We headed over to watch a movie with a friend recovering from hip replacement surgery. On the way out, I grabbed up my knitting — a scarf-for-a-serviceman project I want to finish soon.
Our friend’s new wife is one of those hyperkinetics who needs to be doing. All the time. Generally this takes the form of plying guests with mountains of delectables far surpassing any adult’s actual nutritional needs.
I refused to be fed. Three times. I’d already had lunch. I got out my knitting.
She began to watch. “I don’t know how to knit,” she admitted. Yet the fascinating movements had caught her attention.
Quietly, deftly, I pulled out a second pair of needles and a fresh skein of yarn. “Oh No,” she demurred. But she was hooked. She took hold of them.
Under the sounds of the movie, without words I began to cast on. Her eyes glued to my hands. She began to get the motion and soon she had cast on fifteen stitches.
Picking up my own work I knit a stitch in slow motion. She made her own first stitch, then with great focus made her way through her first row. Talking softly to herself about the necessary motions, their objectives, and improvements to her technique, she knit two more rows.
I asked my husband for the car keys…
…drove the two miles home to snatch up remnants of pink and maroon, a complete skein of variegated white, fawn, and gold, a spare pair of my grandmother’s old needles and an extra carrying bag for it all. I returned to see her triumphantly display a little rectangle of very neat stitches.
By the movie’s end she’d latched onto her new needles and the pink and had begun to make herself a scarf.
Clutter to treasure!