My Crochet Story, Part 1

I was 16. It was my first time meeting his mom. She sat comfortably in her chair while talking and laughing with her sisters. Her hands were moving melodically in and out of the yarn. One hand held a shiny hook. The other gently caressed the blanket she was making. The movement entranced me and swept me in with its swaying motion.

She noticed my gaze and I turned away. Her blue eyes felt piercing, especially to a shy 16 year old whose only purpose was not be seen. She called out to me. I pretended not to hear. She got up from her chair. I found a different seat and sat down as my boyfriend returned with my soda.


He had her same blue eyes. But his were sweet and unfettered by years of life. I sat to his right while a crate with dolls were positioned to his left. He handed me a doll and told me his mom made them. She spends her time making them, he said. It keeps her busy,  he noted nonchalantly.


I looked at the doll. It was plush, sweet, and definitely handmade. The body was interwoven and connected at various points. The dress, hand sewn, was reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie. The collar was a carefully crocheted lace with intricate details. This yarn was thinner and finer than the dolls body. It draped carefully around the doll's neck whilst maintaining its shape and flow. 


I can show you how to make one, if you want, she said in her raspy voice. I looked up, and there she was again. She wasn't as tall as I imagined. She was at least 5 feet with 80's poofy hair. The black eyeliner delineated her oval eyes forcing them to look small. Even though she reminded me of a Siberian husky, whose mane sways while his eyes scare, I could tell she was gentle and wouldn't bite.  However, that didn't stop me from being scared.


I was afraid of so much at the time. Of being spoken to, of being noticed, of speaking, and most importantly of not fitting in. He gently grabbed my hand and said, go on, she doesn't bite.


You can read Part 2 of the story here.