This story was originally shared at my grandmother's 80th birthday party as a tribute to her influence on my life and as a means to present her with a small knitted nest of bluebirds.
I grew up
across the street from Grandmom, Uncle Mike and later, Aunt Meg. When I was 12,
we got the exciting news that Meg was going to have a baby. Not being a person
of moderation, I threw myself into preparing to be the best cousin for the
baby. At the time, I was a restless, energetic tomboy, and I also had a
misplaced belief that if something was really hard to do, it was probably
really valuable. So I decided I would make a blanket. A knitted blanket! Which
also means that I would need to learn to knit. I knew it would be valuable
enough because knitting wasn’t a thing I’d ever done, and a blanket would be
good because it would take me a really long time. But we had months before the
baby arrived and I was confident that I would pick up knitting quickly and have
the blanket done in time. Besides, I had the Wilson crafting genes on my side.
How could I fail?
We
didn’t know if Meg was going to have a boy or a girl, so I decided I would knit
a yellow blanket. Later, when that sounded too easy, I changed my mind and
decided to knit a blanket with yellow, blue and pink stripes, to cover all my
bases. And because my blanket was going to be a legacy that lasted the entire
lifespan of the child, I wouldn’t make a baby sized blanket. Oh no! I would
make it large enough to cover her adult sized bed.
I spent a
lot of time imagining the baby wrapped up in the blanket I’d made with my hands
and then when the baby grew up, he or she would often thank me for the gift of
warmth and we would discuss together the value of doing hard things as the only
real way of showing people you care. I was going to be an amazing cousin.
This is the
backdrop you needed in order to understand what kind of student Grandmom was
taking on. And how incredibly patient she had to be in order to be my
teacher.
This was
back before YouTube and smartphones, but I’d seen Grandmom knitting before. So
I gathered a few (wrong) supplies and took the 50 or so steps across the street
to her house. She patiently showed me how to knit, sometimes actually guiding
my hands and moving the yarn for me while I tried to wrap my mind around the
task. Knitting was a lot harder than I’d anticipated. But I was full of
youthful motivation and the challenge only provided more fuel for my philosophy
of hard=valuable. I listened halfway to Grandmom’s lesson and then rushed into
my project.
Here are
some facts about knitting.
1. It’s a fairly simple and repetitive task requiring fine motor skills. 2. The hardest part is creating the muscle memory that makes those tiny motions automatic. 3. It’s much easier to learn on large needles with nice fat yarn so you can see what you’re doing and fix any mistakes.
In
short, knitting is all about time. Lots and lots of slow, one stitch-at-a-time
hours and hours spent doing the same boring thing over and over. Needless to
say, it was not a task that matched my profile at the time.
In the
spirit of making a hard thing even harder, I got the smallest circular needle I
could find. And then I bought the first yarn I saw at Joann’s with “baby” on
the label. Which also happened to be one of the thinnest baby yarns available.
And I sat down to knit.
Ignoring
Grandmom’s advice to count my stitches, I started with as many as would fit on
my needle. Meaning that this blanket, had I finished it, would have been larger
than a king size bed. And with my newly minted skills, one row (or about 1/8 of
an inch) would take about an hour to complete.
Obviously,
I was setting myself an impossible task. I think Grandmom knew this, but
like a good guide, I’m pretty sure she was watching quietly and providing
education, and then allowing me to careen down a path of destruction so that I
would learn my lesson.
Looking
back I realize that I was setting aside every wise bit of advice that a
Grandmom can give to make my life easier. And when I got frustrated and tromped
back across the street with my knitting to ask a question, I found that she was
saying the same things every time.
“Count
your stitches. Practice. Start slow and then try to get faster.”
I wasn’t a
huge fan of any of those ideas, so I charged ahead focusing on speed over
accuracy, eager to create the perception that I was fluidly knitting a super
complicated work of art out of love for my unborn cousin.
As can be
expected, I burned out. After several weeks of this furious attempt, I went to
Joann’s and bought four yards of purple fleece, stitched them together and
stuffed some batting inside. I finished with a painstakingly stitched albeit
amateur-looking monogram of Sara Mae’s initials. (Because by now we not only
knew that Meg was expecting a girl, but she had a name.)
Maybe it
was her wisdom, her kindness, her patience. But Grandmom never even rebuked me
for giving up on the blanket. I dropped knitting except for a few scarves here
and there over the years (also without counted stitches.) Until just last
January, 15 years after my failure at making a baby blanket for Sara Mae.
I had just
finished some grad classes, and I found myself with odd times of day and
nothing for my hands to do. After several years of reading and brain work
needed for school, I was anxious to do something tactile with visible results.
I remembered that I had some yarn and needles in the attic and decided to make
a scarf for a friend. And then, I ran across a simple baby sock pattern that I
managed to make without too much effort.
And then
there was a cascade. Remember, I’m not a person of moderation. I went from baby
socks, to wallets, to bags, hats, bibs, shirts, fingerless gloves and finally
even animals. With every completed project I brought a picture to Grandmom. Who
celebrated with the kind of affirmation that little kids crave for their
artwork. I never made anything that she didn’t make a huge deal over. From the
simplest scarf to the most complicated acorn. She oo-ed and aw-ed and made me
feel like a rock star. By this time, Grandmom had mostly put her needles away
and passed most of her leftover yarn along to me. But she still enjoyed talking
about knitting and comparing notes on patterns in that nerdy way that only two
crafters can understand.
In this way, I found myself spending quiet Friday
mornings in her room, knitting and chatting (mostly about knitting) and
counting my stitches. Finding that doing the same boring thing over and over
sometimes leads to a sweetness that isn’t boring at all, but endearing and
reliable.
Grandmom
has always been to me a seed planter. If you look around today, you’ll see
tribute to her love for flowers and gardening. Since I’ve known her, she has
always respected the slow quiet work of making things grow. In my life, the
seeds of patience, perseverance, and care required to knit that she planted in
my angsty pre-teen season, didn’t bloom for 15 years.
Her legacy
isn’t loud or intrusive. It’s the hallmark of another time, where people sat on
front porches, sipped lemonade, and valued the slow and unseen work of being
together. What better way to pass that legacy on than through the art of
knitting where Grandmom taught me that while some valuable things are indeed
difficult, no worthy endeavor is without the need to count your stitches,
practice, and start slow.
A few
months ago, I realized that in my excitement for rediscovering knitting, I had
failed to make a knitted gift for the person most deserving, my teacher. And
I’m thankful to be able to present these bluebirds as a tribute to her impact
in my life thanks to which, they were very easy to make.
