Heavy sounding title isn't it? Is this a sentimental contemplative essay on passing traditions from generation to generation. Nah, not today.
So, the point is what, exactly?
I finished Charlotte's Web last night (pics later when I get home), thanks to my Mom.
About now my Mom is asking herself why she was a critical factor in my knitting. She doesn't knit.
But, she crochets! I don't remember a time when she didn't crochet. She didn't do it obsessively, I get the obsessive side of my personality from my father, but she did it well. I've always admired her skill and color sense, though I have to admit I despised her choice of yarn.
Sorry mom, but that acrylic stuff is just disgusting. I don't care if it can be washed and dried, it still feels yucky. I know, I'm a yarn snob and that this is to the detriment of my bank account, but I had to be honest.
Your cotton doilies however are works of art.
I, however, do not crochet, except under duress. Imagine my horror at discovering that Charlotte's Web not only includes a single crochet border, but two rows of chained loops! Apologies for not using the appropriate technical terminology here, I'm a novice.
Seeing the sketchy pattern instructions, I was proud I didn't give in to immediate and debilitating, panic. I calmed my rapidly beating heart and forced myself to stop hyperventilating. I channeled "The Little Engine That Could."
I've been looking at crochet instructions lately, at least the pictures. I've seen the trend towards adding crochet embellishments to knitted projects. I want to be an au courant knitter. I can cope with this little bit of decorative embellishment.
A row of single crochet around the edge. OK.
Chain nine and attach to the fifth stitch of the previous row. OK!
I deluded myself that it looked acceptable. I got to the end of the row and the stitch count worked perfectly! A triumph. I am super knitter!
As I started the loops going back in the other direction, doubt began to creep in and deflate my overblown ego. I was momentarily blinded by a flash of memory. In my trance I saw my mother's hands, moving smoothly and rapidly in single crochet, double crochet, triple backward looping crochet with a twist. And I knew the truth.
I was wrapping the yarn the wrong way around the hook.
I tried it the other way and was stunned to discover it made a huge difference. It was recognizably crochet!
For five foolish minutes I told myself it would be acceptable for the second row of loops to be different from the first. But this didn't succeed and I took the express train to Frogville.
It was painful, but it's over now. Charlotte's beautiful. And I owe it all to my Mom!
BTW Mom, don't get any ideas. I'm keeping the shawl for myself. At least until Christmas, or your birthday...