The Needle Club

It was the rabbit lady who asked that we meet on Fridays, because she is the chief of an enterprise, the rabbit slaughterhouse, and that was the only day that would possibly work for her. The other potential members agreed Friday would be okay. They are retired, or live in the home for handicapped people, so their schedules aren’t too rigid. I would have preferred the original Wednesday, so I could skip town on Fridays when whim or necessity struck.

She hasn’t attended since, members say it is the busy season, but the rest of us troop in once a week. The handicapped people have to take shifts, because apparently the idea of knitting was so popular, that a few are allowed to come one week, and the others, the next week. They can, of course, work on their projects at the Papillon Blanc residence. One lady now has a scarf about ten feet long. The chatty one is productive, too, and has knit purses, caps, and ornaments, displayed on her person.

Also around the circle is the lady with apple cheeks who is the fastest knitter, maybe on the planet. Yesterday she was wearing a plum colored pullover covered in delicate cables, and knitting another in a raisin color. It’s like looking at a healthy fruit compote over there. Think, think, how can I persuade her to knit something for me… I invited the woman in the navy blue stretch pants. I kind of figured she was lonely, because she sighs when asked how she’s doing. She hasn’t yet crocheted or knit, just talks, mostly about her arch nemesis at the church. Occasionally, the lady from the assisted living home around the corner shows up, late. It was me who invited her, too. She knits every day at her window, and when I pass by tells me about my dog barking, or goes on about how great the Englishwoman across the street is, in ways I am not. Here, she tells me my hat will be too big and asks if it is for a North Pole expedition. The smiling lady from the Red Cross showed up yesterday, no work in hand, just to hang out. She worked some rows for one of the Papillons Blancs, while talking about all the cooking and preserving she’s been doing lately.

Here, women “can” a lot more than fruits and vegetables. The conversation went to sausages, hearts, brains, anchauds, confits, terrines, pates, of every part of the pork or duck. Too bad goose gizzards are so expensive, but turkey gizzards make a decent substitute. Smacking her lips with the memory, one knitter remembered buying half a pig with her mother and spending a great deal of time in the basement hacking the carcass to bits, boiling it forever, and slathering parts in fat to seal in the flavor. Although I sell the huge copper cauldrons used for this massive undertaking, I’ve never participated. The Red Cross lady smiled, and said she’d invite me next time, but I would have to work. Great, I think, but please, nothing to do with brains.

At the Needle Club, I learn about life and the characters around here, to keep my mouth shut, but not too much about knitting, yet. Well, time to sign off. It’s Saturday morning and the tribal drums are beating down in my basement. That’s what the tennis ball sounds like banging around in the dryer with my hat. I use it because they don’t sell dryer sheets here. Most French people don’t have dryers. My knit cap did turn out too big. Hot water and the dryer did nothing to solve the problem, just made the blue bleed. I’ll have to unravel and re-knit the thing. Should I tell the lady at the window she was right, or show her the corrected version and say, “See? I told you it was okay…”?