Memories

The first time I used my yarn swift and winder things were a bit fiddly. Once I finally found just the right spot to set things up and wound a few (dozen) balls of wool I felt comfortable with this new equipment. The soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh sound of the swift and winder took me back to something from my childhood. My mother is an avid seamstress and can sew anything you ask her to. Her sewing machine makes the same sound. Whoosh-whoosh.

It's comforting. Each time I sit down to wind my yarn, memories of my mother gently come forward and fill my mind. Her sitting at her sewing machine, working on clothes for my dolls or a new apron, or hemming the pants for my dad or brothers. Knitting is like that too. The clacking of the needles, the feel of the wool between my fingers; it makes me think of the generations before me that sat for hours in the evenings, or between chores, or during visits and tea with friends.

I feel connected to those fore-knitters. The ones that took something as simple as wood and wool and created something warm for their children to wear to school, or maybe, for their husbands to wear while away overseas at war. The patterns, techniques, and fibers have changed over time, but our reasons for knitting really haven't. I knit because it's a calming presence when there are hardships, when I worry, while I'm waiting in line, because I simply love to knit.

Someday, Alex and I want to have children and I don't want them growing up that it is some silly pastime meant only for elderly ladies in rocking chairs while they watch Jeopardy. I want them to appreciate the time, love, effort and care that has gone into the sweaters they will wear on play dates in the park, socks they put on their feet at bedtime, and blankets to cuddle up in while watching a movie with the family. I want them to have memories of more than just wool. I want them to have memories of someone that loved them and clothed them everyday in some simple reminder of that. My knitting.