The Brownie Scarf

After looking at Paulie's Blog and seeing pictures of the scarves she knitted, I remembered the one and only scarf I ever knitted.

I loved Brownies and was so excited to be in a Brownie troop. My troop number was "44" and I recall it was quite large. I don't know how the troop leaders did it. Girls, girls, everywhere.

My mom gave me 15 cents for my dues and I walked to Karen DeRossett's house after school for the first meeting. Karen was the leader's daughter, but I didn't figure that out right away because my mother told me to give the money to a "Mrs. Dee Rosette." Her instructions were very explicit and woe unto me if I messed them up.

Now, my mom has always had difficulty pronouncing things. To this day, she can't say my last name correctly and I have been married to Dan almost 30 years. But I was 8 years old when I started Brownies and didn't realize yet that mom couldn't pronounce things.

So, I listened politely when this Mrs. DeRossett (DeROSSett)did troop leader things and then asked for the dues. I didn't turn over my 15 cents right away because I had been under strict instructions to give it to Mrs. Dee Rosette. In fact, I think I got in trouble for hoarding the 15 cents. I couldn't win. I didn't realize that Mrs. DeROSSett and Mrs. Dee Rosette were the same person for at least a few years. In fact, I think we were Cadet Girl Scouts when I figured it out. I just silently wondered what happened to the "real" troop leader and at which point did Karen's mother step in?

One of our first projects was knitting. My knitting needles were gold and the yarn I was given was this putrid color of washed out blue/green, a pallid turquoise with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. But everyone else had the same yarn so I didn't whine out loud. We were to knit until we had a "square." Then this Mrs. DeROSSett lady would "cast off" and add our "square" to the other squares and make a blanket for the convalescent hospital. (This was the place we had to go and sing at Christmas time. It was scary and smelled bad. I didn't see the knitted blanket anywhere.)

I took to knitting like a cat takes to yarn and just knitted away, night and day. I loved the way the knitting needles tapped together and how each little row made the "square" bigger and bigger. I loved it SO much that I just kept knitting. And knitting. That "square" got longer and longer and longer.

Then I managed to get a hold of some really nice looking burgundy yarn. I am not sure where I found it but I did. I think it was in my gramma's sewing cupboard. I thought it was beautiful. The fact that it didn't match the putrid stuff did not matter at all. Plus, I was almost out of the putrid stuff so I just tied the burgundy stuff onto the putrid stuff and kept knitting. And knitting.

The troop leader asked me for my "square" and I told her that I needed more yarn. This should have clued her in that all was not right with Kim's knitting project, but all she did was hand me another ball of the putrid color. Since there wasn't much of the burgundy yarn left, I just tied another knot and added the putrid color to the burgundy and kept knitting. And knitting. Then I tried purling. Knit one, purl one. Knit one purl... what? Or just keep purling for awhile. Then knit. Then purl.

What emerged from my needles on the day I brought it to be "cast off" was a scarf-looking creation with a fat patch of burgundy towards the end. Some rows were longer than other rows and the leftover yarn from my knots was sticking out like a couple of cowlicks.

To her credit, the Mrs. DeROSSett lady "cast off" my contribution while muttering something to the assistant troop leader, who kept glancing over at me with a sorrowful look. I can hear the click of her knitting needles as I watched my knitting fall away from the gold needles. I can't remember the explanation I got but my "square" was not added to the big blanket that was going to the stinky convalescent home.

I brought the creation home with me and at some point wrapped it up with tissue paper and gave it to my dad. He did NOT look at me sorrowfully at all. He clearly loved the scarf, despite the putrid color, the burgundy patch, and the cowlick knots. He proudly put it on.

Over the years, my father wore that scarf during cold weather, wrapped tightly around his neck, not caring that it was a fashion catastrophe made by a Brownie Girl Scout who, somehow, managed to have the wrong troop leader.