The Shop on Blossom Street Read Free

I’ve even read that knitting can lower stress more effectively than meditation. And I guess for me it was a better approach, because there was something tangible to show for it. Maybe because knitting gave me a sense of action, of doing something. I didn’t know what tomorrow held, but with a pair of needles in my hands and a ball of yarn in my lap, I was confident I could handle whatever lay ahead. Each stitch was an accomplishment. Some days all I could manage was a single row, butI had the satisfaction of that one small achievement. It made a difference to me. A very big difference.
    Over the years I’ve taught a number of people how to knit. My first students were other cancer patients going through chemotherapy. We met at the Seattle Oncology Center, and before long, I had everyone, men included, knitting cotton washcloths. I think every doctor and nurse in that clinic has enough knit washcloths to last a lifetime! After washcloths, I had my band of beginning knitters move on to a small afghan. Certainly I’ve had some failures but far more successes. My patience was rewarded when others found the same serenity I did in knitting.
    Now I have my own shop and I think the best way to get customers in the door is to offer knitting classes. I’d never sell enough yarn to stay in business if I ran classes in washcloths, so I’ve chosen a simple baby blanket to start with. The pattern’s by one of my favorite designers, Ann Norling, and uses the basic knit and purl stitches.
    I don’t know what to expect of my new venture, but I’m hopeful. Hope to a person with cancer—or to a person who’s had cancer—is more potent than any drug. We live on it, live for it. It’s addictive to those of us who’ve learned to take one day at a time.
    I was making a sign advertising my beginners’ class when the bell above the door chimed. My first customer had just walked in and I looked up with a smile on my face. The pounding excitement in my heart quickly died when I realized it was Margaret.
    “Hi,” I said, doing my best to sound happy to see her. I didn’t want my sister showing up on my very first morning and attacking my confidence.
    “Mom told me you’d decided to go ahead with this idea of yours.”
    I didn’t respond.
    Frowning, Margaret continued. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and see the shop.”
    I gestured with one arm and hated myself for asking. “What do you think?” I didn’t bother to mention that Blossom Street was decidedly out of her way.
    “Why’d you name it A Good Yarn?”
    I’d gone over dozens of shop names, some too cute by half, some plain and ordinary. I love the idea that “spinning a yarn” means telling a story, and sharing stories with people, listening to their experiences, is important to me. Another legacy of the clinic, I suppose. A Good Yarn seems like a warm and welcoming name. But I didn’t explain all that to Margaret. “I wanted my customers to know I sell quality yarn.”
    Margaret shrugged as if she’d seen a dozen knitting shops with more impressive names than mine.
    “Well,” I said, despite my determination not to ask again. “What do you think?”
    Margaret glanced around a second time, although nothing had changed after her first inspection. “It’s better than I expected.”
    I considered this high praise. “I don’t have a large inventory yet, but I’m hoping to build it up over the next year or so. Of course, not all the yarn I’ve ordered has arrived. And there’s more I’m planning to get, some wonderful imports from Ireland and Australia. Everything takes time and money.” In my enthusiasm I’d said more than I intended.
    “Are you expecting Mom to help you?” The question was blunt.
    I shook my head. “You don’t need to worry. I’m doing this entirely on my own.” So that was the reason for her unannounced visit. Margaret thought I was going to take advantage of our mother. I wouldn’t and the question offended