ve been known to put yarn in some pretty odd places.
At the end of the day I was still empty-handed and worse, I now had a great big mess to clean up. On the bright side, I found a couple sets of knitting needles and a CD I’d been looking for.
What about the car? you ask. Yeah, that thought occurred to me, too. I went through both cars, checked under the seats, in the trunks, and all I found were some blood draw tubes that expired last year and half-eaten packet of cheese crackers.
By the time I got to my next Stitching for Sanity, I was anything but sane. All but crying hysterically, waving the orphaned sock (or objet d’art as some would call it) I plopped down in my chair and sobbed “What am I going to do?”
Every single person around that table had seen those balls of yarn and witnessed the creation of that sock. They knew I had two balls of yarn, so therefore they knew I was not insane. I was not some delusional spinster who’d sniffed too many dye fumes and imagined the existence that second ball of yarn.
We discussed it at length over wine and came to the conclusion that the yarn was so beautiful, it had been sucked up into the space-time continuum where fairies, elves, trolls and other alternate universe beings could play with it.
I was assured that once they tire of it, they will return it. “If you just say out loud to the room where you last think you saw the yarn, ‘fine, I don’t need the yarn, I’ll just make more,’then the yarn will probably be returned quicker,” said St. Janice with a wise, all-knowing nod.
Conversely, I was advised to pray to St. Anthony, patron saint of things and persons lost. “Tony, Tony, turn around. Something’s lost and can’t be found.”
I tried all this and waited a week. Nothing happened.
At the next meeting, I was so gunched up over the situation I was ready to call the Secret Sock Buddy coordinator and tell her I was resigning from the guild.
My friends took me by the shoulders, sat me down, pressed a glass of white zinfandel into my hands and gently told me I was making much too big a deal of this.
“Who said the yarn had to be handspun?” St. Janice asked.
“Well, I just assumed…”
“No, dear.”
“Oh.”
The next day I put on a wig, dark glasses and borrowed a friend’s car and drove to the Local Yarn Store where I purchased (paying cash to avoid any means of tracing the transaction) two skeins of sock yarn in colors that were approximate to what my Secret Sock Buddy had requested.
I knitted almost day and night for over a week to get those socks done. I’m not a fast knitter and at that time in my knitting technique evolution I was still throwing the yarn with my right hand instead of carrying it in my left.
For you non-knitters it does make a difference.
Come the day of the Secret Sock Buddy Sock Exchange, I was ready. My handknit, albeit not handspun socks were nestled in a beautiful bag down inside some tissue paper and with grim anticipation I waited until my number was called. Would my Secret Sock Buddy take one look at the socks, sneer with distain and hurl my socks in the nearest trash can? Or would she favor me with one of those tight-lipped smiles that clearly indicate that she’d rather be accepting a dirty diaper?
To my relief, the recipient accepted them with a glowing smile and declared them beautiful.
To this day, that yarn has yet to be seen by human eyes. But either the prayer to St. Anthony worked or the space-time continuum burped because several months later I was standing in front of my pantry and there on the shelf in front of me—front and center, mind you—was a jar of orange blossom honey that had disappeared months ago.

Back to articles...