I grew up in a family of workers–on a farm to be precise. Utilitarian. Measured by the number of rows I could hoe compared to my siblings. My main escape from work was reading, but more than anything, I wanted to make things and revive the “lost” arts of quilting, knitting, embroidery and sewing. Maybe they weren’t lost to the world, but they were certainly “lost” in my family. I learned to knit when I was nine–using heavy rug yarn and making a pair of slippers and a potholder. My efforts earned me the lowest possible ribbon in 4-H at the Canyon County Fair. My mother kindly threw the potholder, full of holes and shaped somewhat like a trapezoid, into the potholder drawer where it languished for years. An older, more judgmental me threw it away years later. Despite the end product, I loved to knit. My sticks are still clicking some fifty years later.
a knitter is born: from pattie
