Yes, And She’d Buy the Yarn

When I was eight I made a castle out of clay. It was two-dimensional, more of a wall than a castle, but it had turrets and pointed windows and a juliet balcony and a drawbridge with chains criss-crossed along the sides. When it dried, I gave it to my cousin Jessie who was my favourite cousin at the time (now they’re all my favourites, I’m very lucky in the cousin department). My mum was OUTRAGED: “Why give it to Jessie? She doesn’t care! She will break it! Give all your best things to ME!”

I have always been a giver. The bead and friendship bracelets I obsessively made to procrastinate from homework as a pre-teen were all distributed to now-forgotten classmates and campmates. The parties I threw were all to please a particular someone. The cakes I’ve baked late at night have all been frosted and fondant-wrapped to earn a singular smile. Holding a person in mind while creating something for them is a way to embody them. It takes time to bake a cake, bead a daisy chain bracelet or knit a sweater; time that I get to spend with the idea of the person who will receive it, and by spending time with them, absorb some of their energy. I understood mum’s message was to save the best for those who truly appreciate it. But the idea of giving away Jessie’s castle, which I moulded while high on Jessie’s giggly, absurd and conspiratorial sense of humour, was nonsense. The castle wasn’t a “thing” to give at random, but a manifestation of something Jessie had given me. We made it together.

Helen and I met in 2015, the year my life changed. Up til then my network consisted of struggling playwrights in their 20s (all great people individually but together a bucketful of crabs), and people I partied with who I knew by club alias and would not have recognised in broad daylight. Older friends from college and my indie theater company era had all been claimed by my ex in the divorce; friends from England were…in England. There were very few people in my life who knew me across contexts and vice versa.

But in 2015 I met a group people who made me want to have and be more. They weren’t trying to compete with me or sleep with me. They were fun to party with, could hold meaningful conversations, were building interesting things, and I wanted to know and be known by them. After years of reserved code-switching it was difficult to fall into the dynamics of true friendship, but the process gave me a sense of joy and ease that had been buried since I was a teenager. It was safe at last to be myself.

One of my new friends ran a PR agency, which meant her job was the collection of Interesting People doing Interesting Things. As part of her entourage, I was frequently called upon to welcome (vet) prospects.

Even in this bountiful cornucopia, Helen stood out. She was British—from the North I think—but based in Japan. She had moved to Tokyo after Oxford with the goal of “becoming” Japanese, learning the language and culture as faithfully as mother tongue. We all leaned in as Helen described the choreography of entering a Japanese elevator; how placement within the quadrille was determined by social status; how each dancer would lock-step as the doors opened to admit new entrants. Helen’s successful assimilation had been rewarded with a high-level position at an international company, an honour rarely bestowed on women let alone foreigners. But after seven years she was tired of role play—or, at least, that particular role—and wanted to go west my child, where the rules and constraints were more familiar.

My first impression of Helen was as a dazzling paragon of industry, so I was pretty surprised when, upon revealing that I was a playwright with a background in improv, she shrieked “me too!” Long form improv had been her sanctuary hobby, a place where she could let loose after all those clockwork elevator two-steps. We tumbled joyfully into shop talk about The Harold and Yes, And and Viola Spolin’s Theater Games while the rest of the table faded into the background.

She was also intrigued by my stories of The Scene. As an exhibitionist, I was an open book. We kept in touch and she became an early and enthusiastic advocate of Unicornland.

Epistolary and long-distance friendships are shared daydreams, so it can be hard to track their real vs imagined movements, their evolutions in intimacy. Over the following years, we met several more times in NYC, spoke on the phone in LA, and convened twice in London, where she landed during the pandemic. Because we were not in one another’s daily lives, our conversations were devoid of small talk or maybe magnified small talk to the molecular level. Helen’s mind was an adventure playground, and our conversations were thrilling, surprising, challenging, fun. At least, they were for me. One day, in a rush of gratitude for some bolt of brilliance she shared, I blurted out the kind of offer that would infuriate my mother: Can I knit you a sweater?

Helen, of course, said Yes, And she’d buy the yarn.

But brilliant people are busy. It took 6 weeks–the duration of my stay in London–for us to coordinate a shopping trip. I was juggling working parenthood and Helen was smashing a VP role while simultaneously attending every major summer theatre festival in Europe. Finally, on the day before my flight home to NYC, we met at Loop and spent a hushed half hour pulling skeins off shelves, squishing them gently, holding them to our cheeks, gathering large bundles only to change our minds, put everything back and start again. She settled on Life in the Long Grass fingering in “denim”, and–because she’s classy–a double helping for a sweater for me

The pattern Helen chose was the Marilyn Turtleneck, and we bought enough for a size small plus contingency, but the gauge swatch revealed bad pattern math. Not only was there not enough yardage, the yarn knitted into a sinewy, elastic fabric that was perfect for negative ease but not so much for the gauzy, hazy lofted quality.

Instead I found the Juliet Sweater.

It had a similarly 50s line, albeit less distinctly femme than Marilyn. It could dress up or down, work with a skirt or pants, be worn all year long. The unusual shaping, with its bold contrast of rib to knit stitches, in a speckled, luminous sky blue evoked Helen’s sharp mind and playful presence. I allowed myself to get excited.

Fingering weight yarn works slowly. I started the project in November, had made considerable progress by April, then, because there’s no point hustling to send a sweater in summer, I bundled the project into a bag. I had a baby in June, work got crazy in September, and around the following January I sheepishly returned to the work in progress.

And was horrified.

There’s a reason most hand-knitted sweaters are shapeless sacks. Spending months of effort and hundreds of dollars on a single garment (that if hand-washed and carefully stored could last a lifetime!) is an act of foolish devotion in an era of fast/disposable fashion. Bodies change a lot, especially women’s bodies, so shapelessness (“ease” is the industry term) is a bid for longevity.

Helen’s sweater had intense negative ease. Holding it up I saw the extreme snatched waist of a Barbie doll, shrunk to about the same size. It might fit my 4 year old, but surely not a grown woman. Or would it? I tried it on and the hem (with only half a skein left before starting the sleeves!) landed at my armpits. ACK! What had I done?!?

But as I remind myself with increasing frequency, panicked thoughts are just thoughts. I’m broad shouldered and tall where Helen is petite. More data was needed before writing off the sweater. When a friend closer to Helen’s size came over, I had her try on the sweater and thankfully it was a much closer fit. I played chicken with the yarn, continuing the body until the absolute last possible inch/gram before hemming and picking up the sleeves. I cast off with a thumb-sized twist of yarn left over, which I folded up with the sweater and sent to Helen for darning.

At the post office I had another crisis of faith. What if my fit estimation was off? What if she hated the new pattern? What if she’d interpreted the delay as laziness or disregard and had written me/it off? Most of all, what if this gift was too special that it weighed down our champagne-bubble friendship with expectations? Should I just send the sweater to my mother and be done? Enough. I made it for Helen, and the making had served me. Now my scene was over and it was time to tap out. I dashed her address onto the envelope, slipped it under the USPS sneeze divider, said thank you and goodbye.

A week passed and nothing.

Then another.

Then a few more.

She didn’t like it. She was upset. I’d embarrassed myself. None of these could be true, or many more and worse besides…

After about six weeks I sent a timid ping. No pressure, no worries, just checking if it arrived? She responded immediately in a flurry of exclamations marks: Travelling! Haven’t been home in months!! Can’t wait to try it on!!! Might be in NYC soon, will lyk!!!!!

A few weeks later she sent me this:

It looks perfect on her. Better than my wildest imaginings.