“We will, Mary Beth,” said Annie. “Don’t rush; we all have plenty to work on, I’m sure.” She turned to Alice as they walked to the familiar circle of chairs where the Hook and Needle Club meetings took place.
“Or a mystery to talk about,” Alice whispered. “You did bring the sporran, didn’t you?”
Annie nodded before addressing the other members of the club. “Good morning, Stella and Gwen. Oh, and Kate,” she added the last as the door to the back storage room opened to reveal the Mary Beth’s shop assistant and crocheter extraordinaire.
“Hi, everyone,” Kate greeted them. “I’m going to go relieve Mary Beth from helping customers so she can get the meeting started. I’m close enough that I won’t miss much.”
“Good,” said Alice. “You always come up with such fun designs. Even though I don’t crochet, I’m still inspired by them.”
“Thanks, Alice.” Kate paused on her way to take over for Mary Beth. “Even if the shop stays too busy, you’ll get to see an example of my latest design. Mary Beth will be showing it to everyone.”
“I’m going to miss seeing Peggy today,” said Gwendolyn Palmer, wife of the president of Stony Point Savings Bank and an avid knitter.
“Well now, you don’t have to go doing that, Gwen.” Peggy sashayed into the meeting, her right hand bandaged tightly and her daughter Emily by her side. “Em and I would go bonkers sitting around home all day with Wally working extra hours this week.”
Stella looked up from her knitting, her fingers not slowing at all, and gifted Peggy’s young daughter with a smile. “Emily, you are old enough to begin learning a needlecraft. Do you have a favorite type?”
Unlike a fair amount of adults who were faced with Stella’s scrutiny, Emily was comfortable conversing with the octogenarian widow. “I don’t know, Mrs. Brickson. I kinda like them all.”
“Perhaps, then, your goal should be to decide which one to learn first,” said Stella.
“Maybe you can teach me to knit,” Emily said. “Can—I mean—may I sit next to you and watch you today, Mrs. Brickson?” Emily stood at the seat next to Stella, while the ladies around the room kept their smiles restricted to their minds.
Stella fixed her eyes on the eight-year-old, who bobbed up and down from toe to heel, heel to toe, as she waited for the answer. “You may sit and watch, Emily, but no touching, mind you. This delicate, light yarn will show the smallest of smudges.”
Emily held up both hands, as if in surrender. “No touching, I promise. I’ll sit on my hands if I have to.”
“Good thing you’re not the one who tripped on the dock,” Peggy said with a wry grin as she took a seat between Gwen and Alice. Her daughter laughed and plopped herself down next to Stella.
Mary Beth strode past the group. “I’ll be right there!” she explained as she continued to the shop’s small office. A short minute later she re-emerged with something colorful in her left hand. “Before we share our individual projects today, I have a request to pass on from Carla Calloway at the animal shelter. She needs some immediate help.”
“What’s up?” Alice asked, couching a line of tiny dark gray stitches over a curve of metallic silver thread. The other women, and Emily, looked up from their work to give the shop owner their full attention.
“The animal shelter has a challenge on its hands. There is a battery chicken house outside of town and inspectors found the hens to be horribly malnourished. Over a hundred hens have been rescued. They have lost most of their feathers and keep pecking at the few they have left.”
Emily stuck out her bottom lip. “Did the police get the bad guys who were so mean to those chickens?”
“Yes. I did hear those involved with the farm have all been charged with animal cruelty,” answered Mary Beth, “and Carla is trying very hard to help the hens heal. But she needs the help of Stony Point knitters and crocheters.” She unfolded the crocheted piece in her hand, revealing a small sweater. “Kate worked with Carla to design a sweater for the hens to protect the remaining feathers until the others have grown back. I also have a knitting pattern to share.” She handed the sweater to Annie to pass around the circle.
“I saw a news report on something like this,” Alice interjected. “In England, a knitting club made sweaters for battery hens from a similar farm there.”
“Why are they called battery hens, Alice?” Annie asked.
“Because they are placed in very small cages—some so small the hens can’t even turn around,” Alice explained. “They are then put in long rows—called batteries—because that produces the most eggs for the least amount of space and chicken feed. It’s not illegal in the United States—as far as I know—but it sure sounds inhumane to me.”