My grandmother taught me to crochet. A couple of times. Then my mother and I picked it back up. It didn't catch on. Now that it's double-digit negative temperatures out there, I am having some second thoughts.
Recently I dug out my knitting/crochet basket - the knitting needles are useless to me, BTW, because I just can't even figure out how to get started with that yarn and two tools to mind on top of it. So I put those down in favor of the old crochet hooks.
And it's weird, but I can see my grandmother teaching me all over again. I remember it. I remember a blue hook and purple thread and my grandmother's voice explaining (How did she stay that patient?) how to turn the piece. I may have been near-useless in the kitchen, but Grandma did pass on something that stuck, a form of creativity that I can work with and relate to. And it makes me smile to know I can make something similar to the blankets she made me, to keep me warm at night. Now I can make one for my son ... when I get good at it, of course.
In addition to the satisfaction of making something (and certainly the easier task of minding only ONE tool and the yarn), I find it soothing to mow through the repetition of crochet. It's also a nice creative outlet for when I'm not writing. And bonus: I have something to do while my husband watches all that football this time of year, and I can still spend time in the living room with my family. Sweet!
I will post pictures of my finished project, once I finish it. And this time, Grandma, I WILL finish it. I swear. :)