I've picked up my knitting needles again after a couple weeks of neglect. They clicked and scraped with a certain tinny ring while my finches chirped and peeped along. The great achievement of the evening was not the completed mohair inches, but the deluge of memories that those combined sounds inspire.
My Great Grandma Nessie was an avid knitter and kept all sorts of finches, especially Zebras, in every corner of her house. She also wrapped gifts in brown paper bags with excessive scotch tape and hi-lighter scrawl. She'd always kiss us on the tops of our heads, and used phrases like "Go outside and blow the stink off." I was fortunate to have her in my life until I was teenager, and as such feel like I should be able to recall more about my time spent with her.
But knitting helps me to feel closer to her, and when my nasturtiums bloom, I'll throw some petals in a salad in her honor, and just maybe, Mother's Day will bring a few Zebra finches into my life. Their distinctive meep may help me unearth a few long buried memories.
Okay, by some serendipitous awesomeness, this is the only picture I have of her on hand. This is probably circa 1970, and that handsome mustachioed man is my dad.