When I was a kid, I spent many hours admiring a pair of jeans my mother had saved from when she was younger on which she had embroidered brightly colored suns and rainbows and lazy daisy flowers, as was the style in the late ’60’s. I secretly coveted those jeans, but realized early on that they would never be mine because in the late ’60’s, my mother was a wee tiny thing and I was the exact opposite of that. When I got to be a little older I made an attempt to learn embroidery, with the hope of eventually being able to embellish my own jeans with the same sort of hippie flair. It turns out that I suck at embroidery, mostly because I suck spectacularly at drawing.
Eventually, dabbling in the textile arts led me to knitting, where I found my true calling, and I knitted myself a sweater. I loved that sweater. I loved that sweater to death. We had a glorious 4 months together, that sweater and I. It was my constant companion. I wore it almost every single day and fell asleep wrapped in it more than once. But over the course of those 4 months, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the sweater was too plain and I often fantasized about embellishing the yoke with embroidery, the way I once dreamed of decorating my jeans. Killing that sweater turned out to be a perfect opportunity.
As it happens, I still pretty much suck at embroidery, but I love how the new sweater came out anyway.