Ede and The Esthers

Leaving aside what it says about my 20-year-old self that I preferred the company of my grandmother's friends to friends my own age, my last post got me thinking about my grandmother Ede and The Esthers, Esther K and Esther A.  The Esthers were neighbors and also attended the same small church as my family.  Esther K was a year-round resident; Esther A wintered in Florida.

Esther K taught me to crochet.  Esther A taught me to play canasta.  My grandmother taught me not to put up with shit from men.  Now if you've gone all Friday-Night-Knitting-Club on me and are imagining that sharing-of-female-wisdom-across-the-generations that goes on in all our Book Club books, stop.  Get that image out of your head right now. Mostly we shared snarky gossip about neighbors and fellow church-goers and I complained about my seemingly endless supply of loser boyfriends (I didn't listen so well to Nana in those days.)

Even more entertaining was that my grandmother was always mad at one or both of The Esthers.  Frequently The Esthers were mad at each other and tried to recruit my grandmother and me to one or the other side.  Usually it started on the phone.  One of them took offense at some minor, and I do mean minor, slight, hung up on the other, and they were off and running. I'd listen to my grandmother's version of the conversation in apparently perfect word-for-word detail.  Later on I'd wander over to visit whichever Esther was the offender/offended to get her side.  It still amazes me that women in their seventies could act like such middle-schoolers. Ede complained that Esther A called Esther K on Monday and Tuesday but didn't call her until Wednesday.  Esther K complained that Esther A was so busy at church introducing her house guest to the pastor that she didn't introduce the guest to her.  Esther K and Ede thought Esther A 'put on airs'.  Esther A thought Esther K was bossy.  The Esthers thought Ede was a busybody. 

These women were in their eighth decade, not in eighth grade.

I guess if there was any wisdom to be learned from my time with Ede and The Esthers beyond how to crochet, how to play canasta, and not to take shit from men, it is that being old doesn't automatically mean being grown up - and I don't mean that in a necessarily good way.  As I move closer to their age that may be an important lesson.

Handicrafty

Apropos of nothing other than the mere fact that I haven't posted for an obscene length of time,  I discovered yesterday that I remember how to crochet.  It has been at least 20 years since I crocheted anything - and back then it was delicate doilies and antimacassars, but the above is my double crochet - maybe not perfect but pretty darn good for not having picked up a hook in a while.

I have also been re-teaching myself how to knit and that is having mixed results.  I did knit much less than I crocheted so I think muscle memory is key here.  Of course, yesterday when I tried to figure out how to do a double crochet stitch I immediately went to the illustration and written directions.  After a half hour of failure and frustration I took a deep breath, closed the instruction book, and using what I had gleaned from the previous half hour, sat back and relied on muscle memory.  Before I knew it I had finished a whole row.

But I think the fact that crochet comes more easily to me is based a lot on who taught me.  My grandmother crocheted but her friend, Esther K. (as opposed to Esther A.) taught me.  I sat in her living room hours during breaks from college while she taught me how to make my afghans rectangular instead of 'blobular' and fed me tea and cookies.

When someone attempts to teach a family member, higher than normal expectations combine with higher than normal desire to please to create at best, an unstable learning environment.  I am definitely a better crochet-er because of  Esther K.  The knitting I will have to master on my own.