Ever since I can remember, my mother has knit. Mostly, she knits baby blankets. Even when no one she knows is expecting a baby, she knits baby blankets. She knits on car rides, she knits while sitting and talking, she knits while watching television.
She tried to teach me, multiple times, never with much success. Every couple of years, she'd ask me if I wanted to learn, and I'd say yes, more out of duty than desire. She'd pull out the needles and yarn, and patiently explain how to cast on and the basics of the stitches.
"Hold the yarn this way," she'd say, showing me again and again. She never became impatient, no matter how many times I'd ask her to help me fix my mistakes. I'd knit for a while, get frustrated, and give up. No big deal, I thought; knitting was boring, something for old ladies to do (although even then I knew my mom wasn't old).
A few years after I moved out of my parents' house, however, I decided to learn again. So my mom, once again, patiently explained how to cast on and showed me the basics of the stitches. I went back to my own apartment and tried knitting. Like before, I got frustrated, but this time I stuck with it.
My first finished project-once I got the hang of knitting-was a scarf for my father. First I went online and found a fairly easy pattern, then I bought some inexpensive gray wool yarn, and then I got started. It took a while to get the hang of the purl stitch (I kept holding the yarn wrong and winding up with all these extra stitches), but once I did, I was off and running. Knit knit knit, purl purl purl, knit...