MARA
Some publishers like to do things in-house while others prefer to put everything out to freelancers. Taunton Press was of the former persuasion, although in-house was too small a term to describe their operation. They had editors, artists, illustrators, graphic designers, and even video-making studios under one impressive roof. They had every facility and were geared to producing and publishing a wide range of books, magazines and videos on craft subjects. The Fair Isle knitting book that I had written over the preceding year was ready to roll apart from the jacket, and I had just attended a meeting to decide what should be on it.
The day started at a leisurely pace. I awoke in my four-poster bed, showered and headed down for a massive breakfast to compensate for the privations of the night before. The hotel was panelled and beamed, with log fires and cushioned nooks, and in addition it had kitchens that could turn you into a blimp if you stayed there long enough. The blueberry muffins were large, luscious and irresistible; the ham was succulent and the pancakes were of continental proportions. The only peculiar feature was the decor, for the entire place was festooned with leprechauns and shamrocks and when I asked the reason why, I was met with incredulity. St Paddy's Day!
'But that's almost two weeks away,' I answered, causing general incomprehension. I was discovering for the first time that Americans take their Irish saints very seriously and that preparations for the big day start weeks in advance.
I was picked up by a friendly editor in a gleaming 4x4 and the journey to Newtown was highly enjoyable. The whole area was quiet and wooded, with a Hobbit-like air to it, and the curving state highways were a pleasure to travel on. After introductions the meeting was lively but serious, and a corporate decision was made that the front jacket of the book would feature a close-up of my hands knitting.
'Knitting what?' I innocently asked.
Just your Fair Isle knitting of the moment, was the general answer. Whatever it is that you're knitting right now. I quickly realised that my hosts and publishers were labouring under a delusion: they thought that since I was renowned as an expert on hand knitting, I would have all kinds of knitting coming out of my ears. It seemed churlish to explain that as a professional knitting designer I don't tend to knit in my leisure hours - I garden and hike and photograph wildlife - and I certainly wasn't going to be knitting whilst on a lengthy road trip across America. I had my lecture samples but nothing I was actually making at the time. Even if I had, it would have been textured and not colour work, for my next book was to feature mainly textured designs. Still, the cover photo was scheduled to be taken next morning, so I realised that if I was not to disappoint then I had better get something on the pins without delay. It was after six when I got back to the hotel, and in the midst of a darkening Hobbit land I sat cross-legged on my four-poster bed and knitted away like a Hebridean herring girl of yesteryear.
It is miraculous what can be accomplished on Girl Scout cookies. I decided to pass on the hotel's legendary dinners; there was fruit in my room, plus I had my cookies and a couple of miniatures of Jack Daniels that had been given to me on the flight over. When I design for publication my procedure is invariable. I design and draw a silhouette; I create and chart out pattern motifs; I decide on colours for my patterns and swatch them; then I calculate the instructions and write them out. Then and only then is a garment knitted. Draw first, knit later is my motto for professional design. On this occasion time was of the essence and so I had to devise patterns and balance them out with colours as I went along. I only had a limited amount of yarns with me for demonstration purposes, and these I tipped onto the bed to see what I could do.
The sea never lets me down; it is always in my head wherever I am, be it up a mountain, in the desert or on a four-poster bed in Connecticut. The sea is a world in itself - everything is there. I cast on enough stitches for a garment to fit myself and proceeded to knit the sea in one of its infinite moods. I put on my Walkman, engaged knitting overdrive and worked very quickly, stopping only occasionally for a bite of Girl Scout cookie, a segment of orange and a sip of Tennessee's finest. The music I knitted to was Stop Making Sense by Talking Heads - a rhythmic roller-coaster guaranteed to keep you moving. Three hours later I had enough on the needles for a respectable cover photograph, so I christened the design Mara - which is simply Gaelic for sea - and fell asleep on my antique bed.
My hands and handiwork were photographed early next morning, and we were all done by the back of 10am. I was to dine with some Taunton staff that evening but until then I was at a loose end. I could have cracked on with Mara, as they wanted me wearing it on the back cover, but I didn't want to spend the day cooped up knitting and decided to take off in the White Bird for a few hours. My ideal plan would have been to make a pilgrimage to the birthplace of HP Lovecraft in Providence, Rhode Island, but it was just too far for the time available. And anyway, the sea called and demanded my presence as soon as possible. I made for New Haven partly because it was the closest coastal town and partly because it once was home to not one but two businesses that shaped American history: the Colt Manufactory and the Winchester Repeating Arms Company, makers of the legendary Colt .45 and Winchester rifle. It had also given the world the Frisbee, just to redress the balance.
The short drive down to Long Island Sound, on deliberately chosen small back roads, made up for missing HP Lovecraft country. The terrain was not as hoary as that which he described in his tales of Arkham and Dunwich, but there was a breathlessness about the trees that made me believe odd things could go on there. If like me you prefer open vistas - moors and seas and deserts - then you may be intrigued by the woods but you will never entirely trust them. It felt slightly claustrophobic in the woods of New England and I did wonder what secrets they held behind the Hansel and Gretel charm. After the woods it felt entirely fitting to stroll through the American Gothic spires of the Yale campus, noting that Ivy League universities really were covered in ivy. I liked the atmosphere of the campus and the bustle of the nearby bookshops and boutiques and little eateries. I went to Louie's Lunch - home of the hamburger apparently - and ate at an old, etched wooden bench. Continuing my ramblings I crossed a street and found myself staring at a piece of waste land where hobo-types in woolly hats were gathered around oil drums in which massive fires were burning.
They do these invisible boundaries so well in America. I recalled being a guest in a house in Atlanta, in a really pleasant, leafy part of the city. My hosts told me that the area was safe to walk until you reached the point where a railway line bridged the road. I was told that I must on no account pass under that bridge. This interested me. The expression 'wrong side of the tracks' clearly had literal significance; in this case, one side was safe, the other was dangerous. I realised there was a similar situation in New Haven: the campus area was safe but it was not wise to cross the street over which I had just walked. I could not understand these invisible lines - why was there was no fuzzy zone of transition between the two worlds they separated? Why did the denizens of the dark side not stray over the boundary? I didn't philosophise for too long but did an abrupt about-turn, glad that my radar was becoming more sophisticated.
On the way to find the sea I experienced my first road rage incident. I wanted to find Lighthouse Point Park and was unsure which turn to make at a junction. I hesitated and caused a minor blip in the free flow of traffic. A man in an early, gas-guzzling Buick blasted his horn at me and shot me a grimace of such naked ferocity that I accidentally knocked the drive selector and stalled the Bird. Flustered, I tried to restart quickly but it was a case of more haste less speed. The man was youngish, black and wiry; his car had once been a silvery colour but it now had the patchy patina of a military jet from the Vietnam War, and I was petrified that he was going to jump out and come after me. I started the Bird and took the line of least resistance over to the right - the desired direction as it happened. He turned right too and roared past me at speed, shaking his fist and radiating rancour. The incident left me sad but jittery and when I reached the park it took several minutes and many deep breaths to calm down. I had never before been on the receiving end of such an eruption of violent aggression. Was it something about my face? Was it the Alabama plates on the Bird? Whatever the reason, the results were very real and very scary. In some Afro-American communities nerves were raw, there was a deep well of anger and it didn't take much for it to spill over. I had to take more deep breaths and remind myself that according to the Tuskegee Institute in the Bird's home state, a total of 3,833 people were lynched in the USA between 1890 and 1940. The majority of those victims were black. Whenever Billie Holiday sang of strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees, she performed the song with her eyes closed and then walked off stage without taking a bow.
My equilibrium was regained on finding the sea. There was a splendid octagonal lighthouse - the shape is a Connecticut maritime trademark - and an equally interesting lightkeeper's dwelling. I adore lighthouses. I live across a bay from one that has a double flash every eight seconds, and I love the way it sweeps and lights up the undersides of clouds. The daylight was too broad to see what effects the New Haven Harbor light could pull off, but it was a thrill to see it just standing there. The sea braced my spirits. Long Island Sound was far less busy than I anticipated - I thought I was going to see some real ocean-going monsters but there was just a distant ferry and a sprinkling of sailing craft yawing about in the moderate breeze. There was something oddly familiar about Long Island, way over on the far side of the sound. Hebrideans are used to long, low horizontal stretches of scenery, and I felt quite at home looking at it.
From the trunk of the Bird I took a box that had been stowed there since Birmingham, Alabama, and which had made its way over the Atlantic in a corner of my suitcase. It was a little cardboard box containing a piece of Lewissian gneiss, which can come in many colours but in this case was silvery grey with flecks of white quartz and a vein of delicate pink. I had selected it from the summit of a hill called Roineval, which is not the highest point of my island home, but which for me is its spiritual centre. I removed the stone from the box and took it down to the shore, where little waves flopped onto the rocky beach beside the lighthouse. I walked down to greet them and dabbled my stone in the surf. I intended to take it with me across the entire width of the continent and dip it in the Pacific on the other side: it would be my own small ceremony to celebrate my safe passage. However, that would be a good few weeks into the future as I still had gigs and business in the east, my next port of call being New York City. Turning my stone over in my hand, I bade farewell to the Atlantic and walked back towards the White Bird. With those steps, my overland coast-to-coast journey had begun.