Lifestyle

I never meant to start knitting. As a stay-at-home mother of two I didn’t think I had time to add another artistic pursuit to my already busy schedule. Besides I was sure knitting wasn’t for me. It always seemed like something for, well, older people to do.

Then, a knitting shop opened in town and I often found myself wandering in, checking out the yarns, looking at beautiful projects. One day, I saw a soft, fuzzy, turquoise yarn in the sale bin. It was my favorite color and it felt lovely in my hands.

“I suppose I could try to knit a scarf,” I said, more to myself than Jessica, the shop’s owner.

“Of course you could, Myrna.” Jessica sounded so sure of herself.

“Well, maybe.” I was doubtful. I had tried knitting once. When I was a little girl, my Grandma Gatheridge sat me down with a skein of soft blue yarn and two blue, metal needles and taught me how to knit and purl. I did okay for a few rows. But soon my stitches were so tight that I couldn’t budge my needles. I gave up as quickly as I started.

Jessica assured me. “We can teach anyone how to knit.” I started to imagine a fluffy, hand-knit, turquoise scarf keeping me warm in the Minnesota winters. I figured I would make one scarf, then be done with all this knitting nonsense.

I bought the yarn and some needles. Amy, one of the shop’s yarnistas, taught me how to knit again. This time, I didn’t get my yarn stuck on the needles like when Grandma taught me. Knitting was sort of relaxing and, much to my surprise, kind of fun.

As I held the needles, I thought about my grandma and the things she had made. I remembered a knitted snake she made for my older brother Donnie. He named it Sammy. I remembered a doll sweater and the coral-colored sweater that she knit for me when I was seven.

Grandma had passed away many years before but as I knit my first scarf I felt connected to her again. As I worked the turquoise yarn and found that I’d dropped a stitch or done yet another yarnover, I understood all of the work she put into the gifts she made for us and started to appreciate the time she put into every stitch.

Not long after I knit that first scarf, I visited my parents with my daughter Rosemary, who was three at the time, and my son Ryan, who was a few months old.

As soon as we walked in the door Rosie set off in search of toys and I settled into the couch with Ryan in my arms.

“Rosie, I have something that you might like to play with,” Mom said.

Rosie looked up from a box of toys. “Something for me?” she asked.

“Yes. Now wait here just a minute so I can get it.” Mom disappeared into my brother’s old room.

“Oh goody!” Rosie squealed, “I can’t wait.”

Curious, I couldn’t wait either. A few moments later, Mom returned, hiding something behind her.

“Come here, Rosie,” Mom said. “I found it.”

“What is it, Grandma?” Rosie asked, her blue eyes wide as she ran over to my mom.

“It’s an old toy of Uncle Donnie’s that he and your mommy used to play with.”

“I want to see it.” Rosie jumped with excitement. “What is it Grandma?”

“Yes, Mom. What is it?” I asked as Ryan, oblivious to all of the commotion, sat happily on my lap.

“It’s long and colorful and it’s going to get you!” Sammy leapt out from behind my mother’s back.

Rosie screamed with delight. “A snake! A snake! Let me see it. Let me.”

“You still have Sammy?” I asked. “Where did you find him, Mom?”

“I found him a few days ago in Donnie’s old closet,” she said as she handed Sammy the Snake to my daughter. Rosie, excited at her new-found friend, wrapped him around her arms and showed him off to her little brother.

After twenty years stashed in my brother’s closet, Sammy looked pretty rough. He had a few holes in his multicolored, striped, skin. His right eye, no longer menacing like I remembered, was hanging by a few threads. His tongue, once long and threatening, was missing. To my daughter, though, he was as alive and dangerous as he was when my brother and I played with him years ago.

Sammy came to live with us that day. Rosie cradled her new friend in her arms the whole ride home and as soon as we walked inside Rosie gently placed the old, knitted snake in her basket of toys. We stood looking down at Sammy for a moment before we continued on with our day. Sammy, coiled on top of the pile of toys, his mouth open as though laughing out loud, looked up at us with a contented look on his face.

Now, several years later, I’m sitting on the couch knitting a scarf for a friend. Rosie is chasing her brother around the living room, an old, knitted snake clutched in her little hands.

“Ryan, Sammy’s gonna get you!” she screams. Ryan runs away, laughing, just inches away from Sammy’s outstretched, smiling, mouth. I, too, smile because I am thinking of my Grandma and with each stitch I make I am finally able to tell her thank you.