I've done crazier things than want to create a yarn mausoleum. Not many, granted. I generally lead a quiet life. But opening a can of worms -- I mean, diving into a trunkful of ancient yarns -- today did something to my head.
I began seriously knitting and crocheting in high school, having been taught by my mother using all sorts of odd ball yarns. Literally. Some of those wools came from who knows where. She made sweaters for me and my father, and scarfs, from wool whose vintage I can only guess at.
I still have a few bits and pieces of those fibers, but I don't think they'll make it onto this archive. No point of origin, no ball band, nothing to document. I in fact think some of that stuff was born of old projects recycled: that is, unravelled and re-knit. Many knitting web sites advocate this practice as being thrifty, sensible and "green." We were so there, 40 years ago. Heck, people been doing that for as long as knitting existed. It's one reason there's not a lot of everyday knitted objects lingering in actual museums.
Coming into my own as a knitter and crocheter, I bought cheap colorful 70s acrylics in Woolworths and made hats, scarfs, afghans, bedspreads, soft toy animals and tentative sweaters. My mother continued to buy good wools in Bell Yarn near Delancey Street, and made yet more good sturdy sweaters for my father and me. At some point we started tossing all leftovers into one big bag. Then I started doing "fiber art", making soft toy alien creatures of my own design, and scoured downtown fabric shops and yarn shops for bargains I could turn into fur and trim. I knitted more functionally as well, making stuff I could actually wear. And so more leftovers went into the bag.
You see where this is heading.
Over the years, with the best intentions, precious few of those leftover balls ever went away. Few became finished garments, not even scarves of hats. Many of them were...dull. Or were luscious to moths. Worse, even worse, were entire bagfuls of new yarn purchased on sale and simply left in the bag and put aside for inspiration to strike, only to be forgotten when the next bagful of something more tempting came home.
Lots of things were actually knitted and worn. But lots of yarn also languished in closets, in trunks, in bags, in drawers and sometimes even in plain sight. My mother and I together were mess-generators of a high order.
Making stuff feels good. Buying yarn feels good too. As in recent years I learned how to let go of clutter and material things, I discovered that getting rid of yarn can also feel good. I gave away many shopping bagfuls of old yarn -- alright, some not so old too -- to a womens shelter project group. I swapped yarn with friends. I gave yarn to friends I was teaching to knit or crochet. I sold some on ebay.
Always new yarn comes to me. Sales happen. Swapping happens. Ebay happens.
But today...today I realized the old yarn had stories to tell. I found some very nice yarn, just 3 balls of it, not very old, but utterly extinct. Erased from memory. It doesn't exist anywhere on the Internet, as far as I can tell. I recalled that I really liked the yarn from a project I finished a few months ago but the yarn, which I only bought about 4 years ago, was likewise gone from store shelves and even from most Internet sites, aside from a few blog posts. Incredible!
I shall begin posting what I personally have. I hope other people will find this and contribute photos and descriptions of their own extinct yarns. It's history, folks. Be a part of it.
MISSONI Shanghai Yarn by Filatura di Crosa, made in Italy. 
