I learned to knit from my mother. Long before she ever put yarn and needles in my hands, she taught me the value of gifts that are made with loving hands and of the invaluable gift of pouring one’s life into those you love. Today is her birthday and although she now lives where no one counts the years anymore, I’d like to honor her here.

Red Mittens

Winter in upstate New York is cold. it numbs your toes, freezes your cheeks, and reddens your nose. During my New York childhood, good mothers like mine bundled up their children to the point of mummification before sending them out to play in the glorious snowdrifts after a blizzard. My wraps included a pink scarf around my face, a jacket with a hood, snow pants that swished with every step, boots, and the de rigueur two pairs of mittens.

These days, kids wear Polartec or down-filled gloves, but I wore knitted mittens. “Thumb in the thumb hole, fingers all together. This is the song we sing in mitten weather.’ I can still hear my mother reciting this poem as she helped me to put on my mittens when I was little.

My mittens were red, hand-knitted by my mother. They matched the little red magnifying glass my parents had given me. I used to catch snowflakes on my mittens and admire their delicate perfection through my magnifying glass. They looked so beautiful, sharp, and clear against the red background. When the cold finally succeeded in seeping through my mother’s bundling, I would go inside. By the time I had finished taking off my wet and snow-encrusted wraps in the basement, Mom would have hot chocolate ready for me in one of the Santa mugs.      

All these things are bundled together–warm, bright, love-made mittens, fun and wonder in the snow, and the warmth and coziness of home as I remember my childhood. The thread that runs through them all is my mother, knitting mittens, making hot chocolate, being there.

The longer I live, the more I realize that the security I enjoyed in childhood is not available to every child. My mother was so consistently there for me that I could take her for granted. That freed me to focus on the work of childhood–play, learning, and growing up.

Such a simple thing, this being there. To the uninitiated, it even looks rather boring. However, to be someone a child can count on is heroic. It requires thousands of sacrifices, the deferment of countless dreams and gratifications, saying “No,” and “Later” to many goals and activities.

My mother was there for my sister, my brother, and me, but she didn’t stop with us. She went on to be there for her grandchildren when they needed her. This is my mother’s legacy to me–a quiet, steady faithfulness as even as the stitches in her knitting that has enabled me in turn to be there for my own children. And yes, I made red mittens for them.

Tell, me, who taught you to knit? How does knitting help you to “be there” for others? I’d love to hear about it.

A pair of those love-made mittens