Walking the Wall

I learned a new word tonight: concatenation is the connecting or
linking in a series or a chain, of events or symbols or etc. This isn’t
just a random piece of information, this word will relate to this post
eventually.

Recently I have read quite a number of articles about the “battle”
being waged about…knitting…of all things! I had no idea that I was
in the midst of a war, but apparently I am. This war is not between
nations, or states, or genders, but between women–sisters fighting
sisters, according to an article in Vogue Knitting International
(Spring/Summer 2004). I knit, and crochet, and cross stitch, at the
moment I’m
pretty much focused on knitting and I greatly enjoy it as a sometimes
relaxing, sometimes challenging, sometimes meditative activity that if
nothing else keeps my hands busy while watching television. Surprising
to me, this fondness for knitting is a direct affront to feminism and
all the advances that woman have made in the world today. In the simple
act of taking two needles, some yarn, and making an item, I am negating
the power that women have struggled to achieve and taking our gender
back into the middle ages. Wow. I had no idea! Of course, another
suggestion is that knitting really is an indication that the person is scared of recent events
(such as 9/11) and is hiding in their craft in order to gain a false
sense of control. Blink. I don’t even know what to say to that. I have
this, seemingly, odd view of feminism that feminism is about choice,
its about not being forced to stay at home or go to work, but choosing
what works for you and your family. It’s about not being forced to only
do traditional “female” jobs, but to choose the work that inspires
you–including those traditional jobs if that is your calling. It’s
about not being forced to sit at home and knit your fingers raw making
socks and sweaters to keep your family warm, but having the choice to
pick up the needles and gain enjoyment out of creating something for
people you love. Choice. That is what feminism is all about, there is
no war, there is just women having the freedom of choice.

And just as feminism is about choice, knitting, for me, is not about
fear, but about the concatenation (ohh, there’s that word!) of
generations, among other things. Sitting at my grandmother’s house
today with a older neighbor of my grandmothers who we grew up with as
if she was part of our family, she watched me work on a sock that I am
attempting to knit. She smiled and started to talk to me in that
wonderful Scottish accent that we have all loved for many years. She
told me how she used to knit all the socks and sweaters for her family
and later for her children, and how she has missed being able to knit
since the arthritis in her hands prevented her from picking up needles.
We talked about the importance of knitting and how women (and men)
would knit during World War II for family and soldiers. This lead to
listening to her talk about the bombing she lived through in both
London and Scotland (I wasn’t even aware Scotland had been bombed by
the Germans)–the bombing drove her family from London back to their
home in Scotland, and when the bombing became to severe in the city,
their uncle took them out of the city to the country. Finally her
mother, Betty told me, grew tired of living in the country away from
her home and decided they were going to go home, bombing or no bombing.
They packed the family up and went home–but there wasn’t too much left
of their home, the windows were blown out, the doors laying in the
streets, nothing in the house was intact and they were overwhelmed by
the destruction around them. They didn’t give up though, determined to
reclaim their home they boarded up the windows, fixed the doors, used
another door to make a table, and hunkered down until help could come.
She told about the black outs and the sirens and the overwhelming
feeling of coming out of a bomb shelter–she said the dust was amazing
and the horrible uncertainty of what destruction would be found and
what bodies would be lying in the street. Betty and my grandmother’s
houses are across the street from the small local fire station, and she
said that even to this day, so many years later, the sound of the
sirens make her flinch and think of finding a shelter.

She shook off her memories and gave me a smile, looking at the start
of a knitted sock in my lap,  “You’re doing a wonderful job,
Kelly, and it’s your first go at it!” A pair of knitting needles, some
yarn, and a connection between two generations. Were it not for the shared experience of knitting, I might never have known
about the terrible things that Betty lived through, that shaped her
life, that shows how extraordinary the human spirit is in over-coming
horror and living a life of quiet strength.