Crafting Genes

I started knitting about ten years ago. I needed to. My boyfriend of five years had dumped me, my mother had passed away, I didn't have a clue what I was going to do with my life, I was broke and most of all, I was desperate. Knitting seemed the most logical hobby for me to take up. It wouldn't cost me any money and it would allow me to continue sitting on my couch feeling sorry for myself while being somewhat productive. How was the expensive, money draining hobby of knitting free you ask?

You see, my mother was a crafter. She was much worse than I was. Not only an amazing knitter, she was also a cross stitcher, a dress maker, a wreath creator, a cook, and an interior designer. So on a post break-up trip to my father's house, I snuck away with some yellow yarn and a few sets of needles. Once I arrived back to my Boston cocoon, I fired up the ole desktop computer and dialed-up the interweb and searched for knitting instructions. I imitated what I saw in the images and tried to make sense of this new language. What resulted was a wonky and holey rectangle that I proudly sewed up into a purse. Despite the fact it was hard and I was impossibly terrible at it, I stuck with it. My ex-boyfriend got a ginormous hat that looked ridiculous and my siblings got huge mittens that looked more like oven mitts. To me it didn't matter, it was the one thing that took my mind off everything. And I have my mother to thank.

I would not have become a knitter if my mother hadn't passed away. I also would not have become a teacher. It was more important that I become my own person and do my own thing than it was for me to get out of my own way and do what I loved. If she were alive, I wouldn't have been able to swallow my pride and accept what she (and countless others) had told me all along.

While I was at my dad's house this weekend, we continued on the sorting and clearing journey of my childhood home. This time, my goal was wrapping paper (that is a whole other story), but it grew in to other miscellaneous items in that area of the attic. I came across some of my mom's unfinished cross stitch templates. They are amazing, something that I could never imagine having the desire nor the patience to even consider doing. I grew up with many of them framed throughout our house, but never paid them any mind. Now that I am an adult and a crafter, I have a much better realization of what they entailed. They are intricate and detailed and painstakingly beautiful. And they are a prefect reminder of the bridge that my mother and I continue to share.

Post Edit: It turns out that the Clown Bear cross stitch was completed by my sister with a little help from my mom, she clearly has more patience than I ever will!

The Old Neighborhood

I'm visiting my dad this weekend, a very common trip for me. It's only a couple of hours away and although I hate the drive, it is always worth the trip. Given various circumstances that made up my childhood, my dad was my primary caregiver from adolescence on. My mom was also a caregiver during those years, but I really looked to (and still do) my dad for day-to-day issues along with any significant dramas that came up. He's a quiet man who requires very little which is both a blessing and curse. Most times I hate that I can't read his mind in order to meet whatever small needs

he may have. But when he does open up and reveal something about himself, it feels especially meaningful.

Today we went out for lunch in the city he grew up in. My dad has always been a fan of taking the long way to our destinations. As I teenager I hated it, as an adult, I find myself doing it too. We took the long way to the restaurant through his old neighborhood, a common route. He grew up in a three family house filled with siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles. His childhood experience was so different from

how he raised his children. For us, it was just the three of us kids, each in our own room, in a large colonial house. So, the stories that he tells about his childhood always fascinate me. In addition to all of the family that lived in this house, there were a number of aunts, uncles, and cousins who lived down the block and around the corner. It's fun to imagine this huge (and I am not exaggerating here) clan of Irish immigrants and their broods of children running up and down the blocks of this urban neighborhood.

We took a long, slow drive today and I had a chance to hop out on a couple of occasions to take some

pictures. He, of course, thought that was really strange, but I think that my interest prompted him to share a little more than he usually does. Days like these are becoming more and more the reason I come home so frequently.

To My Dad

My father, the youngest of the bunch

Wishing you the happiest of Father's Days. Thank you for all that you are and all that you do for me. I feel lucky to have you in my life.

Me and my dad