Some Pig

I know – some of you are going to complain that I should be writing about interesting stuff, like string theory, sustainable energy, or how hard it is for me to lose weight in the winter. I’m even betting that a few of you are going to exclaim, “Who wants to read about your knitting addiction?” Please, don’t prove me right, because that’s who and what I was and now am, once again, which is why I’m asking you to grin, bear it, and (pretty please with strawberries on top) give my newest blog entry a chance to unravel.

Allow me to offer you a tiny peak into my knitting history: I taught myself to knit when I was about five (or four – who can remember that far back?) with pick-up sticks and string. I have no idea how or why I taught myself to knit, because there sure wasn’t anyone around me to copy – except for my Aunt Ceil, a fabulous knitter, who I saw maybe once in a blue moon during my entire early childhood. My one and only knitting memory of her involved raffia (she was making a sweater out of it), which I remember thinking was incredibly exotic and exciting. But, since I was about 11 at the time, and I’d already been knitting for years, I would have to guess I didn’t inherit my knitting gene from her, and that I was born a knitting addict – with the propensity for knitting and purling woven into the very fabric of my DNA. That sounds wacky, but interesting, eh?

Moving on: If you’d lived in Cambridge, MA with me in the 60’s, you’d have known that I also taught myself to crochet (with a little help from a mean knitting store owner in Central Square, who didn’t want to teach me, she just wanted me to buy yarn and get the hell out of her store). My first big crocheting project, which continues to live with me today, covering the back of the living room couch, was a patchwork afghan (the same one appeared on The Cosby Show, much to my delight). I worked on it my one semester in college, during large lecture classes – probably driving my geology professor, Erskine Caldwell’s son, insane. (He once asked me if I was related to Madame Dafarge, which meant he was a Dickens reader, but not a good enough reader to know that Dafarge was knitting, not crocheting, like I was.) I later pieced that gigantic project together in Philadelphia, on the floor of my boyfriend’s parents’ apartment – taking up the entire living room and driving his father insane (because I was having so much trouble deciding which square went with what). That boyfriend became my husband, whom I later knit an Irish Fisherman Knit sweater for, which he wore to death (but before he did that, my sister-in-law memorialized it and him in a drawing she did of him holding our baby son, which I framed and hung).

I continued to knit (and sometimes crochet) things for my kids, family and myself (plus two Cabbage Patch dolls) - until one day, when I had to quite, cold turkey, because I started having hot, hot, hot flashes that made me so boiling hot that just hearing the word “wool” threw me into a blazing round of intense sweating and flashing.

I kicked my knitting habit so thoroughly that I gave away my huge Mexican basket of yarn on Freecycle. Yep. I got rid of my lifetime stash of yarn, which I’d religiously saved for all my one-day-in-the-future projects. I quickly became a knitless wonder (since I could no longer wear even one sweater out of my collection, or anything wool, turtleneck, or long sleeved). I turned into a sleeveless, 100% cotton top-wearer, because that sweaty, always-steaming skin of mine now had to remain uncovered (and, alas, knit- free).

Then, I found out I was going to be a grandmother. Although I’d given away all my yarn (ouch – I no longer had my vast collection to create with), I smartly held on to my knitting needles, knitting and crocheting tools, and patterns. Thank goodness I did, because the second I found out I was having a grandchild, that old knitting addiction had me in its spell, and I was once again obsessed with knitting things, small things - like a striped hat and socks, to begin with (small things = small sweat droplets).

The day I fell off the wagon and found myself back under knitting’s spell, I found I was unable to go anywhere without my latest project at my side. I now knit at monthly library board meetings (so far, no one’s said I had to stop – or mentioned Madame Dafarge), during UConn basketball games, in the car on trips to NYC, and each Wednesday afternoon at my neighborhood library, where I volunteer in its all-ages knitting program. I joined Ravelry, an online knitting forum – where I’ve learned a few new tricks (thanks to YouTube knitting videos), and spent far too much time ogling other people’s knitting projects.

A few weeks ago, my daughter’s started knitting (I taught her how when she was in college) - finger puppets for her new niece – and she calls me for advice on how to follow directions. Friends have started calling to ask me to help them fix their knitting, which means the word’s getting out about me and my knittingness.

I’ve enjoyed picking up the pieces and putting them back together again, even though yarn is more expensive than it used to be. My fingers have loosened up nicely and these days I feel like Charlotte the pig, lovingly knitting (yes, knitting - not weaving) my own version of T-E-R-R-I-F-I-C into each new, little creation, because sweating the small stuff is lately a small price to pay.