I don’t know how to knit. OK, that’s a tiny exaggeration. There was a summer sometime in the 60s where it was all the rage among us kids, so we bought this big thick yarn called Scandia, because you could — well, most could — whip off a hat or mittens in a flash. Ends up cousin Mimi inherited the knitting gene in the family, and has it still. I took up tennis.
At my bookstore, the bookstore where cousin Mimi works today, plus loads of others across the nation, knitting groups have become the subgenre of the book clubs that meet in stores for the benefit of folks who don’t have their own group. I didn’t get it for awhile: I thought the members read a book and discussed it, plus knitted. But I came to discover that lots of these knitters come for an entirely different purpose: they’re knitting for charity.
Maribel, the store manager who hosts our knitting group, mentioned an upcoming get-together recently, announcing that they were making hats for premature babies. Now I wished I had continued my paltry efforts all those years ago. How could I help, I wondered? So I asked. “Some of the yarn, the nice stuff, is expensive,” she said. “And we do have a homeless woman that occasionally comes.” And there’s where I came in. If I can’t knit, I can help someone else do it by donating some yarn.
Makes me think of the ladies’ auxiliaries you heard about in wartime: sewing, rolling bandages, writing letters to soldiers. And in truth, I suppose it’s not much different.
Try another door.