Dear Reader,
My life is filled with passions, and one of the strongest is knitting. I’ve had a pair of needles in my hands from the time I was twelve, and intermittently knit while raising my four children. However, it wasn’t until my grandchildren started to arrive that I fell so passionately in love with knitting. This fire was stoked by two wonderful friends, Linda Johnson, who owns Linda’s Knit ’n Stitch in Silverdale, Washington, and Laura Early, a lifelong knitter and yarn connoisseur. Laura heads up the knitting and crocheting group at the local senior center, and cajoles and bullies me into one project after another. Both friends have blessed my life.
With The Shop on Blossom Street I’ve been able to combine my love of writing and my love of knitting. The idea for this book formed in my mind for three or four years. It took that long to find the right characters and the right way in which to tell their stories.
My heartfelt appreciation to Ann Norling for her contribution. She gave me this baby blanket (or lap robe) pattern solely for The Shop on Blossom Street. I have knitted the pattern myself, so if you’d like to view the finished product you can check out my Web site at www.DebbieMacomber.com.
Several prominent designers have given me quotes about their philosophies of knitting. If you’re part of the knitting world, you’ll be impressed. If you’re not a knitter, you might be compelled to check out your local yarn store and pick up a pair of needles for yourself. You won’t be sorry.
Just before The Shop on Blossom Street was published in hardcover, I was asked to be a national board member for Warm Up America! If you’d like to be part of this wonderful organization, get in touch with the Warm Up America! Foundation, 2500 Lowell Road, Ranlo, NC 28054. (Or you can call 1-800-662-9999. Visit their Web site at www.WarmUpAmerica.com.) Knitters and crocheters can submit seven-by-nine-inch patches, which will be stitched together to make blankets (or you can submit an entire blanket) for a variety of knitting charities. I’d like to encourage you to get together with friends and knit (or crochet) for charity.
I hope you enjoy The Shop on Blossom Street. Lydia, Jacqueline, Carol and Alix are eager to introduce themselves to you. My prayer is that these four women will touch your life in the same way they have mine.
Hearing from my readers is a constant source of joy and encouragement to me. You can reach me either by writing to P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366 or logging on to my Web site at the address listed above and signing the guest book.
Warmest regards,
DEBBIE MACOMBER
The Shop on Blossom Street
To Linda Johnson
for sharing her love of knitting with me.
To Laura Early for taking me under her wing.
And to Lisa, who touched my heart
in her desire for a child.
Baby Blocks
by Ann Norling
Finished Measurements: 33 x 45 inches (crib size)
Materials:
1300 yds worsted weight yarn (600 grams), 2 markers
Gauge:
5 sts = 1" on #8 needle (or size that will give you the gauge)
Needles:
26"–36" circular #8
Glossary:
K = knit, P = purl, rep = repeat, st(s) = stitch(es)
Stitch Note:
When you see *K3, P3* or a similar stitch group, it means that you repeat whatever is enclosed within the asterisks.
Cast on 171 sts
Border:
Row 1:
*K3, P3* across row ending with K3
Row 2:
*P3, K3* across row ending with P3
Row 3:
Rep Row 1
Row 4:
Rep Row 2
Row 5:
*P3, K3* across row ending with P3
Row 6:
*K3, P3* across row ending with K3
Row 7:
Rep Row 5
Row 8:
Rep Row 6
Rows 9–12:
Rep Rows 1–4 once more
Body:
Row 13:
P3, K3, P3, *K9, P9* across row to last 18 sts, place marker, K9, P3, K3, P3
Row 14:
K3, P3, K3,*P9, K9* across row to last 18 sts, place marker, P9, K3, P3, K3
Row 15:
Rep Row 13
Row 16:
Rep Row 14
Row 17:
K3, P3, K3, *K9, P9* across row to last 18 sts, slip marker, K9, K3, P3, K3
Row 18:
P3, K3, P3, *P9, K9* across row to last 18 sts, slip marker, P9, P3, K3, P3
Row 19:
Rep Row 17
Row 20:
Rep Row 18
Row 21–24:
Rep Rows 13–16
Row 25:
K3, P3, K3, *P9, K9* across row to last 18 sts, slip marker, P9, K3, P3, K3
Row 26:
P3, K3, P3, *K9, P9* across row to last 18 sts, slip marker, K9, P3, K3, P3
Row 27:
Rep Row 25
Row 28:
Rep Row 26
Row 29:
P3, K3, P3, *P9, K9* across row to last 18 sts, slip marker, P9, P3, K3, P3
Row 30:
K3, P3, K3, *K9, P9* across row to last 18 sts, slip marker, K9, K3, P3, K3
Row 31:
Rep Row 29
Row 32:
Rep Row 30
Rows 33–36:
Rep Rows 25–28
Rep Rows 13–36 until piece measures approximately 42" and you have worked Row 36.
Border Repeat:
Rep rows 1–12. Bind off loosely and finish off ends.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 1
“The yarn forms the stitches, the knitting forges the friendships, the craft links the generations.”
—Karen Alfke, “Unpattern”
designer and knitting instructor
LYDIA HOFFMAN
The first time I saw the empty store on Blossom Street I thought of my father. It reminded me so much of the bicycle shop he had when I was a kid. Even the large display windows, shaded by a colorful striped awning, were the same. Outside my dad’s shop, there were flower boxes full of red blossoms—impatiens—that spilled over beneath the large windows. That was Mom’s contribution: impatiens in the spring and summer, chrysanthemums in the fall and shiny green mistletoe at Christmas. I plan to have flowers, too.
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Dad’s business grew steadily and he moved into increasingly larger premises, but I always loved his first store best.
I must have astounded the rental agent who was showing me the property. She’d barely unlocked the front door when I announced, “I’ll take it.”
She turned to face me, her expression blank as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard me correctly. “Wouldn’t you like to see the place? You do realize there’s a small apartment above the shop that comes with it, don’t you?”
“Yes, you mentioned that earlier.” The apartment worked perfectly for me. My cat, Whiskers, and I were in need of a home.
“You would like to see the place before you sign the papers, wouldn’t you?” she persisted.
I smiled and nodded. But it wasn’t really necessary; instinctively I knew this was the ideal location for my yarn shop. And for me.
The one drawback was that this Seattle neighborhood was undergoing extensive renovations and, because of the construction mess, Blossom Street was closed at one end, with only local traffic allowed. The brick building across the street, which had once been a three-story bank, was being transformed into high-end condos. Several other buildings, including an old warehouse, were also in the process of becoming condos. The architect had somehow managed to maintain the traditional feel of the original places, and that delighted me. Construction would continue for months, but it did mean that my rent was reasonable, at least for now.
I knew the first six months would be difficult. They are for any small business. The constant construction might create more obstacles than there otherwise would have been; nevertheless, I loved the space. It was everything I wanted.
Early Friday morning, a week after viewing the property, I signed my name, Lydia Hoffman, to the two-year lease. I was handed the keys and a copy of the rental agreement. I moved into my new home that very day, as excited as I can remember being about anything. I felt as if I was just starting my life and in more ways than I care to count, I actually was.
I opened A Good Yarn on the last Tuesday in April. I felt a sense of pride and anticipation as I stood in the middle of my store, surveying the colors that surrounded me. I could only imagine what my sister would say when she learned I’d gone through with this. I hadn’t asked her advice because I already knew what Margaret’s response would be. She isn’t—to put it mildly—the encouraging type.
I’d found a carpenter who’d built some cubicles for me, three rows of them, painted a pristine white. Most of the yarn had arrived on Friday and I’d spent the weekend sorting it by weight and color and arranging it neatly in the cubicles. I’d bought a secondhand cash register, refinished the counter and set up racks of knitting supplies. I was ready for business.
This should have been a happy moment for me but instead, I found myself struggling to hold back tears. Dad would’ve been so pleased if he could have seen what I’d done. He’d been my support and my source of strength, my guiding light. I was so shocked when he died.
You see, I’d always assumed I would die before my father.
Most people find talk of death unsettling, but I’ve lived with the threat of it for so long, it doesn’t have that effect on me. The possibility of death has been my reality for the last fourteen years, and I’m as comfortable talking about it as I am the weather.
My first bout with cancer came the summer I turned sixteen. I’d gone to pick up my driver’s license that day in August. I’d successfully passed both the written and the driving tests. My mother let me drive from the licensing office to the optometrist. It was supposed to be a routine appointment—I was having my eyes examined before the start of my junior year of high school. I had big plans for the day. As soon as I got home from the eye doctor’s, Becky and I were going to drive to the beach. It would be the first time I’d taken the car out by myself, and I was looking forward to driving without my mom or dad or my older sister.
I recall being upset that Mom had scheduled the eye appointment right after my driving test. I’d been having some problems with headaches and dizzy spells, and Dad thought I might need reading glasses. The idea of showing up at Lincoln High School wearing glasses bothered me. A lot. I was hoping Mom and Dad would agree to let me wear contact lenses. As it turned out, impaired vision was the least of my worries.
The optometrist, who was a friend of my parents, seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time staring into the corner of my eye with this horribly bright light. He asked a lot of questions about my headaches. That was almost fifteen years ago, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on his face as he talked to my mother. He was so serious, so somber…so concerned.
“I want to make Lydia an appointment at the University of Washington. Immediately.”
My mother and I were both stunned. “All right,” my mother said, glancing from me to Dr. Reid and back again. “Is there a problem?”
He nodded. “I don’t like what I’m seeing. I think it would be best if Dr. Wilson had a look.”
Well, Dr. Wilson did more than look. He drilled into my skull and removed a malignant brain tumor. I say those words glibly now, but it wasn’t a quick or simple procedure. It meant weeks in the hospital and blinding, debilitating headaches. After the surgery, I went through chemotherapy, followed by a series of radiation treatments. There were days when even the dimmest of lights caused such pain it was all I could do not to scream in agony. Days when I measured each breath, struggling to hold on to life because, try as I might, I could feel it slipping away. Still, there were many mornings I woke up and wished I would die because I couldn’t bear another hour of this. Without my father I’m convinced I would have.
My head was completely shaved and then, once my hair started to grow back, it fell out again. I missed my entire junior year and when I was finally able to return to high school, nothing was the same. Everyone looked at me differently. I didn’t attend the Junior-Senior prom because no one asked me. Some girlfriends suggested I tag along with them, but out of false pride I refused. In retrospect it seems a trivial thing to worry about. I wish I’d gone.
The saddest part of this story is that just when I was beginning to believe I could have a normal life—just when I believed all those drugs, all that suffering had served a useful purpose—the tumor grew back.
I’ll never forget the day Dr. Wilson told us the cancer had returned. But it’s not the expression on his face that I remember. It’s the pain in my father’s eyes. He, above anyone, understood what I’d endured during the first bout of treatment. My mother doesn’t deal well with illness, and Dad was the one who’d held me together emotionally. He knew there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, that would lessen this second ordeal for me. I was twenty-four at the time and still in college, trying to accumulate enough credits to graduate. I never did get that degree.
I’ve survived both bouts of cancer, and I’m definitely not the carefree girl I once was. I appreciate and treasure every single day because I know how precious life is. Most people assume I’m younger than thirty but they seem to find me more serious than other women my age. My experience with cancer means I don’t take anything, least of all life itself, for granted. I no longer greet each day with careless acceptance. But I’ve learned there are compensations for my suffering. I know I’d be a completely different person if not for the cancer. My dad claimed I achieved a certain calm wisdom, and I suppose I have. Yet in many ways I’m naive, especially when it comes to men and relationships.
Of all the compensations, the one I’m most grateful for is that while undergoing treatment I learned to knit.
I may have survived cancer twice, but unfortunately my father didn’t. My second tumor killed him. That’s what my sister Margaret believes. She’s never actually said so, but I know it’s what she thinks. The truth is, I suspect she’s probably right. It was a heart attack, but he aged so much after that second diagnosis I’m sure it affected his health. I knew that if he could’ve switched places with me, he would hav
e done it gladly.
He was at my bedside as much as possible. That, in particular, is what Margaret can’t seem to forgive or forget—the time and devotion Dad gave me throughout this ordeal. Mom, too, as much as she was emotionally able.
Margaret was married and a mother of two before the second tumor was even discovered. Nevertheless, she seems to assume that she’s somehow been cheated because of my cancer. To this day, she acts as if being sick was my choice, an option I preferred over a normal life.
It goes without saying that my sister and I have a strained relationship. For Mom’s sake, especially now that Dad’s gone, I try my best with Margaret. She doesn’t make it easy. She can’t hide her resentment, no matter how many years it’s been.
Margaret was against my opening a yarn shop, but I sincerely doubt she would’ve encouraged me in any undertaking. I swear, her eyes brightened at the prospect of seeing me fail. According to the statistics, most new businesses do go under—usually within a year—but I still felt I had to give the yarn shop a chance.
I had the funds. The money was actually an inheritance I received from my maternal grandmother who died when I was twelve. Dad invested it wisely and I had a small nest egg. I should have probably saved it for what Mom calls a “rainy day,” but it’s been raining every day since I turned sixteen and I was tired of holding on to it. Deep down, I know Dad would approve.