(The guys would be thrilled with this title, until they discovered it has nothing to do with baseball.)
Knitting up socks for a birthday gift. They will be late (as always). The color- "ruby red," is something very different from my usual blue and gray wheel house.
They went to Moon's concert the other night. Not ideal for knitting in the dark, but I made it work (did I mention they are late?). The tricky part is that "slip, knit, yarn over, pass over, purl, repeat..." bit that happens over and over, every other row. Going slow helped to manage the various stitches, but if I stopped (which did happen now and then during the great jazz performances), it was hard to remember which of the two rows I was on.
Ever resourceful (really, if you ever get stranded on that desert island , you do want me there), I used my earring to keep track.
Much to my mother's dismay, I have three holes between my two ears. Rarely is there anything in the third one these days, so I moved one earring back and forth between two of the holes at the end of each row- letting me know where I was. It worked great.
While stitching away, shifting jewelry and enjoying the jazz, my mind wandered around that third hole...
My college roommate and I went to get them together. It was a small conservative town, in the early 1980's. The piercer at the pharmacy didn't understand what we wanted. Explaining to us that there was no price for only one hole, just two. We explained to her that there still were going to be two holes, in two different ears, and that we would each pay half. She disapprovingly proceeded.
And then, Mom's exasperation, "What will people think?!" (Have any people ever thought about my ears?) Later that year, afraid of the spectacle three earrings might cause at my wedding, she let me borrow her good pearls, with the condition they would be alone on my lobes.
Remembering the wedding, and being in the roommate's wedding a week later (did we wear three for hers?), and backing up in time recalling when we both got engaged in that small conservative town at that small conservative college. But there we were, both getting married, much to the shock of those who knew both of us. (We loved our guys, but not the whole wedding scene or the magazines that others were so enthralled with.) Someone made and posted an "Engaged" poster on our dorm room. We crossed it out and scrawled "Encaged," "En-gagged" and "Enraged" over it. (We are both still happily married, really.)
So many memories tangled up in a little red yarn . . .