Edward Jackson

Hate Knitting

When the knitter retired from nursing at the age of sixty-seven, her four sons pooled their money to pay for a celebratory trip. Only one son, the youngest, would get on planes. He was the default tour guide of his mother’s emerald island destination.
The knitter was prone to comments like, “of all my sons, I am least proud of your oldest brother” or, “don’t tell your brothers, but the second oldest just may be my favorite.” For reasons unknown to them, she always mixed up the number, so they could never pinpoint who was the one she was least proud of or, who was most loved.
In the TSA line at JFK, the youngest son noticed his mother had shears and knitting needles in her carryon bag.
“Ma, they won’t let you take those things on planes anymore. You were supposed to put them in your checked bag.”
“There is no way I’m getting on an eight-hour flight without my needles and sheers. They will understand.”
While the youngest son was pulled for a pat down, the retired knitter used her old lady Catholic charm and complimented the TSA agents’ mother on raising him well. The knitting needles and shears made it onto the Aer Lingus flight to Cork. But the youngest son’s face moisturizer did not as it was 4 ounces.
The youngest son made friends with the Icelandic rugby player sitting next to them. Soon mini bottles of whiskey were tossed back by the two. The knitter was of the Irish mother breed who did not touch the stuff and her annoyance with the youngest son grew. The speed of her needles increased with each mini bottle.
“Hey ma, can you knit me a cap for the trip? I forgot to pack one. How about one for my buddy here too?”
The knitter huffed at her youngest with shame in her eyes.
The Icelandic opened his backpack and took out a bottle of Ambien and offered one to each of his seatmates. The youngest son took one and tossed it back with his dinner. The knitter muttered something about drugs.
“Ma. It’s medicine not drugs.”
The lights dimmed somewhere over Nova Scotia. The youngest son and the Icelandic were out cold from the Ambien. The knitter’s needles continued to fly in anger. Under the influence of the Ambien, the Icelandic continued to put his shoes and socks off and on for hours. The youngest son blabbered for two hours to his mother that Laura Bush was the queen of America and would join them for cocoa in Cork.
By morning the knitter had made a dozen tulip caps adorned with rosettes. The Icelandic and the youngest son awoke refreshed and ready for their emerald isle adventure. The knitter was furious.
In customs, the youngest asked the Icelandic where he was staying and offered him a ride in their rented car. The knitter fumed. The Icelandic happily accepted.
In the backwards car, a stick no less, the youngest quickly hit a parked car.
“It’s just a bump. Keep going.” The knitter said from the passenger seat where she was furiously knitting, not even taking the time to look up and evaluate the damage.
“Ma, I totally bashed in that passenger door. We should stop, leave a note at least.”
“No way man. Listen to your ma. She knows the score.” The Icelandic said from the backseat.
The youngest son drove on to Waterford to look at crystal vases and trophies. The Icelandic decided to skip his rugby tournament and join them for their two-week circumference of the Isle at the invitation of the knitter.
The three made their way to the southern tip of Dunmore East. Stopping for a dinner of chowder and Guinness, they got out of the car and looked at the ocean. The cold wind whipped them about.
“Ma, did you make us hats on the plane? Can we get em, it’s freezing?”
The knitter took out two pink tulip hats adorned with shamrock green rosettes and threw them at the two.
“Ma. Come on. Get real. These are girls’ hats.”
“Dude, these are awesome, thanks.” The Icelandic put the pink tulip head and kissed the knitter on the head. The three asked a local to take a picture of them with the rocky beach in the background.
Back at the pub the youngest ordered two Guinness.
“Three Guinness” added the knitter.
“Ma, you don’t drink.”
“Dude lighten up, if your ma wants a beer let her order one.”
The knitter looked at the Icelandic and kissed him on the cheek and said to him, “Of all my boys, I love you the most.”