Teaching children to knit

is not easy. I know that. I still try. Children want to learn.

Knitting is much more complicated than learning to "colour in between the lines" or "write words". Yes, those things require fine motor skills but they use one hand, not two. 

Knitting requires fine motor skills - and both hands.

A little girl arrived at our library knitting group yesterday. She looked anxiously but eagerly at those of us already there. The adult with her explained in heavily accented English that the little girl wanted to learn to knit. Then she added that there was another little girl coming too and that both of the girls wanted to learn to knit. The other little girl was bringing supplies. 

She appeared a short time later with the same anxious but eager look on her face. Her father smiled a little anxiously too. Could I?

G..., who shares most of the teaching in the group with me, was already helping someone put a fringe on a scarf and I knew she was going to be helping someone with some crochet skills. I took a deep breath and said, "Of course. That's what we are here for."

And it is. The last thing I wanted to do was say, "No. Go away. I want to get on with my own work."  I was suddenly assailed by memories of my own time learning to knit. 

Everyone I knew told me I would never learn to knit. My mother told me I was "too lazy", my father told me, "I think you need to try something a bit easier", my teacher told me, "you need to learn to write first" and other adults said other things. I knew girls my own age who were learning to knit. I admitted they had "nice writing" and that they drew pictures that actually looked like things they were meant to be. I saw people knitting - because people did knit in all sorts of places back then. I knew my maternal grandmother could knit because of the pink cardigan I loathed and detested but had to wear. I knew my paternal grandmother because of the blue gansey that I loved but was getting too small for me. I had watched her turn the heels of socks using what looked like an absolute forest of needles. 

It was my paternal grandmother I went to and told I wanted to learn to knit. She looked at me and smiled and said, "Of course you can." I think she knew that I knew it was not going to be easy. 

It wasn't. It took me nearly two years to complete one short row of knitting without dropping a stitch or accidentally jerking the stitches off the needle. I learned what needed to be done long before that but it took me that long to learn enough hand control to actually do it. My grandmother, a woman with just three years of schooling, was that brilliant and patient teacher who would not give up because I was not going to give up either. We worked on it together. She patiently cast on over and over again. She talked about rabbits diving into burrows and coming out the other side and much more. 

Grandma told me there was no right or wrong way to learn to knit. I had to learn the best way for me to hold the needles and manipulate the yarn.  She was right when she showed me that I had better control when I held the needles closer to the points. She showed me how she held the yarn and what happened when she did not do that. 

"But it doesn't matter if you can't do that. You will find another way."

It was something I was absolutely determined to do. Why? I don't know. There was something telling me I needed to succeed at this magical skill. It was going to be part of me. I was going to do it. 

Grandma dried many tears. She picked up many stitches. She never gave up on me.  Eventually she gave me a small ball of blue wool. It was "blanket" wool - wool we would now call "chunky" I suppose. I knew what to do. I had to try and try and try again.

And I knew what to do with that blue wool. I cast on and I knitted. It took me a long time. The end result was far from perfect. I kept it all from her until I had finished. Then I handed it back to her with the words, "It's a pot holder for you." 

And my grandmother took it and backed it with my grandfather's old pajama shirt and she used it. I found a scorch mark in it years later where Grandpa had nearly set it alight taking the toasting fork out of the fire. When he showed me he told me, "Never thought you would manage that. We were so proud of you."

I squirmed at that praise. I could knit by then. Grandma was teaching me a lot more by then. I knew how to turn the heel of a sock!

And I thought of all that yesterday as I worked with two little girls. I told them it wasn't going to be easy but I also said, "I know you can do it." I tried to remember all that my grandmother had told me about there being no right or wrong way but your way, the way that gets the result you need. I told them about the rabbits and the youngest little girl giggled delightfully.

I listened to the adults who came with them talking in French. Neither of them can knit. They did not know all the English terms I was using. I told them that knitting language changes between North America and here. I told them about Youtube knitting videos in English and French. 

And I told them that knitting is really one of those universal languages. It is a language of love and caring and telling children they believe in them.

It has been forty-five years since my grandmother died - and I still miss her.