I have come to realize something about myself over the years.
Sometimes I have a little too much confidence in my knitting abilities.
Unfortunately, confidence and counting don't always go hand in hand.
About twenty-five years ago, I met a wonderful lady named Myrna on a craft cruise. We became instant friends, as did our husbands. Somewhere along the way I discovered that Myrna was, and still is, a retired Assistant Attorney General for Idaho. In other words...she's brilliant.
As if that weren't enough, she had written two knitting patterns that appeared in The Shop on Blossom Street, and later designed a breathtaking lace shawl. Naturally, I had to knit it.
In fact, I was so determined that I flew all the way to Portland, Oregon, to take her workshop.
Now, this wasn't a weekend project. Oh no. This shawl and I spent about two years getting to know one another.
During another craft cruise—this time admiring the beautiful Dutch tulips—I continued working on it. I also continued making mistakes.
Over...
...and over...
...and over again.
Poor Myrna would quietly watch me think back, sigh, and start again. Eventually, I think she simply couldn't bear watching me unravel one more row. This was before we all casually referred to it as "frogging."
She would gently take my knitting, fix only the offending stitch, hand it back, and say,
"Doris...read your knitting."
"I am reading it!" I'd reply.
"No," she'd say with that wonderfully patient smile. "Read your knitting. Read the stitches—not the pattern."
That simple lesson changed everything.
She taught me to look at what my stitches were actually telling me instead of blindly following the written instructions. It was one of the greatest knitting lessons I've ever learned.
Fast forward to the bind-off.
I reached the final row with three stitches left over.
Three.
Not according to the pattern.
So naturally, I ripped it back and tried again.
Three stitches left over.
Again.
After several attempts, I called Myrna.
"Myrna, I think you need to reread your pattern. There's a mistake. I keep ending with three extra stitches."
Now, keep in mind, this pattern had been published for years. She had taught countless classes with it.
She simply replied, "Is that right?"
"Yes! I've checked it over and over. I think there's an error."
Again she calmly said,
"Is that right?"
Well...
I ripped it back one more time.
And wouldn't you know...
The mistake wasn't in her pattern.
It was in my knitting.
I called her immediately.
"Myrna, I'm so sorry. It wasn't your pattern after all. It was me."
Her response?
"Is that right?"
Never once did she say, "I told you so."