I knit. I am a knitter. I’ve read before that you shouldn’t define yourself by what you do, but rather by who you are. Even so, I’m comfortable announcing that I am “someone who knits.” This gives me certain things in common with other knitters: I lie – constantly – about my stash of yarn, to myself and everyone else. “It’s not that big.” “Sock yarn doesn’t count.” “I’m not as bad as (insert other knitter’s name, whose stash you feel is out of control).”

Of course, all those lies go the other direction as soon as you’re around someone who appreciates yarn. “16 ounces of first-shear baby alpaca and mohair goat, dyed and then handspun.” “I had to repurpose the master closet to hold it all.” “And that’s not counting sock yarn…” It is, in some respects, the knitter equivalent of dominance displays – the wool-pack has to know its own pecking order, and stash is as good a measure of “cred” as any.

In that respect, and taking the above into consideration, I’d like to think my stash is pretty middle-of-the-road. After all, it doesn’t require its own room, or a special cedar inset closet. But it’s also well past the “store it in a basket by the easy chair” phase as well. Not that I don’t have a basket of stash yarn out there, but that’s the showoff yarn – like the special guests china – there for other people to notice, but never to use.

I suppose the root of any collection of things is a desire to, as Hunter Thompson famously said, “Take it as far as you can.” For me, the stash has become a statement of places I’ve been and people whom I love. This handspun wool is from North Carolina, that hand-dyed was a gift from one of my first-readers. In theory, I assign hoped-for projects to my stash yarn, but strangely enough, when the time comes to start something new on the needles, I’m back in the store buying yarn for it specifically rather than raiding the stash.

Except for socks, of course. But then sock yarn doesn’t count as stash.