about the very first person for whom I knit. The first person I knit for. I remember the thing that I knit for him. It rolled like a son of a gun but he didn't care. At that time, I didn't know that stockinette, you know, knit on one side and purl on the other, without some sort of edging, will roll. Every time. As sure as the sun will rise the next day or that one day you'll die, any stockinette will roll. It just will. But at 18 years of age, and after a cumulative 10 hours of knitting under my belt, I didn't know. Al Gore hadn't invented the internet yet. In those days, you'd have to call up your grandmother or something.
But I knit for him a scarf that rolled. It was also about 20 feet long. I remember one day he was going to take me on a hot air balloon trip for my birthday and I presented it to him at about 5:00 a.m. that morning. I took a picture of him with it wrapped all around his neck, grinning. He loved it. Of course he appreciated it. He was an artist.
He came here from the midwest to live with his dad who promised that once he graduated from high school that he and his new wife would pay for his education. My boyfriend, he was super smart and got into all the colleges he chose. Thing is, he told his dad that he wanted to study art. His dad wouldn't have it and promptly kicked him out of the house.
So my boyfriend, still wanting to pursue art, took on as many jobs as he could so he could go to the local community college and study. One of his jobs was climbing up in the rafters of old buildings in Los Angeles to do security work; you know, spying on would-be shoplifters. He scraped and saved and did all he could do to stay in school. At one point, he was so poor that he had to sell his car and ride a motorcycle instead, to work and school. His mom got sick back home and he rode that thing all the way to Kansas and back so he could see her.
We parted ways when I was 20. Last I heard, he died from lung cancer at about 23 years of age. He got it from the astbestos in the rafters in those old buildings.
And he loved my wonky scarf.
He was someone who I would describe as scarf-worthy.