Did you know that the words ravel and unravel mean the same thing? Merriam-Webster explains that they are both transitive verbs that relate to the process of separating the strands or threads in a woven material. When I checked the dictionary before I started this post, I was hoping and expecting that ravel meant the opposite of unravel. Part of my interest was poetic; I wanted the perfect label for the topic of this post. Also, though, it just seemed right and logical that if one word starts with un-, it should mean the opposite of the root word that follows the prefix. Once again, the English language baffles us.
I wanted a word that means “pull together.” I hoped that ravel was the correct one. The best word for my reflections today is probably knit, which is ironic, because I can’t. Knit, that is. But the word carries so many relevant connotations that I’m going to leave it there. It’s the metaphor I want, after all.
About five years ago, my friend Carol made me a pair of socks. They are among the most treasured gifts anyone has ever given me. Part of their value certainly rests in the fact that Carol died, too soon and too young, more than a year ago. But whenever I wear those socks, they bring her right back. I love those socks because the best gifts we can ever give are the ones that show how well we know someone. Carol and I worked together for ten years. We shared stories about our sons, recipes for stews, risotto, breads, and fresh vegetables. We knew each other’s favorite books. We shared our own special bond around the change of seasons in New England, choosing the date and temperature when we would start, or stop, wearing socks for the year. My soft, colorful, warm wool pair were a recognition of my Friday footwear: Dansko clogs in purple or orange leather, fuschia felt, or bright blue suede. Carol was a clog-wearer, too, and she loved my bold end-of-week choices.
Carol was an avid knitter. She could transform a skein of yarn into practically anything. She was the go-to guru at our school whenever anyone was having trouble with a stitch gauge, a color selection, or a pattern choice. She was there for all of us who a needed a companion for a late afternoon of needlework or quiet talk. She held onto secrets, provided wise advice, and made us laugh. I am not the only one who misses her every day. She was one of the strands that held our community together. If you are a part of a group that is bound by someone like Carol, you know how lucky you are.
In my extended family, my dad is one of those strands. As his generation ages, his role has become more evident to him and to everyone else. My father grew up in a time and a place where his best friends were also his first cousins. They spent their childhoods in each other’s living rooms and backyards, played high school sports together, swam together at the beach all summer, engaged in who-knows-what-kinds of mischief, served as each other’s best men and as the godfathers of their respective children. They played golf, went to college sports events, met for Wednesday breakfasts, and lately, have sat in hospital rooms. Gradually, they are leaving us. One of those guys, Neal, died last week. My father was with him 20 minutes before he passed. On his way home, my dad took three calls on his mobile phone. His was the first voice that Neal’s eldest son, daughter, and sister needed to hear as they processed their loss.
My son, The Boy, was with my parents for the weekend before Neal died. He saw my dad preparing for the imminent news, and he felt the depth of my father’s grief. When Neal died that Tuesday, The Boy said, “I have to call Papa.” He understood what it meant for my father to be that strand.
We are all bound to other people. We need those connections, and we make the ties stronger as we grow together. Those socks that Carol made–they are made of one strand of yarn. One single thread.