A Yarn to Tell

     The principal of an elementary school I once worked in one day directed another teacher to me for art inspiration.  I was so creative, she had said.
     If only they knew how unartistic I really was.  Although I enjoyed a nice stroll at the museum once a year if lunch at the gallery cafe ensued and yes, I was able to recall masterpieces, ones from my Art 101 college text, my only real aim with color was to present math and science in a more appealing way to my students.
     Living with my mother-in-law these past years has opened me, reluctantly, up into another realm of the arts and crafts world -- knitting.  Now knitting was never exactly foreign to me.  One of my grandmothers used to crochet constantly.  She would sit in front of the television for hours every afternoon, somehow managing to watch the soap operas while concomitantly producing lacy looking tablecloths, bedspreads, and even ornaments.  Knitting appeared to be practically the same hobby, with two needles instead of one.  Indeed, knitting seemed to be a perfect outlet for my mother-in-law, making  "idle hands are the devil's tools," a very fitting idiom for every daughter-in-law to be cautious of.
    However, going to the craft stores, and trudging behind my mother-in-law through the yarn aisles, was a test a patience for me. One store did not suffice for her, since there were three craft stores in town (that she was aware of) and a Walmart.  She not only wanted to look at each product, but she also wanted to compare all the prices.   It reminded me of the days as a child where I had to patiently wait for my mother to finish shopping in the linen department, or heaven forbid, the furniture store.  My grandmother the nurse, too, would lug me around.  How endless it seemed, waiting for her to get a piece of jewelry fixed or select a handbag or pair of shoes.  Weren't they all the same, functionally, anyway?
     Shopping is a perfunctory errand for me.  I like to make my list and go in and out as quickly as possible.  But, for my mother-in-law, and perhaps for all elderly people regularly cooped up at home, slowly perusing each product was essential to the shopping experience.  Hence, we were taking baby steps instead of the speed walking I was accustomed to.
    The types of yarn available are staggering -- cabled, socked, boucle, brushed, chenille, thick, thin, plus the variety of novelty yarns-- suede , ruffle, and then the eyelash and sequins embellishments.  Did I really care if it was superwash?  Did I really prefer one light blue shade to the other?  There I stood, juggling a thirteen-month-old on my hips, appeasing his own screaming boredom, while having to smile and agree or disagree with the colors, textures, and prices she pointed out.  Was it too rude for me to just express my feelings?   Listen, here's fifty bucks, buy what you want, I'll be waiting for you in the car.  Take your time and have fun.  Hasta la vista.
      I chose to be diplomatic.  If I were in the classroom having a parent-teacher conference I could not just express my feelings.  Listen Mrs. X, your son is way too hyper and undisciplined.  You need to cut the cereal in the morning and lay off the cookies for snack.  Plus, can you give me some back up here and help him review his times tables?  Oh, it would also help if you required him to finish his daily homework before letting him play those violent video games!
     Not only did I choose to be diplomatic, I chose to be what I would consider a dutiful daughter-in-law.  I smiled.  I gave her my sincere opinions of the shades of colors.  I weighed the issues of sequins.  And, I drove to the other stores for more comparison shopping.
     In the end, as the photos exhibit, our children, namely the screaming toddler, has a full wardrobe of beautiful, hand-knit sweaters, scarves, pants, booties, and hats. The designs on these articles of clothing are not only attractive, but mathematically titillating.  The patterns are so intricate, so symmetrical.  She planned the intersection of horizontal lines to vertical ones; weaving V-shaped trims across parallel blocks of plain colors.  One of the hoods even beheld a polygon, what appeared to be a hexagon on the outside, but mysteriously a pentagon on the inside, all of which I was tempted to calculate the area of.
     I soon realized that the cost of time and patience were definitely worth paying for and that the display itself, of a grandmother happily and eagerly fitting on her grandchild something she has devoted hours and days on, is really priceless.

A Grand Idea

     I grew up in New England and at least one grandparent lived in my home throughout my childhood.  They each stayed with us for months at a time, travelling abroad or visiting other relatives the other months of the year.   I enjoyed adapting to each grandparent's personality and idiosyncrasies.  Their transitions to and from the house reminded me of the seasonal weather changes.

     Not only did they keep me company after-school, sparing me from being a latch-key kid, they each were grand role models of hard work, industriousness, savings, and modesty.  One of my grandmothers was a chef in her own right.  She was always cooking, stirring a pot of soup or rolling up meatballs.  I recall walking home from school on hot, sunny afternoons occasionally seeing her sitting on a lawn chair by the driveway.  To my chagrin, she would be drying hanged meat strips for our dinner of exotic tapas. If she wasn't cooking, she was crocheting, generally while watching the daily lineup of soap operas, and on weekends, pro-wrestling.  My other grandmother was a diametrical opposite.  She preferred to eat her meals out.  After her career as a top hospital's head nurse and nursing school instructor, and later a nurse at an assisted living home, she enjoyed a comfortable retirement. I learned the circle of life from her, watching her slow down during her later years, relishing in her hobbies of reading, sewing, and gardening.  Her spirituality and wisdom would guide me for decades.
     My only living grandfather frequented our home even during the seasons he wasn't staying with us in the basement.  When he rented an apartment somewhere else in town, he still spent his summer afternoons napping in our living room.  He lovingly chauffeured me to the library, mall, and downtown.  I attribute my 500 hours volunteering at a local hospital to him, since he was the one who mainly drove me home.  Like his  former wife, my grandmother the nurse, he rarely cooked.  Going to diners for lunch and having coffee or juice and a dessert at Dunkin Donuts were some of our pastimes.  From him I learned the fine art of conversation, as he would easily strike it up with other customers seated by us.
     I look forward to one day hearing what my children will say about what they have learned from their grandmother, my live-in mother-in-law.  All of the hours they have spent side by side with her, watching movies, watching her cook, watching her knit... Seeing her spiritual side, her sense of fashion, her sense of humor, her kindness...  Thinking about this strengthens my resolve as a daughter-in-law.  The minor, or even major, brushes of disagreement we might have seem so very small in the overall picture.  I continue to cherish every moment I shared with my grandparents.  Reflecting on that, my children, too,  have so much to gain from a loving, stable relationship with their grandmother.