Knit one purl one vote one poke one

From the drivers seat I couldn't tell if my sister was texting or knitting in the backseat.  We were bringing Dad to Texas in the rental SUV.  She texts faster than I ever did knit.  She knits because just sitting with Dad makes her crazy.  I sit slower than she ever will, but I understand the craziness of just quietly watching Dad go forward and back in his wheelchair.

Knitting needles with no yarn cast on are suspicious in airport security screenings.  My sister was sure to start a knitting project before carrying the knitting needles through TSA security.  This irks me, somehow.  Are women who knit less likely to be terrorists than the nonknitting old ladies TSA wands and xrays daily? 

My ex considered knitting a dangerous anti-marriage activity.  It irked him no end when I knit through his viewings of VHS videos with gratuitous sex and violence.  Knitting interferred with the worshipful and cuddly attention he was due, not that I'm a bitter former knitter.

As I've been reading about the early 1900's I imagine my great aunts, Ada and Emma, in some of the female roles.  They could have been daughters of immigrants working in Tiffany's Womens' Glass Studio, and probably would have loved the challenge.  Instead they taught school and made hats for women in northeast Nebraska.  I so wish I could ask Auntie Em about getting the vote, prohibition, and the vintage Valentines I found in the big black trunk.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

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