Friday, March 23, 2012


Every summer we'd visit grandma up on a part of the Columbia  River that was strewn with pine trees, ferns, cold rushing creeks, the flat-slow looking river, waterfalls and soaring mountains and craggy rocks that had stories and legends about them. 

Photo from Oregon Herald

And at her home she had this corner of yarn and lovely colored needles.  It was near a bookshelf and there was a plant that draped all the way from the ceiling to the floor.  The corner held magic.  Pure magic. 

And every summer, like clockwork the whole bunch of us would arrive after a marathon drive and I'd always be drawn to that corner and would ask to be taught to knit.  You see, my mother was a seamstress and crocheter - so I knew those, but knitting was another world.  And so she'd show me how to cast on and would kindly do so for me.  I'd get that first knit row, but then to turn and purl.  That was always awkward and if I dared set down my work, I'd forget which row I was on...wherefore she'd always correct my blems and errors and help me see. 

However, to my little blackberry picking, itching to explore self, I could only really contain myself to half listening (although it was I who asked) and never really finished more than a dozen (high-estimate) rows during those weeks we visited.

But, somewhere, buried deep within my very being - grew this love.  Threads and yarns and hooks and needles and all sorts of the related bits and such.  So now one may find that love which threads all through my life and home is here to stay...

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