Monday, December 8, 2008


I spent many of my formative years at my grandparent's house. My single mother was raising two daughters, on her own, working full time. We drove her crazy. My grandparents, especially my grandmother, stood in for their son, who was not always available. They lived in a magical house in the Seacliff district of San Francisco, around the corner from the house my parents had owned. Although the leak in the breakfast room was a constant source of irritation to my grandmother, it never affected me. There the bucket sat every winter, so what. I spent hours in that breakfast room, making tracings of the lacy plastic place mats or creating designer clothing for my paper dolls.

If I wasn't in the breakfast room, you might have found me in the library. Staring at the pictures on the walls, the newspaper clipping showing my grandmother as the Chronicle's 1964 Woman of the Year. There was one bookcase filled with children's books, most of them hers. I sat for hours reading Grimm's Fairy Tales or whatever else seem appropriate to me.

If I wasn't in the library, perhaps I was upstairs in the den. Playing with the toys she kept up there for her grandchildren, or drawing in a coloring book. There were many coloring books, but they were all the same thing. A Watergate coloring book they must have picked up at the NATO (National Association of Theater Owners) convention.

And if I wasn't in the library I was with Grandma in her sewing room. Where she was undoubtedly sewing something for me, and I was using the scraps to make doll clothes.

But back to the breakfast room. It was in this room I remember Grandma showing me how to properly hold a fork, letting me know a lady doesn't hold a fork any other way. All these years later I still go a little nuts on the inside when I see someone holding a fork incorrectly. It was also hear that I wrote my thank you notes for any gifts I had received. Thank you notes were NEVER to be forgotten. My sister and I learned this well.

Grandma and Papa moved years ago to a plush apartment on the top of Nob Hill looking over the bay. And although Papa passed away about 15 years ago, Grandma is still sewing her designer clothes (perhaps not quite as fancy as they used to be.)

So what has this all to do with knitting, or more particularly, my blog? There is one thing I feel that I have been remiss on and that is responding to your comments. It's not like I am overwhelmed with them! Unlike many other blog hosts, Blogger does not insist on an email address when leaving a comment. And even if you are a registered Blogger user, the link only takes me to your profile, which often does not supply an email. Sometimes I can find you on Ravelry. But I like the idea of your comments arriving in my email with a way of writing you back immediately, in response to your comment. Even if it's just to say thanks. Perhaps you all like your anonymity, but I prefer the other system.

What do you think? Is it worth changing over to another host so I can be in better contact? Does it bother you that I don't always respond to your comments?

Either way, let me take this opportunity to say Thank you. With the exception of the odd comments left by Frik and Frak, your comments mean a lot to me and I, for one, would like to carry the dialogue a bit further.


Friar Frak said...

Wow, what an inspiring story! I'm glad to not be anonymous. I'm Frak. Am I one of those people who holds his fork incorrectly? May the knitting blog continue for many more years to come and knitters can unite to share their insights with others.



Anonymous said...

All of this is true, as I am the sister and I was there too. The only sad part is that Grandma is no longer sewing designer clothes for herself. She is unable to at this point.