Knitting has always been a part of the lives of women in my mother’s family. When I was six years old, I was taught knitting by her mother and I remember well how it felt. It was the same as learning how to read and write for the first time, like I was a new member of a secret society. It felt like entering a whole new world.
That next Christmas my grandmother and I were treated to lovely, matching, blue sweaters. My mother must have been knitting these while I was in bed at night, since I never caught her working on it. And of course my grandmother and I were thrilled with the outfit. I still have the picture with me smiling happily.
I used to spend a lot of time with my grandparents. On rainy days my grandfather would pull out the electric children stove. In miniature pots and pans, and with a huge knob of butter we would bake apple slices with sugar and cinnamon.
Decades later the knitting continued, but then it was the other way around. By the time I started this wonderful craft again, my gran moved to a home. It was a few years after my grandfather died and lovingly I knitted her a colorful blanket in deep shades of red that matched her comfy chair and could cover her legs.
In the here and now, on another rainy day – more than 25 years later, I am reminded of a myth I was told by my grandfather. After I accidentally swallowed an apple seed, he said there was a chance a tree would grow inside my belly.
And having a vivid imagination as a six year old, I never doubted that this could happen. The thought of having an apple tree growing inside me didn’t frighten me a bit. I was certain I could trust my grandparents. If branches would grow from my ears, they surely would be there to help me prune them.
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This post is also available in: Dutch