|My mother Lillian Edwards, was a life-long knitter. She was an
attractive, well dressed woman: tall and thin with dark black hair and almond shaped
brown eyes that almost looked Asian. She called them “laughing eyes,” and that is
how I like to remember them.
I’m told that as a young woman, my mother knit socks, argyle ones.
It was in the days before I was born, perhaps before she was married. Maybe even as a
young single working woman working in Manhattan and living with her parents, in their
tiny apartment on Mermaid Avenue in Coney Island.
My mother grew up poor. Her parents were both Russian immigrants. My
grandma Yetta, with handkerchief soaked in vinegar wrapped around her head, rested a
lot. She suffered from migraines and was always carrying a large purse with her. As if
she was waiting to be uprooted again. This time she would be prepared. I had often seen
her stuffing sugar packets in her purse when we were at Ho Jos.
My grandfather Samuel was as a quiet man. Hard to reconcile my gentle
grandpa with the gangster he used to be. My grandfather and his brothers were the strong
men for a liquor smuggling ring during prohibition. When they double crossed the boss,
two of my uncles were murdered in daylight at a Philadelphia street corner. My
grandparents and mother and uncle fled Philadelphia in a hurry and slipped into Coney
Island where they could meld and blend into the mass of Russian Jews like themselves.
I don’t know who taught my mother to knit. Maybe my grandmother
did, when she was not resting. It wasn’t a question I ever thought to ask my mother
when she was alive. I know that she taught me how to knit and that she knit like a
Russian Jew, with her yarn in left hand wrapped around second finger, picking open the
stitch and pulling the yarn through with her right hand needle. It is a very fast and
efficient way to knit and I am often asked by knitters out here in the Mid West to teach
them “my way” of knitting.
By the time I knew my mother as a knitter, she was a middle class
housewife, and she bought her yarn in downtown Troy, New York at Pearl’s Yarn Store.
She bought her yarn, project by project, no large stashes of ‘I think maybe I’ll
make this into a sweater sometime’ yarn.
Pearl Berg had a store in a brick building next to the gas station
that her husband Art owned. There was a big picture window in front and large awning
outside shading the words Pearl’s. Inside the store was an oval wooden table
covered with knitting projects, cubbies of yarn from ceiling to floor. And dark. There
was only the one window in the front of the store.
The yarns in those cubbies at Pearl’s were made into beautiful
sweaters by my mother. At the height of the acrylic craze, my mother knit with wool. She
knit lots of mittens, even kitten ones with googly eyes. Heavy hooded ski sweaters for
the three of us kids to wear in winter. A very large tennis sweater for my very large
father who never played tennis. A stunning mohair and silk green car coat for herself --
my mother, who learned to drive as an adult. Mohair sweaters for me and my sister. Mine
was cream colored with specks of yellow and blue and red. My sister, the blue eyed
exception in our brown eyed family, had a blue version. Baby doll blue with a navy cable
up the center. I remember getting to choose the yarn and my mother taking our
measurements. I remember trying on the sleeveless sweater. And most of all, I remember
my mother’s solid advice: When you knit a sweater, do both sleeves at once.
As my mother grew older, Pearl’s went out of business. She bought
her yarn where she could, mostly WT Grants. She began to knit easy projects. A Florida
sweater, that was made in a flash, with lots of yarn-overs and stretch. My mother
started to pick variegated acrylic yarns and crochet afghans instead of knitting. We
kids were all gone by then, my father died young, and alone in an empty house, my mom
would crochet in the evenings. Mindless handwork while she mindlessly watched TV. It
could have been the tumor that eventually and slowly took over her brain, or the
overwhelming sadness of being alone, but the zip went out of my mother’s knitting in
The last project my mother ever did was one we did together. A simple
afghan, starting as a rectangle and with colors changing every couple of inches. We used
black to mark the color changes and when I can home from wherever I was then, I would
work on it, too. It is the only piece of my mother’s handwork that I still own. It is
very large and heavy, almost like a rug. I am amazed that my mother and I, two pretty
good knitters would think to crochet such a piece. But we did. It tied us together in a
way that has brought warmth to the grandchildren she never met. They love that afghan,
and it was crocheted so tightly together, almost felted, that it should be around to
warm the next generations. And for the other legacy of my mother’s knitting, the
competent and careful, there is me. I make my sweater sleeves at the same time. And
pairs of socks, too.
Sometimes I feel sad that I don’t have one of those beautiful
sweaters my mother knit. Only pictures of them. But the real gift of my mother’s
knitting is that she taught me how to knit. And I will always be grateful for that.