There's such a thing as a "knitting machine", if you can believe that. My mom used to run one. She made sweaters as per customer orders for some lady out in a nearby town who distributed them. They were godawful. The machine was mounted on a bench and had a million little switches and knobs which required constant adjustment, depending on the pattern to be knit.
There ought to have been some kind of four year degree requirement
before letting a person operate a knitting machine... I'm fairly certain an
incorrect switch position could result in the fabric of space-time being
torn and our reality hurled into the brink of destruction.
Once everything was set, the handle had to be swept back and forth, back and forth, for hours. It made a sound every time, something like this: Rnnnn'gachik, rrrnnn'gachik. Hence, I grew up referring to it as the "run'gachik machine", and it was the soundtrack for a long time around the house.
I'm not sure how old I was then. Ten, or thirteen or something like that. We lived in rural Vermont, dirt road, woods, BB guns, giant snow drifts and shaded swimming holes. All the good stuff. There weren't a lot of people around, and I think I tended to be more of a bother around the house than a help, so when my mom realized that the woman for whom she knit endless sweaters had a son my age, she jumped on the opportunity to keep me occupied for an afternoon and arranged for us to hang out.
History has endeavored to teach us that no matter what, chaos reigns. It has presented us with a smorgasbord of examples of innocent decisions, made in good conscience, which nevertheless spiraled into catastrophe. The arrangement for me to meet Jeremiah was one such decision.
Next: Part 2: The First Mistake
1 comment:
I'm sitting on the edge of my seat! Can't wait for the next part!
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