The Yarn Whisperer Read Online Free

impatient brain clicked off. I stopped focusing on time and speed; I stopped anticipating the next row and the row after that. I settled into the deeper, slower pleasure of the moment and of each stitch. I savored the experience of watching that rounded shape begin and grow and finally mature into a full-bodied bobble. I became excited when it was time to bring each new bobble hometo meet the family. I loved watching how the other stitches adjusted to the newcomer, and I felt almost giddy as the slow, steady body of bobbles unfolded on my needles.
    I felt a sense of solidarity with my grandma, with all those bobble knitters who’d come before me. They’d stumbled upon this secret and guarded it so well. They’d endured the sneers and eye rolls of anti-bobblers, blithely continuing on their merry way. Now I understood.
    I love my bobble coat more than just about anything else I’ve ever knit. I’m not sure it’s the most flattering of garments. But when I wear it, I can quickly spot the bobble haters in the crowd and connect with the bobble sisterhood and brotherhood, those who know the secret. I love how the collar feels, and I love how it adorns and protects a neck that is beginning to sprout its own, far smaller constellation of skin tags.
    Speaking of which, last week I went to the dermatologist for my annual checkup. She looked at my freckles, she measured the creepy mole on my back, and then she glanced at my neck.
    â€œWe can freeze these off if they ever start to bother you,” she said.
    I considered it for a moment. I thought of my grandma and her turtlenecks, and of how readily she could’ve had her own skin tags removed. Yet she didn’t.
    â€œYou know what?” I replied, “I’m good, thanks.”

A GOOD STEEK

    WHEN I WAS eight years old, I came home from school one day to discover everything in my house on Bittersweet Road in Rochester, New York, had been packed and taken away, and that I was to be trundled into a car pointed west—far, far west—with only one parent coming along for the journey.
    If this story had a soundtrack, here’s where you’d hear a needle being yanked off a record. We met my father at a park, and my brothers and I said goodbye while my mother sat in the car. Then we drove away. Simple as that.
    For my mother, it was the beginning of a glorious new life of sunshine and self-discovery. For me, propped in the back of an un-air-conditioned car with a spider plant, a Sony TV, and sullen brothers for company, this was my first real exposure to emotions beyond the realm of dropped ice cream conesor a broken toy. My heart hadn’t grown a callus nearly thick enough to protect it from what was happening.
    As the car continued to pull us farther and farther away from home, I couldn’t help but also be curious about what I saw out my window. New things. An indoor/outdoor pool at a Holiday Inn in Illinois, the Mississippi River, a real palm tree, a hotel lounge with a live band playing “You Are the Sunshine of My Life,” where I was allowed to order ginger ale for the first time.
    Onward we went through the sweltering heat and increasingly barren landscape. With each state we crossed, my mother grew more jubilant, my brothers and I more impatient. I remember being hot and uncomfortable. The Instamatic camera I left in the back window melted by the time we reached Texas. Tucson was our final destination.
    This was not the Tucson of today, with its multistoried resort homes, splendid golf courses, and outdoor shopping malls with fire pits, air-conditioning, gelato, and Tiffany’s. It was a dry, flat place best remembered with the silence and faded colors of a Super 8 home movie.
    We arrived at dusk and checked into a Howard Johnson off Interstate 10. The air smelled sweet, and a green, spiked thing was growing in a pile of rocks by the parking lot. It fascinated me. The soft fuzz between the thorns felt just like the