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She inserted the key into the box, gave it a turn, and opened the silver door. Reaching up, she pulled out the mail. Having thought she heard the familiar dull sound of a plastic key fob hitting the metal within, she reached back into the box and felt around, clumsily with her gloved hand. 

"Uhhhhh!" Ebbie rolled her eyes, removed her hand, and jumped a few times to peer into the box to make sure it was now empty. It was. And she was sure a key for the additional packages was on the floor on the other side. 

Closing the door to her box and locking it, Ebbie tucked her keyring into her coat pocket and looked through her mail as she walked around the corner of mailboxes towards the post office counters. A wooly golden brown cow with long horns looked up at her from the stack. Ebbie turned the postcard over and read what her friend Louise had to say. Life in Scotland was routine, kids were fine, husband into everything, the weather cold, and when would Ebbie be headed that way? Oh, I do hope soon, she thought to herself. She flipped through the remaining mail. A few magazines, the monthly newsletter from the local museum, then a small paper for a certified letter. She kept it at the top of the pile as she took her place in line.

Kodiak was such a pleasant small town on a massive, rugged island. "The Rock" locals called it. Some folks uttered the nickname like a complaint, but Ebbie loved her most recent home and knew most of those in her community felt the same. 

The small-town post office was tucked quietly into the ocean-facing side of a hill. From her place in line, she could simply turn around, look out the wall of windows behind her, and wonder how anything could be more beautiful. The sky was the soft blue you could see only in winter, and today it was a brilliant backdrop. As she looked off in the distance, the memory of vibrant greens sprung to mind, too numerous to count and such a contrast to the sweeping white covering everything now. Kodiak was then The Emerald Isle, the equally fitting nickname this strong island had earned. Then the sky had been a different blue, but no less incredible. Ebbie was lost in plans of summer hikes until she heard Mrs. Yvette say, "Hello Ebbie? You here for pick up?"

Ebbie turned round and laughed a bit embarrassed, "I did it again, Mrs. Yvette. I really should wear platform boots to check my mail."

The older woman shook her head, smiling, smooth black hair moving back and forth as it framed her kindly face. "We should have a height policy for those who get the upper boxes. Give me a moment, and I'll grab that key. You are by the mid 3000s, right?" 

Ebbie nodded, "Box 3101."

Mrs. Yvette turned to go, but Ebbie stopped her. "I have a certified letter I need to pick up, too, since you are headed that way…" She extended the paper to the postal worker who took it and headed into the shelves of boxes and bundles, the mysterious world beyond.

"Now don't you start kidding yourself and pay no mind to that shameful voice telling you nobody else has ever popped in here for a good cry. It happens more times than I can count, and truth be told, there's rarely a problem that can't be put into perspective by creative undertakings." Beautiful chocolate eyes looked at Ebbie, who took the tissue proffered and wiped her nose. "We will find your hands something to do so your brain can work through what it needs to sort out. Now, what's your fancy: the needles or the hook?"

Ebbie found her voice, "I knit. I can crochet a little, not very well, but I love to knit." She expected to feel embarrassed about losing composure in front of a stranger. The eyes looking at her now held no judgment. The moment had passed, and it seemed no explanation for the tears was expected from Ebbie. She stood to follow where the store owner went.  

"Are you a new knitter?" The shop owner called over her shoulder, an assessing query, again no expectation in her tone.

"Actually, I have been knitting since I was seven. I learned when I was cooped up at a cabin with my sister one summer." She smiled slowly, remembering. "Knit my first sweater at ten. I just turned twenty-nine last month. So, no, I'm rather an old hat." Ebbie smiled again, the collection of hats, mittens, and scarves in baskets at home by each door she made popping to mind. Her top drawer had an array socks, most being a lonely single sock. It was just so hard to knit two. And there were neatly stacked sweaters on shelves in her closet all knit by her two hands. She laughed, short and sharp, as her bathroom popped to mind. "I just finished knitting a bathmat. I'm not sure why it's funny, but suddenly it seems like I may be either a well-rounded knitter or the crazy knitting lady…"

"Let's choose "well-rounded" and perhaps add adventurous to your description." Turning, a grin on her face, she continued, "I'm Maddie, and this is my shop. I've been here nineteen years. Remarkably, when I became the owner, I was not a knitter. Or a spinner, or crochet-er," she clarified when it looked as if Ebbie was about to ask. "I didn't work with fiber at all. I wanted to own a business, and our little tourist town didn't have a knitting shop. My husband owned a restaurant, and the number of visitors that came in asking "Where's the local yarn shop?" became such a regular thing—-and asked by a variety of interesting people to chat with— I decided Springhill was missing out if we didn't have one." 

Not quite sure what thought in her mind she wanted to blurt out first, Ebbie missed her chance when the pause came. Maddie continued on, "You are in capable hands now, so relax that panicked face. I studied. And I practiced. I taught myself to knit, as well as crochet and embroidery, and I did take lots of classes from knowledgeable crafters, too. Several weeks a year, I still head to some sort of retreat or workshop to catch up on the latest and greatest." Maddie continued weaving between a whitewashed corner hutch with skeins of handpainted yarns and an oversized rocking chair that could fit two adults with their knitting despite the assortment of overstuffed pillows in the seat.  

"My husband found this-" Maddie gestured around the store "as interesting as I did, but for his own reasons. We worked shoulder to shoulder to start the restaurant, so that part wasn't hard, the framework and ins and out for starting a brick and mortar shop." She grinned conspiratorially, "He's since sold the restaurant-- which yeah, is still the best place to eat in this city!-- but now helps out here behind the scenes, and only "behind the scenes," she dramatically whispered "cause he wants to be left alone to knit," then chuckled at the look of surprise on Ebbie's face. 

"He has quite the thing for making socks." She tilted her head to the display in the storefront windows. Socks like buntings were hung across the oversized bay windows; back and forth, four strands deep, ten maybe twelve socks across. Stripes. Colorwork. Plain with contrasting toes and heels. Large, small, and baby-sized. There were a lot of socks. They hung by clothes pegs on a line like laundry out in the summertime breeze. A clothes basket overflowing with an assortment of lovely self-striping yarns balls was tucked in the corner below.

Ebbie looked back to Maddie, who answered her unspoken question with a nod, "Each and every sock over there he either knit using double pointed needles or with last year's birthday gift… a vintage sock knitting machine that he's restored. I say vintage, it's about seventy years old, but sock construction hasn't changed much since then. When he uses it, he often just happily works a tube, picking up for an afterthought heel and then finishing with an afterthought toe."

Ebbie was quite impressed. Never having used a sock knitting machine herself, she wasn't sure of how difficult it was and made a note to hop online later and see what she was missing. 

"I love knitting socks," she confessed as she looked down at her own feet, clad in the monster socks she had made with scrappy leftover bits from last year's sweater collections. 

Maddie smiled. They held each other's gaze for a moment. "You're going to be fine," the store owner encouraged her. "You will. Now, let's get you purposed with a knit, shall we?"

Not knowing why, but Ebbie believed the gentle woman. For now, anyway. She followed Maddie to the nook past a display of rainbow speckled yarns, where she saw the pattern cover. And just like that, her hands had the problem of how to keep busy solved. 

It really was because she had looked cosy and content, happy with life, and even mysterious, that Ebbie had decided to get involved. And by involved, she meant embarking on this new pullover. It was an unusually constructed pullover, sloping shoulders with an oversized fit made it surprisingly unique. 

"I want to knit that," her tone resolved she reached for the booklet. The pattern design was called "Cosy." Ebbie wanted to feel that way! Yes, she wanted to knit herself that cocoon, a self-care mantra made of yarn. How that marketing worked, she laughed to herself as flipped to the back to study the schematic. The numbers and measurements of the sketched garment blended with visions of documents filled with numbers and legal jargon from earlier that morning. She shook her head and breathed deeply.

"Yes, I think I'd rather like to get distracted by this! I brought a hat to knit on the trip here but finished it somewhere over the mid-west. So I've been projectless. Can you help me gather supplies, Maddie? I'll need needles too." 

"That's what I am here for. Start over this way and pick the color you want to use. This whole selection is the suggested yarn, all Aran weight, squishy with a satisfying bounce," she pronounced as she picked up a skein and handed it over for Ebbie to feel. 

For being thick, it was surprisingly light, Ebbie noticed. She gave it another squeeze. "Blue, I think. I haven't a single sweater in a solid blue, and this is just lovely." Bringing the skein to her nose, she sniffed. Lovely...

"Well, this is just lovely, having you here, now," She said with a flat, anything but "this is lovely," tone.

Ebbie kept her shoulders back, and eyes level with the woman speaking, that face unreadable. Ebbie didn't look away, despite the complete want of doing just that.

"Everyone is in the conference room. This way," and she walked ahead, leaving Ebbie to follow behind her.

From Ebbie’s Journal: Starting the Body

Hem is done! 

It is at this part of all my sweet knitting that I feel the most excited. That first piece of the project able to be stretched and squished and evaluated… but not so much is knit that I can’t jump ship if I feel something is a bit off. 

No mistaking this one! I am all in and ready to get on to my favorite stitch. After evaluating the moss stitch on the swatch for gague, I am ready to knit the next 14 inches and make some pebbly texture. I rather do think this stitch looks more like pebbles smoothed out, each lying next to one another upright, sideways, tucking in almost like chainmail.

I just  don’t see it as moss. Maybe my imagination isn’t as keen as the original stitch inventor, or maybe I just don’t know my moss, but all the moss growing on the trees and rocks back home are not nubby like this. The strands of moss are short and smooth, just shy of being called thick, or they are wispy green-grey beards you imagine on a forest gnome. No bumps like this stitch. 

No bumps like my day…

Moving On To The Body

I share a bit about this at the end of the podcast, and I hope you heard my heart on this: You Are Capable! Seriously, do not allow negative talk that is untrue to take up valuable space in your head. If you hear those false whispers saying, “I can’t do this” or “What was I thinking? Me? Knit a sweater?!” or even “I am so far behind, everyone is ahead of me.”

1. YOU CAN DO THIS! If your brain is telling you otherwise, it has the wrong information. I knit a sweater once when I could only use one arm. Was it work? Yeah. Could I do it? ABSOLUTELY! And so can YOU!

2. A sweater is the same as knitting a washcloth, especially if you have made the one that starts with a few stitches and grows like a pie wedge and then shrinks! But even if you haven’t knit that one, this sweater is just a big flat washcloth that we add a couple tubes to. You can do something like that, right? Of course, you can!

3. Knitting is not a competitive sport. Nobody is getting a gold, silver or bronze for this activity. And your yarn isn't like milk, there's no expiration date. And another thing: I AM WELCOMING YOU ALONG WHENEVER YOU DECIDE TO BE A PART OF THIS. This is my podcast, it's my blog and also my sweater pattern. I am giving it to you as a treat, a gift. If someone in Madrid opens this gift slowly, gently, savoring each moment, removing the tape, hurrah for her! If someone else in New Jersey tears all the wrapping off and sends it flying around the room in a frenzy to get to what is under the decorative paper, hurrah for him!

   WE ARE NOT IN COMPETITION HERE,

   WE ARE IN COMMUNITY!

4. I know that you are capable of anything you set your mind to, you just have to determine it's your thing. You want to knit this sweater? I am setting you up to take a bit at a time, building one piece on the other, and when you do this, whatever pace you set, you will finish with an oversized cosy sweater that YOU DID.

Be well, and be kind,

xoxo,

Mel