Every Tuesday night, I meet my girls at a cafe on Broadway for Knitty Night.
Truth be told, "Cafe" is probably too sophisticated of a term. Broadway is the . . .grittier. . part of our little city's "downtown." In reality, where we knit is in an old rectangular building, split right down the middle into two rooms. The North half is a "Roadhouse" bar; the South Half is a restaurant with two couches plunked down next to the front window, which allow the owner to deem it a "Cafe."
But, as I think about it, I guess it is cafe-ish, as patrons are welcome to sit at their leisure and visit.
Or, in our case, knit.
We feel very welcome at Knitty Night. While we don't rack up huge bar bills, we are quite low-maintenance and tip well.
Plus, they've never had to escort us off the premises due to drunken disorderliness, which they probably can't say about most of their steady customers who have been coming in faithfully, weekly, for over two years.
So, we are welcome customers.
Additionally, we don't smell like a sewer.
And, we have all of our teeth.
Wow, this list as to why they like us just keeps on growing, doesn't it?
(Start humming the Cheers theme now.)
Last night, as I plunked down on the couch, I noticed a pile of mismatched knitting needles on the coffee table.
All treasures garnered by a devoted employee’s couch diving /cleaning late last week.
They knew exactly whose knitting needles they were. And they saved them for us.
Are you feeling the love? I am.
My eyes lit up as I spotted it.
There it was.
My lost needle.
The lost needle, back in its rightful spot. Please avert your eyes from the dreaded aqua aluminum monstrosity I had to use in the meantime.
“I saw that and knew right away that it was Sarah’s, because she knits washcloths on wooden size 8’s,” Essie commented.
This is LOVE and FRIENDSHIP, people, in one of its purest forms. This group of dear ladies not only know my name, they know the type and size of needles I use to knit washcloths.
It's the Knitter's Equivalent of a Blood-Bond, Rub Your Spit in Each Other's Wounds, Pinky-Swear BFF Friendship.
I’ve owned this particular of set of wooden size-8 needles for at least 18 years. I knit ALL of my Sugar ‘n Cream cotton cloths on size 8 needles. Nothing else.
I had been devastated to realize that I had lost it. I had an inkling that it probably slipped between the cushions during a laughing-so-hard-I’m-crying, wine-filled knitting session.
Really, I should restate: I was devastated, but not soooo devastated that I was willing to go couch diving at our knitting joint.
But I didn't have to. Because I knit at a place where they know our names, and our knitting needles. And Cheers ain't got nuthin' on that.