Over the hill

He had never owned a sweater long enough in the arms to be able to fold the cuffs back, and that sounded to him like the most exotic luxury. Which was a little funny to his wife, whose arms are short for her size, who would like not to ever have to fold hers back again.

I was newly back at this knitting thing after a half dozen years’ break or so, and I wanted to knit him an aran–one that fit. I spent a lot of time going to various yarn stores (internet? What’s an internet? He used Darpa net, but the Dept of Defense didn’t stock knitting patterns) looking for anything big enough, and finally decided the only way to do it was just hash it out as I went along. I did find a pattern and follow the stitch counts for guidance, just, I used a heavier wool and substituted my own stitch patterns and…oh goodness, I didn’t know a thing about needing to swatch each stitch to get the gauge right. Eyeballing wasn’t good enough. Which means I ripped out the first eight inches three times before I got it right. But I got it right. It took six months, altogether, to knit.

It was supposed to be for Christmas. Then his birthday. He got it for Father’s Day, and there’s a picture somewhere of it in glorious motion as he pulled it out of the wrapping paper, lifting it up high in glee with the very biggest grin on his face. And look–the cuffs folded back just so. It fit perfectly! Success! Surprised? Honey, I saw you sneaking those needles away when I came home from work.

Eighty-six inch wingspan on that baby. Four and a half pounds of wool. He teases me, eighteen years later, that he’s only allowed to wear it by permission and where there isn’t going to be any food (but ain’t that the truth.) This picture was snapped fast as it collapsed downward on the chair.

Happy birthday, honey. Half a century. Maybe I’ll knit you another in your second half century, a little lighter weight (but that is SO not a promise). Dude–you sure you don’t want a shawl?