He said, “I’ve been reading Far from the Madding Crowd and find myself identifying with sheepkeepers.”
“Our family,” Alice said, “has worn out three copies of that book over the years. How did you react to the cliff tragedy?”
“With shock and horror.”
“It’s surprising how little sheepkeeping has changed in two centuries. We still use sheepdogs. The shepherd still moves into the bam when the ewes are lambing. We still call the flock by shouting ‘Ovey! Ovey!’ Did you know that cry comes from the Latin word for sheep? It’s been handed down through eight thousand generations. You know, ewes have an age-old tranquility that rubs off on their humans. I can’t help loving the girls, as we call them, and their gentle, trusting, dopey look!”
“I’m glad I brought my tape recorder,” Qwilleran said as he prepared to ease her into the subject of spinning. “What do you spin other than wool?”
“Silk, cotton, angora from rabbits, even a little dog hair blended with other fibers. It’s hard-wearing. For socks, you know… Want to see the spinning studio where I give lessons?”
The spinning wheel used on the float caught his eye. It had a ten-spoke flywheel, tilted bench with treadle underneath, and a post holding a cornhusk bobbin. A hundred years old, Alice said. Built of pine, cherry, maple, and poplar.
On a table was a thick blanket of fleece, exactly as it came from a ewe on shearing day - white on the inside, weathered on the outside. Alice said it would be torn apart and laundered before being carded and fluffed up like cotton candy. Finally it would be combed and rolled into rovings to feed into the spinning wheel.
She said, “There are weavers and knitters who won’t work with anything but handspuns.”
She demonstrated at a contemporary wheel - compact, with well-engineered head assembly and proper bobbin. Treadling with a stockinged foot, she pinched fibers from a roving to feed with rhythmic movements of both hands, all the while talking of ratio, tension, ply, and texture. She invited Qwilleran to try it.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I want to preserve my innocence.”
He thought she talked like one who has given numerous talks to clubs. “Women used to spin yarn, weave cloth, make garments for the family, cook meals in the fireplace, scrub clothes in a brook, carry pails of water from a spring, and walk miles to church on Sunday.”
Outside the window a pickup truck came to an abrupt stop, a door slammed, and footsteps came down a hall.
“My daughter,” Alice explained. “She’s been in Pickax, renewing her driver’s license.” She appeared in the doorway, frowning. “Qwill,” her mother said, “this is my daughter, Barbara.”
“Call me Barb,” the young woman said with a pout. “I hate Barbara.”
Her mother smiled and shrugged. “By any name she’s my one and only daughter and a very talented knitter. She’ll tell you all about it. I have to take my doughnuts to the church.”
As soon as she had left, Barb said, “I need a drink! I had to wait two hours at the license bureau. Twenty people waiting, and only one guy on duty! … What do you drink?”
“Ginger ale, or a reasonable facsimile.”
“Well, I’m gonna have rum and orange juice.” she had long straight blond hair and the sultry eyes that Riker had mentioned. They were heavy with makeup, and she shifted them from side to side as she talked - half smiling when Qwilleran complimented her on the knit vest she was wearing. Worn over a white shirt and shorts, it was white with a multicolor pattern of fireworks in the stitchery.
She smokes, Qwilleran thought, recognizing the slightly husky voice.
“Do you smoke?” she asked. “Let’s go out on the porch. Alice doesn’t let me smoke indoors.”
They carried their drinks to the side porch, where Barb sat cross-legged on a glider.
“Tell me about the knitting club,” he asked.
“It’s unisex. We get together once a week around our big kitchen table, and we laugh a lot - and learn. Then I have a knitting day-camp for kids every Saturday. We have a picnic lunch, and they get several breaks to run around and blow off steam. Then it’s back to the needles.”
“What do they knit?”
“Socks. Goofy socks. The goofier, the better. They love ‘em! Socks are a good way to begin knitting-you learn as you go, and they don’t take much yarn.”
“What makes a sock goofy?”
Barb jumped off the glider. “I’ll show you. I make ‘em to sell at Elizabeth’s.”
She returned with a boxful of mismatched pairs in wild mixes of colors and patterns: stripes, plaids, zigzags, and confetti dots - some with cuffs or tassels.
“Do people actually buy these?”
“As fast as I can knit them. Vacationers buy them to save for Christmas presents because they’re different and because they’re knitted of handspun wool from local sheep. Each pair of socks has the name of the ewe that grew the wool.”
He looked at her askance.
She shrugged. “What does it matter? Sheep all look alike if you don’t know them personally. It’s just a gimmick.” She swiveled her eyes mischievously. “I also have nongoofy stuff on display at Elizabeth’s - vests, scarfs, mittens, hats… Ready for another drink?”
As she went to the kitchen, he reflected that he had never seen her knits at Elizabeth’s because he always avoided the women’s clothing section. When he bought gifts for Polly, Elizabeth selected them.
“Where have you been hiding your talent in the last few years?” he asked when she returned with her second drink.
“I’ve been living Down Below. I came home a couple of winters ago,” she said with a shrug of dissatisfaction.
“Why did you leave in the first place?” He had a feeling there was a story behind the story here, and she was getting relaxed enough to tell it.
She slouched down on the glider. “You really wanna know? … My girlfriend and I decided there weren’t any interesting guys around here, so we went to Florida. But it’s hard to get a job there. They think you’ll quit as soon as snow melts up north. My girlfriend cuts hair, so she can always get work. I didn’t have much luck, though. But then I meet a cool guy who was a balloon-chaser!” Her eyes swiveled pleasurably at the recollection.
“What kind of balloons did he chase? And did he ever catch any?” Qwilleran quipped.
She was not sure how to take it. “Mmmm, you know, hot-air balloons? … They lift off and drift away, and the pilot never knows where he’s gonna land. The chaser follows in a truck so he can pick up the passengers and the envelope and the basket. Our envelope was red-and- white stripes. Our basket held four people standing up.”
“Did you become a chaser yourself?”
“I worked weekends in the support crew. Other days I waited on tables.”
Qwilleran said, “It seems to me that the pilot has all the fun, and the chaser does all the work.”
“No, no! It’s exciting! Never knowing where you are - driving miles and miles, zigzagging all over the map, talking to the pilot on the phone, and sort of afraid you’ll end up in a swamp.”
“If you found it so thrilling, why did you come home?”
She lowered her eyes. “My girlfriend got married. My balloon-chaser wasn’t all that interested in a country girl. Then I started dating an older man who really liked me, only… I found out he was married. So I came home… Why am I telling you all this? I guess it’s because I don’t really have anybody to talk to.”
“How about your mother?”
“Alice is too busy,” she said with a shrug.
“But you should be happy. You’re doing creative work. You’re using your talent. That should be satisfying,” he said sympathetically.
“It isn’t enough. I don’t have anybody I really like - that’s the bummer!”