I recently wrote a friend, yes such a warm, touching story-memory of her grandmother, about the traditions of knitting, taken earlier in the villages, which very much wanted to share with you:
"Then my beloved Grandma Katya just knitted socks.
Woolen socks. Good woolen socks, carrying the warmth of her hands and warming up in the drooping winter strumbs. Before that, she herself suited to spin the wool; The spindle fadedly wriggled in her naked hands, winding a strong thread on its basis.
Socks knitted a lot, on the whole family, on the same technology, but the yarn and her shades created not that unique, but individual woolen socks. Until now, a white pair is left for me - socks of grape milk, "fright", as grandmother said. The gentle color and softness of the wool plunged my maiden legs into almost royal luxury.
For men, they traditionally knitted socks from the wool of dark color, for girls of different ages - the wool was taken to be wool.
Later, when the wool was engaged in the most problematic places (socks and heels, do not let me listen to the lovers of natural fibers) The grandmother ruthlessly cut off the exulting part and leaning over the scissors, patiently raised wavy loops on thin spokes. After reincarnation, the socks acquired A new life and a natrel is now slender strips of natural shades.
It sometimes happened that in the process of knitting the tangle unexpectedly ended and the pair simply lacked the yarn of the desired shade. Then grandmother, noted inappropriate aesthethiness, completed the sock by what was at hand. This approach was a little cobbled, but, apparently, the grandmother looked far into the future, considering insights about asymmetric trends in the space.
In other cases, the grandmother, without being causing Lukovo, took a big, "Gypsy" needle, took the incandescent light bulb and started the sacrament of the ducts. The contour of the freshly baked hole was first indicated by the dotted line, and then it was necessary to create some "chess" thread. Half an hour of work and socks with fresh poppipes were ready to continue to serve faith and truth. Of course, now it looks a little naive and ridiculous, but at that time in the provincial town of woolen socks worshiped for a certain rarity and a swindle card nobody squeamied.
From the memory, those memories were removed when I tried to encourage my first front-irons. In the vague, fragmentary memories are still alive, grandmother's advice that the loops need to be taken over the same side so that they do not rush in their row.
At some point, for myself, I decided that these facial, and together with them and the involverance with me enough and sat down for the Creative. It all started, everything was simple, with the same stocking knitting, but, by reading several patterns of patterns in knitting book, I suffered. Ignoring knitting density, the openwork rows replaced dense aran; The canvas then happily gained airiness, shifting the essential nakid, then firmly squeezed under the influence of the harnesses of the most sensible sense. I treated my brainchild to school on the lesson of homeowering and proudly put in front of the teacher. We must pay tribute to the wise teacher who did not gain me wings for a completely relaxed type of creation, but on the contrary, gave proper flight and the unrestrained fantasy of my thought.
Granny, who, too, admired the fruits of my creativity for a long time, noting with sadness that besides socks, she did not knit anything in this life. "
Here is such a wonderful story! In me, he was just awakened by the wave of my own memories about the lessons of knitting my grandmother, who lived in the village of Kuvandyk, in the Orenburg region and knit all his life down the down tags.