As I knit I often think of my somewhat dour Scots-descent Grandmother Bertha who taught me. Perhaps it was the olive-drab scratchy wool left over from WW II Red Cross knitting I learned with, or perhaps only the contrast of that with the colorful Red Heart ombre I bought for myself at Woolworth’s, but at nine I thought heaven itself couldn’t be more beautiful than those shades of blue that changed from light to dark to light again under my needles. That nine-year-old’s sense of wonder, amazement and curiosity still drives my fiber exploration.

Mostly I do one-of-a-kind designs because I’m always mentally five or six ideas ahead of what’s on my needles and can’t wait to get on to the next.

Now, if I can be excused, there is a wonderful grape chenille that would look amazing with a multicolor eyelash yarn and maybe a little angora … or silk … or … oh my, what would Granny think?