At some point in the summer of 1986, my Mom dropped me off for a few days at Gram’s in Hoosick Falls, where the magic of my grandmother would rub off on me in ways that I’ve held onto through this very day. For all her crushingly introverted attitude, the way she seemed so painfully shy when making her way through much of this world, she also held a fascination with glamour and old-school Hollywood, regaling me with tales of Greta Garbo, and she liked to accentuate her outfits with little bits of splendor and sparkle – colorful jewelry and beaded purses. Part of her was drawn to such drama, as seen in her love for NBC’s daytime drama line-up, and she imparted the gift of the dramatic to me in my formative years. We’d sit and watch ‘Days of Our Lives’ and ‘Another World’ and somewhere among those waning summer days she taught me how to crochet.
The earliest hints of fall were seeping into the open windows of the living room, where I slept on the tufted velvet couch – it was a gorgeous shade of green that I would forever love, and it functioned as a cozy bed at night. During the day it was where we sat to watch television, and where she taught me how to tie the first loop for my first crochet chain. Somehow we both knew that crocheting would be a good skill to learn to see me through the fall and winter, a way of conjuring coziness and warmth and hygge – decades before I even knew what hygge meant. In that pocket of summer days, I learned how to make the most basic crochet moves, perfect for scarves or blankets – and that’s where the skills ended, but that was more than enough.
I’d sit on the large couch and Gram moved to the smaller couch across the room, and we’d crochet our projects as the daytime shows ticked off the hours. It was idyllic for a gay boy – as thrilling as exploring Gram’s jewelry boxes, or listening to her tales of tawdry silver screen gossip. By the time it was ready for that late-summer stay to be over, and Mom arrived to bring me back home, my Grandmother had gifted me with the art of crocheting – something I held close to my heart for the rough school year that was about to ensue, and for all of the colder moments that would soon descend. Those days of crocheting with my grandmother are still part of my happiest childhood memories, even if I didn’t see it at the time.
That fall I developed severe allergies from a new cat I insisted we give a home to, which led to severe asthma and a rigorous series of medical tests to treat the cascading sicknesses that left me out of school for lengthy periods of time. Stuck at home, I started crocheting a blanket, making it thicker by using two strands of yarn – a twist that I taught to my Gram, but one which she didn’t decide to utilize. I had visions of a grand bedspread in some brightly-lit loft. It felt like I had all the time in the world, so I made a long-term master plan.
Good young gay lad that I was unknowingly blooming into, I was stuck on the idea of a rainbow, made of a multitude of different shades of each color, and I planned on doing five rows per shade, five shades per color, and then deciding to determine later whether the starting row would be the width or length of it. At first I wanted each band to symbolize a special person in my life, assigning and imbuing every color to represent someone who meant something to me, but I started with too many people, then I had too many bands, and then I had too many people again so it never worked out that way. Besides, a big part of me didn’t want to share this blanket with anyone other than Gram. That fall and winter, as I was out of school more than I seemed to be in, I worked diligently on the blanket. It saw me through the loneliness, and brought me back to those happy summer days at Gram’s. There was coziness and warmth – literally and figuratively – in the crocheting of a blanket.
Eventually, summer returned, and my focus shifted outside, so I put the blanket down, and then for a couple of years I put it away completely, but it never remained entirely out of mind. I knew it was there, and its simple existence was a comfort, a way of reminding me of Gram and what was important in life.
Every few years I’d pick it up again and crochet a few more bands of color. It followed me to Boston for a couple of dismal and stormy winters. I took it up again while Andy and I spent our first winter together in Guilderland, and each time the years between working on it elongated – this last stretch has been the longest, as it’s been over a decade since I had it out and worked on it – and before this winter leaves I intend to get a few more rows in. It is the ideal way to end another winter season.
I’m nearing the completion of it, and I haven’t yet decided whether to go around the rough edges with a more thoughtful style; it would be a way of continuing something I may not be quite ready to finish.
