The Story of Three Irish Girls… a fairy tale. Chapter Eight.
Thursday, February 19, 2009 at 4:41AM Read the previous chapter here.
The girl surveyed her new classroom. Number 12 faced directly into a large courtyard, where flowers bloomed prolifically. Doors that opened directly outside, not into an enclosed hallway? Halls that had a roof but no walls, no doors? Grass that was brown in the summer and green in the winter? There was a lot to get used to.
She later discovered that the school had no textbooks -- the entire department's texts had been destroyed in a flood from a burst pipe. There wasn't money to buy more. And there were no computers. If she wanted one, she'd have to supply her own.
She made a mental note of the resources the school lacked: textbooks. computers, school supplies of any kind, a library that was open more than two hours a week, soap and toilet paper in the restrooms, paper for the copy machine, overhead projector screens, televisions for watching educational videos, heat, air conditioning.
The school hadn't had these items in years, and there were no plans to obtain them -- the district directed nearly all of its cash toward teacher salaries. Teachers and students either brought their own or did without.
But there was one item supplied by the school at teacher check-in day: an earthquake kit, which was to be kept in the closet in her classroom in case they were trapped. It contained a box of granola bars, a gallon of water, a flashlight, two candy bars, and bandages, the kind you use for skinned knees. How will this save us in the event of an earthquake? I'm supposed to give a classroom of 37 students 1/3 of a granola bar and two sips of water each? What will these bandages do if we're trapped in the rubble?
When school began, the girl found her students delightful -- friendly, helpful, cooperative, funny, and hard working. The condition of the school was apparently of little matter to the teens, as they seemed perfectly content and happy. Then began the rolling blackouts, where the electricity would be shut off with no advance warning for hours at a time. Teachers were still expected to conduct class, albeit in semi-darkness. She settled into her new position, took on the sponsorship of the senior class and the planning of the prom, and waited.
She waited to feel like she belonged here. She missed home. She missed trees. She missed water. She missed seasons. She missed her family and friends. She did not miss the mosquitoes or the subzero temperatures.
Her husband embarked on trip after trip, some months traveling 3-4 days a week. His flights back to the East Coast took six hours, and a two day journey became four when you allowed for travel time. The girl filled her time with grading and planning for 180 honors English students, having coffee with her fellow teachers, talking on the phone to her mother and surfing the ever-expanding world of the internet.
Her home computer was hooked up to a new marvel called "DSL", and she could surf at amazing speeds. While the rest of the country limped along on AOL dial up, the couple's geographic proximity to Silicon Valley gave them an edge in the arena of technological advances. (The advances came at a price that schools couldn't afford, however.) She did a search for book stores and craft stores, wondering what could be found nearby. She was disappointed to discover that the area they had moved to was sorely lacking in these kinds of shops. If she wanted doughnuts, strip malls, movie theaters, or nail salons, they had those aplenty.
The only craft store she could locate within a short drive was Michael's, and it was small, at best. The lighting was dim, the floors dingy. What is wrong with this city? The girl thought in frustration. People don't read? People don't make things? What is there to do here, stare at palm trees and freeways? Get your nails done? She knew her frustration stemmed from being completely uprooted and then being left alone for long periods of time in her apartment with Evil Isabel.
She did manage to locate a fabric store about 15 miles away (it took at least 35 minutes to drive there), and set out, steering her car onto the freeway lined with concrete. The fabric store was also disappointingly small, but she found a few pieces of quilting cotton she liked. She was nearly done with a wall quilt for her new sister-in-law, and the fabric she chose would make the perfect backing.
She wandered around the fabric store, killing time. She found a small section of artificial flowers, a small section of unpainted wooden birdhouses and trinkets, and a small section of yarn and crochet books. She perused the selection. Nearly everything was about crocheted afghans, and the paltry selection of acrylic yarn in garish colors was disappointing. One booklet caught her eye:
The title convinced her that the patterns would be easy to knit. The instructions were given step by step, none of those fancy chart things that she didn't understand. She added the booklet to her basket, selected a wool/acrylic blend in a taupe shade (the only neutral available), and paid for her purchases. Will two skeins of Wool-Ease be enough for an afghan, she wondered? It says 197 yards on each ball. That's a lot. I bet this mushroom color will go nicely in my mother's living room.
Back at her empty apartment, she found a stitch pattern in the booklet that looked relatively easy. It was a basketweave pattern made up only of knits and purls.
Armed with her grandmother's needles, a booklet picked up in a fabric store, and free time galore, the girl set off down the path of the knitter. This booklet, this couch in this apartment in this land of sunshine and strip malls, this was the writing on the wall in invisible ink that can only be seen when you turn around.
She plugged away on her afghan squares. No, two skeins of Wool-Ease would not be enough. She had to buy more. And more. Four was also not enough, nor six. She taught herself how to make cables by following the simple directions in the booklet. She would try, rip back, try again, rip back, try again until she got it right. She slowly amassed a pile of rectangles, confident that the booklet would also show her how to sew them together into a blanket.
In February, her husband came home from his job on the other side of the Bay with a proposition. "Would you be interested in moving to Washington, DC?" he asked.
Keep reading here.
Chit Chat 
Reader Comments (5)
Even though I know the story, I am a rapt reader of these installments! This paragraph - "Armed with her grandmother’s needles, a booklet picked up in a fabric store, and free time galore, the girl set off down the path of the knitter. This booklet, this couch in this apartment in this land of sunshine and strip malls, this was the writing on the wall in invisible ink that can only be seen when you turn around." - is amazing and brilliant. And the treasured mushroom colored afghan was used to warm Clara just yesterday. I think you should post a photo of evil Isabel soon - she's becoming an important lurking character in your story. I look forward to a post about her penchant for fireplaces, even though that has nothing to do with knitting.
Aw, your mama loves you. So sweet to read.
Say YES to moving to DC. heh
The book you have there is one I bought, too. I learned most of what I know from those kinds of books. Follow the pattern, follow the drawn illustrations. Ah, the days before the internet......
Wonderful installment!
Such a shame that the education of the next generation does not seem to be a particularly high priority in the land of technology and plenty. Budget really should not have been such an issue. Kudos to you and other teachers for your determination to provide the best possible for their students.
I totally agree with your mother - that paragraph is brilliant. And it has me thinking about the twists and turns of my own life....invisible ink, I have to remember that.
Wow - rolling blackouts in a school? craziness. Glad the students were enthusiastic.
And I am giggling at the thought of an afghan with two skeins of wool-ease!
I am now officially hooked. After reading through all the installments the other night, I've checked back every spare moment awaiting the next chapter like a junkie looking to score a hit. ('Cuz I'm sure you've got that kind of time on your hands, posting blogs to the exclusivity of all else.)