My grandmother and great aunts were all skilled in the art of crochet by their mother who learned it from her mother, and so on. My mother had no interest in it whatsoever, so I didn’t learn it until I made an extended stop over in Denver to see my great aunt Mary, and have a meal with her. About half way through the roast beef, Mary asked me what kind of hand work I did. I didn’t do any at the time, as hard as that is for me to believe now. She told me to finish my dinner, she was going to teach me The Crochet.
They all talked about it that way – capitalized. For the longest time, when I was a child, I thought of it as a form of dance. OK, I got back on the plane with a crochet hook (oh, those were the days!) and some lavender thread and a solid beginning to an antimacassar – which, since I know no one who uses Macassar oil, is a totally useless exercise that makes me smile every time I run across it.