Enid was on her way to Marjorie’s house by six am. Her knitting bag was on her arm. She and Marjorie were always up early. Enid attributes it to growing up during Great Depression. In those days nothing was wasted, not even daylight.
The early morning streets were always empty. It created a sense of security. Enid believed it was because all the criminals were finished their night’s debauchery and were nestled in their respective lairs. In all her eighty-two years she never suffered harassment on the early morning streets.
On this morning it was a great surprise when Enid came across a young man on her way to Marjorie’s. He was wrapping a light post in a colorful knitted sock. He’d already slipped a knitted ‘Maple Street’ sleeve over the street sign. The young man saw Enid and smiled.
“Beautiful morning,” he said.
“It is,” said Enid. Normally she kept to herself, but curiosity and the warmth of his demeanor got the better of her.
“Excuse me, young man. What are you doing?”
“They’re called yarnbombs,” he said.
“Oh,” said Enid, visibly shaken.
The young man laughed. “They’re called ‘yarnbombs’ because they’re explosions of art and color to brighten the day. See? Isn’t it better than an ordinary metal pole?” he said as he finished attaching the knitted sock to the street light.
Enid offered a discriminating glance, then nodded with approval. “It’s quite pretty,” she said. “But why?”
“For beauty’s sake. This city needs more beauty and color. I’m an artist,” he explained. He looked at the pole and sign. “This is the best art I ever made.”
“It’s very nice,” said Enid.
“Thanks. I used to gargle on the street as performance art, but nobody got it. At least now they have something to enjoy.”
“I didn’t know people still even knitted,” said Enid.
“It looks like you do,” said the young man.
“I’m old,” said Enid. “Back when I started, people did it because they had to. They didn’t have clothes like they do now.”
“Why do you still do it?”
“Habit, and it gives me something to do.”
“Well,” said the young man. “Would you consider helping me with my art project? My name is Quincey, by the way.”
“I don’t know, Quincey. Is it legal?”
“I’ve never asked,” said Quincey. “I didn’t know beauty needed permission.”
Enid touched the yarnbomb. “Marjorie and I could make this. Hmmm,” she said, deep in thought. “What would you want us to make?”
At that moment Enid and Marjorie became rogue street artists.