I bit off more than I could chew this year. As a dedicated crafter, I feel guilty shopping for gifts. Before you roll your eyes, I don't crochet neon orange plant hangers for my family. I attempt to make useful, memorable, unisex gifts. Primarily a knitter, it takes a great deal of ingenuity and timing to knit items that will be useful to the family members who live in warm climates. Strangely enough, the weather was perfect for the pair of socks most people got this year. I became a sock machine over the summer, and with two people left on my list, I decided I was ready to take over the mysterious family heirloom stocking.
Since the 1940's, ostensibly, my great aunt knitted a new Christmas stocking for every member of the family. The stockings are identical, except for the back. Each person gets an embroidered line from 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, starting with the father, followed my the mom, first born, and so on. When a baby was born, or a marriage took place, you knew a stocking was in the making. They were mostly perfect, but there were little handmade variations. My brother's was slightly smaller than the rest of the family's, and our dad's had a calf panel of red that didn't quite match the rest. My great aunt passed away about 15 years ago, and with her went the secret of the stocking. How I wish my childhood self had been more inclined to sit with her and my grandmother and learn the art of conjuring a garment from single strand of yarn. When I become critical of my own creations, I try to remember how much our family loves their stockings, despite their imperfections.
Years ago, during my first knitting lesson, I asked my teacher if she could help me map out this stocking. She told me it was a little early, but when I was ready, she'd be happy to help. That was 2006, and these days I can follow a pattern pretty well on my own, so I borrowed one of the stockings from my mom, and took a look. I was lost. There was all this intarsia, and I didn't feel confident about it. Rather than just ask for help, I stubbornly studied articles and videos, and experienced some major trial and error. I knew I could follow a pattern, but how to find it? A Google image search of "Christmas stocking" amazingly lead me to a picture of our family heirloom. I contacted the creator, and begged for her charity. She generously handed over the pattern after I described my situation. More weeks of blunders and frustration, but I refused to ask for help. Looking back, I think I wanted to keep this project in the family. This ability was in my blood, I just had to tap into it. Somehow, I got through that first panel. Then the next. The final was easiest of all. All I needed was the embroidery, and to weave in the loose ends. The stocking was done.
Years ago, during my first knitting lesson, I asked my teacher if she could help me map out this stocking. She told me it was a little early, but when I was ready, she'd be happy to help. That was 2006, and these days I can follow a pattern pretty well on my own, so I borrowed one of the stockings from my mom, and took a look. I was lost. There was all this intarsia, and I didn't feel confident about it. Rather than just ask for help, I stubbornly studied articles and videos, and experienced some major trial and error. I knew I could follow a pattern, but how to find it? A Google image search of "Christmas stocking" amazingly lead me to a picture of our family heirloom. I contacted the creator, and begged for her charity. She generously handed over the pattern after I described my situation. More weeks of blunders and frustration, but I refused to ask for help. Looking back, I think I wanted to keep this project in the family. This ability was in my blood, I just had to tap into it. Somehow, I got through that first panel. Then the next. The final was easiest of all. All I needed was the embroidery, and to weave in the loose ends. The stocking was done.
I just sat there looking at it. I hung it up on my bookshelf, right next to the old stocking I'd used as a model, like clones. I wanted to show someone. I wanted my great aunt and my grandmother to see it. I wanted them to turn the stocking inside out and run their fingers over the woven ends. I wanted them to see that they'd finally passed the torch, and I could take it from here. There's a song called Silent House by the Dixie Chicks about a family member slipping into Alzheimer's Disease. A little heavy, I know, but the lyrics played in my mind, "Everything that you made by hand; Everything that you know by heart; And I will try to connect; All the pieces you left; I will carry it on; And let you forget." I'd never felt such relief, completion, or emotion over a single knitting project. Hours before, Marky had fallen asleep on the couch next to me. But I woke him to show him my masterpiece. He sat with me, staring at the 25-year-old prototype and the 25-minute-old creation. Then he patted my knee, and told me it was time for bed. I finished the stocking late in the evening, the last day of November.
The next morning, my mom called to tell me that my grandmother had passed away. Most of the family got to visit Grammie during Thanksgiving. The general consensus was that she held on long enough to say goodbye to everyone. I think a little part of her stuck around to see my stocking finished.
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