Long ago, when life was a lot simplier, my Grandma taught me how to crochet (and knit, for that matter). Every time I pick up a crochet hook I think of her.
I made many a knotted mess while learning, and she was always so patient with me, and kind, tirelessly undoing my tangles, encouraging me to continue until I figured it out. I'm a lefty, so it took me a long time to figure it out.
Her wrinkled, soft hands would gently cover mine and guide my hook to wrap the yarn over, push through the little heart on top of the row, catch another loop of yarn, then draw the strand back through.
Patience of a saint, I am sure. I loved my Grandma so much. She made slippers, afghans, doillies and all the things Granny's make, including simple, humble, silky cotton washcloths like these.
I was home sick today, and so crocheting something simple held great appeal to me. Apparently the running about like a madwoman the weeks before had caught up with me, and so a slight fever, sore throat and raging headache kept me in bed all day. All day...
And so I would doze and hook, doze and hook, and eventually had two washcloths...
... then three. Oh, and before I forget, I had help this time too.
Somehow they know, don't they? And so they hovered close by all day. Tiny, elderly, Binx at my feet, and Star, well, Star wanted on top of the project, but finally agreed to sprawl just off to one side...
... and gave me her most alluring cover girl pose, code for "Mom, please put the crochet hook down and rub my tummy?" Could you resist?
In spite of the flu, it was a lovely day really. The sun streamed into my bedroom as I rested. It was so quiet. I watched movies, crocheted to my heart's content, petted my dear companions and drank hot tea with honey and lemon. I felt content and at peace.
I think Grandma would approve of the washcloths too.
Eileen
