It's a Mystery!

Something tells me it is Monday. This is strange, since yesterday was Saturday. I look around and see evidence of activity I do not recall. How did that box of Nilla Wafers get on my desk? When did I take a picture of Harvey and post it en blogue? Who ate the leftover glop I was so looking forward to?

I enlist the aid of my top advisor, Sherlock: Poodle Minor. We launch an investigation and advance theories as to what might have happened. As we work, his wet nose thrusting itself into bits of evidence without thought to wearing rubber nose protectors, a pattern begins to emerge.

Our first real clue is this pile of yarn leftovers, apparently spread out on the ottoman for a purpose. We find one missing and after some research discover that it is Chestnut. But why Chestnut? What did Chestnut do, or why was Chestnut singled out and most importantly: where was he?

It wasn't long before Sherlock discovered a pile of yarn lengths in several colors. Some were as long as four inches, but most were between one and three inches long. Carefully handling the fiber, we analyzed the distribution and number of colors and found there were only six. Further, we ascertained that the type of sheep which produced the fiber had to have come from only one region in the world-- the Shetland Islands. Because of the thickness of the wool, we narrowed the source down to two mills: Jamieson's or Jamieson & Smith, two mills located in the Shetlands which produce practically identical wool for the retail market.

We stopped for a doughnut, a Greenie and three cups of coffee while we waited for the Domestic Resources Department to obtain color cards from the two mills. I could tell Sherlock was getting tired, but we were hot on the trail of What Happened, and we couldn't give up now.

Back at the office we had received the lab report on the fibers, which concluded that the six colors were from Jamieson's mill, and that they were of the colors known as Old Gold, Dark Navy, Admiral Navy, Maroon, Redcurrant and... Chestnut. We had our first breakthrough-- a link between the missing yarn and the pile of scraps.

Sherlock took a short nap to renew his investigative vigor while I caught up on paperwork. We hit the trail again, determined to solve the case.

As we walked about the house, I saw something odd on the stairs. It was a long green bag, somewhat like an umbrella cover but much too big for an umbrella. Its drawstring closure was loosened, and the contents, whatever they were, had been removed. Spurred on by Sherlocks excited barking and scratching at the bag, I reached in and found a piece of paper at the bottom. It said "Wooly Board". We looked at each other and then ran for the Google login screen.

A wooly board, or woolly board as it is sometimes spelled, is a wooden or metal device used to block (or stretch) woollen handknit garments to dry after washing. They usually come in several parts for easy storage and are easily assembled when needed. Aha! We now had a good idea of what had been in the green bag.

Despite the fact that we hadn't eaten for more than eighteen minutes, we pressed on.

In the kitchen, we found that the enamel turkey roaster had been removed from its cabinet and used for some purpose. On the counter there stood a bottle that looked like it might hold chemicals. This was getting a little scary. We sent some of the liquid off to the lab for analysis, and they confirmed what we had suspected-- the chemical really was what the label purported. Synthrapol. Synthrapol, the most widely used substance for restitution of historical garments in the world. Synthrapol, similar in chemical construction to the domestic household dishwashing liquid, Dawn. Synthrapol-- often used to wash delicate modern garments such as.... sweaters.

Now we had a good idea what we were looking for. Sherlock, his half-eaten Greenie hanging from his mouth like a pipe, postulated a coherent theory: we might find, somewhere on or near the premises, a recently washed sweater that had been or was still being blocked on a wooly board. The presence of the short fibers suggested that the sweater might have been recently constructed. The absence of the piece of Chestnut might suggest that the knitter had been forced to scrounge around for enough of that color to finish the sweater.

Soon we found a pattern of dried drip marks that led from the kitchen to the office. Along the way was a still-damp towel, perhaps used to press extra water from the sweater before blocking. Our hearts were thumping as we arrived at the door of the office and swept the room with our eyes. There in the center of the room was the solution to our mystery. Saga Rose, complete except for buttons, basted up the front, washed and drying on a woolly board.

Suddenly it all came back to me-- everything that had happened on Sunday. Nanny Granny had told me early in the morning that I had to finish Saga Rose that day, period. She stayed by my side, wouldn't let me put it down. Tippi Jane rubbed my shoulders and bathed my forehead with cool moist towels. Ermadine kept calling me from various homes in the neighborhood, attempting to distract me from my task. I ran out of Chestnut, and looked everywhere for another skein but alas, none was there. My appeal for mercy to Nanny Granny was met with eyes of stone and a heart of ice. Suddenly I remembered the leftovers from all those skeinikins that I had made in a former life. Pawing through them all, I finally located some Chestnut and finished my sleeve. I looked at Nanny Granny, who inspected the sweater and told me to redo the end of the first cuff, because I had not knit a solid row of Dark Navy before I bound off. Frustrated, I redid the cuff and then started weaving in my ends. When Nanny Granny wasn't looking, I just cut all the ends that weren't close to the outside of the sweater. They'll just fuzz up anyway.

It was nearly midnight before I finished basting up the center and washed the cardigan in my turkey roaster with a dose of synthrapol. At that point, something clicked off in my brain, and I was left, once more, with Damnesia.

I am glad to be done with Saga Rose. She started off so sweet and willing, but then something happened. I didn't want to see her anymore. She kept crying and whining and pleading, but this just turned me off. Finally, she sat quietly in her basket for nearly a year, learning to be humble and to ask politely and thus earned back her place in my heart. I look forward to wearing her over my turtlenecks for many years.

Posted by Sheila at October 11, 2004 08:30 AM Posted to Saga Rose | Sherlock | Stories | TrackBack