My son reliably informs me that there’s only 5 more sleeps until Christmas – I’m wondering how I can fit in making the following:
Finishing a cowl in 4ply (seemed like a good idea at the time)
making fingerless gloves and hat to match a scarf already made for grandad
scarf in fun fashion wool
2 x hot water bottle covers (late special order)
sewing up at least 2 of the 5 bags I’ve got cut out
sew up 2 tasselled hats (for adults!)
finding and adding some pearl buttons to my mum’s present
making a start on the none too small pile of editing I have to do ‘over the holiday’
write the last Christmas cards for the neighbours
make my traditional rum truffles (let alone the fudge I usually make but I’ve already decided not to)
WRAP presents (buy the wrapping paper in the first place).
A little stressed, maybe.
Then I received this today:
I was forwarded this poem written by Nancy Massaroni. Enjoy!
KNITTERS CHRISTMAS EVE
`Twas the night before Christmas and all around me
Was unfinished knitting not under the tree.
The stockings weren’t hung by the chimney with care
`Cause the heels and toes had not a stitch there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
But I had not finished the caps for their heads.
Dad was asleep; he was no help at all,
And the sweater for him was six inches too small,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
I put down my needles to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tripped over my yarn and fell down with a crash.
The tangle of yarn that lay deep as the snow
Reminded me how much I still had to go.
Out on my lawn I heard such a noise,
I thought it would wake both Dad and the boys.
And though I was tired, my brain a bit thick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
But what I heard then left me perplex-ed,
For not a name I heard was what I expected,
“Move, Ashford! Move, Lopi! Move, Addi and Clover!
Move, Reynolds! Move Starmore! Move Froelich –move over
Paton, don’t circle ’round; stand in the line.
Come now, you sheep will work out just fine!
I know this is hard; it’s just your first year,
I’d hate to go back to eight tiny reindeer.”
I peered over the sill; what I saw was amazing,
Eight wooly sheep on my lawn all a-grazing.
And then, in a twinkle, I heard at the door
Santa’s feet coming across the porch floor.
I rose from my knees and got back on my feet,
And as I turned ’round St Nick I did meet.
He was dressed all in wool from his head to his toe,
And his clothes were hand knit from above to below.
A bright Fairisle sweater he wore on his back,
And his toys were all stuffed in an Aran knit sack.
His cap was a wonder of bobbles and lace
A beautiful frame for his rosy red face.
The scarf ’round his neck could have stretched for a mile,
And the socks peeking over his boots were Argyle.
The back of his mittens bore an intricate cable.
And suddenly on one I espied a small label,
“S.C.” was duplicate stitched on the cuff,
And I asked, “Hey, Nick, did you knit all this stuff?”
He proudly replied, “Ho, ho, ho, yes I did.
I learned how to knit when I was a kid.”
He was chubby and plump, a quite well-dressed old man,
And I laughed to myself, for I’d thought up a plan.
I flashed him a grin and jumped up in the air,
And the next thing he knew, he was tied to a chair,
He spoke not a word, but looked in his lap
Where I’d laid my needles and yarn for a cap.
He quickly began knitting, first one cap then two,
For the first time I thought I might really get through.
He put heels in the stockings and toes in some socks.
While I sat back drinking scotch on the rocks.
So quickly like magic his needles they flew
That he was all finished by quarter to two.
He sprang for his sleigh when I let him go free,
And over his shoulder he looked back at me,
And I heard him exclaim as he sailed past the moon,
“Next year start your knitting sometime around June!”
Claire's Stitching Adventures 