The pressure, the attempts to get me to “do it right.”
None of it worked.
The two pointy sticks, the dangly bit of knitting and that always tangling thread. The dangly thread that, with everyone else, seemed to magically intertwine with the dangling piece of knitting, growing ever longer.
For me, it was a source of wonder and frustration.
Sometimes it skipped its duty and left a stitch unattached to the stick, leaving a hole that would grow larger over time. Other times it seemed in a reproductive frame of mind, and where there had been only one loop on the previous attempt, there were now two, three, or alarmingly a whole bunch more.
My grandmother, my great aunt, my mother, my sister, the nuns, my friend’s mother. All wonderful women, all with that magic in their fingers. They tried, honestly they did. So did I. I love hand knitted jerseys. Imagining myself wearing my own creations would drag me into the torture again and again. All to no avail.
I can’t knit.
Then one afternoon, my mother decided to see if she could teach me to crochet. Amazingly, in no time I was churning out recognizable bits of crochet work. Scarves that became gnarled confusion when two needles were involved, became lacy delights. Blankets for babies, a little dress for a small girl. Jerseys.
And yet when anyone knowledgeable sees me crochet they comment that I am “not doing it right”. Apparently it looks as though I am left handed with my right hand.
It seems my brain is inside-out or something.