Every time I knit or sew or crochet I think of her. Actually, I think that’s the very reason why I do any of it at all. I must have been seven years old when my grandmother first taught me to crochet with a hook, and just eight when she taught me to knit with needles.

I remember the summer I learned to crochet. The celebration of my grandfather’s saint was coming up (St. George), and I wanted to make him a belt for his robe. He always wore a robe when he was home. On weekdays he would only remove his jacket and tie, and keep his shirt and slacks on underneath. On week ends he would put on a fresh, crisp, clean, ironed pajamas instead. I always thought it funny that he slept in the nude and owned a dozen pajamas. Now I get it, and I too dress for the world in the morning.

I had decided the belt would be a surprise. His robe was brown, but the only color I had was a rich light blue. Not a soft baby blue, but a bright blue, the color of summer skies when the sky is such a strong blue that the clouds jump out like bright white tight cotton puffs. I’ve seen this color called dodger blue. In any case, I was determined to make him the sash myself, so if dodger blue was all I had then dodger blue it was!

I had gotten fairly fast at crocheting a single strand, but I couldn’t create a sash with multiple rows very well yet at all. Every attempt resulted in an extremely tight knit that curved on itself in a distorted spiral. Hence, it was clear this would have to be a well-made single-row affair since a more elaborate mediocre product would not suffice. So, I figured the only way to keep from having the sash look like a tiny little string around his great belly was to make it long enough to wrap around him twice.

I knew that it would take a while, so I went to the very back of the first floor of the house into the master bedroom and got comfortable in the sitting area where grandma watched her soaps. There was a small leather ottoman that I had claimed for myself; it was just the right height. I could sit comfortably and my feet touched the floor. Perched on my multicolored ottoman I embarked on my crocheting frenzy.

As I began, the loops were pulled tight and my hands felt tense. I closed my eyes for a minute and tried to remember what it felt like when grandma was helping me. She would sit next to me, put her arms around me, and put her hands over my own as I held the yarn and hook. At first she wouldn’t move, she would just remind me to relax my hands. Only when she felt my body loosen did she being to help me make my loops. I opened my eyes and held the image of her hands over my own as I continued my project. The loops where coming out so perfect, I almost wanted to stop and find grandma to show her, but I couldn’t go where the others were without giving away the surprise.

I had found my pace and was moving along, careful not to speed up so much that I would lose my hold on the yarn and unravel what I had already done, when I heard my grandfather’s booming voice floating down the corridor. Hook and crocheted masterpiece in hand, I stood, leaned over the ball (or rather sausage) of yard and gripped it underneath my arm with a sweeping motion lead with my elbow. As fast as I could, I ran to close the door with my foot. As my grandfather approached, I pressed my body up against the door to keep him from entering, and desperately added a few more loops (I couldn’t stand the thought that it wouldn’t go around a full two turns.) With nervous spinning fingers I tried to do the final knot.

I would have fumbled less if he hadn’t reached the door and commanded me to step aside. He could’ve easily come in; the door was not locked. I wouldn’t dare lock him out, it would only provoke him, get me in trouble, and worst of all, ruin the surprise! I begged him to wait and explained I was preparing something for him. To my sheer shock, he readily agreed and waited patiently. This unexpected reaction prompted me to double my efforts for fear that the unexpected indulgence would melt away, and he would burst through the door before I had a chance to collect myself.

After dropping my crocheting twice and almost unraveling it both times, I managed to tie it off and cut it free from the ball of yarn. With my arm bent at the elbow, I quickly wrapped it around my arm, hooking it with my hand and looping it down my forearm and around my elbow. This is how I’d seen the gardener wrap the water hose. I moved away from the door and opened it, hiding the arm with the dodger blue sash behind the door.

My grandfather marched in slowly in his regal manner, lowered his brow and paired it with a mismatched smile where a frown might be expected. He asked me what I was up to. Looking up at him he seemed a giant.

I smiled and congratulated him on his special day as I stretched out my arm and showed him the stringy sash I had made. His eyebrows sprung up, his face turned serious as he inspected the prize, and then he smiled. I threw my arms around him, my skinny little limbs barely covering his front, and he gave me a few soft pats on the back as he told me how well the sash had turned out. But the very best moment was when he pulled me away and asked me how he should wear it. I gave him one end and then ran around him, not twice, but thrice!

And this wonderful mighty patriarch tied off the silly noodle of a sash I had made, turned on his heels, and marched to the formal living room to show it to one and all. My grandmother looked met me at the end of the hallway just as I leaped on the scene. She shook her head with an amused grin, held me close to her, and planted a kiss on my left eyelid between chuckles. I don’t think I have ever made anything so appalling and so precious since.