LYS is closing.
I’ve known for a while, but it became official a few days ago and this whole thing is a travesty. It’s not that the shop is in trouble financially – as I understand it, it is running in the black – but apparently the owner has decided it’s time to do something else. That’s her right, but it doesn’t make anyone who loves the shop feel any better. There are rumors of a possible buyer and if I had a chunk of $$ sitting around, it wouldn’t be a rumor, but as of right now, there is nothing concrete which would cause us to rejoice.
I have hesitated to blog about this because of how hard it is to imagine life without the shop, but yesterday I made a trip over, ostensibly to buy some yarn at half off. When I got there, I could do little but sit and look around at the systematic dismantling of a place I have grown to love so much. The needlepoint room where every inch of the walls had been covered with beautiful hand-painted canvases is now half-bare. The yarn room where my jaw first dropped at the sheer volume of beautiful fiber is noticeably less striking. And the worst part was seeing all the people who showed up for the sale. It’s not that they’re horrid human beings, but it was like watching vultures picking at a carcass but the carcass wasn’t just random road kill, it was actually something you knew and loved. I wanted to chase them all out, even though if it were anyplace else, I’d be right there with them, lining up greedily for sale yarn without a thought to the people who normally frequent the place and for those who work there.
Speaking of those who work there, that was even worse. Watching Lady L., Jane, Georgie, and Deanne running around selling off bits of the place where they have spent countless hours and touched countless lives teaching, encouraging, and spreading the joy of crafting was torturous. And that’s just how I felt – I can’t imagine what they were feeling, although it was probably a blessing that they were so busy so that they had less time to think about what was actually happening. Seeing Lady L. was the hardest. She has no idea how much it has meant to me and to many, many others to have her as a mentor/instructor/friend. Even when I first started going to the shop and she could clearly see my skill level (or lack thereof), she never once looked at me like I was crazy to attempt something, no matter how beyond me it may have been. She’s the reason I’m a fearless knitter, and I am so grateful.
Of course, we’ve talked about making a time and place to get together and knit when the shop closes for good, and I really hope we are able to do that, but I’m not sure any of us believe it will be the same. In the meantime, I will keep praying that someone with the means is able to buy the shop and make this bad dream go away. After all, Christmas is the season of hope, right?
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