LONG POST AHEAD!
Franklin photographed 131 knitters yesterday. I am amazed and know not what to say.
Yesterday was pretty awesome. Got up early, showered, put on whatever came into my hand first, and headed out the door with my mom. One stop by Wawa later, and we were on the road to Kennett Square, donuts and milk in hand, and Harry Chapin in the cassette player (oh, he's the last of the protest singers~). It took a little over an hour to get there, and that time was spent mostly with questions like, "Do you think that's the turn?" and answers like, "No, look, that's not the right road. Maybe we passed it?"
MapQuest gave us lots of directions telling us to make a "slight right onto ----- Street" followed by "continue straight to -------- Highway" and then to "continue straight to --------- Pike." At one point, two miles of tar was three seperate roads. Apparently. I don't get it.
We finally made it into Kennett Square and found the store just about immediately.
"So how far down the road is Wool Gathering?"
"I think it's that store right there with all the people sitting outside."
So we drove around for about ten minutes trying to find parking. All the lots we found were either full already, or closed for some film crew that was in town or something equally strange. All the roads were one-way, save for maybe two. All of these one-way roads were Residen Parking By Permit Only. Opting not to take a chance and get towed, we drove around some more and then we saw it.
A spot directly in front of the store.
"Is that spot open?"
"Look, right in front of the store!"
"Quick! Park there!"
We took it, and mom didn't trust my distance-judging abilities...
"Back up another foot."
"You've got plenty of room! Also, your tire is against the curb."
"That's okay. Am I in the spot?"
"You need to back up more."
"I don't want to hit the car behind us."
We got there safely enough, got out, and went to register. I must really look young, because the very nice woman who was at the table tried to give Mom my release form.
"She's old enough to sign it."
"Really? How old are you?"
"She'll be 19 in a few months."
So I guess maybe I still look 12. Oh well, I'll appreciate my super-non-aging ability when I'm 80 and still look 60. Maybe.
So we sat out in the sun with our socks and knit away. Everyone there was very nice. We met a woman who had driven from all the way out in Ohio to be there. How cool.
And then Em began to call. First she thought she was lost, then she said she was confused, and then she said that she was lost and had missed the turn-off for Kennett Square. All in seperate phone calls. So with some vague instructions, we got her back to where she wanted to be and I walked up a block to meet her and lead the poor, car-weary girl down to the store.
By the way, bees were everywhere.
When it was finally my turn to get my picture taken, I sat down, looked at this massively long scarf, and started to knit. Franklin got mega-awesome-super-points for noticing my Poland world cup jersey. He's much shorter than I thought he would be, but very nice. I think I was the youngest knitter there, but as we didn't stay the whole day, I'm not sure.
After Em got her picture done, the three of us headed to a cafe next door and had lunch. We decided, looking around the cafe, that we just weren't cool enough to live in Kennett Square.
The trip home was an adventure. We decided to head down a few streets off of the main road (which was one-way, of course) and find a road that went in the other direction and would take us out to Rt. 1 and then home.
That plan failed, because the road we took went out for a while and then split into routes 82 and 52. Not sure which one to take and being in the lead, Mom opted for 82 and turned. Em followed. We drove down 82 for a while and enjoyed the very nice, rural Pennsylvania scenery. (Note for Bells: the Amish people mostly live in northern Pennsylvania, up in Lancaster and the surrounding area. We were much further south.)
Then we noticed a sign that said "Delaware."
"We're in Delaware."
"That's what that sign says."
"No, it's not that big a deal, we weren't far off from it anyway."
But when the road we were on just led us further and further into Delaware, we pulled over and had a chat with Em, who told us we wanted 52, not 82. So we turned around, drove back down this winding road next to an equally winding and very pretty creek that eluded photographing, got back into Pennsylvania, and then made the turn onto 52.
Which led us into Delaware again. It was also very pretty.
So we pulled over again and decided that we'd follow 52 out to 95, follow that to the bridge, and then take that to 295 and get home. That was the plan, anyway.
After about an hour of driving from when we first left, we made it into Wilmington. From there, we accidentally got off 52 and drove around until we found a guy who wasn't in a car and asked for directions. We followed them.
"Is it this one?"
"He said make a left, go down, make a left."
"But these are all really small roads."
"I don't know, Mom."
So we drove around for a while more, and found another guy. We asked him for directions.
"Okay, so we're making a left here, and it takes us out to Concord?"
"That's what he said."
"I'm assuming this road is Concord, then."
"Yes, and we should see signs for 95."
And, sure enough, there were signs for 95. North and South and the Delaware Memorial Bridge.
"So are we taking 95 north? Or the Bridge?"
"Oh, wait, Bridge and Baltimore? Nevermind, we'll just take north."
So we finally made it onto 95 north. Another hour or so later, we're on the Commodore Barry Bridge back home.
And that, children, is why you always mapquest the way home, too.
Adventure is not in the guidebook
And Beauty is not on the map.
Seek and you will find.
~J. R. Russel