When I was a little girl I used to read or watch TV snuggled up beside my mother while she crocheted. Whenever my mother wasn't working, cooking, cleaning or doing her best to keep her three small children out of trouble, she would crochet. She crocheted hats, mittens, slippers, sweaters and blankets . . . even our Christmas tree ornaments were crocheted.
I still remember the faint sound of air moving as my mom effortlessly hooked a bit of yarn and pulled the stitch through. My mother's hands moved in fluid motion and sometimes I would catch her steal a glance at the TV and yet her hands remained in motion as if they had independent thought. Each stitch always looked like the last and the finished product was always something to behold.
It was a familiar site in our home to find crochet booklets on the coffee table or tucked away in drawers. I remember looking at all sorts of patterns like: granny squares, various doily patterns, coasters, shawls, you name it. Learning to crochet seemed like learning a new language. I was probably well into my teens before I learned that an Afghan was a type of hound, I always thought it was a blanket.