What's Important?

Isn't it funny that, as you get older, things you didn't think mattered all your life are now the things that just won't leave you alone. Memories of childhood that are seemingly unimportant seem to intrude into your thoughts and you start to think about people, places, and happenings that were soooooo insignificant in earlier years.

One of those memories for me takes me back to when I was five or six years old. I remember Opoe and Opa picking Mom up at the house and we went to town -- Dave's Yarn Shop, to be specific. I loved that place! It was a long, narrow store. The floors were polished wood and they were always shiny! On the walls on both sides were rows and rows of shelves, all sectioned off into squares. What I wouldn't give for a wall like that here in my home! Beautiful wood and again, all shiny and polished! Every one of those squares was full of yarn, all different colors, textures and weight. Towards the back of the store was the crochet yarn, needles, books of patterns, etc. As a child, it seemed to take my Mom and Grandmother forever to pick out whatever it was they needed. I wasn't interested, really. Just loved being in the store. I loved the smell!

Now, whenever I see a hand-knitted sweater with an intricate pattern on the yoke, I think of Dave's Yarn Shop and my Mother's wonderful ability to klickity-klack those needles while she talked a mile a minute in dutch. She would call me once in a while for a measuring, hold up the partially completed sweater, yank out a few rows or add a few, and on she would go.

I don't remember my Mother being a really personable, loving, intimate mother. I don't remember hugs, kisses, or sitting on her knee. I don't remember loving talks or any special moments. But I remember knitted sweaters, crocheted-edged shirts, handmade dresses, shorts, skirts, and tops, and knitted mittens and hats.

I wish I had had the opportunity to learn from Mom all that she knew how to do. To an 8-year-old, she could do everything. She played the piano, baked bread and rolls, baked Dutch desserts, sewed all our clothing, knitted, tatted, crocheted everything --- but I learned none of it. Suddenly, with no explanation or warning, she was gone forever. She never said good-by. She never said she loved me. She never told me everything would be alright. There was only one sentence: "Your mother went to Heaven." And that was it! No one ever mentioned her again. Her knitting needles disappeared. And I never got another sweater!

I wish I could knit.