Memories of Yarn

Today was an unusual day at work. I built a sling-shot from a bra, a thong, two coat hangers, and some ribbon (I call it the bra-apult). I fired a gun, broke a gun, (two different guns mind you), and went shopping for yarn. All of these things are rather unusual for most jobs, but at mine – they somehow all seem to work. It’s weird, however, that they all occurred on the same day. Most days one of those would be an event, so having all of these at once was almost too much to take. Properties masters and designers are basically toy-makers. We build things for pretend time. So it helps to have an active imagination, a slightly deranged inner-child, design sense, and a functional knowledge of power tools.

Today, however, I was not only able to indulge my adult inner-child (by building the bra-apult), but I was also able to relive a piece of my childhood – oddly while shopping for yarn. When I was small – say about three years – I used to love to go to the store with my mom and look at yarn. The feeling of the yarn against my skin, so soft, fascinated me – as did all the colors. It was literally a rainbow of pigment and texture. I always wanted to go and touch the yarn.

So today, I found myself back as a three year old – in the yarn aisle. The yarn, so soft, stood before me – all the colors on parade – and a memory came rushing back. My mom and I were in Wal-Mart (the craft section to be specific). This was in the days before the invention of the Supercenter, so Wal-Mart was more intimate. This was also the 1980s, when parents were more relaxed with their children in public places, and my home town had not yet succumb to the huge building boom and suburban sprawl brought on in the 90s. As usual, upon our visit, I wanted to visit the yarn aisle.

I told my mom where I was headed, and off I ran to see the yarn. (Don’t fret – she wasn’t far – just an aisle over.) I began to touch the yarn, so soft, and marvel at the textures, the colors, and the interesting way that it was bundled and packaged. Something about the yarn was comforting, familiar, yet still utterly fascinating. That’s when a Wal-Mart employee approached me. She didn’t like an unattended child perusing the yarn-aisle.

This is where the story gets hazy. I would like to know what she said to me. It was only words – just words – and words that have long been forgotten. I would like to remember it in detail, but I don’t. All I am left with is a shard – a fragment of a memory – that as an adult I don’t understand. I remember looking up – at the massive wall of yarn – it seemed endless, and then looking to my left to see a blue-smocked lady with dark curly hair approaching me. Then I remember being embarrassed, upset, and somehow ashamed. I was cornered by this lady (literally the craft-section was in the back right hand corner of Wal-Mart, and the yarn aisle was on the back wall of the store), and as a child I didn’t know how to process that.

The next thing I remember is crying, and my mother telling me that I could look at the yarn if I wanted to. Oddly, I don’t think the woman yelled at me, and I don’t think my mother berated anyone (chances are she would have if there had been yelling), but then again – why did I feel ashamed? Why was I upset? What happened that disturbed the balance? One moment I was a child fascinated with a wall of yarn, and the next I was a child ashamed, upset, and seeking solace from his mother. That was the day yarn lost its luster; I don’t think I ever went to marvel at the colors and textures again.

So today, as I gazed at the seemingly endless rainbow before me, I became that small child again. The yarn, so soft, felt so good beneath my fingers, and for a moment I lost myself in the rapture and mystery of the wools and acrylics before me. It didn’t last long; a new blue be-smocked employee named “Adult Responsibilities” brought me back to reality. This time, however, I was not ashamed, not upset, and did not need solace from my mother. Yarn regained some of its mystery.