33. Luke
Luke
Isit at a table against the wall as Natalie positions the group of ladies around two gathered tables in the middle of the diner. All of them have gray hair and wear knitted sweaters, despite the summer heat.
Natalie got roped into taking photos for the town’s local knitting club.
It’s not what she’s used to, compared to the social media celebrities she’s usually contacted by, but here in Maple Lake, the group seems to be a form of local renown.
Everyone knows everyone in this town, and the knitting ladies are no exception.
In fact, they seem to be the heart of everything that happens here.
We got here a few minutes earlier than the group, but when the women started trickling in, everything in the diner suddenly stopped, only starting again as the group shuffled tables together and took chairs from neighboring ones.
But every person in the diner seemed to expect it.
Men put down their forks to move chairs, and a waitress brought mugs and a pot of coffee before anyone got a chance to order it.
Once the ladies were seated and pulling balls of yarn from their handmade bags, the others went back to eating their breakfasts, picking up their conversations where they had been dropped minutes before.
“That’s perfect. Everyone smile for me,” says Natalie, moving around the joined tables with her camera to her face. “Rose, I can’t see you behind the knitting needles.”
Rose—who, upon meeting, I learned is the gas station owner’s wife—scowls before lowering her needles and shooting a wide, wrinkled smile at the camera.
There are six women in the circle, and I’m seeing from the sidelines that each has their own eclectic personality.
Natalie talks to Miss Paula—the lady I understand was the catalyst for this photo session. Miss Paula says something and then smiles broadly as all the ladies laugh at whatever she told them.
The shoot only takes about ten minutes, and when Natalie announces they’re done, she packs her camera away in its leather bag.
“Why don’t you two stay awhile?” Miss Paula asks as soon as I join Natalie by their table.
“Oh,” answers Nat, looking back at me. “We don’t know how to knit.”
“Nonsense,” she laughs. “We’ll teach you. There was a time when none of us knew how, and now look at us.”
There’s much agreement from the other ladies, and Natalie glances at me with a look that says she doesn’t know how to get out of this.
I smile at her. “Sure,” I say, looking back at Miss Paula. “We’d love to learn.” Natalie stares at me with wide eyes. I lean down to whisper in her ear. “Just for a few minutes. It’ll make them happy.”
She nods slowly, and I chuckle, pulling two more chairs to the table.
“What are we making?” I ask, taking a seat and watching as Natalie lowers herself timidly into the one beside me. She smooths her hair down nervously and hangs her camera bag over the back of the chair.
“We’re making squares,” Rose answers, “to make a baby quilt for Paula’s granddaughter.”
I sneak a look at Natalie. Her eyes have gone soft.
“Well, congratulations are in order,” I say to Miss Paula. “First grandchild?”
“Thank you, Luke,” she says. “Yes, it’s my first grandbaby. My daughter is due in the fall.”
“Well”—I place my hands on the table—“what can we do to help?”
The women pull out an assortment of yarns, handing a bundle of pink to Nat and blue to me.
Natalie unwinds the string until there’s a few feet of it draped across her lap. “Is it a boy or a girl?” she asks. “The baby.”
Miss Paula grins. “They don’t know. They’re keeping it a surprise until it’s born.”
“But it’s probably a girl,” Rose pipes in. “That’s my guess anyway, from the way she’s carrying.”
“The way she’s carrying?” I ask.
“If the belly is high and wide, it’s usually a girl. Boys like to hang a little lower,” Rose clarifies with a know-it-all glint in her eyes.
“Ah, I see,” I say, turning my head to Natalie, my brows raised high.
She gives me a yikes face, showing a hint of the dimple across her upper right cheek. “I didn’t know you could tell gender from the way a baby is positioned in the belly,” she says.
“You can’t really.” Miss Paula rolls her eyes at her friend. She doesn’t seem bothered, as if they’ve already gone through this before. “It’s just an old wives’ tale. It doesn’t actually have a real say in the gender, but it’s fun to guess.”
Miss Paula hands us each a set of knitting needles—long pointed things made of metal with stoppers on the ends.
She shows us how to get started, creating something called a slipknot.
She explains that the beginning of the project is called “casting on,” and she continues by demonstrating, holding the tail of the yarn in the opposite hand and looping it this way and that between her fingers and the needles.
“It’s actually really hard,” Natalie says, setting her needles in her lap after a few minutes and watching the other women as they work.
Each one dabbles in conversation as they loop and twist the strings, the motion so quick it all blurs together in indistinct motions. It’s amazing to watch; even I’m mesmerized by the dance.
“Smile,” sings Nat. I turn to see her with her camera pointed toward me.
I throw my head back and grin. “You’re not going to use this as blackmail, are you?” I say through my teeth, holding a smile in place.
She snaps the photo and looks down at the camera screen. “No. Just as a memory.” She smiles at the picture she took.
Coming to Maple Lake was a good idea. The best idea. When I jumped on a plane, I didn’t think I’d find myself in a small-town diner, knitting with a bunch of gray-haired women as they talk about baby genders.
But Natalie’s soft smile makes it all worth it, and I’d choose to do it again in a heartbeat.