At the Flagstaff Fiber Fest, I arranged jewel-colored skeins of yarn tightly next to each other. Was I expecting a sellout? Not anymore. After tending booth at the biggies: the Wild and Wooly Yarn Fest, the Maine Fiber Frolic, the Black Sheep Gathering, etc., etc., etc., my inventory remained overflowing like detainees huddled in Mylar blankets.

I hadn’t pivoted to cotton like so many. In February, when the red light/green light tariff game began, I remained true to my brand. I naively dreamt of continued abundance. My business had thrived during Covid. Surely, forced out federal workers would need something to fill their time and would welcome fibers pleasing to the touch.

In spring, I bought dyes from China: the blues (pigeon, royal, indigo); the reds (carnation, jasper, ruby); the yellows (downy chick, lemon, topaz). I imported rich fibers: cashmere, linen, alpaca. I spent the summer perfecting color recipes. The dyes ripened like an aged Bordeaux.

From my booth I heard the two women next door jabbering to the rhythm of knit two, pearl two. Their needles clacked together like chattering teeth. One said to a customer, “Knitting is good for mood, anxiety.” The other chimed in, “There’s also the social aspect. It creates comradery.”

I used to believe that. In fall of 2024, I hoped my yarn would frequent crafting groups that modeled themselves after my idols: Yarn Mission, Riot Grrrl, Project Thinking Cap. Before the election, I envisioned the cornflower blue alpaca as cat sweaters, embracing the insult; the deep-green merino wool as muscle burrow hats worn by USAID interns saving the rain forest; the sunflower yellow linen as flying banners for Ukraine.

Comradery? Forty-five percent of women! Women! Voted for these tariffs! I looked around. Who were they?

A stale, dry, breeze spooled dead leaves and cast a layer of dust about.  

I’d believed others agreed with me. The yarn I produced a necessity, not a luxury.  Handling it, a simple way to calm the mind. Worth a few sacrifices. After all, the tariffs I’d paid were the cost of my mortgage. I’d kept my prices as low as possible. Wasn’t the slight increase worth the priceless pleasure in the wearing of a hand knitted scarf? Pleasure in feeling the soft, blended, rich colors of an autumn sunset warming a neck?

A group had formed around the women in the booth next to me. I looked into their faces.  Some fondled the cardboard-like cotton. No one looked my way. I gave my yarn reassuring caresses. The women next door sold skeins of cheap red cotton, a garish color. The yarn appeared to have a bristly texture. Like circus clown’s wig.  

Did I judge? Of course.  

– Lenore Tsakanikas

Author’s Note: “Fiber Fest,” while purely a figment of my imagination, was inspired by an A-1 (NPR) program about entrepreneurs passionately discussing the challenges they were facing in maintaining their uniquely developed products under threat of crippling tariffs.