Sheepish by Catherine Friend

Author:Catherine Friend
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Da Capo Press
Published: 2011-03-16T16:00:00+00:00

Turquoise Treasure

I cannot pretend to feel impartial about colors. I rejoice with the brilliant ones and am gen- uinely sorry for the poor browns.

—WINSTON CHURCHILL

Sherry from Colorado returns to Minnesota for another round of medical appointments, this time bringing with her the yarn and roving she’d made out of our fleece. I once again meet her in Rochester.

“Feel this amazing yarn,” she says, running her hands over a skein of our white yarn. I do the same, but I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s yarn. Big deal.

“And this roving? I spun it up and it was a wonderful experience.” It’s a ball of wool. I squeeze the fuzzy roving and struggle to understand Sherry’s enthusiasm. Besides, everything she says flies in the face of what we know about our wool. We’ve been told it’s of medium quality, only good for carpeting or some other nonclothing-related use. Why does Sherry speak so highly of its crimp and its elasticity and its softness?

Might we be able to find a better market for our yarn than bagging it up and selling it wholesale? Encouraged by Sherry’s enthusiasm, I find a local fiber mill and bring three bags to be converted from greasy, smelly fleece into balls of white and brown-gray roving and yarn.

The roving and yarn come back a few months later. It seems nice, but not being a knitter or spinner, what do I know? Our friend Jan knits some of the naturally colored yarn into a hat to show me what the yarn looks like. The white roving is in big round balls, so I post photos on my blog under the heading “Nice Orbs” and offer both roving and yarn up for sale. I blink, and it’s gone. Huh.

The next month, a box arrives in the mail from Karen on the East Coast. Inside are two thick braids of dyed roving. I pick them up, turn them around and around, and nearly weep from the pure, raw color.

Some people are moved by Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata or a choir’s rendition of Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus. Others can be sent heavenward by the smell of a lug of fresh peaches. My sensory drug of choice is color. I’ve been known to stand in the paint aisle of an art supply store, too mesmerized by the colors to move. One year I get so thirsty for bright yellow that I paint both the guest bathroom and guest bedroom such a bright yellow it makes people laugh when they enter. I consume turquoise, teal, royal blue, hot pink, and fuchsia like normal people consume coffee. I study Victoria Findlay’s Color: A Natural History of the Palette. I keep my boxes of Crayola Crayons close by, even though I’ve pretty much moved beyond my coloring book phase.

Karen has dyed my roving blue and turquoise. I cradle the braids in my arms, lost in the turquoise. I take the braids apart, amazed at how deeply the wool has taken the dye. I want to spend time with these colors.

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