On my eleventh birthday, in 1949, my parents gave me a book that I have treasured ever since. It is the “Schachenmayr Lehrbuch der Handarbeiten aus Wolle.” The Schachenmayr Instruction Book for Handicrafts made of Wool. The final chapter is dedicated to the menace, the archenemy of wool: the MOTH.
We get a lecture about this destructive insect and find out that the moth we catch in mid-flight, squash with bare hands, murder in outrage, is not the one who does the damage. This poor thing is the male, who, in his short lifespan lives off air. It’s his wife, the mean pregnant lady, who seeks out a smorgasbord of sweaters and hats and gloves, and sweet little baby booties to entice her eggs to hatch into fat and happy larvae.
Also in this book the leading manufacturer of knitting yarn, Schachenmayr, teaches us what to look for when we go shopping. There are two pictures at the bottom of the page. The first one shows a knitted square that is solid. The second one is of a square riddled with holes where the moth babies must have feasted for days. This second one is entitled “ordinary wool.” But the first one, the one treated at the factory with the odorless, safe, permanent Eulan, this splendid untouched square of knitting we all hope to encounter when we open that box of clothes next fall…it is made with NOMOTTA.
But what is that unpleasant memory suddenly streaking through my mind? I find its source on the very last page. A black and white photograph of two dolls, their clothes eaten up by moths, only a pair of pants left untouched. The pants, of course, are made with NOMOTTA.
NOMOTTA.
The word rings familiar even though I haven’t heard it over forty years. I google it and discover that Schachenmayr and NOMOTTA are still around. So are pages and pages of information on moths and mothballs. I thought dry cleaning and tightly closed plastic containers had done away with Mother Moth’s question, “What do you want for dinner, little caterpillars? Cabled sock or ripple stitch beanie?”
As I pick up my knitting, the purple leg of what will be Bear number thirty-three, I push aside the images of hungry baby moths and ravaged doll clothes. It is quiet in my house. I listen to the rhythm of the yarn: No mot ta no mot ta no mot ta no mot ta ……
We get a lecture about this destructive insect and find out that the moth we catch in mid-flight, squash with bare hands, murder in outrage, is not the one who does the damage. This poor thing is the male, who, in his short lifespan lives off air. It’s his wife, the mean pregnant lady, who seeks out a smorgasbord of sweaters and hats and gloves, and sweet little baby booties to entice her eggs to hatch into fat and happy larvae.
Also in this book the leading manufacturer of knitting yarn, Schachenmayr, teaches us what to look for when we go shopping. There are two pictures at the bottom of the page. The first one shows a knitted square that is solid. The second one is of a square riddled with holes where the moth babies must have feasted for days. This second one is entitled “ordinary wool.” But the first one, the one treated at the factory with the odorless, safe, permanent Eulan, this splendid untouched square of knitting we all hope to encounter when we open that box of clothes next fall…it is made with NOMOTTA.
But what is that unpleasant memory suddenly streaking through my mind? I find its source on the very last page. A black and white photograph of two dolls, their clothes eaten up by moths, only a pair of pants left untouched. The pants, of course, are made with NOMOTTA.
NOMOTTA.
The word rings familiar even though I haven’t heard it over forty years. I google it and discover that Schachenmayr and NOMOTTA are still around. So are pages and pages of information on moths and mothballs. I thought dry cleaning and tightly closed plastic containers had done away with Mother Moth’s question, “What do you want for dinner, little caterpillars? Cabled sock or ripple stitch beanie?”
As I pick up my knitting, the purple leg of what will be Bear number thirty-three, I push aside the images of hungry baby moths and ravaged doll clothes. It is quiet in my house. I listen to the rhythm of the yarn: No mot ta no mot ta no mot ta no mot ta ……
No comments:
Post a Comment