The story begins with an afghan.
Gerald and I move into our first house. Without anything of our own but a mattress, we accept many generous offers. His mom gives us this afghan that she made – oh, pardon me, crocheted – years before. The colors are dated but it is very much appreciated.
A year later, the edges begin to unravel, and areas of the acrylic yarn are wearing very thin.
We put the afghan (or african, as it is sometimes known) away in the closet and pull it out when we have an extra guest in the house, or on especially cold nights.
Soon after, I learn to knit. It takes me a year, but I’ve grown quite fond of it, try to do a little knitting every day, and spend most of my waking moments thinking of all things yarn.
I’d sure like to learn how to crochet, then I could make v. 2 of this family heirloom. Maybe the same colors, maybe better colors, definitely wool. I buy The Happy Hooker just in case I feel like crocheting. Try as I might, this crochet thing is not for me.
Okay, now I’ve had that darn crochet book for a year, and still no dice. But there sure are some tempting inspirations. Take a look at this beauty, for example. And then these squares. I’m going to pick up that crochet hook soon and get hookin.
Finally yesterday at the library – the last straw. I’ve seen it before but never checked it out. 200 Ripple Stitch Patterns. I check it out. I bring it home. I find that other crochet book. I get a hook out. I find some scrap yarn. And I start chaining. I start some double crochets, and it feels right. I get it. I crochet a circle and it gets me high. My hands are starting to get sore and my children are begging for food. I keep on crocheting. I cannot stop. I even made a granny square.
I feel awful about my sweater-in-progress. It’s glaring at me, but I won’t make eye contact. I am having an affair with crochet and it feels s o g o o d.