Accepting the torch

Most of my friends and family members know that I collect old knitting patterns and they keep a good eye out for me. One time, a friend found a stack of 1930s and '40s booklets out with the recycling on a sidewalk and grabbed them for me. There were some gems in that stash for sure (more on that little collection when we get to my next project), including a single solitary cover of a fabulous Vogue Knitting magazine from the 1950s. Just the cover though. It was such a disappointment to discover that there were no pages attached.

A few weeks ago, another friend alerted me to a "free for the taking" ad on Craigslist promising a stack of 1950s and '60s Vogue Knitting mags, among other vintage booklets. Of course, this meant that I might be able to expand my Vogue Knitting collection beyond just the cover page that I then had in my stash. I saw that the ad had been listed for several weeks, panicked slightly, thinking that naturally someone else would have claimed the lot in the meantime (in my mind, of course, there's hot competition for old instruction booklets), and emailed the poster immediately. I sent along a link to my blog, explained the project, and hoped that I might be able to take home the mags. She wrote back right away and said that I could have them, adding that her mother would have thought the project a great idea.

That little comment was meaningful to me and clued me in to a couple of things. This wasn't an ad posted by someone looking to get rid of a few things that had randomly turned up in the attic. These books belonged to someone in particular. That someone was a knitter and these formed part of her stash. And knitters' stashes are personal. These points became even more clear when I met the poster, who described her mother to me as a "fearless knitter," someone who had traveled the world, become an accomplished artist, and knit dozens of garments for herself and her family. She showed me to the promised stack of knitting magazines and invited me to take a peek at them and several others that were not included in the original listing, including a long run of the Italian needlework magazine Rakam. There were bags of yarn on offer, too, and a sweet painted wooden lady (a wall hanging) with jointed arms and legs and a mini knitted swatch in her hands.

The stack.

It was great fun to look through everything and I ended up with a stack of booklets and magazines, one bag of wool, and the little wooden lady, who will be cute hanging up near my knitting supplies. At the same time, it was lovely to be able to learn about this other knitter and, figuratively speaking, take up her knitting needles.

I always feel this way when part of someone else's stash is added to my own. Joining their magazines or yarn to mine brings with it a sense of responsibility. I feel inspired to honor their creativity and curiosity. Passing the torch in this way keeps the craft alive and vibrant, keeps its roots visible, maintains my connection to generations of knitters going back over the years. Of course, it's easy to feel this way when I pick up a pattern book that belonged to my grandmother, but I feel it, too, when I knit with yarn that belonged to a friend of a friend who has passed away or when I take a look at some of these fabulous mid-century suits and dresses in my "new" Vogues and wonder if their previous owner ever made one.

Incidentally, it turns out that she did indeed make dresses and other similarly impressive feats of knitting. I was lucky enough to be able to take one of these incredible garments home. And it even fits! It is a truly fabulous full-length, high-necked, long-sleeve Fair Isle dress made of the gauziest mohair in luminescent greens and blues. It is incredible. It is all hand made. And it is super warm. I love it. There is just so much knitting and care and work in it. My apologies for the slightly blurry photo; I'd like to think that part of it is due to the halo of the mohair, but it's more certainly due to the fact that I am standing on tiptoes to show the full length of the skirt. Without my shoes on, I'm just a little too short!

I'll have details soon on my next knit from the 1940s. And hopefully some preview pictures of possible 1950s projects from my new Vogue Knitting magazine.