Documenti di Didattica
Documenti di Professioni
Documenti di Cultura
ISBN: 978-1-61769-084-6
Within the feeting world of social media, its rare to fnd a collection of stories like Claras in one place, stories that showcase the
colorful richness and loving nature of our knitting community. In
Knitlandia, her playful nature and eye for detail capture moments
that make me enthusiastically proud to be a knitter.
Stephen West,Westknits
51995
9 781617 691904
PHX #1342768 11/17/15 CYAN MAG YELO BLK FOIL SPOTGLOSS EMBOSS
No one but Clara Parkes could have written a book that contains
such rich, knowing, and sympathetic detail about the knitting
worlds most beloved gatherings. Based on Claras previous books,
I expected that from her. ButKnitlandiahas a delicious surprise:
its emotional punch. This is a book for everyone who loves not
just knitting, but the worldwide knitting community.
Kay Gardiner, masondixonknitting.com
PARKES
A KNITTER SEES
THE WORLD
PRAISE FOR
KNITLANDIA
U.S. $19.95
Canada $23.95
U.K. 12.99
16
FROM BASEBALL TO
B R O A D WA Y : Swatching in
the Big Apple
K N I T T I N G C O N F E R E N C E S used to have a reputation for taking
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had been arranged along the top of the check-in counter. A tall, glitzy event
banner hung proudly by the main doors that opened onto Sixth Avenue.
The event was a three-day embodiment of, If you build it, they will come.
More than 2,500 students and 6,000 market-goers converged for the inaugural show. Many traveled from afar, excited to have a reason to venture into
New York City. Others emerged from nearby brownstones and co-ops and
condos. Like superheroes responding to the Bat Signal of knitting, they came.
Some were regulars, the kind who can rattle off the names of every
conference theyve attended for the last twenty years. These are the knitting groupies who collect names and experiences.
To tell you the truth, one might say, I wasnt that pleased with the
accommodations at Stitches East.
Her friend would interrupt, But they had that buffet. ...
Oh youre right, shed reply, that was good. But the parking, that was
highway robbery.
Theyd both nod and look around the room, arms folded, collecting
more observations to discuss back in their hotel room.
For others, this was a first. I had an elegant, fur-clad woman in my yarn
class. She wore diamond earrings the size of swimming pools, and shed
never heard the word handspinner beforenor did she understand what
my explanation, someone who spins yarn by hand, meant. Yet, she was a
knitter, the deeply intuitive kind who was probably taught by her mother (or
nanny) at such an early age that it was instinctive now. She knew the how,
and I was able to teach her the whywhy, for example, she wanted a silk
blend for that fine, flowing pleated skirt she was about to begin.
These events are the closest we have to our own university, to tenured
professors and a formal curriculum. Because we lack sufficient financial
clout to establish a permanent place for such learning, we have this traveling
circus of experts who roam from town to town, event to event, squeakywheeled suitcases of samples in tow. Instead of vacuum cleaners or encyclopedias, we sell knowledge and skill acquired from decades of experience.
Our classes covered everything from cables and Estonian lace to
welts, reversible color knitting, and, in my case, yarn. Some taught entire
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F R O M B A S E B A L L T O B R O A D WA Y
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by fans near a group of the newcomers. I joined her and glanced over at the
fancy people. A distinguished older gentleman met my eye. I smiled and he
gave me a wink.
I learned later that Id just exchanged a smile with Willie Mays, the
highest-ranking living player in baseball history. He was in town for the New
York chapter of the Baseball Writers Association of Americas annual awards
gala, which was taking place somewhere in the bowels of our hotel. Sports
Illustrated would describe that evenings event as, with the exception of the
All-Star Game, the greatest assemblage of baseball stars in one place. And
it was happening during the greatest assemblage of knitting stars in one place.
I wonder what a Knitting Writers Association of America would
look like. Where would we hold our banquets? And who would we invite?
We have no shortage of designers, people with great skill in translating
creative vision into numbers on paper. But we have far fewer capital-W
Writers in the knitting world.
Stephanie would naturally be on the board, as would Debbie Stoller.
June Hemmons Hiatt would get lifetime membership for her work on The
Principles of Knitting. Of course, posthumous nods would be made to Richard Rutt for his A History of Handknitting and Elizabeth Zimmermann for,
well, everything she did. Novelists Ann Hood and Debbie Macomber, they,
too, would be card-carrying members. Maybe Id try to pull strings and get
historian Laurel Thatcher Ulrich an honorary membership for her inspiring work, The Age of Homespun.
Thats still only six living people, not including myself. Forget the
Hilton, we could just take a table at a diner for our meetings. Maybe a
diner like the one I went to for lunch the next afternoon.
Id been teaching for so long that my brain was starting to get fuzzy,
usually a sign that I should get out and take a walk. I headed away from
the hotel as fast as my feet would carry me, down to West 47th Street to the
nearest greasy old-school diner I could find. A TV on the wall was blaring
the Fox News Channel, and a man a few stools down from me at the
counter made a grunt of disapproval. I turned and smiled.
Of course theyre playing that garbage, he muttered, their offices
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F R O M B A S E B A L L T O B R O A D WA Y
are on the other side of that wall. I noticed all the framed, signed headshots on the wallall of Fox News celebrities.
We started talking and he asked where I was from. When I said
Maine, he launched into an inventory of all the cruises hed taken up the
coast with his wife. Weve taken, lets see now, seventeen cruises, he said.
Weve done New England, the Caribbean, the Panama Canal, Europe ...
He was counting on his fingers now. When I confessed Id never taken one,
he started advising me on which cruise lines were better, had better crews,
better ships, less likelihood of running aground or giving you dysentery.
My only clue that this wasnt just an old guy who loved cruises and
wanted his corned-beef hash extra crunchy was the fact that the waitstaff all
referred to him by his last name, reverently adding Mister before they said it.
Theres my sound guy! He suddenly greeted someone over my
shoulder. Come on over here, buddy, he added, motioning a young,
friendly-looking man over to the empty seat between us. Introductions
were made. They worked on a Broadway show that had just opened at a
nearby theater. This was their quiet lunchtime hangout, safely hidden from
the cheesecake-seeking tourists of Times Square.
Just then, another man came in, dapper and extremely handsome,
with a spring in his step and that kind of inexplicable charisma that makes
you want to stare. They introduced him as the star of the show, a dancer
whod also made a name for himself on a very popular television show I
didnt watch. Id never heard his name before.
So, what brings you to New York? asked the star.
I wanted to say I was rehearsing at Carnegie Hall, or giving a reading
somewhere, perhaps recording a new album. I knew that the moment I told
the truth, that I was there for a knitting conference of all things, their faces
would fall. Wed have a repeat of the elevator scenes, the telltale awkward
silence before they could find a way to beat a retreat.
But then something unexpected happened. As soon as I told them the
truth, the sound man broke into a smile, swiveled on his stool, and lifted up
his pant leg to reveal the cuff of a perfectly executed, clearly handknitted sock.
I told my mom, I dont want any other gifts from now on. Just socks!
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