30 jan

Knitting. I remember being jealous of my sister Hellen. She would be knitting in front of the tv, being productive while I was just lazy.
I think of this when I am sitting in the living room, staring at the fire, checking the last mails on internet, wondering what the English cricket team is doing – something I really don’t care about – while my mother-in-law and wife are being productive, knitting scarves.
Mom is knitting a scarf for me. In fact she’s finishing right now. It is the most beautiful scarf ever. I suggested she could sell the scarf at Hermes or Gucci. It could fetch a thousand dollars easily. Mom said: ‘Don’t sell it!” – not buying into the making a million dollars fast scheme that I was thinking of for her. I remember her neglecting my earlier plan to make her a millionaire. At the time when we still lived in Omaha I suggested that she should write the ultimate self help book by just writing down her Weight Watcher pitches. I guess I will have to prove to her that these ideas have any value by becoming a little successful myself first.
Julie and I bought the wool in Angouleme. I chose a nice red (more Burgundy than Bordeaux) colour with a thread that Julie thought was a little too skimpy for mom to be able to appreciate, but she has been working on it religiously. She didn’t like the first pattern and tore out quite a bit of knitting (crochet-ing is the real word). The new pattern is called Granite, is amazing, but also quite difficult and asks for determined focus and constant recounting. In the beginning mom would make little mistakes, only visible to her own eyes, and would have to pull out a row or two. It broke my heart to see that. Why not settle for near- perfection?
The scarf my mother-in-law was knitting reminded me of the woolen and cotton memories I cherish by still wearing them. Let me start with the woolen socks my great aunt, Fie would make. They were so comfortable and warm and knitted with so much love that it took agreat many holes before I threw the last ones away a few years ago. Fie died in 1985 I think, so I must have been 13 or 14 when I got them.
Then there is the grey sweater my grandma , father’s side, made. I had to grow into that one I remember. Grey is also not my colour, but on really cold days – the jumper being so thick that it can stand on the floor by itself – I still wear it and think fondly of the remarkable woman who spend a good few weeks on this work of dedication. What are you doing in Omaha, she would ask me, or ‘was that article not a little high-handed’. Not only for its weight this jumper keeps my feet on the ground.
Then there is the woolen sweater from a girlfriend in Nijmegen that grew so large quite quickly that it was more opportune to camp in it than to wear it. I think it got distracted at one of my moves, but I love to think about it and remember her.
And the woolen jumper from a girlfriend in Tilburg, which still is my favourite. There is one tiny mistake, because of which I know what is the front. Almost thirty years old, still beautiful.
Just as the red cotton jumper my sister Hellen knitted, about the same time. Also still going strong, although the ends of the sleeves start to fray a little.
And then Julie, dear dear Julie. For the most part of our life together she had been working on a jumper. There were years when she would knit two new rows. The ‘project’ was taken out of its hiding closet at the beginning of each winter, just to disappear there again after some well spent cosy months besides Julie’s chair.
I did get a jumper, ultimately, but only after Julie had torn out everything she had accomplished in the previous 18 years and brought the wool to a professional knitter who made me a lovely cardigan. I see a lot of Julie in it.
And now there is this lovely red scarf. It is soft and warm and quite jolly. A little bit like my mother in law, although she is not really warm in this house.
It is wonderful. Some people wear their personal histories on their faces, I just wear it on my body. It keeps me warm.