Noodling Around
Charlotte's Blanket and the Legacy of Laura May.
When I was a little girl, I had a babysitter named Laura May. She lived not far away from us and I would walk to her house after school.
She lived in a nice little colonial on Samaritan Avenue with a backyard full of trees and roses. It was the kind of house that had a Davenport and fancy drapery. She and her husband had one daughter, whom they’d adopted because they couldn’t have children of their own. That daughter was grown, living in Florida, and was single with no kids.
I stayed with Laura May while my mom was going to college, working, and taking care of my dying grandmother. I remember missing my mom and being sick a lot myself, but Laura May took good care of me. In many ways, she became my surrogate grandmother. And I, perhaps, her surrogate grandchild.
I know she enjoyed having me around.
In summer, I’d get to Laura May’s house early, while she was still in her modest cotton nightgown and robe, with her long gray hair in a braid down her back. I’d go sit with her while set her hair for the day: she’d spray it with a little mist of water, section it, brush it, roll it around her fingers and the pointy end of the brush, and pin it properly all over her head.
She made us eggs and toast and peppermint tea for breakfast a lot, but sometimes it was oatmeal and black tea with milk and cubes of sugar. The house had one of those old-fashioned kitchens with huge wooden pantry built-ins and a door for the milkman. The tea was loose-leaf, in tins in one of the drawers. We used a little hinged spoon with small holes that you’d snap the tea into and pour the boiling water over.
We’d have simple soup-and-sandwich lunches eaten at the sunny kitchen booth, sometimes I’d stay for dinner and it was always hearty - a roast, a chicken, pork chops, potatoes mashed or boiled, eaten with her husband in the formal dining room after he got home from the car dealership he owned.
Laura May was a Christian woman, and I had a lot of Jesus-learning from her. Of course, this was also during the time where I was starting to listen to KISS, hoping and fantasizing that Gene Simmons, The Demon, was my father - so I had that at least.
Thinking back on it though, that Bible stuff is probably what piqued my curiosity about the supernatural - about prophecies and revelations, signs and symbols, miracles and magic. It’s everywhere in the Bible. The Book of Revelation especially fascinated me.
In addition to Bible books, Laura May also had a small library in her sunroom, plus all the books that her daughter had left behind. Even though I was in a quiet house with an old woman, I was never bored.
What I remember most about Laura May, though, was that she was an expert at crochet.
She had a hook in my hands at 6 years old, and she had bins full of yarn. She showed me, hand to hand, sitting on the Davenport, how to make the chain and each of the stitches.
I was crocheting granny squares and Barbie blankets in no time at all. Sometimes they turned out really wonky, but I was young. I never learned to read a crochet pattern. I’d freehand everything and would sometimes get frustrated.
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Over the years, I’ve always kept a few hooks and skeins around. I’ve never made anything more than a few potholders and bad scarves. I’d check out books at the library on crochet, but pictures and patterns were hard for me to understand.
In March of 2020, just as Covid was ramping up, I pulled out some yarn and started crocheting a mask because I was in such a state as to believe that a crochet mask with yarn holes a mile wide would somehow protect me from the a virus so small that no one has ever seen it under a microscope.
I didn’t use my crocheted mask. It was white cotton yarn with a red decorative border and it looked like a maxi-pad hanging off my face.
During this time, my daughter wanted to learn a few crochet stitches. We started with the basics, of course, but she was hopelessly frustrated. How do you make it look so easy? She asked. Her little fingers struggled.
I had no answer other than I just retained the muscle memory.
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About a month ago, I saw an Instagram post showing a crocheted cat hammock - that’s right, a CAT HAMMOCK - and I wanted to make one for my cat.
So, I pulled out the hooks again. Found a full skein of yarn. I told my husband I was just noodling around. The yarn felt so good on the fingers.
I watched a couple of Instagram reels, then a few YouTube videos, and I made the hammock.
I still have to mount it, but the cat sleeps on it in a cardboard box that she’s adopted as her bed. You know how cats are.
Dear reader, I’m obsessed. With the cat, yes of course, but also the yarn. Just like my writing, I’ve been crocheting every day. Stealing 15 minutes here or there, while dinner cooks, or while we’re watching Jeopardy.
There is something to the rhythm of it - the fingers being engaged - that works out the knots in my brain. It puts me into a zone that is similar to when I’m in a writing zone.
Maybe The Zone is The Zone no matter what you’re practicing.
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Over this past month, with all of this new yarn now coming into the house, watching my recliner chair and TV area and desk be overtaken by at least 4 projects in various states of completion, with baskets overflowing, my husband eyeballed the scene and stated the obvious:
“Babe, we live in Phoenix. How many blankets do we actually need?”
(Ironically, his grandmother, Ethel, was also a master at crochet. We have her blankets in our linen closet.)
Ha! Of course. Yes.
We don’t NEED another blanket. He’s right. We have plenty of blankets. Too many, probably.
But then I thought, we have plenty of books, too.
How many more books do we really need? Will I never buy another book to read because I think I’ve got too many? Should I never write another book because there are too many already?
No. Heck no.
I’m doing it because I want to. I don’t NEED to.
The point in crocheting the blanket isn’t necessarily the blanket.
The point in writing another book isn’t necessarily the book.
It’s the process, the learning, the up-leveling of skill and expertise. It’s the doing. The faith in your creative vision. The completion.
The product is the happy result of the process.
I can’t wait to finish the blanket, and I can’t wait to finish the book.
They are related activities. At least in my mind.
I’ve created a life so that having a few extra blankets or books around the house doesn’t really matter. If I have too many, I can gift them away with love.
What a luxury.
I learned recently that they’ve not yet invented a machine that can duplicate hand-crocheting. It’s a completely human, analog effort.
Crochet will never be taken over by AI.
ONLY HUMANS CAN DO IT. Just like good writing.
YES. That parallel suits me just fine.
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Recently, I was able to meet up with my friend, photographer Mike Savoia. He lives up in Seattle, is an old-school metalhead, and his mom, Charlotte, lives here in Phoenix.
Mike and I were introduced by dear Lonn a few years ago, and have stayed in touch on the socials. I don’t do Facebook much anymore, but Charlotte friended me there, and we started chatting, and the last time Mike was in town to visit her, we all met up for lunch and it was like I’d known her for decades. She’s 82, sharp as a tack, and very stylish.
Anyways, recently I saw in a post she was selling her house and moving up to Seattle - sick of the Phoenix heat. When I saw that Mike was in town with Journey, I reached out to see if we could meet up so I could bid her farewell.
It worked out and we met up and had a great breakfast two weeks ago. I gave them each a copy of Garage Sale Vinyl and Charlotte told me she had something for me as well, so we went to her car and she pulled a big heavy shopping bag out of her trunk. It had a ribbon on the handles.
I reached in, touched it, caught a glimpse, and said OH MY GOD!!
I unfolded a big, beautiful, hand-crocheted blanket in the restaurant parking lot. I was so touched and shocked, I almost started crying.
Dear Reader, IT’S ALMOST UNCANNY the timing of this gift, mere weeks after I started crocheting again. It’s a whisper of something, an affirmation.
I’ll cherish Charlotte’s blanket forever. A labor of love by a surrogate elder. The colors of the blanket match the colors in my living room rug almost perfectly. I couldn’t have chosen better yarn myself.
What a beautiful reminder of the things and people I’ve loved, and the time and care it takes to craft these things: blankets, and stories, and books.
There can never be too many. It’s evidence of our humanity.
May the legacy of Laura May live on in me.
May Charlotte’s blanket be enjoyed for decades.
May Ethel’s blankets be cherished as heirlooms.
May the writing flow. May the Zone come easy.
Even if we’re just noodling.
Until soon,
AMO
I love knowing that nobody has figured out machine crocheting…an analog handicraft! Just like good writing that AI will never truly be able to create.