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Knitting My mother knew how to knit, but she never taught me. She assumed, as did many women of her generation, that knitting was no longer a skill worth passing down from mother to daughter. A combination of feminism, consumerism and household gadgetry made many women feel that such homely accomplishments were no obsolete. My grandmother still knitted, though, and every Christmas she made a pair of socks for my brother and me, of red wool. They were the ones we wore under our ice skates, when it was really important to have warm feet. Knitting is a nervous habit that happens to be productive. It helped me quit smoking by giving my hands something else to do. It is wonderful for depression because no matter what else happens, you are creating something beautiful. Time spent in front of the television or just sitting is no longer time wasted. I love breathing life into the patterns. Its true magic, finding a neglected, dog-eared old book with the perfect snowflake design, buying the same Germantown knitting worsted my grandmother used, in the exact blue to match my daughters eyes, taking it on the train with me every day for two months, working feverishly to get it done by Christmas, staying up late after the stocking are filled to sew in the sleeves and weave in the ends. Knitting has taught me patience. I know that if I just keep going, even if it takes months, there will be a reward. When I make a mistake, I know that a temper tantrum will not fix it, that I just have to go back and take out the stitches between and start over again. | 
