Hand-me-down Handiwork

That’s me with the pups in the picture above. I’m furiously working on an afghan I started last winter, hoping to still get some use out of it this winter. Moving to Montana and confronting snow put me in the mood for doing old-timey things like baking apple crisp, sweeping the floor not Swiffering it, and crocheting. A trip to Joann Fabric quickly showed me that a lot has changed from the time my Grandma taught me how to crochet—so many different yarns, the colors, the variegations, the wools—it was sensory overload. And don’t even get me started on crochet hooks made out of bamboo and plastic!

I will admit, I was curious about, influenced, and finally seduced by fat balls of thick yarn and the idea of making a nubby, hipster kind of afghan. None of that old granny square business for me. Did I mention that my blanket, still not complete, weighs ten pounds? Heck, I’m even more trendy than I thought because this last gift-giving season, weighted blankets were all the rage to help us stressed-out humans get a good night’s sleep.

But what I really want to talk about, is the art of crocheting, or knitting, or embroidery, or rug hooking, or sewing—the handiwork that has been passed down through generations. My grandmother, Cecelia, learned to crochet when she resided in a Chicago, Catholic orphanage. She said she was given an extra peanut butter sandwich for her work because, having such little hands, her crocheted altar cloth lace was the finest. Grandma, later in life, often relaxed in her easy chair next to her friend Wanda in Grandpa’s recliner, while their hands moved deftly looping single, double, and triple crochets at break-neck speed. They stopped only to sip milky, sweet Eight O’clock coffee and share a little gossip.

My mother also crocheted. I still cherish the dainty blue and white apron she made for me and her doilies. One of Grandma’s granny square afghans still graces the family house in Wisconsin, and my daughter wore in middle school the vest Grandma fashioned for me in the 70s when long crocheted vests were all the rage. Stashed in my kids’ memorabilia bins are quilts stitched by my Aunt Bonadea and baby blankets crocheted by my husband’s grandmother. Perhaps they will use them for their children.

I get sentimental over the idea of these handmade goods being passed down from generation to generation, but what I like even more, is the bequeathing of skill: how to sew on a button, properly section a grapefruit, iron a shirt collar, or knit a scarf. (Both my son and daughter were taught to crochet and knit.) By doing so, we pass on tradition, culture, family lore, and individuality. Skill, unlike physical things, cannot be lost or damaged. It can live on, be rediscovered, and taught over and over again. This thought, like my future blanket, is comforting. Which reminds me, I really must get back to my crocheting. How nice it would be to have Grandma at my side, sipping coffee and gossiping.