Did I ever tell you the story about the time I tried to do knitting when I was in high school? This was one of those home ec classes I was taking to try to turn myself into a well rounded person. I don't know where I got this thing about being "well rounded". I had the idea, in those days, that my parents wanted me to be round. I kept trying all kinds of different things, hoping that I'd hit on the one shining talent that would make my parents brag about me to their friends, and stop looking at me like I was just a drag on the electric bill. I didn't realize, at the time, that they weren't the kind of people who ever bragged about their kids and, as for the power bill, that was just kind of the way their faces looked. Anyway, it quickly became apparent that if I did have some hidden talent that was going to impress my parents, knitting wasn't it.....

The class was supposed to encompass different kinds of needle art. We started out with knitting, then were going to go on to crochet, and then something else, I forget what. Because I never got passed knitting. You had to finish one project before you could start another one. I had picked the easiest project, a pair of bedroom shoes - they were really socks with pom-poms I was going to make for my mother. I picked a dark green yarn and went to work, knitting and purling.

Only I kept losing stitches. I never knew where they went They were there one minute and gone the next. I took those stupid socks with me EVERYWHERE, desperate to get them done. But it was a lost cause. Meanwhile, girls who came to class drunk and /or high were whipping through their projects, crocheting baby blankets for their friends while talking animatedly about who had a concealed razor during the latest fight in the girls room. And there I was - the honor student - sitting there desperately trying to not get tangled up in the yarn. Instead of a hidden talent I had discovered a hidden stupidity. It was not fun.

What I know now, that I didn't know then, was that I can sometimes do things with my non-dominent hand, my left hand, more easily then my right hand...and the learning disability that I have, that nobody knew I had at the time, would create a challenge to learning that kind of skill (i.e. there's a certain amount of spatial relations to it)

So. Fast forward to now, or at least the recent past, when my friend Theresa is telling me that I could learn to knit, that she could teach me. I told the story of the Slipper Socks That Would Not Die, but she was not put off. Now Theresa can do anything. She can draw, she can paint, she can do photography, she can sew, she can tie up ribbons on packages that look like Martha Stewart did them. And she makes it look so easy. "Did you learn on varigated colored yarn?" she asked me.

No, I tried to tell her, I didn't learn at all. I was unteachable. "Oh, I could teach you."

I cringed. "Theresa, I have a learning disability. This would be like trying to teach a pig to sing - hopeless for the pig and frustrating for you." I said this because I really like Theresa and I didn't want her to get so frustrated with me that she rolled me up in a ball of yarn and stuck me out with her trash.

And, most people, if you tell them you have an L.D. they just give up on you. But not her. Next thing I knew, there was little tiny project, already started, on varigated blue and purple yarn and big, easy to handle knitting needles. "See, I'll teach you the continental method - that way it doesn't matter what hand you use. You hold it like this. Hang on to the loop with your thumb and scoop the other stitch through the back. See?"

Well. Kinda.

"Now you try." Okay, just getting the yarn hooked over my little finger was a big enough problem. But I tried. She kept explaining. "The right needle goes behind the left needle" "Thumb!" "Now scoop!"

"But, Theresa, I'm not getting it!" I said desperately.

"Of course you're not - not yet- you've only done three stitches! Nobody gets it in three stitches!"

I looked at it. She was right. I had only done three stitches. Hey, wait, I had done three stitches! That meant that, on some level, I was capable of doing the stitches. I kept trying. She kept explaining. She didn't sound annoyed. She didn't get cross. She didn't laugh at me when I forgot what to do with my index finger and I sat there wiggling it like I'd never seen it before.

I did one row. Then I did another one. I looked up at her anxiously while she talked to The Hub. "See, you're doing it. You don't need me to watch." she said.

I was doing it. Little knit stitches were coming out in little rows. They weren't getting lost. They weren't falling off. They were on there.

"Okay, you practice on that. This is your rectangle. No matter what you make you have to start out making a rectangle so you can see how many of these stitches you make per inch. So if anybody asks what you're making, just tell them you're making a rectangle. If anybody tries to tell you you're holding the yarn the wrong way tell them you're doing continental method. And don't listen to them. Take this book home and look at the picture if you can't remember, how to hold the yarn. People forget all the time. No purling. And don't read ahead, 'cause you might get scared. When you come back I'll teach you how to cast on and how to finish up. Then we can add purling later, if you want to."

I was so IMPRESSED. Not only is she talented she can teach remedial knitting! What a friend!

So now, every day, I take out my little rectangle and my varigated yarn, and do a few rows so I don't forget what I'm doing.

Somewhere, in the world, a pig is singing, too