Cooler weather means two things: It’s time to make a pot of chili (done) and get crafty.
I crochet. Or I used to; I haven’t made anything for a few years. I’ve already finished a blanket I started a couple of years ago, and started another.
It’s something of a family tradition, I suppose, although I taught myself how to do it. I have a blanket that my grandmother made for me when I was little. A blanket that my mother made. A few that I have made. When you’ve found the rhythm of a pattern, it can be quite relaxing. (When you haven’t, or when you find out you made a mistake two rows ago that’s throwing off the current count, then it’s frustrating.) It’s also a good way to kill time. I’ve worked on blankets while waiting on an oil change. While talking on the phone. While waiting for friends.
The problem, though, is that crocheting is a combat sport. Bear likes to play with the yarn — but only the yarn that I’m working with. My right arm looks like I was fighting a first-grader armed with scissors.