Knitting, through crochet...

We closed the store at noon everyday, for lunch.

As the microwave whirred, Pat hefted a large, bulky, canvas tote onto the formica table, and, in flawless imitation of a magician pulling endless, multi-hued scarves from his sleeve, removed a voluminous afghan, or a bulky sweater, or an impossibly long scarf; each, a work in progress.

Lunchtime conversation was punctuated by the sound of a crochet needle clicking against the precious metal of her wedding band, as she regaled us with stories of her errant children, their benevolent, well-loved, father, or her demanding, octogenarian mother-in-law. Her voice was soft, slow, and deeply, deeply southern, and no matter which direction the conversation took, she never dropped a stitch.

I watched, in fascination, for months, before asking her to teach me her art. As it turned out, she knew only one stitch, but one was better than none, and soon there were two bulging tote bags atop the table.

My first project, an afghan for my daughter, was fashioned from the softest yarn, in a variety of soft pastels. As soon as I had draped all ten feet of it over her modest twin bed, I began again. This time, I worked in primary colors; creating bold stripes. The yarn was thick, and difficult to work with, making the afghan tighter in weave, and much shorter in length. As I tied off the final stitch, I searched frantically for another piece of furniture to drape.

Harking back to my past, when my mother displayed my great-grandmother’s handiwork on the back of our olive-green, vinyl couch, I chose, this time, to work in rusts, and browns, and creams. Final placement on the back of our well-worn, herculon sofa was tricky, given the oblong shape my creation had taken, but, if anyone noticed, they never said a word.



And still, I stitched. My youngest son was graced with my largest effort, to date, in earth-tones of heather, khaki, blue, and white.

Two years later, as we gathered around the large, brilliantly lit, Frasier-fir in my parent’s living room, I watched as each of my family members opened the bulbous, carefully wrapped gift I had provided. One by one, they extracted an identical cream-colored throw. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, as, time and patience, had provided an opportunity to learn. Each recipient cooed, sweetly, over my efforts, and I absorbed their appreciation with the surety that none of them knew the import of what they held.

Six months later, I stood outside my sister’s apartment in anticipation of meeting my new nephew. As my brother-in-law opened the door, I was assaulted by a chic sea of white, accented by large-paned windows admitting smog-stained light.

My sister sat, indian-style, on a rambling white sectional. My eyes searched her lap for a look at the baby inside her blanket covered legs. Dark circles under weary eyes did nothing to deter the radiance of her smile as she scooped her son up, in offering.

It was when she moved, that I saw it; the only thing of color in the room. As she rose, it fell in waves, replacing her body on the seat. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, and she did know…

© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll