Like many women of her generation, my mother used to knit. Growing up we were all dressed in knitted jumpers, hats and scarves, and a lot more. If she could make it herself, my mother would, and as children our concern for our style choices wasn’t a factor in the equation.
She continued knitting clothes when I had children of my own, but as they grew up the world changed. With clothes becoming much cheaper and easier to get hold of, it was hard to convince them into their grandmother’s homemade clothes – and of course, they wouldn’t appreciate the treasure of having something made for them by a loved one until much later.
Undeterred, my mother knitted clothes for those who did appreciate them, sending countless tiny jumpers, baby grows and little hats through various schemes to people who couldn’t afford their own clothes – I never knew exactly where they went, but it was a common venture for women of my mother’s age and I like to think they were useful somewhere.
She would sit on her reclining chair, needles click clicking away - knitting while talking, while watching television, listening to the radio, sometimes in reflective silence as the late afternoon sun streamed through the windows. She didn’t seem to need to pay much attention to it, but never dropped a stitch, turning out beautiful garments finished off from her treasure-trove of a button box. It seemed like an awful lot of work, but she said it relaxed her, that she liked doing it.
For my birthday last year, my now grown-up son got me a blanket. Except, rather than just a normal present of a blanket, he got me a bag of thick, deep red wool, and two enormous knitting needles. It was a ridiculous present, and we all laughed about how the blanket would be bigger than me by the time I had finished it. It took me a few months to finally get around to starting it – I hadn’t done any knitting in what felt like decades.
But when I did, I began to settle into a rhythm. Sitting on the sofa watching television in the evenings, the blanket helpfully keeping me warm even as I was still constructing it. It was impossible not to think of my mother and the thousands of hours she spent clicking away, contentedly absorbed in her task.
Last week’s blog was inspired by Michelle Obama’s new hobby of knitting. She describes in her book the feeling of returning to an activity that her relatives had done before her, and the sense of tethering and connection it brought her. For most of us, huge changes in society mean our lives are almost unrecognisable from those of our parents. But there are still some elements of connection to be found, and sometimes they can bring comfort along with them.