Pretty Blue Wool

Learning to crochet can be pretty frustrating by times. I've officially mastered two stitches: The single stitch and the double stitch.

I initially bought this pretty blue wool for my Grandad. I was going to make him a blanket because when he was in the nursing home, he always seemed to want to have something in his hands to fiddle with. I'm not sure if it was a nervous thing, or if it was him remembering doing something from his past. Once when I was visiting him he started to tell me a story about one of his Air Force friends polishing his boots. So I think sometimes that he was polishing his boots with the things he kept in his hands.

I guess I started the blanket too late, or I lost my Grandad too early. I suspect it's a strong case of both. At any rate, I've been looking at this wool for several months now, wondering what I should do with it. I bought it specifically with my Grandad in mind: I wanted to make him something special to bring him comfort because Alzheimer's is not only a scary disease for those around the ill person -- It's really scary for the ill person as well.

My brother has been laboring for months now getting the second house on my parents' property fixed up for himself and his Precious Boy. He's made himself a lovely home, with his own blood, sweat and tears put into this sweet little house: He's made it his own kingdom, and I'm incredibly jealous, because all everyone really wants is something to call their own.

I decided to take out my crocheting the other day and work a little more on it.

When the Precious Boy was a baby, I made him his own white and blue blanket for his crib. He slept with it right until he outgrew his crib, and every night that my Dad put him to bed, he would tell the Precious Boy: "Your Auntie made you this blanket." I think that is ever so sweet.

And so now, I'm working away on this blanket, hoping that it will be big enough to go over a big boy bed in the Precious Boy's new home.

Anyone who knows me knows that I love blankets. I firmly believe that you can't have enough blankets in a house. You need them to play Peek-A-Boo with little babies; to wrap up in for reading; to cuddle in; to hold you when you're sick, and to comfort you when you've gotten your sorry butt dumped yet again.

My nephew seems to have the same love and appreciation for blankets that I do, which I find ever so adorable. When he was a toddler he would carry around blankets in the living room, make himself a little bed on the floor, and watch a movie with my cat.

And so, I've decided that this wool should not go to waste. I can make it into a blanket for the Precious Boy: it will be big enough for his brand new bunk bed. Perhaps it will take him all the way through his teen years. I wonder if some day he will cuddle into it with a big, stupid grin on his face over the girl he danced with at the Halloween Dance. I wonder if perhaps he will cry when the girl from the Christmas dance breaks up with him. I wonder if he will wind it around his fingers, contemplating fifth grade math. I wonder if some day, if I ever get it finished, it will be love-worn and shabby, like so many of the blankets I've had in my life. Or perhaps it will stay, folded in the closet, for overnight guests, and he'll see it every year at spring cleaning, and think "My Auntie Made that for me". Either way, you can't have too many blankets in a house. A blanket never goes to waste.

Toonses