My dad was in the RAF in WW II. Mom stayed in Coventry for quite a while, with visits to my aunts in Devon and Oxford, and Granny in Hereford. She was bombed out twice, but that's another story. This one is about knitting.
Knitting is something that can be done in the dim light of an air raid shelter. It also produces useful items. Though what my dad was going to do with all those wool socks in India and Burma is anyone's guess. Socks are socks, I suppose, and can be used to filter coffee, if nothing else.
Anyway, Mom was knitting away in an air raid shelter one night...
(Have I told this story already?)
...when another lady showed her a new way to turn the heel of the sock. Mom was thrilled, as it really was a whole lot easier. The only trouble was that it looked different from the traditional method. When it came time to turn the heel of the mate to that sock, Mom was at home and the helpful lady, nowhere in sight. Mom could not, for the life of her, remember how it was done. So, she put away the one and a half socks, the rest of the ball of wool and the needles, and started over.
Twenty years later, and thousands of miles away, she found a pattern book that featured the shelter-lady's method of heel turning. She dug out the stash, finished the sock, and gave the pair to my dad for Christmas.
That's the kind of pack rat I come from!
No comments:
Post a Comment