Tale of a Prodigal Sock

Once upon a time, there was a skein of hand-dyed Blue-faced Leister sock yarn. Blessed with a lovely blue, lavender, green, and bronze colorway, like a Monet painting of iris in a reflecting pond, the skein lay in a local yarn shop waiting for its Forever Home. It had not long to wait.

Along came a knitter (that would be yours truly) who had completed the arduous task of writing and submitting an academic paper for publication (::fingers crossed, still hoping, still waiting to hear::) and was seeking something nice as a self-reward finishing the task. Lo, the lovely skein of sock yarn went home with the knitter.

And it was good.

(Good? Heck, it was great! Luscious colors, soft fiber, oh glory be!)

When the time was right, it was wound on a ball winder into a ball suitable for knitting:


And not long after, became the beginning of a sock:

Between knitting sessions, the yarn lived in a little canvas tote bag that was often stowed at the head of the bed for some just-before-sleep knitting, or carried in the car for riding-in-the-car knitting, or even toted into restaurants for some waiting-for-the-food knitting and waiting-for the-check knitting and where-did-all-the-waitresses-go-we'd-like-to-pay-and-go-home-please knitting.

And then one day, alas and alack, the tote was not there!

It was not at the head of the bed. It was not in any drawer. It was not in the stash box, nor the copper wash boiler that holds ongoing projects, nor any other place that an errant knitting tote might get stored. Might the knitter have left it in the hubby's car? No, it was not there. Ah, she must have taken it to the office for some sneaky under-the-desk knitting. But no, it was not there, either.

She called upon St. Anthony for aid, that patron saint of lost things, but if he knew he wasn't talking. Except for a niggling little voice that kept saying, "It's not lost. It's just misplaced."

Yeah, but where, Tony? Where?

The bereaved knitter called every restaurant where she had knit while wondering where the wait staff had gone just when the check needed paying. She even called the theater pub where she thought that maybe she might have possibly taken the knitting. Alas and alack, none reported any knitting in their lost and found.

Not in the stash. Not in the car. Not in the office. Not in any lost-and-found box. Yet that same niggling voice kept saying, "Not lost. Just misplaced."

Then one morning the knitter got up and happened to glance up at the bedroom door which as usual sat ajar so that the herds of cats may roam in and out as they please all night. On the door hangs a set of hooks and on the hooks hang robes and pajamas and... and... and...

... she remembered now that she had not long ago had the brilliant idea of hanging her knitting on one of the hooks so it wouldn't get sat on and where she would always remember to look for it (yeah, that worked). She leaped up, heart lightened with hope, and blessed be the knitting saints, there was the errant tote bag!

Not lost. Just misplaced.

And it was good.

Now when she is done knitting on the sock, she places the tote on the hook behind the door where it will not get sat on and she will remember where to look for it each time. Oh, yah!