The following is a true story. It was told to me at knit night on Wednesday. I will do my best to recount the story as it was told to me. Names have been changed.

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It was a February evening in southern Minnesota. A monthly hand-spinners get-together was just breaking up, spilling its chattering crowd, like a tumbled basket of yarn, into the snowy streets.

Anne clutched her nearly finished blue cardigan to her chest as she strode toward her car, fumbling for her keys. “Almost done,” she thought. “If I’d just had a another hour I could have bound off the second sleeve and woven in the ends. Oh well, no matter. I’ll finish it tomorrow.”  She trudged to the passenger side of her white sedan  and plopped the project and the remains of her last ball of…