Frogging

A few years ago, I had a student that came to me during our advisory period to show me her new found skill of knitting. I was really quite amazed, first of all, that she as a 13 year old was interested enough to learn to knit to begin with but, second, that she understood what all those loops did and in what exact order and under which exact string you pushed through the needle to get the desired result. She spent a few minutes with me crudely demonstrating the process while trying to simultaneously explain just what she was doing. She then handed me the needles – bright pink – to have my own go. I managed, which coaching, to make a few loose stitches and was quite proud of myself. She grinned, went back to her seat, and promptly undid the stitches I had just completed.

I spent several months learning to knit before my tendonitis-ridden wrists rejected the hobby. I discovered last Christmas that crochet was a little easier on my joints and have been addicted ever since. The art of taking one continuous piece of yarn and through the process of a seemingly jibberish series of loops and pulls ending up with a scarf is pretty cool.

There is a term belonging to both knitting and crocheting that I fell in love with the moment I learned its meaning: frogging.

Frogging is basically a mulligan; you remove your needle or hook and pull the loose end of your yarn, unraveling the stitches you’ve previously created all the way back to the beginning, or to the point of your desire, and start over. It’s called frogging because you “rip it” out… “Rip it” … frog. J

Back in January I found the most wonderful yarn I had ever touched: bamboo yarn. The fibers are incredibly soft and silky, but the interior of the yarn has an odd, stiff quality which makes for interesting crochet work. I just had to make something, anything, using this yarn. Over Christmas I had just finished a cowl that I loved and figured that a second with this new bamboo yarn would be an excellent edition to my wardrobe. I started crocheting, full force, with no regard to the weight of the yarn the pattern called for. I also decided, having completed a total of 4 previous projects, that I was skilled enough to adjust the pattern to what I thought would make it better.

The yarn did not lend itself well to the this particular project. The cowl was supposed to be this bulky, fluffy piece of clothing that billowed around the neck. The bamboo yarn was surprisingly heavy and lay flat, creating interesting but unintended layers. This was also only my second attempt at crocheting “in the round”, or in continuous circular rows, like a tube. My first attempt had been less than perfect, but the bulky weight yarn I used on the previous cowl hid some of my mistakes. There was no hiding the imperfect rows or the fact that I don’t keep an accurate stitch count while watching movies.

But I was positive that somehow it would work itself out. I adjusted the number of stitches here and there as I thought would rectify prior mistakes. Halfway through I realized I had forgotten to “chain one” after I joined each round, as the pattern called for, but figured I could just go ahead and start that midway. After all, the first half didn’t look that bad. Ultimately, as cool as I thought the term frogging was, the thought of pulling it all apart and starting over seemed less cool. So I persevered through the final stitch, and the outcome was not unexpected, though disappointing nonetheless:

A lumpy, uneven cowl with gaps where I had dropped stitches, bulges where I tried to add them, and a mess of a knot about ¾ of the way through where I tried somewhat unsuccessfully to join two skeins with a poorly executed square knot. My square knots have drastically improved, probably because they are correct now.

Yesterday I started my first hat. It’s a vintage-style cloche in a really beautiful shade of blue that I hope to wear in Ireland next month. ….. next month….

This hat, like most crocheted hats, is stitched in the round. At this point in my crocheting career though, my individual stitches are far more consistent, I have learned easier ways to keep track of my stitch count, and my skill of working in the round is far better than it was even just months ago. I was about a third of the way through the pattern when I noticed an odd bump forming in the fabric. Sometimes you don’t have a good idea of where the pattern is going so I continued on.

About an hour and 7 or 8 rows later, I had a full fledged camel hump in the back of my hat. Not attractive while semi-crumpled as I worked and less attractive on my head. I sighed, realizing what I was going to have to do… I was going to have to frog it.

Even knowing that the lump looked ridiculous, there is something both sad and satisfying about frogging hours of work. It’s sad to watch concentration and dedication quantified, in material form, disappear before your eyes. It’s satisfying to pull the loose end of the yarn and watch each loop uncurl itself and be left with straight fiber waiting to be reshaped to my desire. Any trace of a mis-stitch is erased with no record of the break in pattern left in the messy pile of yarn (at least my piles of frogged yarn is messy… surely there’s a neater way to do it).

So I frogged it.

I worked through the entirety of another movie, rewrapping the same yarn around my hook, pulling it through therapeutically, with instant gratification as I watched the fabric rebuild. And then I reread the pattern for a billionth time…

I had been slip stitching the end of each round, and I wasn’t supposed to until the end of round 25. (I do realized that probably 98% of you have NO idea what I’m talking about when I use these terms, but it doesn’t matter, doesn’t take away from the effect of the story, and makes me feel intelligent to use the right terms. J )I have no idea if that affects the ultimate outcome of my hat, but I’m approaching the project perfectionistically, and so in a moment I will probably go inside, get comfortable, and frog the last 15 rows of my hat for a second time in one day and start again. I want to do it the right way, and I want that dedication to live through the posterity of a great hat.

It’s sad and frustrating to know that life cannot be frogged. My life, all our lives, is far more like my bamboo cowl: dropped opportunity, added responsibility, and messes where we try to join it all together. Some are lumpier than others. Mine has gaps. I’ve learned that while I can’t micromanage my own life, I can at least micromanage my stitches, and this is going to be a dang good hat.

Pictures to follow…