Knitting and Me

Three generations bound together by yarn

For some people, knitting is a creative outlet, a way to express themselves in color, texture and three dimensions. For others, it's an escape from the rat-a-tat-tat busyness of our multi-tasking world, an opportunity to steady the mind, as well as the hands, by focusing on one stitch at a time.

For me, it's all of that -- as well as a Ouija board.

I don't remember exactly how old I was when I learned to knit. But I will never forget who taught me: Aunt Peg.

Aunt Peg

She was my father's sister. Peg never married. She lived in the same house where my father was born. It had a coal cellar, and a mangle where my grandmother used to wring out the laundry before she clothespinned it to the line in the backyard to dry.

But Peg was hardly stuck in that old-fashioned three-bedroom. One of the first employees of the airline that became USAirways, she loved to travel. I remember the glamor of her stories and the tinkle of the ever expanding collection of charms from places she had visited on her bracelet.

Every kid should have an Aunt Peg. Maybe because she never had kids of her own, she never felt obliged to completely grow up. Her house was a refuge from parental oversight -- a place where you could stay up late watching detective movies or doing other cool things.

Once, we went out to the backyard at midnight with shovels so we could plant rose bushes by the full moon because Peg had heard it would help the roses flourish.

Knitting was a project we started together. Typical of her intrepidity and self-confidence, purchased a small Coats & Clark paperback (Price: 35 cents) and we tackled it.

I have no idea how far we got.

What sticks in my mind is the fun we had together.

Years later, I rented a room from a wonderful couple when I was in California for a nine-month stint. The wife of the pair, Winnie Hinkleman, always seemed to be knitting something for one of her many grandchildren. I was intrigued but never asked to pick up the needles. Then I got a phone call from my father.

My Aunt Peg had died.

Back in Pittsburgh, I helped my brother clean out the old house with all its links to a mysterious past that stretched back beyond my earliest memories. In the attic, I found a plastic bag filled with some yarn, a couple of knitting needles, and our old Coats & Clark book.

Standing in the dining room window, looking out on the rose bushes we had planted together by the insulbrick garage, I thought about our times together. From the house where my father was born, I took my aunt's charm bracelet, her all-American Airlines ID badge and that plastic bag. Back in California, I asked Winnie to reteach me to knit. I haven't stopped since.

Do I hear my aunt talking to me as the needles click, the way a Ouija board is supposed to communicate with the spirit world? No, but I do believe I am connected to her by the thread that we once picked up together.

When my niece Olivia was baptized ten years ago, I wore Peg's photo ID to the church.

Two years ago, I taught Olivia to knit.