The First Step Is Admitting You’re Packing a Yarnball

I don’t often tell people I knit. I prefer it to be a secret quirk of mine – something people I’ve known for years might never be aware of, like when families of the deceased find deskfuls of poetry, reams of vintage stamps, or stacks and stacks of Tiger Beat in the homes of family members. “Who knew?” they say to each other.

If asked, I wouldn’t deny at least dabbling – I’m not ashamed, just shy. When I was 17 my grandmother taught me to knit, and my aunt taught me to crochet. Since then I’ve never really made a habit of either, though I do go on occasional benders, making hats and scarves, and starting blankets I’ll never finish. I’m not wearing a “Scarf Ace” t-shirt (“Say hello to my needle, friend”) or collecting punny bumper stickers like “Knit Happens” – though now that I think about it perhaps I should be.

The Camel Knitters meeting appears each week in college event emails – Wednesdays in Oasis snack shop at noon. Curious but unwilling to take my hobby to the next level, for the past three years I’ve told myself and friends, “I knit, but I’m not a knitter.” Knitters have circles, cases for their needles and bags of unused yarn multiplying in their closets. That wasn’t me; I was too cool. By all accounts, I was exhibiting a number of red-flag addiction behaviors: knitting alone, knitting in secret, finding excuses to knit, becoming angry when confronted about knitting, trembling in the morning. I needed help.

Charged with writing an article about Conn Coll’s premier knitting circle, I was forced to confront my demons last Wednesday. I went out for provisions the night before: a skein of yarn and a new crochet hook. Armed with these, I would infiltrate their ranks. I was Hunter S. Thompson, and the Camel Knitters were my Hells Angels.

“They’ll expect me to come every week if I go once,” I complained to a friend over breakfast. “I can’t commit to that.”

“I think you’re assuming they’ll accept you right away. Don’t you think it’s more exclusive than that? You can’t just show up and be one of them.”

He was so right. My confidence was shot. Who was I to pretend the Camel Knitters were even interested in having me at their meeting? They couldn’t care less, and in joining them I was hardly in a position to deign.

I arrived in Cro at 12:05 with a canvas bag of yarn tucked into my backpack. Shaken by my rude awakening, I made a furtive dash through Oasis, pretending as though I’d come to check my mail. My initial pass revealed no coven of wool-clad crafties, save one woman who seemed to know what I was up to. She sat expectantly in the U-shaped booth by the microwave – she had to be one of Them.

Oh God, I thought, if there’s only one person, I’m not going. I almost left.

Waiting for more knitters to arrive, I kept an eye on the booth, and with no mail to read, I hovered strangely by the bulletin boards, pretending to plan my weekend. I felt like a freshman on the first day of class, terrified of finding himself in close quarters with old pros. As I waited, every person walking into Cro became a suspect. I was sizing up handbags and purses, guessing at who might be packing wool. Minutes passed, and my feigned interest in the three posters in front of me was becoming transparent. I made a second, slower pass by the booth to assess the situation. There were five or six of them gathered, and it was now or never. I bought myself a drink and marched over.

“Hi, are you the Camel Knitters?”

“Yes,” a few of them answered, a bit guardedly.

I introduced myself and took a seat. Once it was clear I’d come to join them, they were nothing if not welcoming.

I’m not sure why I assumed the conversation would be strictly knitting-related, but in the hour I sat with them, we covered everything from flooded basements and sump pumps to homemade ice cream. Of course there was a bit of shoptalk, but even those who call themselves knitters can discuss other things. Crocheting in the middle of Cro, I felt as though I’d come out of the closet. I felt a part of something warm and woollen.

Though it’s clear it takes more than an afternoon to really be a Camel Knitter, I feel I’ve taken an important step.

My name is John S., and I knit.

Camel knitters meet weekly, Wednesdays at noon, in Oasis snack shop.