We all have our personal stories about how we came to knitting (or, how knitting came to us). Here’s mine…
Learning to Knit
Whenever I stayed with my grandparents as a child, I always slept on a twin bed in Grandma’s sewing room. There was an old Singer that was built in to a desk, and the room had a slight scent of machine oil and Chantilly powder. Next to the desk was a chest of drawers, each drawer filled with countless pieces of fabric, some in long lengths with enough to make a dress, some only scraps from previous projects but ones Grandma would, no doubt, use in a future quilt.
Opening the closet doors would reveal large bags and storage tubs filled with rough, prickly acrylic yarn as she also crocheted and knitted. In my mother’s house today hangs a small girl’s dress my grandmother crocheted for my mother, a masterpiece of handcrafted goodness. I recall my visits with Grandma and Grandpa and how Grandma could sit in her armchair, The Andy Griffith Show or Leave It To Beaver re-runs playing on television, and without a pattern in sight, she would crochet incredibly intricate lace doilies and table runners with a tiny hook and yarn that looked more like thread. She had done it much of her adult life, so it came naturally to her, an act of memory and reflex, not requiring notes or instructions.
Growing up in the Great Depression in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, with three daughters and one on the way by 1946, Mildred had mastered many crafts not for art’s sake, but out of necessity.
Her house was a reflection of her crafting abilities. Each sofa, chair or bed was covered with a crocheted afghan or sewn quilt patching pieces of blouses she had made for herself or shirts she had made for Grandpa. These pieces, I realize now, I took for granted simply as a vehicle for warmth, never realizing the amount of work that went into creating something like that.
The quilts that were worn and a bit tattered on the edges were some of my favorites. One in particular was very soft with time and use, a wedding band quilt that featured overlapping rings of mixed fabric pieces matched with white cotton to create a repeating pattern throughout the quilt. It was soft and had a patina that shared the memories of cousins who had also used it when they stayed in this same house, slept in this same bed, as long as a decade before. There was a comfort in that quilt that, when matched with an over-used feather pillow that weighed 20 pounds, I could sleep soundly well into the morning. My slumber would, however, often break at sunrise as Grandma would be up baking a pie or cake for some social gathering we would be attending, or making bacon and eggs for Grandpa, a breakfast he enjoyed nearly every morning for as long as I can recall. There is something about waking up to the smell of bacon in the morning and even today the scent transports me to a different time when I was just a boy.
I would not realize just how much work had gone in to those many knitted and crocheted artifacts until over twenty years later. I realized this not because I watched her complete an entire project, nor even saw photos of her engaged in her art. I gained this awareness by, myself, learning to knit.
In 2008, as my Grandmother passed her 90th birthday and entered into failing health and demeanor, and with her residing in northern California and I, in central Florida, I wanted a way to connect with her. I already felt I did connect with both her and my mother when baking or cooking, as that is something that all the women on my Mom’s side of the family do well. I thought about how Grandma never sat in her chair without some type of craft in hand – knitting, crocheting, embroidery, or other lesser known forms of fiber arts. Knitting, I thought, is a classic art and I decided that would be my connection – I would teach myself how to knit.
I have rarely been conventional and have not allowed societal perceptions or the judgment of others to prevent me from pursuing exactly what I want. Knitting was no exception. I could not recall any memories in my life and travels where I had observed a man knitting. In fact, at that time, without additional research, I had not even seen a photograph of such a scenario. This, ultimately, made me want to do it even more.
I began researching the needed supplies, made a list, and woke up early one Saturday in November of 2008, near the date of my Grandmother’s birthday, and drove to the nearest big-box craft store.
I am often overwhelmed in these stores, creativity and ideation being strengths of mine, my mind wanders from one shiny object to another, project idea after idea nearly launch my mind into overload. But on this particular day, I arrived prepared, a man with a plan, and went directly to the fiber arts section. Now, at that time I did not refer to it as fiber arts, nor had I even really considered it an art form. I found the section, a few rows in depth, and began perusing the myriad yarns of all colors, textures and thicknesses, and settled on some basic worsted weight wool yarn in a warm brown tone. I grabbed a set of metal needles (not factoring in any ergonomic concerns or how other knitters may view me at that time, later learning that wooden needles are in fact better for you and facilitate a stronger connection to the natural world) and checked-out post haste.
From there, I drove to a bookseller nearby, and browsed the knitting section, searching for a fundamental volume to serve as a reference on my knitting journey. Knitting for Dummies was my selection for, after all, I was a dummy when it came to knitting.
Returning home I couldn’t wait to turn on my computer and go to a set of instructional videos I found on YouTube. Susan Phillips Moscowicz, of Mrs. Moscowicz’s Knits, walked me step by step through the fundamentals of knitting, one at a time.
Casting on, the process to begin a project and get live stitches on the needles, was step 1. I watched her hands, slightly aged and curled from arthritis, as they began to dance with grace and yarn, creating loops on the needle, forming a set of stitches to begin the project. After my first attempt, I would be reminded of the childhood maxim, “Practice makes perfect.” It would take a great deal of practice to get that first project of mine started.
I was learning enough to be dangerous, but did not know enough of the helpful details that make the experience of knitting something by hand an enjoyable and fruitful one. I began knitting what is called garter stitch, basically the same singular stitch over and over again on each row, every row. After about 20 rows of garter stitch I grew terribly bored, but felt like I was getting the hang of things. My knitter’s feathers were arched and boastful in a peacock’s manner, finding a great sense of satisfaction out of simply knitting a small square of fabric.
In my haste to advance to more complex projects, I decided to quickly jump into knitting cables, those beautiful embossed elements often found on fishermen’s sweaters and scarves. They involve adding a small hook into the equation, one that you are balancing with two knitting needles and yarn. It too, is a dance, that got me as far as another 20 rows and I was growing frustrated with the slightest mistake (for any project I create should demonstrate a level of perfection), and not knowing how to fix mistakes mid-project, no matter how far into a project I would be I would tear it off the needle and begin ripping out row after row after hand-knitted row (an act termed as “frogging” because you rip it-rip it-rip it out) until there was nothing but a singular slip knot remaining on the needle. It took a few times for the ritual of frogging to push me to, for a few months to follow, quietly stowing my knitting bag in a dark corner.
It is easy to suspect this would be the end of my knitting career. It could have been that moment where I could acknowledge I met the goal – I learned how to knit, but that no notable project emerged from these pursuits other than a small cotton washcloth (which I would later learn is difficult to do for a beginning knitter as cotton does not have as much stretch as wool). For a time, as 2009 approached, I did wonder if I would ever pick up knitting needles again.
As the spring emerged, I told myself there are millions of people in this world who can knit. People have been knitting for centuries. Although it may be a bit difficult at first, I continued, it can be done. And so it was, with a spirit now elevated to not only connecting across the miles to my Grandma, but now I was reminded, too, of connections to Vikings and Edwardian ladies and pioneers of the West, as well as soldiers in World War I that knit socks for themselves and fellow army buddies. (Nobody asked who made the socks and I doubt they told.)
Socks. There was a novelty to me that people who knit have the ability to create hats, gloves and socks! I began pushing my technical skills and knit up a ski cap in a bulky, chunky yarn of oatmeal hue. With patience and perseverance (and a well-written pattern), I took my time and did just as the instructions directed. I knitted that hat in a weekend, and it was only about two inches smaller than my own head! It now serves as a wonderful reminder of my abilities to create something, despite its ability to properly fit.
But socks – those looked incredibly difficult to craft. I remembered Grandma crocheting slippers, but I couldn’t recall her knitting socks. This would be something new to me, because I could go to Macy’s and buy 3 pairs of wool socks for about $20 in about 10 minutes time. Again, I reminded myself of that connection to the millions of people who have traversed the knitter’s path over the centuries and I affirmed that I could do this!
I could do this with some additional, professional help. Though some may have thought psychiatry was the order of the day, I instead researched a local yarn store, The Black Sheep, that offered private lessons on the art of sock knitting. I called, registered, and made the acquaintance of Julie, my knitting instructor.
It would be a series of three weeks, each week progressing past another main component of the sock, building and building upon the lesson of the prior week, from cuff to leg to gusset to toe, to see an actual foot shape emerge from my work. It was very thin yarn being knit with very small needles, but I kept going and going, committed to completing the project.
At the completion of the third and final class, I successfully finished knitting one entire sock. I was filled with exuberance and a bit of knitter’s pride as I laid it on the table and admired it – knitted to cling comfortably to the shape of my own foot – and its colors, the yarn creating on its own without any help from me, a faux Fair Isle print reminiscent of the multi-colored Norwegian sweaters now coming back in style.
Julie allowed me my five minutes of sock knitting fame as I paraded around the yarn store, showing my finished object to Anne, the storeowner, and other patrons, as if the sock were a Picasso or Rembrandt. To me, it was.
After I returned to the project table and began packing up my supplies, Julie left me with one piece of insight that, honestly, took the wind out of my sails. “Now that you have one sock completed,” she said, “you have to knit another one to have a pair!”
I would complete that pair a few weeks later. I wanted the learning to stick, the tips she gave me (not just about knitting socks, but knitting in general) had clearly tightened up my technique and I didn’t want to lose the learning to stagnant behavior.
Scarves then began appearing in piles in our home. I had mastered the fundamentals of knitting and with just two stitches I was able to create a variety of patterns. Using medium-sized yarns (larger than the tiny sock yarn with which I had just worked) dyed in brilliant colors, some even handspun, I was completely inspired by what the yarn would evolve into with just a little manipulation on my needles.
There were basket weave patterns and ribbed patterns creating luxuriously thick scarves perfect for any winter adventure. The original objective to learn to knit and become good at it was complete – now what?
My endless curiosity of my newfound passion would drive me to continue to create, to take string and craft from it something beautiful, something lasting, something that I could give to others that came from my own hands. There was not only that connection to my Grandma now, to the many projects she had finished, amassed and given away to others as gifts, but to the many throughout history who may have initially, at some point, learned to knit out of necessity, needing to craft something warm to weather a harsh Colonial winter or prevent losing limbs to the chill of a World War battle in the French countryside.
As I knit, I was and continue to be connected to history, to people – both familiar and unknown – and, most importantly, to my Grandma. Our connection now is a spiritual one with her passing in September of 2009.
Because I had not yet come out of the knitting closet to my mother who, with her three sisters, was charged with cleaning out my Grandma’s house after her death, had sent bags and bags of yarn, fabric and notions to charity. How I would have cherished even one set of her knitting needles!
It is of no consequence now, for with each project I knit today, I reflect not only on the yarn, the technique, the process, the animal who gave its fur to create the yarn, I also reflect on the person for whom I am making the item, my hope that it will bring them joy, and lastly, with the final stitch of each project, I think about Grandma, her endearing hearty spirit and her endless passion and commitment to create beautiful things – one stitch at a time.
