Holiday "Heeling"

It’s late fall here in New England. The leaves have all but passed, and a cold autumn breeze is gusting past the window. I watch rain drops roll down the windowpane and pause to think about the coming holidays. Christmas without Daddy will be so hard this year! Losing Daddy last August is still heavy on my heart, but I open the yarn shop every morning, thinking how he used to say to take life one day at a time. The shop keeps me busy, and I need that right now. So much to do, and not much money to do it with. Due to high oil prices, folks just aren’t buying this year. I need to de-stress, but I don’t know how. I’m tired of reading about how I should learn to relax. Keeping busy has always worked best for me.

Yesterday was my day off, and I went about the usual chores of housework and laundry. As I dug out the winter clothes, I picked up my favorite sweater, a blue wool one Mom knitted for me long ago. I cuddled with it for a moment. Mom turned 80 this year, and I wondered how many more Christmases she would be here with us.

I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what to get her for Christmas. Mom always has everything she needs. As I hugged the old sweater, I suddenly remembered Mom telling me it was cold in the house and her feet were freezing. At the time, I told her she might want to think about getting some wool socks, but she didn’t seem to bite on the idea. I come from a long line of needlewomen. As a child, I watched my grandmother knitting socks for the soldiers. Why, she never even looked at her work as her needles danced through the yarn. But Mom, who taught me to knit, never got the hang of turning the heel. She always made tube socks for us three kids.

I’ve been knitting like crazy in the months since the yarn shop opened. Swatches, shawls and hats for displays, samples for classes I teach. I’ve played with every yarn and every needle in the shop, and I’ve made just about everything I can think of. Well, everything except socks. This morning Sara comes in, looking for new sock yarn. I show her all the beautiful colors and fibers we carry, and as she picks out enough for three pairs, she says, “’I can’t decide, so I’m going to splurge and get all three. Everyone in my family always wants a pair of my socks for Christmas!’’

I’m sitting knitting on a mohair shawl for a gift. ‘’Oh my,’’ she says, admiring the shawl. ‘’Isn’t that beautiful and so soft! Is it hand-dyed?’’

I confirm that it is, and she continues, “I would never have thought about making a shawl with that yarn, but I might just come back and get some for myself when I get these socks knitted up.”

As we chat about knitting projects, she asks how I make my socks, and do I have a favorite pattern? I say, "Oh, no, I don’t bother with socks. My mother told me they were more trouble than they were worth."

“You don’t make socks? You’re kidding!”

I tell her about Mom and her tube socks. She responds, “You can knit all these lovely things in this shop and you think you can’t make socks?”

Sara thumbs through the pattern book and pulls out a pattern. She hands it to me, saying, “Read this over and call me with anything you don’t understand.” She writes down her number and happily heads for home with her sock yarn.

Carefully, I put down the shawl and look over the sock pattern. Twice. Hmmmm. It doesn’t sound so bad. I sign out a skein of Cherry Tree Hill hand-dyed sock yarn in a lovely “Spring Frost” colorway and a set of shiny aluminum sock needles, and I spread the pattern in front of me and set to work. All afternoon and evening, I wrestle with the slippery knitting needles as they slide out of the stitches. This is far from stress relief! Nevertheless, I’m as stubborn as they come, and as bed time approaches, I keep promising myself one more row, and one more, fighting with the slippery needles all the way. When I finally give in and go to bed, I see socks in my sleep. Despite my clumsiness, I’m excited to think I might just master this art yet.

The next day I take my new project to the shop with me. I unlock the door and walk in, and there on my desk lies my unfinished mohair shawl. As I move it to my knitting basket, I run my thumb appreciatively over the Brittany birch knitting needles. I love the feel of them. Wool yarn and nice smooth wooden needles just feel so right together!

At last the light goes on. Half laughing and half kicking myself, I switch the aluminum needles for a birch set. The wood and the wool feel as though they’re made for each other, and within minutes I’m ticking away as though I’ve been making socks all my life. What a difference the right tools make!

Happy now, I take apart yesterday’s work and start over. I follow the instructions carefully, and it seems so easy when I take it one line at a time. “By gosh, I think I’ve got it!’’ By noon the next day, the first sock is finished. Thrilled, I call Sara, and tell her to stop and see the sock when she’s in the area. Eight minutes later, she pulls in the yard. We talk sock talk and she says, “Be careful now, Jan, socks are addictive.” We laugh and I thank her again and again for her help and encouragement.

I start right in on the second sock. By the end of the next day I have the pair finished. Mom will have warm socks for Christmas. Suddenly all the sock yarns in the shop are calling to me, “Try me! No, I’m next!” For my second pair, I pick some Regia that’s painted to make it appear as if you’re knitting a intarsia pattern (but it does all the work for you!). This pair is even more fun; I just have to keep knitting to see what pattern appears next. Soon Mom has a second pair for Christmas.

I take time to finish the shawl I’d been working on when Sara sidetracked me, but I’ve made up my mind that after it’s finished I’ll make some socks for my husband Al, who loves hiking, and then a pair for my son Andrew, who would love some slipper-socks with leather soles. I’m hooked; I’m already hoarding the best colors in a stash for myself!

The holidays are filled with family and friends and the usual exchange of gifts. When Mom opens her present, she looks up at me with a big smile. “Don’t tell me you made these yourself, Jan?”

“Yes, I did, Mom.”

She shows them off to everyone and they admire the beautiful yarn and the workmanship. Later at lunch she sits next to me. "Did you really do those yourself?"

Knowing how pleased she is with my gift, I beam with joy. “Yeah, Mom, it’s easy when you take it one row at time.”

Instantly, we both think of Daddy. She looks at me, and placing her hand in my lap, she says, “You’re so right. One day at time is all we can do now.”

“Mom, when I can’t bear the thought of him being gone, I pick up my knitting, remembering things he used to say. ‘One day at a time’ was at the top of his list.”

Mom and I hug and spill a few tears. Finally she says, “Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”

“I know, Mom. Now keep your feet warm!” She smiles, remembering all the times she yelled at us kids to “Put something on your feet or you’ll catch cold.”

All winter long Mom visits with friends, and she brags about her daughter who can make socks by hand in her little yarn shop in the woods. I’ve given Mom a lot of gifts in my life, but she never has enjoyed anything as much as her warm knitted socks.