New Tricks

I was perfectly capable, even at age seventy, to drive long distances. Still, Larry wasn’t comfortable with me at the wheel, so I taught myself to knit.

It was a twenty-one-hundred-mile drive to our grandson’s house in Tucson. Larry and I had no more problems than you’d expect a couple to have after fifty years of marriage. Still, eight consecutive days and nights on the road would test any relationship. We brought recorded books and music to fill the long hours, and undoubtedly, we’d chat, but when Larry needed to focus on his driving, I’d practice my new hobby.

The first day was hell. The yarn slipped off the needles, the needles slipped from my hands, the instructions fell to the floor, and I lost track of the stitch count. At the end of the day, I pulled out my work, re-wound the ball of light blue wool, and swore to give it up and just buy my grandson a scarf.

The next morning, I woke early. Larry slept late, resting his aching joints and muscles. I worried about him. We still had such a long way to go.

While my husband recharged, I gave knitting another shot. In the peaceful stillness of the bland hotel room, I sipped coffee while memorizing the pattern. Before starting over, I practiced the stitches, moving slowly and purposefully. The practice gave my fingers a chance to get comfortable with the feel of the smooth bamboo needles and the soft tension of the wool.

The time and miles flew that morning. By mid-morning, I could chat with my husband while my hands worked independently. The repetitive pattern ran like a computer program in one part of my brain while the other part listened to an audiobook or debated restaurant choices with Larry. My fingers moved in a rhythmic ballet until around lunchtime when the pattern changed. The going got tough for a while, but after an hour, I was back in the zone.

As we crossed into Oklahoma, we hit rain. Larry switched on the wipers, and I let our conversation lapse so he could focus on the road. My knitting kept me company. The soft yarn, smooth bamboo, and hypnotic litany of the pattern were soothing. The whoosh and sweep of the wipers added to the cozy sense of peace. Knit, knit, swoosh, purl, swish, and so on through the pattern.

Unconsciously, I began to sing to myself, converting the knits and purls into a nonsense verse. Ni-ni, swoo, url-swee, ni-ni, swoo,url-swee. Hours passed. I was so absorbed in the work that I didn’t notice exactly when the change began.

He’d driven through the rain for a good part of the day, but when we stopped that evening, Larry wasn’t as worn out as he’d been the night before. He even suggested a drink after dinner.

The hotel’s lounge was dimly lit but not so dark that I missed the glint in Larry’s blue eyes. I thought I’d seen the last of that glint forever. After a second drink, I surprised myself by making a suggestion that made me giggle like a kid. Larry accepted my offer, paid the bar tab, and held my hand as we walked to our room. Inside, we kissed and stumbled toward the bed, physically awkward but comfortable with each other.

Refreshed, we got an early start the next morning. Animated chatter filled the hours. While we joked and laughed, my fingers maneuvered the knitting needles deftly to the nonsense verse playing in my head.

Late in the day, I examined the scarf I was knitting, surprised at how quickly my work had grown. While I studied the wool, I noticed the brown spots sprinkling my hands had faded; a result of hours spent in the car, out of the sun, I reasoned.

After dinner that evening, we skipped the drinks and went straight back to the room. Larry’s stamina was astonishing for a man in his seventies. Maybe it was the weak light seeping in through the hotel curtains, but he looked better, less gray, and more toned than he had in years.

As I brushed my teeth the next morning, I realized Larry’s sudden, much-appreciated attention was doing me a world of good, too. My skin glowed, and the lines creasing my forehead had smoothed as though I’d left miles of worry behind me. I brushed my hair until it gleamed, and skipped to the car. Our road trip loomed like a grand adventure rather than the dreary chore it had seemed like days before.

We sang with the oldies station on the radio and shared “remember when” stories all morning. At noon, we ate a picnic lunch at a state park and cooled off with a swim aftward. Our impromptu skinning dipping disturbed a family of raccoons lunching on the riverbank.

Larry drove like a fiend that afternoon, impatient for a continuation of our picnic activities. My knitting needles clicked as we laughed and sang. That night, we escaped into wine, the room’s hot tub, and our desperate longing. Our eagerness to finish the day in each other’s arms blinded us to the obvious.

In the morning, we lay staring at one another in the merciless morning sun with a mixture of fascination and horror.

I tried unraveling my work and reciting the instructions backward while I worked them in reverse. Nothing changed. We searched the internet for reverse knitting spells and got information but found only knot spells. I tried them, but by sunset, we abandoned our efforts to reverse the process.

I burned the half-finished wool scarf at a rest area off Highway 40 in New Mexico. In the morning, we ran into each other in our rush to the bathroom mirror. We hadn’t changed overnight, but we weren’t getting any younger. For the moment, that was the best we could hope for.

We agreed that the truth was not an option. We’d be labeled medical miracles, subjected to endless tests and prodding. When that didn’t provide answers, I’d be hounded to repeat the feat. What if I couldn’t do it again? Even worse, what if I could? We’d never have another moment of peace. Our family would be put through hell.

When we crossed into Arizona, we stopped trying to fix an inexplicable problem that we had no hope of understanding. I set my new hobby aside forever. The last two hundred miles were driven in silence.

We couldn’t stop, and we couldn’t go home as we were. An accumulated lifetime of friends, family, and property would have to be abandoned. My heart ached for the grandchildren I’d never see again, but it was for the best. They wouldn’t recognize me anyway.

Larry passed the exit to Tucson. During the drive, we reconciled ourselves to the inevitable. Working through our retirement planner, we’d deal with the financial side of life from a distance. Afterward, we’d disappear and start over. It would be difficult, but we had our whole lives ahead of us.

END